13147	----	THE MODERN DRAMA SERIES EDITED BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN SAVVA THE LIFE OF MAN BY LEONID ANDREYEV SAVVA THE LIFE OF MAN TWO PLAYS BY LEONID ANDREYEV TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THOMAS SELTZER BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1920 1914, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _This edition is authorized by Leonid Andreyev, who has selected the plays included in it._ _All Dramatic rights reserved by Edwin Björkman_ CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS BY LEONID ANDREYEV SAVVA THE LIFE OF MAN INTRODUCTION For the last twenty years Leonid Andreyev and Maxim Gorky have by turns occupied the centre of the stage of Russian literature. Prophetic vision is no longer required for an estimate of their permanent contribution to the intellectual and literary development of Russia. It represents the highest ideal expression of a period in Russian history that was pregnant with stirring and far-reaching events--the period of revolution and counter-revolution. It was a period when Russian society passed from mood to mood at an extremely rapid tempo: from energetic aggressiveness, exultation, high hope, and confident trust in the triumph of the people's cause to apathetic inaction, gloom, despair, frivolity, and religious mysticism. This important dramatic epoch in the national life of Russia Andreyev and Gorky wrote down with such force and passion that they became recognized at once as the leading exponents of their time. Despite this close external association, their work differs essentially in character. In fact, it is scarcely possible to conceive of greater artistic contrasts. Gorky is plain, direct, broad, realistic, elemental. His art is native, not acquired. Civilization and what learning he obtained later through the reading of books have influenced, not the manner or method of his writing, but only its purpose and occasionally its subject matter. It is significant to watch the dismal failure Gorky makes of it whenever, in concession to the modern literary fashion, he attempts the mystical. Symbolism is foreign to him except in its broadest aspects. His characters, though hailing from a world but little known, and often extreme and extremely peculiar, are on the whole normal. Andreyev, on the other hand, is a child of civilization, steeped in its culture, and while as rebellious against some of the things of civilization as Gorky, he reacts to them in quite a different way. He is wondrously sensitive to every development, quickly appropriates what is new, and always keeps in the vanguard. His art is the resultant of all that the past ages have given us, of the things that we have learned in our own day, and of what we are just now learning. With this art Andreyev succeeds in communicating ideas, thoughts, and feelings so fine, so tenuous, so indefinite as to appear to transcend human expression. He does not care whether the things he writes about are true, whether his characters are real. What he aims to give is a true impression. And to convey this impression he does not scorn to use mysticism, symbolism, or even plain realism. His favorite characters are degenerates, psychopaths, abnormal eccentrics, or just creatures of fancy corresponding to no reality. Frequently, however, the characters, whether real or unreal, are as such of merely secondary importance, the chief aim being the interpretation of an idea or set of ideas, and the characters functioning primarily only as a medium for the embodiment of those ideas. In one respect Gorky and Andreyev are completely at one--in their bold aggressiveness. The emphatic tone, the attitude of attack, first introduced into Russian literature by Gorky, was soon adopted by most of his young contemporaries, and became the characteristic mark of the literature of the Revolution. By that token the literature of Young Russia of that day is as easily recognized as is the English literature of the Dryden and Pope epoch by its sententiousness. It contrasts sharply with the tone of passive resignation and hopelessness of the preceding period. Even Chekhov, the greatest representative of what may be called the period of despondence, was caught by the new spirit of optimism and activism, so that he reflected clearly the new influence in his later works. But while in Gorky the revolt is chiefly social--manifesting itself through the world of the submerged tenth, the disinherited masses, _les misérables_, who, becoming conscious of their wrongs, hurl defiance at their oppressors, make mock of their civilization, and threaten the very foundations of the old order--Andreyev transfers his rebellion to the higher regions of thought and philosophy, to problems that go beyond the merely better or worse social existence, and asks the larger, much more difficult questions concerning the general destiny of man, the meaning of life and the reason for death. Social problems, it is true, also interest Andreyev. "The Red Laugh" is an attack on war through a portrayal of the ghastly horrors of the Russo-Japanese War; "Savva," one of the plays of this volume, is taken bodily (with a poet's license, of course) from the actual revolutionary life of Russia; "King Hunger" is the tragedy of the uprising of the hungry masses and the underworld. Indeed, of the works written during the conflict and for some time afterward, all centre more or less upon the social problems which then agitated Russia. But with Andreyev the treatment of all questions tends to assume a universal aspect. He envisages phenomena from a broad, cosmic point of view; he beholds things _sub specie aeternitatis._ The philosophical tendency of his mind, though amply displayed even in works like "Savva"--which is purely a character and social drama--manifests itself chiefly by his strong propensity for such subjects as those treated in "To the Stars," "The Life of Man," and "Anathema." In these plays Andreyev plunges into the deepest problems of existence, and seeks to posit once more and, if possible, to solve in accordance with the modern spirit and modern knowledge those questions over which the mightiest brains of man have labored for centuries: Whence? Whither? What is the significance of man's life? Why is death? If Spinoza's dictum be true, that "a wise man's meditation is not of death but of life," then Andreyev is surely not a wise man. Some philosophers might have written their works even without a guarantee against immortality, though Schopenhauer, who exercised a influence on the young Andreyev, was of the opinion that "without death there would hardly be any philosophy"; but of Andreyev it is certain that the bulk of his works would not have been written, and could not be what they are, were it not for the fact of death. If there is one idea that can be said to dominate the author of "The Life of Man," it is the idea of death. Constantly he keeps asking: Why all this struggling, all this pain, all this misery in the world, if it must end in nothing? The suffering of the great mass of mankind makes life meaningless while it lasts, and death puts an end even to this life. Again and again Andreyev harks back to the one thought from which all his other thoughts seem to flow as from their fountain-head. Lazarus, in the story by that name, is but the embodiment of death. All who behold him, who look into his eyes, are never again the same as they were; indeed, most of them are utterly ruined. "The Seven Who Were Hanged" tells how differently different persons take death. Grim death lurks in the background of almost every work, casting a fearful gloom, mocking the life of man, laughing to scorn his joys and his sorrows, propounding, sphinx-like, the big riddle that no Oedipus will ever be able to solve. For it is not merely the destructive power of death, not merely its negation of life, that terrifies our author. The pitchy darkness that stretches beyond, the impossibility of penetrating the veil that separates existence from non-existence--in a word, the riddle of the universe--is, to a mind constituted like Andreyev's, a source of perhaps even greater disquiet. Never was a man hungrier than he with "the insatiable hunger for Eternity"; never was a man more eager to pierce the mystery of life and catch a glimpse of the beyond while yet alive. Combined with the perplexing darkness that so pitifully limits man's vision is the indifference of the forces that govern his destiny. The wrongs he suffers may cry aloud to heaven, but heaven does not hear him. Whether he writhe in agony or be prostrated in the dust (against all reason and justice), he has no appeal, societies, the bulk of mankind, may be plunged in misery--who or what cares? Man is surrounded by indifference as well as by darkness. Often, when an idea has gained a powerful hold on Andreyev, he pursues it a long time, presenting it under various aspects, until at last it assumes its final form, rounded and completed, as it were, in some figure or symbol. As such it appears either as the leading theme of an entire story or drama, or as an important subordinate theme. Thus we have seen that the idea of death finds concrete expression in the character of Lazarus. The idea of loneliness, of the isolation of the individual from all other human beings, even though he be physically surrounded by large numbers, is embodied in the story of "The City." Similarly the conception of the mystery and the indifference by which man finds himself confronted is definitely set forth in the figure of _Someone in Gray_ in "The Life of Man." The riddle, the indifference--these are the two characteristics of human destiny that loom large in Andreyev's conception of it as set forth in that figure. _Someone in Gray_--who is he? No one knows. No definite name can be given him, for no one knows. He is mysterious in "The Life of Man," where he is _Man's_ constant companion; he is mysterious in "Anathema," where he guards the gate leading from this finite world to eternity. And as _Man's_ companion he looks on indifferently, apparently unconcerned whether _Man_ meets with good or bad fortune. _Man's_ prayers do not move him. _Man's_ curses leave him calm. It is Andreyev's gloomy philosophy, no doubt, that so often causes him to make his heroes lonely, so that loneliness is developed into a principle of human existence, in some cases, as in "The City," becoming the dominant influence over a man's life. Particularly the men whom life has treated senselessly and cruelly, whom it has dealt blow after blow until their spirits are crushed out--it is such men in particular who become lonely, seek isolation and retirement, and slink away into some hole to die alone. This is the significance of the saloon scene in "The Life of Man." The environment of the drunkards who are withdrawn from life, and therefore lonely themselves, accentuates the loneliness of _Man_ in the last scene. It is his loneliness that Andreyev desired to bring into relief. His frequenting the saloon is but an immaterial detail, one of the means of emphasizing this idea. To remove all possible misunderstanding on this point, Andreyev wrote a variant of the last scene, "The Death of Man," in which, instead of dying in a saloon surrounded by drunkards, _Man_ dies in his own house surrounded by his heirs. "The _loneliness_ of the dying and unhappy man," Andreyev wrote in a prefatory note to this variant, "may just as fully be characterized by the presence of the _Heirs._" However, for all the gloom of his works, Andreyev is not a pessimist. Under one of his pictures he has written: "Though it destroys individuals, the truth saves mankind." The misery in the world may be ever so great; the problems that force themselves upon man's mind may seem unanswerable; the happenings in the external world may fill his soul with utter darkness, so that he despairs of finding any meaning, any justification in life. And yet, though his reason deny it, his soul tells him: "The truth saves mankind." After all, _Man_ is not a failure. For though misfortunes crowd upon him, he remains intact in soul, unbroken in spirit. He carries off the victory because he does not surrender. He dies as a superman, big in his defiance of destiny. This must be the meaning Andreyev attached to _Man's_ life. We find an interpretation of it, as it were, in "Anathema," in which _Someone_ sums up the fate of _David_--who lived an even sadder life than _Man_ and died a more horrible death--in these words: "David has achieved immortality, and he _lives immortal_ in the deathlessness of fire. David has achieved immortality, and he _lives immortal_ in the deathlessness of light which is life." Andreyev was born at Orel in 1871 and was graduated from the gymnasium there. According to his own testimony, he never seems to have been a promising student. "In the seventh form," he tells us, "I was always at the bottom of my class." He lost his father early, and often went hungry while studying law at the University of St. Petersburg. In the University of Moscow, to which he went next, he fared better. One of the means that he used to eke out a livelihood was portrait painting to order, and in this work he finally attained such proficiency that his price rose from $1.50 apiece to $6.00. In 1897 he began to practise law, but he gave most of his time to reporting court cases for the "Courier," a Moscow newspaper, and later to writing _feuilletons_ and stories. He tried only one civil case, and that one he lost. His work in the "Courier" attracted Gorky's attention, and the older writer zealously interested himself in Andreyev's behalf. In 1902 his story named "The Abyss" appeared and created a sensation immediately. Even Countess Tolstoy joined in the dispute which raged over this story, attacking it as matter unfit for literature. But the verdict of Andreyev's generation was in his favor. Since then nearly every new work of his has been received as an important event in Russia and has sent the critics scurrying to his attack or defence. His first drama, "To the Stars," appeared while the Russians were engaged in fighting for liberty (1905), and, naturally enough, it reflects that struggle. "Savva" was published early the next year, and "The Life of Man" later in the same year. The production of "Savva" is prohibited in Russia. It has been played in Vienna and Berlin, and recently it was staged again in Berlin by "Die Freie Bühne," meeting with signal success. A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS By LEONID ANDREYEV TO THE STARS (K Zviezdam), 1905; SAVVA (Savva), 1906; THE LIFE OF MAN (Zhizn Chelovieka), 1906; KING HUNGER (Tzar Golod), 1907; THE BLACK MASKS (Chiorniya Maski), 1908; THE DAYS OF OUR LIFE (Dni Nashey Zhizni), 1908; ANATHEMA (Anatema), 1909; ANFISSA (Anfissa), 1909; GAUDEAMUS (Gaudeamus), 1910; THE OCEAN (Okean), 1911; "HONOR" ("Chest"), 1911 (?); THE PRETTY SABINE WOMEN (Prekrasniya Sabinianki), 1911; PROFESSOR STORITZYN (Professor Storitzyn), 1912; CATHERINE (Yekaterina Ivanovna), 1913; THOU SHALT NOT KILL (Ne Ubi), 1914. SAVVA or IGNIS SANAT (SAVVA) A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 1906 PERSONS YEGOR IVANOVICH TROPININ, _innkeeper in a monastic suburb. An elderly man of about fifty, with an important manner and a item, dignified way of speaking._ ANTON _(Tony), anywhere from thirty-five to thirty-eight, bloated from drinking and always under the influence of alcohol. His face is bloodless, sad, and sleepy. He has a sparse beard, speaks slowly and painfully, and never laughs._ OLYMPIADA _(Lipa), twenty-eight years old. She is fair and rather good-looking. There is a touch of monastic severity in her dress._ SAVVA, _twenty-three, large, broad-shouldered, with a suggestion of the peasant in his looks. He walks with a slight stoop, elbows out, feet in. The motions of his hands are rounded and graceful, his palms being turned up as if he were carrying something. His features are large and rough-hewn, and his cheeks and chin are covered with a soft light down. When agitated or angry, he turns gray as dust, his movements become quick and agile, and his stoop disappears. He wears the blouse and boots of a workingman._ PELAGUEYA, _a freckled, colorless woman, of about thirty, wearing the ordinary dress of her class. She is dirty and untidy._ SPERANSKY GRIGORY PETROVICH, _an ex-seminarist; tall, very lean, with a pale, long face, and a tuft of dark hair on his chin. He has long, smooth hair parted in the middle and falling on each side of his face. He is dressed either in a long, dark overcoat or in a dark frock-coat._ FATHER KONDRATY, _a friar, forty-two years old, ugly, narrow-chested, with swollen, animated eyes._ VASSYA, _a novice, a strong and athletic youth of nineteen. He has a round, cheerful, smiling face, and curly, lustrous hair._ KING HEROD, _a pilgrim, about fifty. He has a dry, emaciated face, black from sunburn and road dust. His gray, dishevelled hair and beard give him a savage appearance. He has only one arm, the left. He is as tall as Savva._ A FAT MONK. A GRAY MONK. A MAN IN PEASANT OVERCOAT. _Monks, pilgrims, cripples, beggars, blind men and women, monstrosities._ _The action takes place at the beginning of the twentieth century in a rich monastery celebrated for its wonder-working ikon of the Saviour. There is an interval of about two weeks between the first and the last act._ SAVVA THE FIRST ACT _The interior of a house in a monastic suburb. Two rooms, with a third seen back of them. They are old, ramshackle, and filthy. The first one is a sort of dining-room, large, with dirty, low ceiling and smeared wall-paper that in places has come loose from the wall. There are three little windows; the one giving on the yard reveals a shed, a wagon, and some household utensils. Cheap wooden furniture; a large, bare table. On the walls, which are dotted with flies, appear pictures of monks and views of the monastery. The second room, a parlor, is somewhat cleaner. It has window curtains of muslin, two flower-pots with dried geraniums, a sofa, a round table covered with a tablecloth, and shelves with dishes. The door to the left in the first room leads to the tavern. When open, it admits the sound of a man's doleful, monotonous singing. It is noon of a hot and perfectly still summer's day. Now and then the clucking of hens is heard under the windows. The clock in the belfry of the monastery strikes every half-hour, a long, indistinct wheeze preceding the first stroke. Pelagueya, who is pregnant, is scrubbing the floor. Seized with giddiness, she staggers to her feet and leans against the wall, staring before her with a vacant gaze._ PELAGUEYA Oh, God! _(She starts to scrub the floor again)_ LIPA _(enters, faint from heat)_ How stifling! I don't know what to do with myself. My head seems full of pins and needles. _(She sits down)_ Polya, say, Polya. PELAGUEYA What is it? LIPA Where's father? PELAGUEYA He's sleeping. LIPA Oh, I can't stand it. _(She opens the window, then takes a turn round the room, moving aimlessly and, glancing into the tavern)_ Tony's sleeping too--behind the counter. It would be nice to go in, bathing, but it's too hot to walk to the river. Polya, why don't you speak? Say something. PELAGUEYA What? LIPA Scrubbing, scrubbing, all the time. PELAGUEYA Yes. LIPA And in a day from now the floors will be dirty again. I don't see what pleasure you get from working the way you do. PELAGUEYA. I have to. LIPA I just took a peep at the street. It's awful. Not a human being in sight, not even a dog. All is dead. And the monastery has such a queer look. It seems to be hanging in the air. You have the feeling that if you were to blow on it, it would begin to swing and fly away. Why are you so silent, Polya? Where is Savva? Have you seen him? PELAGUEYA He's in the pasture playing jackstones with the children. LIPA He's a funny fellow. PELAGUEYA I don't see anything funny about it. He ought to be working, that's what he ought to be doing, not playing like a baby. I don't like your Savva. LIPA _(lazily)_ No, Polya, he is good. PELAGUEYA Good? I spoke to him and told him how hard the work was for me. "Well," he says, "if you want to be a horse, pull." What did he come here for? I wish he'd stayed where he was. LIPA He came home to see his folks. Why, it's ten years since he left. He was a mere boy then. PELAGUEYA A lot he cares for his folks. Yegor Ivanovich is just dying to get rid of him. The neighbors don't know what to make of him either. He dresses like a workingman and carries himself like a lord, doesn't speak to anybody and just rolls his eyes like a saint. I am afraid of his eyes. LIPA Nonsense. He has beautiful eyes. PELAGUEYA Can't he see that it's hard for me to be doing all the housework myself? A while ago he saw me carrying a pail full of water. I was straining with all my might. He didn't even say good morning; just, passed on. I have met a lot of people in my life, but never anybody whom I disliked so much. LIPA I'm so hot, everything seems to be turning round like wheels. Listen, Polya, if you don't want to work, don't. No one compels you to. PELAGUEYA If I won't work, who will? Will you? LIPA No, I won't. We'll hire a servant. PELAGUEYA Yes, of course, you have plenty of money. LIPA And what's the use of keeping it? PELAGUEYA I'll die soon and then you'll get a servant. I won't last much longer. I have had one miscarriage, and I guess a second child will be the end of me. I don't care. It's better than to live the way I do. Oh! _(She clasps her waist)_ LIPA But for God's sake, who is asking you to? Stop working. Don't scrub. PELAGUEYA Yes, stop it, and all of you will be going about saying: "How dirty the house is!" LIPA _(weary from the heat and Pelagueya's talk)_ Oh, I'm so tired of it! PELAGUEYA Don't you think I feel tired too? What are you complaining about anyhow? You are a lady. All you have to do is pray and read. I don't even get time to pray. Some day I'll drop into the next world all of a sudden just as I am, with my skirt tucked up under my belt: "Good morning! How d'you do!" LIPA You'll be scrubbing floors in the next world too. PELAGUEYA No, in the next world it's you who'll be scrubbing floors, and I'll sit with folded hands like a lady. In heaven we'll be the first ones, while you and your Savva, for your pride and your hard hearts-- LIPA Now, Polya, am I not sorry for you? YEGOR IVANOVICH TROPININ _(enters, still sleepy, his beard turned to one side, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned; breathing heavily)_ Whew! Say, Polya, bring me some cider. Quick! _(Pause)_ Who opened the window? LIPA I did. YEGOR What for? LIPA It's hot. The stove in the restaurant makes it so close here you can't breathe. YEGOR Shut it, shut it, I say. If it's too hot for you, you can go down into the cellar. LIPA But what do you want to have the window shut for? YEGOR Because. Shut it! You have been told to shut the window--then shut it! What are you waiting for? _(Lipa, shrugging her shoulders, closes the window and is about to leave)_ Where are you going? The moment your father appears, you run away. Sit down! LIPA But you don't want me. YEGOR Never mind whether I want you or not--sit down! Oh, my! _(He yawns and crosses himself)_ Where is Savva? LIPA I don't know. YEGOR Tell him I'll turn him out. LIPA Tell him so yourself. YEGOR Fool! _(He yawns and crosses himself)_ Oh, Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us sinners! What was it I was dreaming about just now? LIPA I don't know. YEGOR Who asked you? You stupid, how could you tell what I was dreaming? You've got brains, haven't you? PELAGUEYA _(handing him cider)_ There. YEGOR There. Put it down and don't "there" me. _(Takes the jug and drinks)_ What was I talking about? _(Pelagueya finishes scrubbing the floor)_ Oh yes, about the Father Superior. A smart fellow he is. You'll have to go a long way to find another like him. He had the old coffin exchanged for a new one. The pilgrims chewed the old one to pieces, so he put a new one in its place. He put a new one in place of the old one. They'll chew this, one to pieces too, the fools! Anything you give them, the fools! Do you hear or don't you? LIPA I hear. What's so remarkable about it? A swindle, that's all. YEGOR What's remarkable about it is that, he didn't ask your advice. They chewed the old one to pieces, so he put a new one in its place exactly like it; Yes, just exactly like the one in which the saint lay before. Remember us in heaven where thou dwellest, O Saint! _(He crosses himself and yawns)_ You can lose your teeth on this one too. They chewed the old one to pieces completely. Where are you off to? Sit down! LIPA I can't, it's so hot in here. YEGOR But I can. Sit down, you won't melt. _(Pause)_ They chewed up the old one, so he put up a new one. Where is Savva? PELAGUEYA He's playing; jackstones with the children. YEGOR I'm not asking you. What time is it? PELAGUEYA It just struck two. YEGOR Tell him I'll turn him out. I won't stand it. LIPA Stand what? Be reasonable. YEGOR I won't stand it. Who is he anyway? Never at home in time for dinner. He comes and feeds like a dog by himself--knocks about at night and doesn't lock the gate. I went out yesterday and found the gate wide open. If we are robbed, who'll pay for it? LIPA There are no thieves here. What thieves have you ever seen in this place? YEGOR What thieves? A lot. When all people are asleep, he is knocking about. Who ever heard of such a thing? LIPA But if he doesn't want to sleep, what is he to do? YEGOR What, you too? He doesn't want to? Let him go to bed, and he'll sleep. No one wants to sleep, but once you lie down you fall asleep. He doesn't want to? I know him. Who asked him to come? He was making bank-notes over there--then why didn't he stay where he was and do what he pleased? What business has he here? LIPA What bank-notes? YEGOR What bank-notes? Not real ones. Nothing is done to you for making real bank-notes. Counterfeit bank-notes, that's what. Not the sort of thing you get patted on the head for, when you are caught, no sirree! It's very strict now. I'll go to the police captain and tell him: "It's like this--just search him." LIPA Oh, nonsense. PELAGUEYA You are the only, one who doesn't know it. Everybody else knows it. LIPA Oh, Lord! YEGOR Well, about the Lord we know better than you. You needn't appeal to Him. I want you to tell Savva that I am not afraid of him. He didn't strike the right person. I'll just make him skip. I'll turn him out. Let him go where he came from. The idea of my having to be responsible for his robberies. Who's ever heard of such a thing? LIPA You are not quite wide awake, father, that's what's the matter with you. YEGOR I am wide awake all right, and have been for a long time. What I'd like to know is, are _you_ wide awake? Look out, Lipa, don't let it happen to you too. LIPA What? YEGOR It. _(He yawns and crosses himself)_ If mother were to rise from her grave now and see her children, she would be delighted. Fine children, she would say. I have nursed you, and brought you up, and what's the result? Regular good-for-nothing scamps. Tony'll soon begin to drink again. I can see it on his face. Who's ever heard of such a thing? People will soon be coming here for the feast-day, and I'll have to work alone for the whole bunch. Polya, hand me that match from the floor--there. No, not there, you blind goose. There, you stupid. PELAGUEYA _(hunting for the match)_ I don't see it. YEGOR I'll take you by the back of your neck and give you such a shaking that you'll see mighty quick. There it is, damn you! LIPA _(faint)_ Oh, God, what a blistering heat! YEGOR There it is. Where are you crawling? Under the chair. There, damn you! SAVVA _(enters gayly, the pocket of his blouse full of jackstones)_ I won six pair. YEGOR Well, the idea! SAVVA I finished that rascal Misha, cleared him all up. What are you mumbling about there? YEGOR Nothing. Only I wish you'd address me a little more politely. SAVVA _(paying no attention to him)_ Lipa, I won six pair. LIPA How can you play in such heat? SAVVA Wait, I am going to put the jackstones away. I have eighteen pair now. Misha, the little rascal, plays well. _(He goes out)_ YEGOR _(rising)_ I don't want to see him any more. Tell him to get out of here at once. LIPA All right, I will. YEGOR Don't say "all right," but do what your father tells you. A fine lot of brats--that's a sure thing! Yes, yes. _(Goes)_ If mother saw them-- PELAGUEYA He speaks of mother as if he weren't the one that drove her to an early grave. He talked her to death, the old scold! He just talks and talks, and nags and nags, and he doesn't know himself what he wants. LIPA To be with you is like being caught in the wheel of a machine. My head is spinning round and round. PELAGUEYA Then why don't you go away with your Savva? What are you waiting for? LIPA Look here, why are you angry with me? PELAGUEYA I am not angry. I am telling the truth. You don't want to marry. You are disgusted with all your beaux. Why don't you go into a convent? LIPA I won't go into a convent, but I will go away from here, soon enough, I think. PELAGUEYA Well, go! No one is keeping you. The road is wide open. LIPA Ah, Polya, you are angry and sulky with me. You don't know how I spend my nights thinking about you. At night I lie awake and think and think about you, and about all the people that are unhappy--all of them. PELAGUEYA What do you want to think about me for? You had better think about yourself. LIPA And no one knows it. Well, what's the use of talking? You couldn't understand anyhow. I am sorry for you, Polya. _(Pelagueya laughs)_ What's the matter? PELAGUEYA If you are sorry for me, why don't you carry out that pail? The way I am, I shouldn't be lifting heavy things. Why don't you help me, if you are so sorry for me? LIPA _(her face darkening, then brightening again)_ Give it to me. _(She picks up the pail and starts to carry it away)_ PELAGUEYA _(spitefully)_ Hypocrite! Let go! Where are you going? _(She carries out the pail and returns for the other things)_ SAVVA _(entering; to his sister)_ Why is your face so red? LIPA It's hot. _[Pelagueya laughs._ SAVVA Say, Pelagueya, has Kondraty inquired for me? PELAGUEYA Kondraty! What Kondraty? SAVVA Kondraty, the friar; he looks something like a sparrow. PELAGUEYA I didn't see any Kondraty. Like a sparrow! That's a funny way of putting it. SAVVA Tell Tony to come here, won't you? PELAGUEYA Tell him yourself. SAVVA Well, well! PELAGUEYA _(calls through the door before she goes out into the tavern)_ Anthony, Savva wants you. LIPA What do you want him for? SAVVA What a queer habit you have here of plying a person with questions all the time. Where, who, why, what for? LIPA _(slightly offended)_ You needn't answer if you don't want to. TONY _(enters, speaking slowly and with difficulty)_ Who wants me? SAVVA I am expecting Kondraty here--you know Kondraty, don't you? Send him in when he comes. TONY Who are you? SAVVA And send in two bottles of whiskey too, do you hear? TONY Maybe I do and maybe I don't. Maybe I'll send the whiskey and maybe I won't. SAVVA What a sceptic. You've grown silly, Tony. LIPA Leave him alone, Savva. He has got that from the seminary student, from Speransky. Anyhow, he is full of-- TONY _(sitting down)_ I didn't get it from anybody. I can understand everything myself. The blood has congealed in my heart. SAVVA That's from drink, Tony. Stop drinking. TONY The blood has congealed in my heart. You think I don't know what's what. A while ago you weren't here with us, and all of a sudden you came. Yes, I understand everything. I have visions. SAVVA What do you see? God? TONY There is no God. SAVVA How's that? TONY And no devil either. There's nothing, no people, no animals, nothing. SAVVA What is there then? TONY There are only faces, a whole lot of faces. It's faces, faces, faces. They are very funny, and I keep laughing all the time. I just sit still, and the faces come jumping and gliding past me, jumping and gliding. You've got a very funny face too, Savva. _(Sadly)_ It's enough to make one die of laughter. SAVVA _(laughing gayly)_ What kind of a face have I? TONY That's the kind of face you have. _(Pointing his finger at him)_ She also has a face, and she. And father too. And then there are other faces. There are a lot of faces. I sit in the tavern and see everything. Nothing escapes me. You can't fool me. Some faces are small and some are large, and all of them glide and glide--Some are far away, and some are as close to me as if they wanted to kiss me or bite my nose. They have teeth. SAVVA All right, Tony, now you can go. We'll talk about the faces later. Your own face is funny enough. TONY Yes, of course. I, too, have a face. SAVVA All right, all right. Go now. Don't forget to send in the whiskey. TONY As in the daytime so at night. A lot of faces. _(From the door)_ And in regards to whiskey, maybe I'll send it and maybe I won't. I can't tell yet. SAVVA _(to Lipa)_ Has he been that way a long time? LIPA I don't know. I think so. He drinks an awful lot. PELAGUEYA _(going)_ No wonder. You're enough to drive a man to drink. Cranks. _(Exit)_ LIPA My, how stifling! I don't know what to do with myself. Say, Savva, why aren't you nicer to Polya? She is such a wretched creature. SAVVA A slavish soul. LIPA It isn't her fault if she's that way. SAVVA _(coldly)_ Nor mine either. LIPA Oh, Savva, if you only knew the terrible life people lead here. The men drink, and beat their wives, and the women-- SAVVA I know. LIPA You say it so calmly. I have been waiting very much to have a talk with you. SAVVA Go ahead. LIPA You'll soon be leaving us, I suppose. SAVVA Yes. LIPA Then I won't have any chance to talk to you. You are scarcely ever at home. This is the first time, pretty nearly. It seems so strange that you should enjoy playing with the children, you a grown man, big as a bear. SAVVA _(merrily)_ No, Lipa, they play very well. Misha is very good at the game, and I have a hard time holding up my end of it. I lost him three pairs yesterday. LIPA Why, he is only ten years old.-- SAVVA Well, what of it? The children are the only human beings here. They are the wisest part of the-- LIPA _(with a smile)_ And I? How about me? SAVVA _(looking at her)_ You? Why, you are like the rest. _[A pause. Being offended, Lipa's languor disappears to some extent._ LIPA Maybe I bore you. SAVVA No, you make no difference to me one way or another. I am never bored. LIPA _(with a constrained smile)_ Thank you, I am glad of that at least. Were you in the monastery to-day? You go there often, don't you? SAVVA Yes, I was there. Why? LIPA I suppose you don't remember--I love our monastery. It is so beautiful. At times it looks so pensive. I like it because it's so old. Its age gives it a solemnity, a stern serenity and detachment. SAVVA Do you read many books? LIPA _(blushing)_ I used to read a lot. You know I spent four winters in Moscow with Aunt Glasha. Why do you ask? SAVVA Never mind. Go on. LIPA Does what I say sound ridiculous? SAVVA No, go on. LIPA The monastery is really a remarkable place. There are nice spots there which no one ever visits, somewhere between the mute walls, where there is nothing but grass and fallen stones and a lot of old, old litter. I love to linger there, especially at twilight, or on hot sunny days like to-day. I close my eyes, and I seem to look far, far into the distant past--at those who built it and those who first prayed in it. There they walk along the path carrying bricks and singing something, so softly, so far away. _(Closing her eyes)_ So softly, so softly. SAVVA I don't like the old. As to the building of the monastery, it was done by serfs, of course; and when they carried bricks they didn't sing, but quarrelled and cursed one another. That's more like it. LIPA _(opening her eyes)_ Those are my dreams. You see, Savva, I am all alone here. I have nobody to talk to. Tell me--You won't be angry, will you?--Tell me, just me alone, why did you come here to us? It wasn't to pray. It wasn't for the feast-day. You don't look like a pilgrim. SAVVA _(frowning)_ I don't like you to be so curious. LIPA How can you think I am? Do I look as if I were curious? You have been here for two weeks, and you ought to see that I am lonely. I am lonely, Savva. Your coming was to me like manna fallen from the sky. You are the first living human being that has come here from over there, from real life. In Moscow I lived very quietly, just reading my books; and here--you see the sort of people we have here. SAVVA Do you think it's different in other places? LIPA I don't know. That's what I should like to find out from you. You have seen so much. You have even been abroad. SAVVA Only for a short time. LIPA That makes no difference. You have met many cultured, wise, interesting people. You have lived with them. How do they live? What kind of people are they? Tell me all about it. SAVVA A mean, contemptible lot. LIPA Is that so? You don't say so! SAVVA They live just as you do here--a stupid, senseless existence. The only difference is in the language they speak. But that makes it still worse. The justification for cattle is that, they are without speech. But when the cattle become articulate, begin to speak, defend themselves and express ideas then the situation becomes intolerable, unmitigatedly repulsive. Their dwelling-places are different too--yes--but that's a small thing. I was in a city inhabited by a hundred thousand people. The windows in the house of that city are all small. Those living in them are all fond of light, but it never occurs to anyone that the windows might be made larger. And when a new house is built, they put in the same kind of windows, just as small, just as they have always been. LIPA The idea! I never would have thought it. But they can't all be like that. You must have met good people who knew how to live. SAVVA I don't know how to make you understand. Yes, I did meet, if not altogether good people, yet--The last people with whom I lived were a pretty good sort. They didn't accept life ready-made, but tried to make it over to suit themselves. But-- LIPA Who were they--students? SAVVA No. Look here--how about your tongue--is it of the loose kind? LIPA Savva, you ought to be ashamed! SAVVA All right. Now then. You've read of people who make bombs--little bombs, you understand? Now if they see anybody who interferes with life, they take him off. They're called anarchists. But that isn't quite correct. _(Contemptuously)_ Nice anarchists they are! LIPA _(starting back, awestruck)_ What are you talking about? You can't possibly be in earnest. It isn't true. And you in it, too? Why, you look so simple and talk so simply, and suddenly--I was hot a moment ago, but now I am cold, _(The rooster crows-under the window, calling the chickens to share some seed he has found)_ SAVVA There now--you're frightened. First you want me to tell you, and then-- LIPA Don't mind me, Savva, it's nothing. It was so unexpected. I thought such people didn't really exist--that they were just a fiction of the imagination. And then, all of a sudden, to find you, my brother--You are not joking, Savva? Look me straight in the eye. SAVVA But why did you get frightened? They are not so terrible after all. In fact, they are very quiet, orderly people, and very deliberate. They meet and meet, and weigh and consider a long time, and then--bang!--a sparrow drops dead. The next minute there is another sparrow in its place, hopping about on the very same branch. Why are you looking at my hands? LIPA Oh, nothing. Give me your hand--no, your right hand. SAVVA Here. LIPA How heavy it is. Feel how cold mine are. Go on, tell me all about it. It's so interesting. SAVVA What's there to tell? They are a brave set of people, I must admit; but it is a bravery of the head, not of the hands. And their heads are partitioned off into little chambers; they are always careful not to do anything which is unnecessary or harmful. Now you can't clear a dense forest by cutting down one tree at a time, can you? That's what they do. While they chop at one end, it grows up at the other. You can't accomplish anything that way; it's labor lost. I proposed a scheme to them, something on a larger scale. They got frightened, wouldn't hear of it. A little weak-kneed they are. So I left them. Let them practise virtue. A narrow-minded bunch. They lack breadth of vision. LIPA You say it as calmly as if you were joking. SAVVA No, I am not joking. LIPA Aren't you afraid? SAVVA I? So far I haven't been, and I don't ever expect to be. What worse can happen to a man than to have been born? It's like asking a man who is drowning whether he is not afraid of getting wet. _(Laughs)_ LIPA So that's the kind you are. SAVVA One thing I learned from them: respect for dynamite. It's a powerful instrument, dynamite is--nothing like it for a convincing argument. LIPA You are only twenty-three years old. You have no beard yet, not even a moustache. SAVVA _(feeling his face)_ Yes, a measly growth; but what conclusions do you draw from that? LIPA Fear will come to you yet. SAVVA No. If I haven't been frightened so far by watching life, there's nothing else to fear. Life, yes. I embrace the earth with my eyes, the whole of it, the entire little planetoid, and I can find nothing more terrible on it than man and human life. And I am not afraid of man. LIPA _(scarcely listening to him; ecstatically)_ Yes, that's the word. That's it. Savva, dear, I am not afraid of bodily suffering either. Burn me on a slow fire. Cut me to pieces. I won't cry. I'll laugh. I know I will. But there is another thing I am afraid of. I am afraid of people's suffering, of the misery from which they cannot escape. When in the stillness of the night, broken only by the striking of the hours, I think of how much suffering there is all around us--aimless, needless suffering; suffering one doesn't even know of--when I think of that, I am chilled with terror. I go down on my knees and pray. I pray to God, saying to Him: "Oh, Lord, if there has to be a victim, take me, but give the people joy, give them peace, give them forgetfulness. Oh, Lord, all powerful as Thou art--" SAVVA Yes. LIPA I have read about a man who was eaten by an eagle, and his flesh grew again overnight. If my body could turn into bread and joy for the people, I would consent to live in eternal torture in order to feed the unfortunate. There'll soon be a holiday here in the monastery-- SAVVA I know. LIPA There is an ikon of the Saviour there with the touching inscription: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden-- SAVVA And I will give you rest." I know. LIPA It is regarded as a wonder-working ikon. Go there on the feast-day. It's like a torrent pouring into the monastery, an ocean rolling toward its walls; and this whole ocean is made up entirely of human tears, of human sorrow and misery. Such monstrosities, such cripples. After witnessing one of those scenes, I walk about as in a dream. There are faces with such a depth of misery in them that one can never forget them as long as one lives. Why, Savva, I was a gay young thing before I saw all that. There is one man who comes here every year--they have nicknamed him King Herod-- SAVVA He is here already. I've seen him. LIPA Have you? SAVVA Yes, he has got a tragic face. LIPA Long ago, when still a young man, he killed his son by accident, and from that day he keeps coming here. He has an awful face. And all of them are waiting for a miracle. SAVVA Yes. There is something worse than inescapable human suffering, however. LIPA What? SAVVA _(lightly)_ Inescapable human stupidity. LIPA I don't know. SAVVA I do. Here you see only a small fragment of life, but if you could see and hear all of it--When I first read their newspapers, I laughed and thought it was a joke. I thought they were published in some asylum for the insane. But I found it was no joke. It was really serious, Lipa, really serious. And then my head began to ache with an intolerable pain. _(He presses his hand to his forehead)_ LIPA Your head began to ache? SAVVA Yes. It's a peculiar pain. You don't know what it is like. Few people know what it is. And the pain continued until I resolved-- LIPA What? SAVVA To annihilate everything. LIPA What are you saying? SAVVA Yes, yes, everything. All that's old. LIPA _(in amazement)_ And man? SAVVA Man is to remain, of course. What is in his way is the stupidity that, piling up for thousands of years, has grown into a mountain. The modern sages want to build on this mountain, but that, of course, will lead to nothing but making the mountain still higher. It is the mountain itself that must be removed. It must be levelled to its foundation, down to the bare earth. Do you understand? LIPA No, I don't understand you. You talk so strangely. SAVVA Annihilate everything! The old houses, the old cities, the old literature, the old art. Do you know what art is? LIPA Yes, of course I know--pictures, statues. I went to the Tretyakov art gallery. SAVVA That's it--the Tretyakov, and other galleries that are bigger still. There are some good things in them, but it will be still better to have the old stuff out of the way. All the old dress must go. Man must be stripped bare and left naked on a naked earth! Then he will build up a new life. The earth must be denuded, Lipa; it must be stripped of its hideous old rags. It deserves to be arrayed in a king's mantle; but what have they done with it? They have dressed it in coarse fustian, in convict clothes. They've built cities, the idiots! LIPA But who will do it? Who's going to destroy everything? SAVVA I. LIPA You? SAVVA Yes, I. I'll begin, and then, when people get to understand what I am after, others will join in. The work will proceed merrily, Lipa. The sky will be hot. Yes. The only thing not worth destroying is science. That would be useless. Science is unchangeable, and if, you destroyed it to-day, it would rise up again the same as before. LIPA How much blood will have to be shed? Why, it's horrible! SAVVA No more than has been shed already--and there'll be rhyme and reason to it, at least. _(Pause; the hens cluck in the yard; from the same direction comes Tony's sleepy voice_: "Polya, father wants you. Where did you put his cap?") LIPA What a scheme! Are you not joking, Savva? SAVVA You make me sick with your "you are joking, you are joking." LIPA I am afraid of you, Savva. You are so serious about it. SAVVA Yes, there are many people who are afraid of me. LIPA If you would only smile a little. SAVVA _(looking at her with wide-open eyes and a frank face, and breaking abruptly into a clear, ringing laugh)_ Oh, you funny girl, what should I be smiling for? I'd rather laugh. _(Both laugh)_ Are you afraid of tickling? LIPA Stop it! What a boy you are still! SAVVA All right. And Kondraty, isn't here yet. I wonder why. Do you think the devil has taken him? The devil is fond of monks, you know. LIPA What strange fancies you have. Why, now you are joking-- SAVVA _(somewhat surprised)_ They are not fancies. LIPA My fancies are different. You are a dear now, because you talk to me. In the evening I'll tell you all about myself. We'll take a walk together, and I'll tell you everything. SAVVA Very well, I'll listen. Why shouldn't I? LIPA Tell me, Savva, if I may ask--are you in love with a woman? SAVVA Ah, switched around to the subject of love after all--just like a woman! I hardly know what to say. I did love a girl, in a way, but she didn't stick it out. LIPA Stick out what? SAVVA My love, or perhaps myself. All I know is that one fine day she went away and left me. LIPA _(laughing)_ And you? SAVVA Nothing. I remained alone. LIPA Have you any friends, comrades? SAVVA No. LIPA Any enemies? I mean is there anyone whom you particularly dislike, whom you hate? SAVVA Yes--God. LIPA _(incredulously)_ What? SAVVA God, I say--the one whom you call your Saviour. LIPA _(shouting)_ Don't dare speak that way! You've gone out of your mind! SAVVA Ah! I touched your sensitive spot, did I? LIPA Don't you dare! SAVVA I thought you were a gentle dove, but you have a tongue like a snake's. _(He imitates the movements of a snake's tongue with his finger)_ LIPA Good Lord! How dare you, how can you speak like that of the Saviour? Why, one dares not look at him. Why have you come here? _[Kondraty appears at the door of the tavern, looks around, and enters quietly._ KONDRATY In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost! SAVVA Amen! You're very late, my gracious lord! KONDRATY I did the will of him who sent me. I was picking young little cucumbers for the Father Superior. He has them made into a dainty dish which he loves dearly for an appetizer. My, what infernal heat! I was in pools of perspiration before I got through. SAVVA _(to Lipa)_ You see, here is a monk. He likes a drink. His cussing vocabulary isn't bad. He is no fool, and as to women-- KONDRATY Don't embarrass the young lady, Mr. Tropinin. In the presence of a lady-- SAVVA And furthermore, he doesn't believe in God. KONDRATY He is joking. LIPA I don't like such jokes. What have you come here for? KONDRATY I am here by invitation. SAVVA I have some business with him. LIPA _(without looking at Savva)_ What have you come here for? SAVVA For nothing that concerns you. You had better have a talk with him. He is a chap that possesses a great deal of curiosity. He's not a fool, either, but knows what's what. LIPA _(looking searchingly at Savva)_ I know him well, I know him very well. KONDRATY To my regret I must admit it's true. I have the unenviable fortune of being known as a man who does not observe the outer forms of conduct. It is on account of that characteristic I was fired from my position as government clerk, and it's on that account I am now frequently condemned to live for weeks on nothing but bread and water. I cannot act in secret. I am open and above-board. In fact, I fairly cry aloud whatever I do. For example, the circumstances under which I met you, Mr. Tropinin, are such that I am ashamed to recall them. SAVVA Don't recall them then. KONDRATY _(to Lipa)_ I was lying in a mud puddle in all my dignity, like a regular hog. LIPA _(disgusted)_ All right. KONDRATY But I am not ashamed to speak of it; first, because many people saw it, and of course nobody took the trouble to get me out of it except Savva Yegorovich, and secondly, because I regard this as my cross. LIPA A fine cross! KONDRATY Every man, Miss Olympiada, has his cross. It isn't so very nice to be lying in a mud puddle. Dry ground is pleasanter every time. And do you know, I think half of the water in that puddle was my own tears, and my woeful lamentations made ripples on it-- SAVVA That's not quite so, Kondraty. You were singing a song: "And we're baptized of him in Jordan"--to a very jolly tune at that. KONDRATY You don't say! What of it? So much the worse. It shows to what depths a man will descend. SAVVA Don't assume a melancholy air, father. You're quite a jovial fellow by nature, and the assumption of grief doesn't go well with your face, I assure you. KONDRATY True, Savva Yegorovich, I was a jolly fellow; but that was before I entered the monastery. As soon as I came here I took a tumble, so to speak; I lost my joviality and serenity and learned to know what real sorrow is. _[Tony enters and remains standing in the doorway gazing ecstatically at the monk._ SAVVA Why so? KONDRATY _(stepping nearer and speaking in a lowered voice)_ There is no God here--there's only the devil. This is a terrible place to live in, on my word it is, Mr. Savva. I am a man with a large experience. It's no easy thing to frighten me. But I am afraid to walk in the hall at night. SAVVA What devil? KONDRATY The ordinary one. To you, educated people, he appears in a nobler aspect of course; but to us plain, simple people, he reveals himself as he really is. SAVVA With horns? KONDRATY How can I tell? I never saw the horns; but that's not the point, although I may say that his shadow clearly shows the horns. The thing is that we have no peace in our monastery; there is always such a noise and clatter there. Everything is quiet outside; but inside there are groans and gnashing of teeth. Some groan, some whine, and some complain about something, you can't tell what. When you pass the doors, you feel as if your soul were taking leave of the world behind every door. Suddenly something glides from around the corner.--and there's a shadow on the wall. Nothing at all--and yet there's a shadow on the wall. In other places it makes no difference. You pay no attention to such a trifle as a shadow; but here, Savva Yegorovich, they are alive, and you can almost hear them speak. On my word of honor! Our hall, you know, is so long that it seems never to end. You enter--nothing! You see a sort of black object moving in front of you, something like the figure of a man. Then it stretches out, grows larger and larger and wider and wider until it reaches across the ceiling, and then it's behind you! You keep on walking. Your senses become paralyzed. You lose all consciousness. SAVVA _(to Tony)_ What are you staring at? TONY What a face! KONDRATY And God too is impotent here. Of course we have sacred relics and a wonder-working ikon; but, if you'll excuse me for saying so, they have no efficacy. LIPA What are you saying? KONDRATY None whatever. If you don't believe me, ask the other monks. They'll bear me out. We pray and pray, and beat our foreheads, and the result is nothing, absolutely nothing. If the image did nothing else than drive away the impure power! But it can't do even that. It hangs there as if it were none of its business, and as soon as night comes, the stir and the gliding and the flitting around the corners begin again. The abbot says we are cowards, poor in spirit, and that we ought to be ashamed. But why are the images ineffective? The monks in the monastery say-- LIPA Well? KONDRATY But it's hard to believe it. It's impossible. They say that the devil stole the real image long ago--the one that could perform miracles--and hung up his own picture instead. LIPA Oh, God, what blasphemy! Why aren't you ashamed to believe such vile, horrid stuff? You who are wearing a monk's robe at that! You really ought to be lying in a puddle--it's the proper place for you. SAVVA Now, now, don't get mad. Don't mind her, Father Kondraty, she doesn't mean it. She is a good girl. But really, why don't you leave the monastery? Why do you want to be fooling about here with shadows and devils? KONDRATY _(shrugging his shoulders)_ I would like to leave; but where am I to go? I dropped work long ago. I am not used to it any more. Here at least I don't have to worry about how to get a piece of bread. And as for the devil _(cautiously winking to Savva as he turns to the window and fillips his neck with his fingers)_ I have a means against him. SAVVA Well, let's go out and have a talk. You, face, will you send us some whiskey? TONY _(gloomily)_ He isn't telling the truth. There are no devils either. The devil couldn't have hung up his picture if there's no devil. It's impossible. He had better ask me. SAVVA All right, we'll speak about that later. Send us whiskey. TONY _(goes)_ I won't send you any whiskey either. SAVVA What a stupid fellow! I tell you what, father. You go out into the garden through that door. I'll be, with you in a moment. Don't lose yourself. _(He goes out after Tony)_ KONDRATY Good-bye, Miss Olympiada. _[Lipa doesn't answer. When Kondraty has left, she walks around the room a few times, agitated, waiting for Savva._ SAVVA _(entering)_ Well, what a fool! LIPA _(barring his way)_ I know why you came here. I know! Don't you dare! SAVVA What's that? LIPA When I heard you talk, I thought it was just words, but now--Come to your senses! Think! You've gone crazy. What do you mean to do? SAVVA Let me go. LIPA I listened to you and laughed! Good Lord! I feel as if I had awakened from a terrible dream. Or is it all a dream? What was the monk here for? What for? SAVVA Now that will do. You have had your say; that's enough. Let me go. LIPA Don't you see you have gone crazy? Do you understand? You are out of your mind. SAVVA I'm sick of hearing you repeat that. Let's go. LIPA Savva; dear, darling Savva--No? Very well, you won't listen to me? Very well. You'll see, Savva, you'll see. You ought to have your hands and feet tied. And you _will_ be bound, too. There are people who will do it. Oh, God! What does this mean? Stay! Stay! Savva! SAVVA _(going)_ All right, all right. LIPA _(shouting)_ I'll denounce you. Murderer! Ruffian! I'll denounce you. SAVVA _(turning round)_ Oho! You had better be more careful. _(Puts his hand on her shoulder and looks into her eyes)_ You had better be more careful, I say. LIPA You--_(For about three seconds there is a struggle between the two pairs of eyes, after which Lipa turns aside, biting her lips)_ I am not afraid of you. SAVVA That's better. But don't shout. One should never shout. _(Exit)_ LIPA _(alone)_ What does this mean? What am I to do? _(The hens cluck)_ YEGOR TROPININ _(in the door)_ What's the matter? What's the row here--hey? I was gone just half an hour, and everything has gone topsy-turvy. Lipa, why did you let the chickens get into the raspberry bushes? Go and drive 'em away, damn you! I am talking to you--yes, to you! Go, or I'll go you, I'll go you, I'll-- CURTAIN THE SECOND ACT _Within the enclosure of the monastery. In the rear, at the left, appear the monastery buildings, the refectory, monks' cells, parts of the church and the steeple, all connected by passageways with arched gates. Board-walks run in different directions in the court. At the right the corner of the steeple wall is seen slightly jutting out. Nestling against it is a small monastic cemetery surrounded by a light, grilled iron fence. Marble monuments and slabs of stone and iron are sunk deep into the earth. All are old and twisted. It is a long time since anyone was buried there. The cemetery contains also some wild rose-bushes and two or three rather small trees. It is evening, after vespers. Long shadows are falling from the tower and the walls. The monastery and the steeple are bathed in the reddish light of the setting sun. Monks, novices and pilgrims pass along the board-walks. In the beginning of the act may be heard behind the scenes the driving of a village herd, the cracking of a herdsman's whip, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, and dull cries. Toward the end of the act it grows much darker, and the movement in the yard ceases almost entirely. Savva, Speransky, and the Young Friar are seated on a bench by the iron fence. Speransky is holding his hat on his knees, and now and then he strokes his long, straight hair, which is hanging in two mournful strands over his long, pale face. He holds his legs together speaks in a low, sad tone, and gesticulates with extended forefinger. The Friar, young, round-faced, and vigorous, pays no attention to the conversation, but is smiling continually, as if at his own thoughts._ SAVVA _(preoccupied, looking aside)_ Yes. What kind of work do you do here? SPERANSKY None at all, Mr. Savva. How can a man in my condition do any work? Once a man begins to doubt his own existence, the obligation to work naturally ceases to exist for him. But the deacon's wife does not understand it. She is a very stupid woman, utterly lacking in education, and, moreover, of an unlovely, cruel disposition. She insists on making me work. But you can imagine the sort of work I do under the circumstances. You see, the situation is this. I have a splendid appetite. That appetite began to develop while I was yet a student in the seminary. Now this deaconess, if you please, makes a fuss about every piece of bread I eat. She doesn't understand, the ignorant woman, the possibility of the non-existence of this piece of bread. If I had a real existence like the rest of you, I should feel very bad, but in my present condition her attacks don't affect me in the least. Nothing affects me, Mr. Savva, nothing in the wide world. SAVVA _(smiling at the Friar's unconscious joy, but still preoccupied)_ How long have you been in this condition? SPERANSKY It began in the seminary while I was studying philosophy. It is a dreadful condition, Mr. Savva. I have grown somewhat accustomed to it now, but at first it was unendurable. I tried to hang myself once, and they cut me down. Then I tried a second time, and they cut me down again. Then they turned me out of the seminary. "Go hang yourself in some other place, you madman," they said. As if there were any other place! As if all places were not the same! THE FRIAR Mr. Savva, let's go fishing to-morrow at the mill. SAVVA I don't like fishing. It bores me. FRIAR I'm sorry. Well then, let's go into the woods and knock down the dry branches of trees. It's fine sport to walk about in the forest and knock off the branches with a stick. And when you shout "Ho-ho-ho!" the echo from the ravine answers back "Ho-ho-ho!" Do you like swimming? SAVVA Yes, I like it. I am a good swimmer. FRIAR I like it too. SPERANSKY _(with a deep sigh)_ Yes, it's a strange condition. SAVVA _(smiling at the Friar)_ Eh? Well, how are you now? SPERANSKY When my uncle took me to his house, he made me promise I would never attempt suicide again. That was the only condition oh which he would consent to let me live with him. "All right," I said; "if we really exist, then I won't make any further attempt to hang myself." SAVVA Why do you want to know whether you exist or not? There is the sky. Look, how beautiful it is. There are the swallows and the sweet-scented grass. It's fine! _(To the Friar)_ Fine, isn't it, Vassya? FRIAR Mr. Savva, do you like to tear up ant-hills? SAVVA I don't know. I never tried. FRIAR I like it. Do you like to fly kites? SAVVA It's a long time since I tried to. I used to like it very much. SPERANSKY _(patiently awaiting the end of their conversation)_ Swallows! What good is their flying to me? Anyhow, maybe swallows don't exist either, and it's all a dream. SAVVA Suppose it is a dream. Dreams are very beautiful sometimes, you know. SPERANSKY I should like to wake up, but I can't. I wander around and wander around until I am weary and feeble, and when I rouse myself I find I am here, in the very same place. There is the monastery and the belfry, and the clock strikes the hour. And it's all like a dream, a fantasy. You close your eyes, and it does not exist. You open them, and it's there again. Sometimes I go out into the fields at night and close my eyes, and then it seems to me there is nothing at all existing. Suddenly the quail begin to call, and a wagon rolls down the road. Again a dream. For if you stopped up your ears, you wouldn't hear those sounds. When I die, everything will grow silent, and then it will be true. Only the dead know the truth, Mr. Savva. FRIAR _(smiling, cautiously waving his hands at a bird; in a whisper)_ It's time to go to bed, time to go to bed. SAVVA _(impatiently)_ What dead? Listen, my dear sir. I have a plain, simple, peasant mind, and I don't understand those subtleties. What dead are you talking about? SPERANSKY About all the dead, every one without exception. That's why the faces of the dead are so serene. Whatever agonies a man may have suffered before his death, the moment he dies his face becomes serene. That's because he has learned the truth. I always come here to attend the funerals. It's astonishing. There was a woman buried here. She had died of grief because her husband was crushed under a locomotive. You can imagine what must have been going on in her mind before her death. It's too horrible to think of. Yet she lay there, in the coffin, absolutely serene and calm. That's because she had come to know that her grief was nothing but a dream, a mere phantom. I like the dead, Mr. Savva. I think the dead really exist. SAVVA I don't like the dead. _(Impatiently)_ You are a very disagreeable fellow. Has anybody ever told you that? SPERANSKY Yes, I have, heard it before. SAVVA I would never have taken you out of the noose. What damn fool did it anyway? SPERANSKY The first time it was the Father Steward, the next time my classmates. I am very sorry you disapprove of me, Mr. Tropinin. As you are an educated man, I should have liked to show you a bit of writing I did while I was in the seminary. It's called "The Tramp of Death." It's a sort of story. SAVVA No, spare me, please. Altogether I wish you'd-- FRIAR. _(rising)_ There comes Father Kirill. I had better beat it. SAVVA Why? FRIAR He came across me in the forest the other day when I was-shouting "Ho! Ho!" "Ah," said he, "you forest sprite with goat's feet!" To-morrow after dinner, all right? _(Walks away, sedately at first, but then with a sort of dancing step)_ FAT MONK _(approaches)_ Well, young men, having a pleasant chat? Are you Mr. Tropinin's son? SAVVA I am the man. FAT MONK I have heard about you. A decent, respectable gentleman your father is. May I sit down? _(He sits down)_ The sun has set, yet it's still hot. I wonder if we'll have a storm to-night. Well, young man, how do you like it here? How does this place compare with the metropolis? SAVVA It's a rich monastery. FAT MONK Yes, thank the Lord. It's celebrated all over Russia. There are many who come here even from Siberia. Its fame reaches far. There'll soon be a feast-day, and-- SPERANSKY You'll work yourself sick, father. Services day and night. FAT MONK Yes, we must do our best for the monastery. SAVVA Not for the people? FAT MONK Yes, for the people too. For whom else? Last year a large number of epileptics were cured; quite a lot of them. One blind man had his eyesight restored, and two paralytics were made to walk. You'll see for yourself, young man, and then you won't smile. I have heard that you are an unbeliever. SAVVA You have heard correctly. I am an unbeliever. FAT MONK It's a shame, a shame. Of course, there are many unbelievers nowadays among the educated classes. But are they any happier on that account? I doubt it. SAVVA No, there are not so many. They think they are unbelievers because they don't go to church. As a matter of fact, they have greater faith than you. It's more deep-seated. FAT MONK Is that so? SAVVA Yes, yes. The form of their faith is, of course, more refined. They are cultured, you see. FAT MONK Of course, of course. People feel better, feel more confident and secure, if they believe. SAVVA They say the devil is choking the monks here every night. FAT MONK _(laughing)_ Nonsense. _(To the Gray Monk passing by)_ Father Vissarion, come here a moment. Sit down. Mr. Tropinin's son here says the devil chokes us every night. Have you heard about it? _(The two monks laugh good-naturedly as they look at each other)_ GRAY MONK Some of the monks can't sleep well because they have overeaten, so they think they are being choked. Why, young man, the devil can't enter within our sacred precincts. SAVVA But suppose he does suddenly put in an appearance? What will, you do then? FAT MONK We'll get after him with the holy-water sprinkler, that's what we'll do. "Don't butt in where you have no business to, you black-faced booby!" _(The monk laughs)_ GRAY MONK Here comes King Herod. FAT MONK Wait a while, Father Vissarion. _(To Savva)_ You talk about faith and such things. There's a man for you--look at him--see how he walks. And yet he has chains on him weighing four hundred pounds. He doesn't walk, he dances. He visits us every summer, and I must say he is a very valuable guest. His example strengthens others in their faith. Herod! Ho, Herod! KING HEROD What do you want? FAT MONK Come here a minute. This gentleman doubts the existence of God. Talk to him. KING HEROD What's the matter with yourself? Are you so full of booze that you can't wag your own tongue? FAT MONK You heretic! What a heretic! _(Both monks laugh)_ KING HEROD _(approaching)_ What gentleman? FAT MONK This one. KING HEROD _(scrutinizing him)_ He doubts? Let him doubt. It's none of my business. SAVVA Oh! KING HEROD Why, what did you think? FAT MONK Sit down, please. KING HEROD Never mind. I'd rather stand. FAT MONK _(to Savva, in a loud whisper)_ He is doing that to wear himself out. Until he has reduced himself to absolute faintness he'll neither sleep nor eat. _(Aloud)_ This gentleman is wondering at the kind of chains you have on your body. KING HEROD Chains? Just baby rattles. Put them on a horse and he too would carry them if he had the strength. I have a sad heart. _(Looks at Savva)_ You know, I killed my own son. Yes, I did. Have they been telling you about me, these chatterboxes? SAVVA They have. KING HEROD Can you understand it? SAVVA Why not? Yes, I can. KING HEROD You lie--you can't. No one can understand it. Go through the whole world, search round the whole globe, ask everybody--no one will be able to tell you, no one will understand. And if anyone says he does, take it from me that he lies, lies just as you do. Why, you can't even see your own nose properly, yet you have the brazenness to say you understand. Go. You are a foolish boy, that's what you are. SAVVA And you are wise? KING HEROD I am wise. My sorrow has made me so. It is a great sorrow. There is none greater on earth. I killed my son with my own hand. Not the hand you are looking at, but the one which isn't here. SAVVA Where is it? KING HEROD I burnt it. I held it in the stove and let it burn up to my elbow. SAVVA Did that relieve you? KING HEROD No. Fire cannot destroy my grief. It burns with a heat that is greater than fire. SAVVA Fire, brother, destroys everything. KING HEROD No, young man, fire is weak. Spit on it and it is quenched. SAVVA What fire? It is possible to kindle such a conflagration that an ocean of water will not quench it. KING HEROD No, boy. Every fire goes out when its time comes. My grief is great, so great that when I look around me I say to myself: Good heavens, what has become of everything else that's large and great? Where has it all gone to? The forest is small, the house is small, the mountain is small, the whole earth is small, a mere poppy seed. You have to walk cautiously and look out, lest you reach the end and drop off. FAT MONK _(pleased)_ Fine, King Herod, you are going it strong. KING HEROD Even the sun does not rise for me. For others it rises, but for me it doesn't. Others don't see the darkness by day, but I see it. It penetrates the light like dust. At first I seem to see a sort of light, but then--good heavens, the sky is dark, the earth is dark, all is like soot. Yonder is something vague and misty. I can't even make out what it is. Is it a human being, is it a bush? My grief is great, immense! _(Grows pensive)_ If I cried, who would hear me? If I shouted, who would respond? FAT MONK _(to the Gray Monk)_ The dogs in the village might. KING HEROD _(shaking his head)_ O you people! You are looking at me as at a monstrosity--at my hair, my chains--because I killed my son and because I am like King Herod; but my soul you see not, and my grief you know not. You are as blind as earthworms. You wouldn't know if you were struck with a beam on the head. Say, you pot-belly, what are you shaking your paunch, for? SAVVA Why--the way he talks to you! FAT MONK _(reassuringly)_ It's nothing. He treats us all like that. He upbraids us all. KING HEROD Yes, and I will continue to upbraid. Fellows like you are not fit to serve God. What you ought to do is to sit in a drinkshop amusing Satan. The devils use your belly to go sleigh-riding on at night. FAT MONK _(good-naturedly)_ Well, well, God be with you. You had better speak about yourself; stick to that. KING HEROD _(to Savva)_ You see? He wants to feast on my agony. Go ahead, feast all you want. GRAY MONK My, what a scold you are. Where do you get your vocabulary? He once told the Father Superior that if God were not immortal he, the Father Superior, would long ago have sold him piece by piece. But we tolerate him. He can do no harm in a monastery. FAT MONK He attracts people. Many come here for his sake. And what difference does it make to us? God sees our purity. Isn't that so, King Herod? KING HEROD Oh, shut up, you old dotard. Look at him; he can scarcely move his legs, old Harry with the evil eye. Keeps three women in the village; one is not enough for him. _(The monks laugh good-naturedly)_ You see, you see? Whew! Look at their brazen, shameless eyes! Might as well spit on them! SAVVA Why do you come here? KING HEROD Not for them. Listen, young man. Have you a grief? SAVVA Perhaps I have. Why? KING HEROD Then listen to me. When you are in sorrow, when you are suffering, don't go to people. If you have a friend, don't go to him. It's more than you'll be able to stand. Better go to the wolves in the forest. They'll make short work of it, devour you at once, and there will be the end of it. I have seen many evil things, but I have never seen anything worse than man. No, never! They say men are created in His image, in His likeness. Why, you skunks, you have no image. If you had one, the tiniest excuse for one, you would crawl away on all fours and hide somewhere from sheer shame. You damned skunks! Laugh at them, cry before them, shout, at them. It doesn't make any difference. They go on licking their chops. King Herod--Damned skunks! And when King Herod--not I, but the real one with a golden crown--killed your children, where were you--hey? FAT MONK We weren't even in the world then, man. KING HEROD Then there were others like you. He killed. You accepted it. That's all. I have asked many the question: "What would you have done?" "Nothing," they always reply. "If he killed, what could be done about it?" Fine creatures! Haven't the manliness to stand up even for their children. They are worse than dogs, damn them! FAT MONK And what would you have done? KING HEROD I? I should have wrung his neck from off his royal gold crown--the confounded brute! GRAY MONK It says in the scripture: "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." FAT MONK That is to say, don't interfere with other people's business. Do you understand? KING HEROD _(to Savva in despair)_ Just listen, listen to what they are saying. SAVVA I hear what they are saying. KING HEROD Just you wait, my precious! You'll get what's coming to you, and mighty quick. The devil will come and hurl you into the fiery pit. To hell, to gehenna, with you! How your fat will melt and run! Do you get the smell, monk? FAT MONK That's from the refectory. KING HEROD You are on the run, fast as your feet can carry you! Ah! but where to? Everywhere is hell, everywhere is fire. You refused to hearken unto me, my pet; now you shall hearken unto the fire. Won't I be glad, won't I rejoice! I'll take off my chains so that I can catch them and present them to the devil--first one, then the other. Here, take him. And the howl they'll set up, and the weeping and lamentation. "I am not guilty." Not guilty? Who, then, is--who? To gehenna with you! Burn, you damned hypocrites, until the second Advent. And then we'll build a new fire, then we'll build a new fire. GRAY MONK Isn't it time for us to go, Father Kirill? FAT MONK Yes, we had better be moving along. It's getting dark, and it's time to retire. KING HEROD Aha! You don't like to hear the truth. It isn't pleasant, is it? FAT MONK Hee-hee, brother, talk is cheap. A barking dog doesn't bite. Scold away, scold away. We are listening. God in heaven will decide who is to go to hell and who elsewhere. "The meek, shall inherit the earth," says the Gospel. Good-bye, young gentlemen. GRAY MONK _(to King Herod)_ Let me give you a piece of advice, however. Talk, but don't talk too much. Don't go too far. We are only tolerating you because you are a pitiful creature and because you are foolish. But if you give your tongue too free a rein, we can stop it, you know. Yes, indeed. KING HEROD All right, try--try to stop me. FAT MONK What's the use, Father Vissarion? Let him talk. It doesn't do any harm. Listen, listen, young gentlemen. He is an interesting fellow. Good night. _[They go. The Fat Monk is heard laughing heartily._ KING HEROD _(to Savva)_ Fine specimens. I can't stand them. SAVVA I like you, uncle. KING HEROD Do you? So you don't like their kind either? SAVVA No, I don't. KING HEROD Well, I'll sit down for a while. My legs are swollen. Have you got a cigarette? SAVVA _(handing him a cigarette)_ Do you smoke? KING HEROD Sometimes. Excuse me for having talked to you the way I did before. You are a good fellow. But why did you lie and say you understood? No one can understand it. Who is this with you? SAVVA Oh, he just happened along. KING HEROD Well, brother, feeling bad, down in the mouth? SPERANSKY Yes, I feel blue. KING HEROD Keep still, keep still, I don't want to listen. You are suffering? Keep still. I am a man too, brother, so I don't understand. I'll insult you if you don't look out. _(Throws away the cigarette)_ No, I can't. As long as I keep standing or walking I manage somehow. The moment I sit down, it's hell. Oh! Ow-w! _(Writhing in agony)_ I simply can't catch my breath. Oh, God, do you see my torture? Eh? Well, well, it's nothing. It's gone. Oh! Ow-w! _[The sky has become overcast with clouds. It turns dark quickly. Now and then there are flashes of lightning._ SAVVA _(quietly)_ One must try to stifle one's grief, old man. Fight it. Say to yourself firmly and resolutely: "I don't want it." And it will cease to be. You seem to be a good, strong man. KING HEROD No, friend, my grief is such that even death won't remove it. What is death? It is little, insignificant, and my grief is great. No, death won't end my grief. There was Cain. Even when he died, his sorrow remained. SPERANSKY The dead do not grieve. They are serene. They know the truth. KING HEROD But they don't tell it to anybody. What's the good of such truth? Here am I alive, and yet I know the truth. Here am I with my sorrow. You see what it is--there is no greater on earth. And yet if God spoke to me and said, "Yeremey, I will give you the whole earth if you give me your grief," I wouldn't give it away. I will not give it away, friend. It is sweeter to me than honey; it is stronger than the strongest drink. Through it I have learned the truth. SAVVA God? KING HEROD Christ--that's the one! He alone can understand the sorrow that is in me. He sees and understands. "Yes, Yeremey, I see how you suffer." That's all. "I see." And I answer Him: "Yes, O Lord, behold my sorrow!" That's all. No more is necessary. SAVVA What you value in Christ is His suffering for the people, is that it? KING HEROD You mean his crucifixion? No, brother, that suffering was a trifle. They crucified Him--what did that matter? The important point was that thereby He came to know the truth. As long as He walked the earth, He was--well--a man, rather a good man--talking here and there about this and that. When He met someone, He would talk to him about this and that, teach him, and tell him a few good things to put him on the right track. But when these same fellows carried Him off to the cross and went at Him with knouts, whips, and lashes, then His eyes were opened. "Aha!" He said, "so that's what it is!" And He prayed: "I cannot endure such suffering. I thought it would be a simple crucifixion; but, O Father in Heaven, what is this?" And the Father said to Him: "Never mind, never mind, Son! Know the truth, know what it is." And from then on, He fell to sorrowing, and has been sorrowing to this day. SAVVA Sorrowing? KING HEROD Yes, friend, he is sorrowing. _(Pause. Lightning)_ SPERANSKY It looks like rain, and I am without rubbers and umbrella. KING HEROD And everywhere, wheresoever I go, wheresoever I turn, I see before me His pure visage. "Do you understand my suffering, O Lord?" "I understand, Yeremey, I understand everything. Go your way in peace." I am to Him like a transparent crystal with a tear inside. "You understand, Lord?" "I understand, Yeremey." "Well, and I understand you too." So we live together. He with me, I with Him. I am sorry for Him also. When I die, I will transmit my sorrow to Him. "Take it, Lord." SAVVA But after all, you are not quite right in running down the people the way you do. There are some good men also--very few--but there are some. Otherwise it wouldn't be of any use to live. KING HEROD No, friend, there are none. I don't want to fool you--there are none. You know, it was they who christened me with the name of King Herod. SAVVA Who? KING HEROD Why, your people. There is no beast more cruel than man. I killed my boy, so I am King Herod to them. Damn them, it never enters their minds how terrible it is for me to be burdened with such a nick-name. Herod! If they only called me so out of spite! But not at all. SAVVA What is your real name? KING HEROD Yeremey. That's my name--Yeremey. But they call me Herod, carefully adding King, so that there may be no mistake. Look, there comes another monk, a plague on him. Say, did you ever see His countenance? SAVVA I did. KING HEROD And did you see His eyes? No? Then look, try to see them--Where is he off to, the bat? To the village to his women. KONDRATY _(enters)_ Peace be with you, honest folks. Good evening, Savva. To what lucky chance do I owe this meeting? KING HEROD Look, monk, the devil's tail is sticking out of your pocket. KONDRATY It isn't the devil's tail, it's a radish. You're very clever, but you didn't hit it right that time. KING HEROD _(spitting in disgust)_ I can't bear to look at them. They turn my stomach. Good-bye, friend. Remember what I told you. When you are in sorrow, don't go to people. SAVVA All right, uncle, I understand. KING HEROD Rather go to the forest to the wolves. _(Goes out; his voice is heard out of the darkness)_ Oh, Lord, do you see? KONDRATY A narrow-minded fool. Killed his son and puts on airs. You can't get by him. He won't let you alone. It's something to be proud of, isn't it, to have killed one's own son? A great thing. SPERANSKY _(with a sigh)_ No, Father Kondraty, you are mistaken. He is a happy man. If his son were brought to life this moment, he would instantly kill him. He wouldn't give him five minutes to live. But of course when he dies, he'll know the truth. KONDRATY That's what I said, you fool. If it were a cat he killed, he might have some reason to be proud--but his own son! What are you thinking about, Savva Yegorovich? SAVVA I am waiting. I should like to know how soon this gentleman will go. The devil brought him, I think. Now, here comes someone else. _(Peers into the darkness)_ LIPA _(approaching. She stops and hesitates)_ Is that you, Savva? SAVVA Yes, and is that you? What do you want? I don't like people to follow me everywhere I go, sister. LIPA The gate to this place is open. Everybody has a right to come in. Mr. Speransky, Tony has been asking for you. He wants the seminarist, he says. SAVVA There, go together--a jolly pair. Good-bye, sir, good-bye. SPERANSKY Good-bye. I hope I'll see you soon again, Mr. Savva, and have another talk. SAVVA No, don't try, please. Abandon the hope. Good-bye. LIPA How rude you are, Savva. Come, Mr. Speransky. They have business of their own to attend to. SPERANSKY Still I haven't given up hope. Good-bye. _(Goes out)_ SAVVA Just grabbed me and stuck--the devil take him! KONDRATY _(laughing)_ Yes, he is a sticker from the word go. If he likes you, you can't shake him off. He'll follow you everywhere. We call him the "shadow"--partly, I suppose, because he is so thin. He has taken a fancy to you, so you'll have a time of it. He'll stick to you like a leech. SAVVA I am not in the habit of wasting a lot of words. I'll give him the slip without much ceremony. KONDRATY They have, even tried beating him, but it doesn't do any good. He is known here for miles around. He is a character. _[A pause. Lightning. Every now and then is heard the roll of distant thunder._ SAVVA Why did you tell me to meet you here in this public place where everyone may come? They fell on me like a swarm of fleas--monks and all sorts of imbeciles. I'd rather have spoken to you in the woods, where we could be let alone. KONDRATY I did it to escape suspicion. If I went with you to the woods they'd say: "What has a God-fearing man like Kondraty got to do with such a fellow?" I hope you pardon! "Why is he so thick with him?" I purposely timed my coming so that they'd see us together with others. SAVVA _(looking fixedly at him)_ Well? KONDRATY _(turning away his eyes and shrugging his shoulders)_ I can't. SAVVA You are afraid? KONDRATY To tell the truth, I am. SAVVA You're no good, old chap. KONDRATY Perhaps not. You have a right to draw your own conclusions. _(Pause)_ SAVVA But what are you afraid of, you booby? The machine is not dangerous. It won't hurt you. All you have to do is to put it in the right place, set it off, and then you can go to the village to your mistresses. KONDRATY That's not the point. SAVVA What then? Are you afraid of being caught? But I told you, if anything should happen, I'll take the guilt on myself. Don't you believe me? KONDRATY Why, of course I believe you. SAVVA What then? Do you fear God? KONDRATY Yes, I do. SAVVA But you don't believe in God--you believe in the devil. KONDRATY Who knows? Maybe some day I'll suddenly discover that He does exist. In that case, Mr. Savva, I thank you, but I'd rather not. Why should I? I live a nice, quiet existence. Of course, it's all a humbug, an imposition. But what business is it of mine? The people want to believe--let them. It wasn't I who invented God. SAVVA Look here. You know I could have done it myself. All I need have done was to take a bomb and throw it into the procession. That's all. But that would mean the killing of many people, which at the present juncture would serve no useful purpose. I therefore ask you to do it. If you refuse, then the blood will rest on you. You understand? KONDRATY Why on me? I am not going to throw the bomb. And then, what have I got to do with them--I mean the people that get killed? What concern are they of mine? There are plenty of people in the world. You can't kill them all, no matter how many bombs you throw. SAVVA Aren't you sorry for them? KONDRATY If I were to be sorry for everybody, I should have no sympathy left for myself. SAVVA That's right. You are a bright man. You have a good mind. I have already told you so. And yet you hesitate. You are clever, and yet you are afraid to smash a piece of wood. KONDRATY If it is nothing but a piece of wood, then why go to so much trouble about it? The point is, it is not a piece of wood, it is an image. SAVVA For me it is a piece of wood. For the people it is a sacred object. That is why I want to destroy it. Imagine how they'll open their mouths and stare. Ah, brother, if you were not a coward, I would tell you some things. KONDRATY Go ahead and talk. It's no sin to listen. I am not a coward either. I am simply careful. SAVVA This would only be the beginning, brother. KONDRATY A good beginning, I won't deny it. And what will be the end? SAVVA The earth stripped naked, a _tabula rasa_, do you understand? And on this naked earth, naked man, naked as his mother bore him. No breeches on him, no orders, no pockets, nothing. Imagine men without pockets. Queer, isn't it? Yes indeed, brother, the ikon is only the beginning. KONDRATY Oh, they'll make new ones. SAVVA But they won't be the same as before. And they'll never forget this much--that dynamite is mightier than their God, and that man is mightier than dynamite. Look at them; see them yonder praying and kneeling, not daring to raise their heads and look you straight in the face, mean slaves that they are! Then comes a real man, and smash goes the whole humbug. Done for! KONDRATY Really! SAVVA And when a dozen of their idols have gone the same way, the slaves will begin to understand that the kingdom of their God is at an end, and that the kingdom of man has come. Lots of them will drop from sheer terror. Some will lose their wits, and others will throw themselves into the fire. They'll say that Antichrist has come. Think of it, Kondraty! KONDRATY And aren't you sorry for them? SAVVA Sorry for them? Why, they built a prison for me, and I am to be sorry for them. They put me in a torture chamber, and I am to be sorry for them. Bah! KONDRATY Who are you to be above pity? SAVVA I? I am a man who have been born. And having been born, I began to look about. I saw churches and penitentiaries. I saw universities and houses of prostitution. I saw factories and picture galleries. I saw palaces and filthy dens. I calculated the number of prisons there are to each gallery, and I resolved that the whole edifice must go, the whole of it must be overturned, annihilated. And we are going to do it. Our day of reckoning has come. It is time. KONDRATY Who are "we"? SAVVA I, you Kondraty, and others. KONDRATY The people are stupid. They won't understand. SAVVA When the conflagration rages all around them, they will understand. Fire is a good teacher, old boy. Have you ever heard of Raphael? KONDRATY No, I haven't. SAVVA Well, when we are through with God, we'll go for fellows like him. There are lots of them--Titian, Shakespeare, Byron. We'll make a nice pile of the whole lot and pour oil over it. Then we'll burn their cities. KONDRATY Now, now you are joking. How is that possible? How can you burn the cities? SAVVA No, why should I be joking? All the cities. Look here, what are their cities? Graves, stone graves. And if you don't stop those fools, if you let them go on making more, they will cover the whole earth with stone, and then all will suffocate--all. KONDRATY The poor people will have a hard time of it. SAVVA All will be poor then. What is it that makes a man rich? His having a house and money, and the fact that he has surrounded himself with a fence. But when there are no houses, no money, and no fences-- KONDRATY That's so. And there won't be any legal papers either, no stocks, no bonds, no title-deeds. They will all have been burnt up. SAVVA No, there will be no legal papers. It's work then--you'll have to go to work even if you are a nobleman. KONDRATY _(laughing)_ It's funny. All will be naked as when coming out of a bath. SAVVA Are you a peasant, Kondraty? KONDRATY Yes, I am a peasant, sure enough. SAVVA I am a peasant also. We have nothing to lose, brother. We can't fare worse than we do now. KONDRATY How could it be worse? But a great many people will perish, Mr. Tropinin. SAVVA It makes no difference. There'll be enough left. It is the good-for-nothings that will perish, the fools to whom this life is like a shell to a crab. Those who believe will perish, because their faith will be taken away from them. Those who love the old will perish, because everything will be taken away from them. The weak, the sick, those who love quietness. There will be no quietness in the world, brother. There will remain only the free and the brave, those with young and eager souls and clear eyes that can embrace the whole universe. KONDRATY Like yours? I am afraid of your eyes, Savva Yegorovich, especially in the dark. SAVVA Yes, like mine. And emancipated from everything, naked, armed only with their reason, they will deliberate; discuss, talk things over, and build up a new life, a good life, Kondraty, where every man may breathe freely. KONDRATY It's interesting. But men are sly creatures. Something of the old will be left over. They'll hide it, or try some other trick, and then behold! back they slide to the old again, everything just as it was, just as of old. What then? SAVVA Just as of old? _(Gloomily)_ Then they will have to be wiped clean off the face of the earth. Let there be no living human being on earth. Enough of it! KONDRATY _(shaking his head)_ But-- SAVVA _(putting his hand on his shoulder)_ Believe me, monk, I have been in many cities and in many lands, Nowhere did I see a free man. I saw only slaves. I saw the cages in which they live, the beds on which they are born and die; I saw their hatreds and their loves, their sins and their good works. And I saw also their amusements, their pitiful attempts to bring dead joy back to life again. And everything that I saw bore the stamp of stupidity and unreason. He that is born wise turns stupid in their midst; he that is born cheerful hangs himself from boredom and sticks out his tongue at them. Amidst the flowers of the beautiful earth--you have no idea how beautiful the earth is, monk--they have erected insane asylums. And what are they doing with their children? I have never yet seen parents that do not deserve capital punishment; first because they begot children, and secondly because, having begot them, they did not immediately commit suicide. KONDRATY Good heavens, how you talk! Hearing you, one hardly knows what to think. SAVVA And how they lie, how they lie, monk! They don't kill the truth--no, they kick her and bruise her daily, and smear her clean face with their dirt and filth so that no one may recognize her, so that the children may not love her, and so that she may have no refuge. In all the world--yes, monk, in all the world--there is no place for truth. _(Sinks into meditation. Pause)_ KONDRATY Is there no other way--without fire? It's terrible, Savva Yegorovich. Consider what it means! It's the end of the world. SAVVA No, it can't be helped, partner. It must be. The end of the world must come too. They were treated with medicine, and it did no good. They were treated with iron, and it did no good. Now they must be treated with fire--fire! _[Pause. Lightning flashes. The thunder has ceased. Somewhere outside a watchman can be heard striking his iron rod._ KONDRATY And there'll be no drinkshops either? SAVVA _(pensively)_ No, nothing. KONDRATY They'll start drinkshops again all right. Can't get along without them, you know. _(A prolonged pause)_ Ye-es. What are you thinking about, Savva Yegorovich? SAVVA Nothing. _(Draws a light breath, cheerfully)_ Well, Kondraty, shall we begin? KONDRATY _(swaying his head to and fro)_ It's a mighty hard problem you have put up to me. It's a poser. SAVVA Never mind, don't get shaky now. You are a sensible man; you know it can't be helped; there is nothing else to do. Would I be doing it myself, if it were not necessary? You can see that, can't you? KONDRATY _(heaving a sigh)_ Ye-es, hm! Why, Mr. Tropinin--why, my dear fellow--don't I know, don't I understand it all? It's a rotten, cursed life! Ah, Mr. Savva, Mr. Savva--look here. If I were to tell anyone that I am a good man, they'd laugh and say: "What are you lying for, you drunkard?" Kondraty a good man! It sounds like a joke even to myself. And yet I swear to you, by God, I am a good man! I don't know how it happened the way it did, why I am what I am now. I lived and lived, and suddenly! How it came about, what the reason of it is, I don't know. SAVVA And you are still afraid? KONDRATY What am I now? I am neither a candle for God nor a poker for the devil. Sometimes when I think matters over--ah, Mr. Savva, do you think I have no conscience? Don't I understand? I understand everything but--I am not really afraid of the devil either. I am just playing the fool. The devil--nonsense! If you were in the place of us in there, you would understand. Not long ago, when I was drunk, I cried: "Get out, devil--out of my way--am a desperate man!" I don't care for anything. I don't care if I die. I am ready. You have worked at me, Mr. Savva, until I have grown quite soft. _(Wipes his eyes with his sleeves)_ SAVVA Why should you die? I don't want to die either. We are going to live for some time to come, we are. How old are you? KONDRATY Forty-two. SAVVA Just the right age. KONDRATY I am sorry for the ikon. They say it appeared miraculously in the river, and that's how it came to be here. SAVVA Nonsense. Don't waste your feelings. It's supposed to be a wonder-working ikon and hasn't one miracle to its credit. Why, it makes one feel like a fool just to say it. KONDRATY They say it has been replaced by the devil, so that it isn't the real one. SAVVA So much the better. And yet you crack your heads in front of it and fool the people about it. There is no use wasting words, my friend. It's agreed then. KONDRATY You have to go now. The gate will soon be closed. And all of a sudden-- SAVVA What "all of a sudden"? KONDRATY And all of a sudden I'll be going to the ikon, and it will strike me down with lightning and thunder. Won't it? SAVVA _(laughing)_ Don't be afraid. It won't strike you. That's what everybody thinks. They are all afraid they'll be struck by lightning and thunder. But it won't happen. Believe me, a man may blow up the ikon and no lightning will strike him. Do you need money? KONDRATY Have you got any? SAVVA I have. KONDRATY _(suspiciously)_ Where did you get it? SAVVA What business is that of yours? Suppose I killed a rich man, or cut somebody's throat--are you going to report me to the police? KONDRATY _(reassured)_ What are you thinking of, Savva Yegorovich? That's your concern. As to your offer, of course, money always comes in handy. It will enable me to leave the monastery. I'll tell you in confidence, I have long been nursing a scheme--it's my dream--to settle somewhere along the road and start an inn. I like company. I am a talkative chap myself. I know I'll succeed. It doesn't hurt a host to have a drink now and then. The guests like it. With a jolly host you'll spend every penny you have, and your pants besides, and you won't notice it. I know by personal experience. SAVVA Why not? You can start an inn if you want to. KONDRATY And besides, I am still in the full vigor of manhood. Instead of sinning here, I'd rather get legally married. SAVVA Don't forget to invite me to the wedding. I'll act as your godfather. KONDRATY You are too young. As to the money--when shall it be, before or after? SAVVA Judas got his before. KONDRATY _(offended)_ There now, when you should be doing your best to persuade me, you call me Judas. It isn't pleasant. The idea of calling a living man Judas! SAVVA Judas was a fool. He hanged himself. You are going to start an inn. KONDRATY Again? If that's what you think of me-- SAVVA _(slapping his shoulders)_ Well, well, uncle, don't you see I'm joking? Judas betrayed a man, and you are not going to betray anything but lumber. Is that right, old man? _Speransky and Tony appear, the latter walking very unsteadily._ KONDRATY There--brought by the devil! With us carrying on this kind of conversation, and they-- SAVVA It's agreed then? KONDRATY Oh, you're too much for me. SPERANSKY _(bowing)_ Good evening once more, Mr. Savva Tropinin. Mr. Anthony and myself have just been at the other end, in the cemetery. A woman was buried there to-day, so we wanted to have a look. SAVVA To see if she hadn't crawled out of her grave? What are you dragging him along with you for? Tony, go to bed, you can't stand on your feet. TONY I won't go. SPERANSKY Tony is very excited to-day. He sees all kinds of faces. SAVVA Funny faces? TONY Yes, funny. What else can you expect? _(Sadly)_ Your face, Savva, is very, very funny. SAVVA All right, go along with you! Take him home. What are you dragging him about with you for? SPERANSKY Good-bye. Come along, Mr. Anthony. _[Speransky goes out. Tony follows him, looking back at Savva, and stumbling as he goes along. They disappear in the dark._ KONDRATY It's time for us also to be going. Have you got that money at hand? SAVVA Yes, I have. Now listen. Sunday is the feast-day. You are to take the machine Saturday morning and plant it at night at half past eleven, four days from now. I'll show you how to do it and everything else that's necessary. Four days more. I am sick of staying in this place. KONDRATY And suppose I betray you? SAVVA _(darkly)_ Then I'd kill you. KONDRATY Good heavens! SAVVA Now I am going to kill you if you merely try to back out. You know too much, brother. KONDRATY You are joking. SAVVA Maybe I am joking. I am such a jolly fellow. I like to laugh. KONDRATY When you first came here, you were gay. Tell me, Mr. Savva _(looking around cautiously)_, did you ever kill a man, a real live man? SAVVA I did. I cut the throat of that rich business man I told you about. KONDRATY _(waving his hand)_ Now I see that you are joking. Well, good-bye, I am going. Don't you hang around here either. The gate will soon be closed. Oh, my--I am never afraid--but just as soon as I begin to think of the hall, it's awful. There are shadows there now. Good night. SAVVA Good night. _[Kondraty disappears in the dark. Lightning. Savva remains leaning on the railing to stare at the white tombstones that are momentarily revealed by the flashes of lightning._ SAVVA _(to the graves)_ Well, you dead ones, are you going to turn over in your graves or not? For some reason I don't feel very cheerful--oh, ye dead--I don't feel the least bit cheerful. _(Lightning)_ CURTAIN THE THIRD ACT _A festively decorated room with three windows to the street. One window is open, but the curtain is drawn. An open door, painted dark, leads into the room seen in the first act. It is night and dark. Through the windows can be heard the continuous tramp of the pilgrims on their way to the monastery for the next day's celebration. Some are barefoot; some wear boots or bast shoes. Their steps are quick and eager, or slow and weary. They walk singly or in groups of two or three, the majority in silence, though now and then suppressed, indistinct talking may be heard. Starting from somewhere far off to the left, the sound of the footsteps and the talking, muffled at first, approaches and grows louder, until at times it seems to fill the whole room. Then it dies away in the distance again. The impression is that of some tremendous movement, elemental and irrepressible. At the table, lighted only by a flickering stump of a tallow candle, sit Speransky and Tony. The latter is very drunk. Cucumbers, herring, and bottles of whiskey are on the table. The rest of the room is entirely dark. Occasionally the wind blows the white curtain at the window and sets the candle flame tossing. Tony and Speransky talk in whispers. A prolonged pause follows the rise of the curtain._ TONY _(bending over to Speransky, mysteriously)_ So you say it is possible we do not exist, eh? SPERANSKY _(in the same manner)_ As I have already stated, it is doubtful, extremely doubtful. There is very good reason to suppose that we really do not exist--that we don't exist at all. TONY And you are not, and I am not. SPERANSKY And you are not, and I am not. No one is. _(Pause)_ TONY _(looking around, mysteriously)_ Where are we then? SPERANSKY We? TONY Yes, we. SPERANSKY That's something no one can tell. No one knows, Anthony. TONY No one? SPERANSKY No one. TONY _(glancing around)_ Doesn't Savva know? SPERANSKY No, Savva doesn't know either. TONY Savva knows everything. SPERANSKY But even he doesn't know that. TONY _(threatening with his finger)_ Keep still, keep still! _(Both look around and are silent)_ TONY _(mysteriously)_ Where are they going, eh? SPERANSKY To the elevation of the ikon. To-morrow is a feast-day--the day of raising the ikon. TONY No, I mean where are they really going--really--don't you understand? SPERANSKY I do. It isn't known. No one knows, Anthony. TONY Hush! _(Makes a funny grimace, closes his mouth with his hand and leans on it)_ SPERANSKY _(in a whisper)_ What's the matter? TONY Keep quiet, keep quiet. Listen. _(Both are listening)_ TONY _(in whisper)_ Those are faces. SPERANSKY Yes? TONY It's faces that are going. A lot of faces--can't you see them? SPERANSKY _(staring)_ No, I can't. TONY But I can. There they are, laughing. Why aren't you laughing, eh? SPERANSKY I feel very despondent. TONY Laugh. You must laugh. Everybody is laughing. Hush, hush! _(Pause)_ Listen, nobody exists, nobody--do you understand? There is no God, there is no man, there are no animals. Here is the table--it doesn't exist. Here is the candle--it doesn't exist. The only things that exist are faces--you understand? Keep quiet, keep quiet. I am very much afraid. SPERANSKY What are you afraid of? TONY _(bending near to Speransky)_ That I'll die of laughter. SPERANSKY Really? TONY _(shaking his head affirmatively)_ Yes, that I'll die of laughter. I am afraid that some day I'll catch sight of a face which will send me off roaring with laughter; and I'll roar and roar until I die. Keep quiet. I know. SPERANSKY You never laugh TONY I am always laughing, but you don't see it. It's nothing. The only thing I am afraid is that I'll die. I'll come across a face one of these days which will start me off in a fit of laughter, and I'll laugh and laugh and laugh and won't be able to stop. Yes, it's coming, it's coming. _(Wipes his chest and neck)_ SPERANSKY The dead know everything. TONY _(mysteriously, with awe)_ I am afraid of Savva's face. It's a very funny face. One could die laughing over it. The point is that you can't stop laughing--that's the principal thing. You laugh and laugh and laugh. Is there nobody here? SPERANSKY Apparently no. TONY Keep quiet, keep quiet, I know. Keep quiet. _(Pause; the tramp of the pilgrim's footsteps grows louder, as if they were walking in the very room itself)_ Are they going? SPERANSKY Yes, they are going. _(Pause)_ TONY I like you. Sing me that song of yours. I'll listen. SPERANSKY With your permission, Anthony. _(Sings in an undertone, almost in a whisper, a dismal, long-drawn-out tune somewhat resembling a litany)_ Life's a sham, 'tis false, untrue, Death alone is true, aye, true. _(With increasing caution and pedantry, shaking his finger as if imparting a secret)_ All things tumble, vanish, break, Death is sure to overtake Outcast, tramp, and tiniest fly Unperceived by naked eye. TONY What? SPERANSKY Unperceived by naked eye, Wheedling, coaxing, courting, wooing, Death weds all to their undoing And the myth of life is ended. That's all, Anthony. TONY Keep still, keep still. You have sung your song--now keep quiet. _[Lipa enters, opens the window, removes the flowers, and looks out into the street. Then she lights the lamp._ TONY Who is it? Is that you, Lipa? Lipa, eh, Lipa, where are they going? LIPA They are coming here for the feast-day. You had better go to bed, Tony, or father will see you and scold you. SPERANSKY Big crowds, aren't they? LIPA Yes. But it's so dark, you can't see. Why are you so pale, Mr. Speransky? It is positively painful to look at you. SPERANSKY That's how I feel, Miss Lipa. _[A cautious knock is heard at the window._ LIPA _(opening the window)_ Who is there? TONY _(to Speransky)_ Keep quiet, keep quiet. KING FRIAR _(thrusting his smiling face through the window)_ Is Savva Yegorovich in? I wanted to ask him to come with me to the woods. LIPA No. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Vassya? To-morrow is a big feast-day in your monastery and you-- YOUNG FRIAR _(smiling)_ There are plenty of people in the monastery without me. Please tell Mr. Savva that I have gone to the ravine to catch fireflies. Ask him to call out: "Ho, ho!" LIPA What do you want fireflies for? YOUNG FRIAR Why, to scare the monks with. I'll put two fireflies next to each other like eyes, and they'll think it's, the devil. Tell him, please, to call: "Ho, ho, ho!" _(He disappears in the darkness)_ LIPA _(shouting after him)_ He can't come to-day. _(To Speransky)_ Gone already--ran off. SPERANSKY They buried three in the cemetery to-day, Miss Olympiada. LIPA Have you seen Savva? SPERANSKY No, I am sorry to say I haven't. I say, they buried three people to-day. One old man--perhaps you knew him--Peter Khvorostov? LIPA Yes, I knew him. So he's dead? SPERANSKY Yes, and two children. The women wept a great deal. LIPA What did they die of? SPERANSKY I am sorry, but I don't know. It didn't interest me. Some children's disease, I suppose. When children die, Miss Olympiada, they turn all blue and look as if they wanted to cry. The faces of grown people are tranquil, but children's faces are not. Why is that so? LIPA I don't know--I've never noticed it. SPERANSKY It's a very interesting phenomenon. LIPA There's father now. I told you to go to bed. Now I've got to listen to your brawling. I'll get out. _(Exit. Enter Yegor Tropinin)_ YEGOR Who lighted the lamp? SPERANSKY Good evening, Mr. Tropinin. YEGOR Good evening. Who lighted the lamp? SPERANSKY Miss Olympiada. YEGOR _(blowing it out)_ Learned it from Savva. _(To Tony)_ And you, what's the matter with you? How long, how long, for Christ's sake? How long am I to stand all this from you, you good-for-nothing loafers? Eh? Where did you get the whiskey, eh? TONY At the bar. YEGOR It wasn't put there for you, was it? TONY You have a very funny face, father. YEGOR Give me the whiskey. TONY I won't. YEGOR Give here! TONY I won't. YEGOR _(slaps his face)_ Give it to me, I say. TONY _(falls on the sofa, still holding on to the bottle)_ I won't. YEGOR _(sitting down, calmly)_ All right, swill until you bust, devil. What was I saying? That fool put it out of my head. Oh yes, the pilgrims are going, it strong this time. It's been a bad year for the crops. That's another reason, I suppose. There's no grub, they have nothing to eat, and so they'll pray. If God listened to every fool's prayer, we'd have a fine time of it. If he listened to every fool, what chance would the wise man have? A fool remains a fool. That's why he is called a fool. SPERANSKY That's correct. YEGOR I should say it is correct. Father Parfeny is a smart man. He flim-flams them all right. He put up a new coffin--did you hear that? The old one has all been eaten away by the pilgrims, so he put a new one into its place. It was old, so he put a new one instead. They'll eat that one away. No matter what you give them--Tony, are you drinking again? TONY I am. YEGOR I am! I am! I'll hand you out another one in a moment and we'll see what you say then. _[Enter Savva, looking very gay and lively. He stoops less than usual, talks rapidly, and looks sharp and straight, but his gaze does not rest long on the same person or object._ SAVVA Ah, the philosophers! Father! A worthy assemblage. Why do you keep it so dark here, like some hell-hole with a lot of rats in it? A philosopher has to have light. The dark is good only for going through people's pockets. Where is the lamp? Oh, here it is. _(He lights the lamp)_ YEGOR _(ironically)_ Perhaps you'll open the windows too? SAVVA Quite right. I'll open the windows also. _(Opens them)_ My, how they keep pouring in! SPERANSKY A whole army. SAVVA And all of them will die in time and acquire peace. And then they'll know the truth, for it never comes except in the society of worms. Have I got the essence of your optimistic philosophy down right, my thin, lean friend? SPERANSKY _(with a sigh)_ You are always joking. SAVVA. And you are always moping. Look here now. What with the poor, scanty fare the deacon's wife doles out to you and your constant grieving, you will soon die, and then your face will assume an expression of perfect peace. A peaked nose, and all around, stretching in every direction, a vast expanse of peace. Can't you get some comfort out of that? Isn't it a consolation to you? Think of it, a tiny island of nose lapped in an ocean of peace. SPERANSKY _(dejectedly)_ You are still joking. SAVVA The idea! Who would joke about death? No, when you die, I'll follow your funeral and proclaim to all: "Behold, here is a man who has come to know the truth." Oh no, I'll rather hang you up as a banner of truth. And, the more your skin and flesh decompose and crumble, the more will the truth come out. It will be a most instructive object lesson, highly educative. Tony, why are you staring at me? TONY _(sadly)_ You have a very funny face. YEGOR What are they talking about? SAVVA Father, what's the matter with your face? Have you sooted it? It looks as black as Satan's. YEGOR _(quickly putting his hand to his face)_ Where? SPERANSKY They are just making fun. There is nothing on your face, Mr. Tropinin. YEGOR The fool! Satan? You are Satan yourself, God forgive me! SAVVA _(making a terrible face and holding up his fingers in the shape of horns)_ I am the devil. YEGOR By God, you are the very devil himself! SAVVA _(glancing round the room)_ Isn't the devil going to get any dinner to-day? I have had all I want of sinners. I am surfeited with them. I should like to have something more appetizing now. YEGOR Where were you knocking about at the regular dinner hour? You'll have to do without dinner now. SAVVA I was with the children, father, with the children. They told me stories. They tell stories splendidly, and they were all about devils, witches, and the dead--your specialty, philosopher. They trembled with fear as they told them. That's why we stayed so long. They were afraid to go home. Misha was the only one who wasn't scared. He is a brick. He's afraid of nothing. SPERANSKY _(indifferently)_ What of it? He'll die too. SAVVA My dear sir, don't be so funereal. You are like an undertakers' trust. Don't be forever croaking: "Die, die, die." Here, take my father, for instance. He'll soon die; but look at his face, how pleasant and cheerful it is. YEGOR Satan! You're the devil incarnate! SPERANSKY But since we don't know-- SAVVA My good friend, life is such an interesting business. You understand--life. Come, let's have a game of jackstones to-morrow. I'll provide the jacks, first-class jacks. _(Enter Lipa, unnoticed)_ And then you should take gymnastic exercises. I mean it seriously. See how sunken your chest is. You'll choke of consumption in a year or so. The deaconess will be glad, but it will create consternation among the dead. Seriously now. I have taken gymnastic exercises. Look. _(He lifts a heavy chair easily by the leg)_ There, you see! LIPA _(laughing aloud)_ Ha, ha, ha! SAVVA _(putting the chair down, with a touch of embarrassment)_ What's the matter? I didn't know you were here. LIPA You, ought to join the circus as an acrobat. SAVVA _(glumly)_ Don't talk nonsense. LIPA Are you offended? SAVVA _(suddenly bursting into a good-natured, merry laugh)_ Oh, a trifle! All right, the circus, why not? We'll both join it, Speransky and I. Not as acrobats though, but as clowns. How about it? Can you swallow hot junk? No? Well, I'll teach you. As for you, Lipa, won't you please let me have something to eat? I haven't had anything since this morning. YEGOR A regular Satan, a regular Satan! Hasn't had anything to eat! Who has ever heard of eating at this hour of the night? Who has ever seen such a thing? SAVVA I'll give you a chance to see it now. It's very interesting. Wait, I'll teach you also how to swallow hot junk. I'll make you an expert. You'll be a wonder. YEGOR Me? Fool, you can't teach me anything any more. Tony, give me the whiskey. TONY I won't. YEGOR The devil take you all! Brought up and fed a lot of--_(Exit)_ LIPA _(handing him milk and dark bread)_ You seem to be happy to-night? SAVVA Yes, I am, and you are happy too. LIPA _(laughing)_ I am. SAVVA And I am happy. _(He drinks the milk with avidity; the footsteps in the street grow louder, filing the room with their sound, and then die away again)_ What a treading and a tramping! LIPA _(looking out of the window)_ The weather will be fine to-morrow. As long as I can remember the sun has always been shining brightly that way. SAVVA Hm, yes. That's good. LIPA And when they carry the ikon, it sparkles all over with the precious stones like fire. Only His face remains gloomy. All the gems don't give him any pleasure. He is sad and gloomy like the people's woe. SAVVA _(coolly)_ Hm, yes. Is that so? LIPA Just think how many tears have fallen upon Him, how many sighs and groans He has heard! That alone is enough to make the ikon holy for all who love and sympathize with the people and understand their soul. Why, they have nobody except Christ, all those unfortunate, miserable people. When I was a little girl, I was always waiting for a miracle-- SAVVA It would be interesting. LIPA But now I understand that He Himself is waiting for a miracle from the people. He is waiting for the people to stop fighting, hating, and destroying each other. SAVVA Well, what of it? LIPA _(fixing her gaze upon him)_ Nothing. To-morrow you'll see for yourself when they carry Him in the procession. You'll see what effect the mere consciousness that He is there with them has upon them, how it transforms them, what it does to them. The whole year round they live a dog's life, in filth, quarrelling with each other, suffering. On that day all the ugliness seems to vanish. It is an awful and a joyous day when suddenly you cast away from yourself all that is superfluous and when you feel so clearly your nearness to all the unfortunates that are and ever were, and your nearness to God. SAVVA _(abruptly)_ What time is it? SPERANSKY The clock has just struck a quarter past eleven, if I am not mistaken. LIPA It's still early. SAVVA Early for what? LIPA Nothing. It's still early, that's all. SAVVA _(suspiciously)_ What do you mean? LIPA _(defiantly)_ What I mean. SAVVA Why did you say it's still early? LIPA _(paling)_ Because it's only a little after eleven; but when it's twelve-- SAVVA _(jumping up and going to her quickly; fixing her with his stare, he speaks slowly, pronouncing every word separately and distinctly)_ So? Is that it? When it's twelve--_(He turns to Speransky without removing his eyes from Lipa)_ Listen, you go home. LIPA _(frightened)_ No, stay, Mr. Speransky. Please stay, I beg you. SAVVA If you don't go at once, I'll throw you out of the window. Well? SPERANSKY Excuse me, I never had the faintest idea--I was here with Mr. Anthony Tropinin. I am going instantly. Where is my hat? I put it here somewhere-- SAVVA There's your hat. _(Throws it to him)_ LIPA _(feebly)_ Stay here awhile longer, Mr. Speransky. Sit down. SPERANSKY No, it's late. I must go to bed. Good night, Miss Olympiada. Good night, Mr. Tropinin. Your brother is asleep already, I believe. You ought to take him to bed. I'm going, I'm going. _(Exit)_ SAVVA _(speaking in a quiet, calm tone; his movements are heavy and slow, as if his body had suddenly stiffened)_ You know it? LIPA I do. SAVVA You know all? LIPA All. SAVVA Did the monk tell you? LIPA He did. SAVVA Well? LIPA _(drawing back a little, and raising her hand for protection)_-Well, nothing will happen. There'll be no blowing up. You understand, Savva, there'll be no explosion. _[Pause. Footsteps are heard in the street, and indistinct talking. Savva turns around. Stooping more than usually, he takes a turn around the room with peculiar slowness._ SAVVA Well? LIPA Then you had better believe me, brother. Believe me. SAVVA Yes? LIPA Why that was--I don't know what it was--it was a piece of madness. Think it over. SAVVA Is it really true? LIPA Yes, it's true. It's all over. You can't help it any more. There is nothing for you to do. SAVVA Tell me how it happened. _(Sits down deliberately, his eyes fixed on Lipa)_ LIPA I guessed a little something long ago--that day when you spoke to me--only I didn't know exactly what it was. And I saw the little machine too. I have another key to the trunk. SAVVA Evidently you have been cut out for a spy. Go on! LIPA I am not afraid of insults. SAVVA Never mind, never mind--go on. LIPA Then I saw that you had frequent talks with that fellow--Kondraty. Yesterday I looked in the trunk again, and the machine wasn't there. So I understood. SAVVA You say you have another key? LIPA Yes. The trunk is mine, you know. Well, and to-day-- SAVVA When to-day? LIPA Toward evening--I couldn't find Kondraty anywhere--I told him that I knew all. He got very much frightened and told me the rest. SAVVA A worthy pair--spy and traitor. LIPA If you are going to insult me, I won't say another word. SAVVA Never mind, never mind--go on. LIPA He was going to tell the Father Superior, but I didn't let him. I didn't want to ruin you. SAVVA No? LIPA When it was, all over, I understood what a crazy scheme it was--so crazy that I simply can't think of it as real. It must have been a nightmare. It's quite impossible. And I began to feel sorry for you-- SAVVA Yes. LIPA I am sorry for you now too. _(With tears)_ Savva, darling, you are my brother. I have rocked your cradle. My dear angel, what idea is this you have got into your mind? Why, it's terrible--it's madness. I understand how hard it must be for you to see how people live, and so you have resolved on a desperate deed. You have always been good and kind, and so I can understand you. Don't you think it's hard for me to see this life? Don't you think I suffer myself? Give me your hand. SAVVA _(pushing her hand away)_ He told you he would go to the Superior? LIPA But I didn't let him. SAVVA Has he got the machine? LIPA He'll give it back to you to-morrow. He was afraid to give it to me. Savva dear, don't look at me like that. I know it's unpleasant for you, but you have a lot of common sense. You can't help seeing that what you wanted to do was an absurdity, a piece of lunacy, a vagary that can come to one only in one's dreams at night. Don't I understand that life is hard? Am I not suffering from it myself? I understand even your comrades, the anarchists. It's not right to kill anybody; but still I understand them. They kill the bad. SAVVA They are not my comrades. I have no comrades. LIPA Aren't you an anarchist? SAVVA No. LIPA What are you then? TONY _(raising his head)_ They are going, they are going. Do you hear? SAVVA _(quietly, but ominously)_ They are going. LIPA There, you see. Who is going? Think of it. It's human misery that's going. And you wanted to take away from them their last hope, their last consolation. And to what purpose? In the name of what? In the name of some wild, ghastly dream about a "naked earth." _(Peers with terror into the darkness of the room)_ A naked earth! It's terrible to think of it. A naked earth! How could a man, a human being, ever conceive such an idea? A naked earth! Nothing, nothing! Everything laid bare, everything annihilated. Everything that people worked for through all the years; everything they have created with so much toil, with so much pain. Unhappy people! There is among you a man who says that all this must be burned, must be consumed with fire. SAVVA You remember my words to perfection. LIPA You awakened me, Savva. When you told me all that, my eyes were suddenly opened, and I began to love everything. Do you understand? I began to love it all. These walls--formerly I didn't notice them; now I am sorry for them--so sorry, I could cry. And the books and everything--each brick, each piece of wood to which man has applied his labor. Let's admit that it's poor stuff. Who says it's good? But that's why I love it--for its defects, its imperfections, its crooked lines, its unfulfilled hopes. For the labor and the tears. And all who hear you talking, Savva, will feel as I do, and will begin to love all that is old and dear and human. SAVVA I have nothing to do with you. LIPA Nothing to do with us? With whom then have you to do? No, Savva, you don't love anyone. You love only yourself and your dreams. He who loves men will not take away from them all they have. He will not regard his own wishes more than their lives. Destroy everything! Destroy Golgotha! Consider: _(with terror)_ destroy Golgotha! The brightest, the most glorious hope that ever was on earth! All right, you don't believe in Christ. But if you have a single drop of nobility in your nature, you must respect and honor His noble memory. He was also unhappy. He was crucified--crucified, Savva. You are silent? Have you nothing to say? SAVVA Nothing. LIPA I thought--I thought--if you succeeded in carrying out your plot--I thought I'd kill you--that I'd poison you like some noxious beast. SAVVA And if I don't succeed-- LIPA You are still hoping? SAVVA And if I don't succeed, I'll kill you. LIPA _(advancing a step toward him)_ Kill me! Kill me! Give me a chance to suffer for the sake of Christ. For the sake of Christ and for the sake of the people. SAVVA Yes. I'll kill you. LIPA Do you suppose I didn't think of it? Do you suppose I didn't think of it? Oh, Lord, to suffer for Thee! Is there higher happiness than that? SAVVA _(with a contemptuous gesture, pointing at Lipa)_ And that's a human being! That's one counted among the best! That's the kind in which they take pride! Ah me, how poor you are in good people! LIPA Insult! Mock! That's the way it has always been. They have always heaped insults upon us before they killed us. SAVVA No, I don't mean to insult you. How can I insult you? You are simply a silly woman. There have been many such in the past. There are many such to-day. You are simply a foolish, insignificant creature. You are even innocent, like all insignificant persons. And if I mean to kill you, there is no reason to be proud of it. Don't think you are an object specially worthy of my indignation. No, it would merely make matters a little easier for me. When I was chopping wood, and the axe in my raised arm struck the threshold instead of the log of wood, the jar was not so hard as if someone had arrested the motion of my arm. A raised hand must fall on something. LIPA And to think that this beast is my brother! SAVVA Whose cradle you rocked and whose diapers you changed. Yes. But to me it doesn't seem in the least strange that you are my sister, or that this bundle there is my brother. No, Tony! They are going. _(Tony turns his head and stares stupidly without making any answer)_ And it doesn't seem in the least strange to me that any insignificant chit and piece of nothingness calling itself my brother or my sister should go to the chemist's and buy a nickel's worth of arsenic on finding out who I am. You see, they have even attempted to poison me. The girl who left me tried to do it, but she lost her nerve. The point is that my sisters and brothers, among other things, have the characteristic of being cowards. LIPA I would have done it. SAVVA I don't doubt it. You are a little hysterical, and hysterical people are determined, unless they happen to burst into tears first. LIPA I hysterical? All right, have it your way, have it your way. And who are you, Savva? SAVVA That doesn't interest me. LIPA They are going, they are going. And they will find what they need. And that is the work of an hysterical woman. Do you hear how many of them there are? And if they found out--if I were to open the window this minute and cry out: "This man here has tried to destroy your Christ"--If you want it, I'll do it this instant. You need only say so. Shall I? _(She takes a step toward the window in a frenzy of rage)_ Shall I? SAVVA Yes, it's a good way of escaping the crown of thorns. Go ahead, shout. But look out, don't knock Tony down. LIPA _(turning back)_ I am sorry for you. You are beaten, and one doesn't like to kick a man who is down. But remember, remember, Savva, there are thousands, thousands of them coming in, and each one is your death! SAVVA _(smiling)_ The tramp of death. LIPA Remember that each one of these would consider himself happy in killing you, in crushing you like a reptile. Each one of these is your death. Why, they beat a simple thief to death, a horse thief. What would they not do to you! You who wanted to steal their God. SAVVA Quite true. That's property too. LIPA You still have the brazenness to joke? Who gave you the right to do such a thing? Who gave you power over people? How dare you meddle with what to them is right? How dare you interfere with their life? SAVVA Who gave me the right? You gave it to me. Who gave me the power? You gave it to me. And I will cling to it with grim determination. Try to take it from me. You gave it to me--you with your malice, your ignorance, your stupidity! You with your wretched impotence! Right! Power! They have turned the earth into a sewer, an outrage, an abode of slaves. They worry each other, they torture each other, and they ask: "Who dares to take us by the throat?" I! Do you understand? I! _(Rises)_ LIPA You are a mere man like everybody else. SAVVA I am the avenger! Behind me follow in pursuit all those whom you stifled and crushed. Ah, they have been pursuing their wicked trade in all quietness, thinking that no one would discover them--thinking that they would get away with it in the end. They have been lying, grovelling, and sneaking. They have been cringing and abusing themselves before their altars and their impotent God, saying: "There is nothing to be afraid of--we are among ourselves." Then comes a man who says: "An accounting--I want an accounting! What have you done? Out with it. Give me an accounting. Go on now! Don't try to cheat, for I know you. I demand an account for each and every single item. I will not condone a single drop of blood, I will not absolve you from a single tear." LIPA But to destroy all. Think of it! SAVVA What could you do with them? What would _you_ do? Try to persuade the oxen to turn away from their bovine path? Catch each one by his horns and pull him away? Would you put on a frock-coat and read a lecture? Haven't they had plenty to teach them? As if words and thoughts had any significance to them! Thought--pure, unhappy thought! They have perverted it. They have taught it to cheat and defraud. They have made it a saleable commodity to be bought at auction in the market. No, sister, life is short and I am not going to waste it in arguments with oxen. The way to deal with them is by fire. That's what they require--fire! Let them remember long the day on which Savva Tropinin came to the earth! LIPA But what do you want? What do you want? SAVVA What do I want? To free the earth, to free mankind, to sweep the whole two-legged, chattering tribe out of existence. Man--the man of to-day--is wise. He has come to his senses. He is ripe for liberty. But the past eats away his soul like a canker. It imprisons him within the iron circle of things already accomplished, within the iron circle of facts. I want to demolish the facts--that's what I want to do: demolish all facts! To sweep away all the accumulated rubbish--literature, art, God. They have perverted mankind. They have immortalized stupidity. I want to do away with everything behind man, so that there is nothing to see when he looks back. I want to take him by the scruff of his neck and turn his face toward the future. LIPA Look here, Savva. You are not immortal, and the two-legged animal has arms also. SAVVA Do you think I don't know that every one of these stupid asses would be glad to kill me? But it won't happen, it won't happen. The time has come for my arrival, and I have arrived. Prepare yourselves. The time has come. You little insignificant thing there--you thought that by stealing one little possibility away from me you could rob me of all? Oh no--I am as rich as ever. LIPA I am your sister, but oh! how glad I am that you are not immortal. SAVVA I see that you are a thoroughgoing anarchist. They too think that all is done if one man is killed. But if they kill me, hang me, break me on the wheel, there will come another purer than I. Where there's an itch, there is always somebody to scratch it! Yes, sister! If not I, then someone else, and _(clenching his fist)_ it will fare ill with your world. LIPA You are a terrible man. I thought you would be crushed by your failure, but you are like Satan. The fall has only made you blacker. SAVVA Yes, Lipa, only a sparrow can fly straight up from the ground. A large bird must descend to adjust and spread its wings for its upward flight. LIPA Aren't you sorry for the children? Think of the number of children that will have to perish. SAVVA What children? Oh yes, Misha. _(Tenderly)_ Misha is a fine boy, that's true. When he grows up, he will show you no mercy. Yes, the children--You are beginning to be afraid of them, and you have good reason for it. Never mind. It's true that I love children. _(With pride)_ And they love me. But they don't care for you. LIPA I don't play jackstones with them. SAVVA How silly you are, sister. But I like to play with them. LIPA Then go ahead and play. SAVVA Well, I _will_ play. LIPA When you talk like that I have the feeling once more that it has all been a dream--all that we were saying just now. Is it really true that you want to kill me? SAVVA Yes, if it must be done. But perhaps it won't be necessary. LIPA You are joking! SAVVA Every one of you will have it that I am joking. You keep constantly telling me so. You seem to have utterly lost the sense for what is serious. LIPA No, it's not a dream. They are going. SAVVA Yes, they are going. _(Both listen)_ LIPA You still seem to believe. What do you believe? SAVVA I believe in my destiny. _(The hour begins to strike in the belfry of the monastery)_ Twelve. LIPA _(counting)_ Seven--eight--and to think that this is the hour when it should have happened--the very idea of it--_(A muffled report as of a powerful explosion is heard)_ What was that? SAVVA Yes, what was it? _[Both rush to the window, waking Tony, who moves his head sleepily. The tread of the footsteps in the street stops momentarily. Then all begin to run. Frightened cries are heard, weeping, loud, abrupt ejaculations of "What's the matter?" "Oh, Lord!" "Fire, fire!" "No, something has fallen down!" "Let's run!" The word "monastery" is frequently heard._ TONY They are running! Where are they running to? Why is nobody here? PELAGUEYA _(entering the room, half dressed)_ Oh, Lord! Oh, heavens! Is it possible the monastery is on fire! Good gracious! Heavens! And you here, you drunken sot! You monster! TONY Oho! They are running? Faces, mugs, eh? _[The bell begins to toll the alarm. Then the strokes follow each other in more rapid succession; hasty, disquieting, uneven, they blend with the noise of the street and seem to creep through the window._ PELAGUEYA _(crying)_ Good God, I don't know where to turn. _[She runs out. The cries in the street grow louder. Someone yells in one prolonged note "Oh-oh-oh!" until the sound is drowned in the general noise, excitement, and ringing._ LIPA _(moving away from the window, very pale, stupefied)_ What does it mean? It cannot be. It is impossible. Tony, Tony, get up. Tony, brother, what does it mean? Tony! TONY _(reassuringly)_ It's nothing. They are all faces. SAVVA _(leaving the window, calm and stern, but also pale)_ Well, sister? LIPA _(flinging herself about the room)_ I want to run with the rest. I'll run. Where is my scarf? Where is my scarf? My God, My God! Where is my scarf? SAVVA Your scarf? There it is. But I won't give it to you. Sit down; you have nothing to do there. LIPA Let me have it. SAVVA No, sit down, sit down. It's too late now anyway. LIPA Too late? SAVVA Yes, too late. Don't you hear the noise the crowd is making and the way they are running and pushing? LIPA I'll run, I'll run. SAVVA Keep still--sit down. _(Forces her to sit down)_ Tony, did you hear? They've exploded God. TONY _(looking at Savva's face in terror)_ Savva, don't make me laugh. Turn your face away. _[Savva smiles and walks around the room with buoyant step, without his usual stoop._ LIPA _(faintly)_ Savva. SAVVA What is it? Speak louder. LIPA Is it, really true? SAVVA It's true. LIPA And doesn't He really exist? SAVVA He does not. _[Lipa begins to cry, at first low, then more and more loudly. The sound of the ringing bells and the noise of the crowd continue to swell. The rolling and clatter of wagons is also heard._ SAVVA They are running. My, how they are running! _(Lipa says something, but her words are inaudible)_ Louder. I can't hear you. My, how they are ringing. LIPA _(aloud)_ Kill, me, Savva. SAVVA Why? You'll die anyhow. LIPA I can't wait. I'll kill myself. SAVVA Go ahead, kill yourself, kill yourself quick! _[Lipa cries, burying her head in the armchair Tony, his face distorted with fear, looks at Savva, holding both his hands in readiness at his mouth. Loud peals of the bell. The disquieting sound blends with the loud tone of Savva's speech._ SAVVA _(shouting)_ Ah! They are ringing. Ring on! Ring on! Soon the whole earth will ring. I hear! I hear! I see your cities burning! I see the flames. I hear the crackling. I see the houses tumbling on your heads. There is no place to run to. No refuge! No refuge! Fire everywhere. The churches are burning. The factories are burning. The boilers are bursting. An end to all slavish toil! TONY _(trembling with fear)_ Savva, shut up, or I am going to laugh. SAVVA _(unheeding)_ The time has come! The time has come! Do you hear? The earth is casting you out. There is no place for you on earth. No! He is coming! I see him! He is coming, the free man! He is being born in the flames! He himself is fire and resolution! An end to the earth of slaves! TONY Savva, shut up! SAVVA _(bending down to Tony)_ Be prepared! He is coming! Do you hear his tread? He is coming! He is coming! CURTAIN THE FOURTH ACT _Near the monastery. A broad road crosses the stage obliquely. On the far side of the road is the river, beyond which opens a wide prospect of the surrounding country--meadows, woods, and villages, with the crosses of the churches burning in the sun. In the distance, at the right, where the mountain projects over a glistening bend of the river, is seen a part of the walls and the towers of the monastery. On the near side of the road is a hilly elevation covered with trampled grass. It is between five and six in the morning. The sun is out. The mist over the meadow is scattering slowly. Now and then a pilgrim or group of pilgrims may be seen hurrying by on their way to the monastery. Wagons carrying cripples and other monstrosities pass along the road. The noise of thousands may be heard from the monastery. The crowd is evidently moved by some joyous emotion. No individual voices are heard, but it is as if one could feel the singing of the blind, the cries, and the quick, glad snatches of conversation. The general effect is that of an elemental force. The noise decreases at regular intervals, like a wave, and then the singing of the blind becomes distinctly audible. Lipa and the Young Friar appear on the near side of the road: Lipa is sitting on the hillock, dressed as she was the night before, but her head is covered with a white scarf carelessly tied. She is exhausted with joy and almost dropping off to sleep. The Friar stands near her. On his face there is a troubled, vacant look. His movements are irresolute and aimless. He tries to smile, but his smile is twisted and pitiful. He is like a child who feels hurt without knowing the cause._ LIPA _(untying her scarf)_ Heavens, but this is splendid! I should like to die here. I can't get enough of it. Oh, it's splendid, it's splendid! FRIAR _(looking around)_ Yes, it is splendid. But I can't stand it in there. I can't. They push and jostle and press and jam. They crushed the life out of one woman, absolutely crushed her. She had a child with her. I couldn't look at it. I--I'll go to the woods. LIPA How splendid! Oh, Lord! FRIAR _(looking dejectedly into the distance)_ I'll go to the woods. LIPA And to think that only yesterday everything was just as usual. There was nothing of all this, no miracle, nothing. There was only Savva--I can't believe it was yesterday. It seems to me a whole year has passed, a century. Oh, Lord! FRIAR _(his face clouding)_ Why did he do it? Why? LIPA Can't you guess, Vassya? FRIAR _(waving his hand)_ I asked him to come to the woods with me. He should have come. LIPA Did he tell you anything? FRIAR _(waving his hand)_ He should have come. Yes, he should have come. LIPA Ah, Vassya, Vassya, on account of your woods you missed one of the greatest events that ever happened--so great, in fact, that no man remembers the like of it. Ah, Vassya, how can you be speaking about anything else when right now, right here--right here--a miracle has happened. Do you understand? A miracle! The very mention of it fills one with awe. A miracle! Oh, God! Where were you, Vassya, when the explosion occurred? In the woods? FRIAR Yes, in the woods. I didn't hear the explosion. I only heard the ringing of the alarm bell. LIPA Well? FRIAR Nothing. I ran back and found the gate open and everybody crying like mad. And the ikon-- LIPA Well, well? Did you see? FRIAR Yes, it was in the same place as before. And all around--_(Growing animated)_ You know the iron grating over there--you know it, don't you? It was twisted like a rope. It's funny to look at. It looks like something soft. I touched it, and it wasn't soft, of course. What power! It must have been something tremendous. LIPA Well, and what about the ikon--the ikon? FRIAR What about it? Nothing. It's there in its place, and our people are praying to it. LIPA Oh, Lord! And the glass is whole too? FRIAR The glass is whole too. LIPA That's what they told me, but I can't believe it yet. Forgive me, O Lord! Well, what are they doing? They are overjoyed, I suppose. FRIAR Yes, they are overjoyed. They act as if they were drunk. You can't make out what they are saying. A miracle, a miracle. Father Kirill keeps grunting like a pig "Oui, oui, oui." They put cold compresses on his head. He is fat, and he may pass out any moment. No, I can't stand it here. Come, let us go. I'll take you home, Miss Olympiada. LIPA No, Vassya dear, I'll go in there. FRIAR Don't go, for heaven's sake. They'll crush you, as they did that woman. They are all like drunk. They are carrying on and shouting like mad, with their eyes wide open. Listen. Can't you hear them? LIPA You are still a boy, Vassya. You don't understand. Why, it's a miracle. All their lives these people have been waiting for a miracle. Perhaps they had already begun to despair, and now--O Lord! It's enough to make you mad with joy. Yesterday, when I heard the cry of "a miracle," I thought: "No, it's impossible. How could it happen?" But then I saw them crying, crossing themselves, and going down on their knees. And the ringing of the alarm bell stopped. FRIAR Oh, it was Afanassy who rang. He's terribly strong, a regular giant. LIPA And the only thing heard was "A miracle, a miracle!" No one spoke, and yet one kept hearing "A miracle, a miracle," as if the whole earth had become articulate. And even now, when I close my eyes, I hear "A miracle, a miracle!" _(She closes her eyes and listens with an ecstatic smile)_ How splendid! FRIAR I am sorry for Mr. Savva. Listen to the noise they are making. LIPA Oh, don't talk about him. He'll have to answer to God. Are they going to sing "Christ is arisen" instead of the usual hymn when they carry the ikon in the procession to-day? Vassya, do you hear? I am asking you a question. FRIAR Yes, they say that they are. Go home, Miss Olympiada, won't you? LIPA You can go, if you like. FRIAR But how can I leave you alone? They'll come tearing down here soon. For heaven's sake, there is Mr. Savva! _[Savva comes in hatless. His face is dark and stormy. There are lines under his eyes. He looks sideways with a steady stare. Frequently he glances around and seems to be listening to something. His gait is heavy, but quick. Noticing Lipa and the Friar, he turns and walks toward them. At his approach Lipa rises and turns away._ SAVVA Have you seen Kondraty? FRIAR No, he is in the monastery. _[Savva remains standing in silence. The noise in the monastery has subsided and the sad, pitiful singing of the blind is heard._ FRIAR Mr. Savva. SAVVA Have you got a cigarette? FRIAR No, I don't smoke. _(Plaintively)_ Come to the woods, Mr. Savva. _(Savva remains immovable and silent)_ They'll kill you, Mr. Tropinin. Come to the woods--please come! _(Savva looks fixedly at him, then silently turns and walks away)_ Mr. Tropinin, on my word you had better come with me to the woods. LIPA Leave him alone. He is like Cain. He can't find a place on the earth. Everybody is rejoicing, and he-- FRIAR His face is black. I am sorry for him. LIPA He is black all through. You had better keep away from him, Vassya. You don't know whom you are pitying. You are too young. I am his sister. I love him, but if he is killed, it will be a benefit to the whole world. You don't know what he wanted to do. The very thought of it is terrible. He is a madman, Vassya, a fearful lunatic. Or else he is--I don't know what. FRIAR _(waving his hand)_ You needn't tell me all that. I know. Of course I know. Don't I see? But I am sorry for him all the same, and I am disgusted too. Why did he do it? Why? What stupid things people will do! Oh, my! LIPA I have only one hope--that he has understood at last. But if-- FRIAR Well, what's the "if"? LIPA Oh, nothing, but--When he came here, it was as if a cloud had passed across the sun. FRIAR There you go also! You should be happy--Why don't you rejoice? Don't be "iffing" and "butting." _[A crowd begins to collect gradually. Two wagons with cripples stop on the road. A paralytic has been sitting for some time under a tree, crying and blowing his nose and wiping it with his sleeve. A Man in Peasant Overcoat appears from the direction of the monastery._ MAN IN OVERCOAT _(officiously)_ We must get the cripples over to Him, to the ikon--we must get them over there. What's the matter, women, are you asleep? Come on, move along. You'll get your rest over there. What's the matter with you, gran'pa? Why aren't you moving along? You ought to be there with your legs. Go on, old man, go on. PARALYTIC _(crying)_ I can't walk. MAN IN OVERCOAT _(fussily)_ Oh, that's it? That's what's the matter with you, eh? Come, I'll give you a lift. Get up. PARALYTIC I can't. PASSER-BY Won't his legs work? What you want to do is to put him on his feet, and then he'll hop away by himself. Isn't that right, old man? MAN IN OVERCOAT You take hold of him on that side, and I'll take this one. Well, old man, get a move on you. You won't have to suffer long now. PASSER-BY There he goes hop, hop. That's right. Go it, go it, old man, and you won't get left. _(He goes away)_ FRIAR _(smiling happily)_ They started him going all right. Clever, isn't it? He is galloping away at a great rate too. Good-bye, old gran'pa. LIPA _(crying)_ Lord! Lord! FRIAR _(pained)_ What's the matter? Don't cry, for pity's sake. What are you crying for? There is no cause for crying. LIPA No cause do you say, Vassya? I am crying for joy. Why aren't you glad, Vassya? Don't you believe in the miracle? FRIAR Yes, I do. But I can't bear to see all this. They all behave like drunks, and shout and make a noise. You can't understand what they are talking about. They crushed that woman. _(With pain and disgust)_ They squeezed the life out of her. Oh, Lord, I simply can't! And the whole business. Father Kirill keeps grunting "Oui, oui, oui." _(Laughs sadly)_ Why is he grunting? LIPA _(sternly)_ You learned that from Savva. FRIAR No, I didn't. Tell me, why is he grunting? _(Laughs sadly)_ Why? _[Yegor Tropinin enters dressed in holiday attire, his beard and hair combed. He looks extremely solemn and stern._ YEGOR Why are you here, eh? And in that kind of dress? You're a fine sight. LIPA I had no time to get dressed. YEGOR But you found time to get here. What you have no business to do you have time for, but what you should do you have no time for. Go home and get dressed. It isn't proper. Who has ever seen such a thing? LIPA Oh, papa! YEGOR There is nothing to "oh" about. It's all right, papa is papa, but you see I am properly dressed. I dressed and then went out. That's the right way to do. Yes. It's a pleasure to look at myself sideways. I dressed as was proper, yes. On a day like this you ought to give a hand at the counter. Tony has disappeared, and Polya can't do all the work herself. You needn't be making such a face now. MERCHANT _(passing by)_ Congratulate you on the miracle, Mr. Tropinin! YEGOR Thank you, brother, the same to you. Wait, I'll go with you. You are a goose, Olympiada. You have always been a goose, and you have remained a goose to this day. MERCHANT You'll have a fine trade now. YEGOR If it please the Lord! Why are you so late? Have you been sleeping? You keep sleeping, all of you, all the time. _(They go out)_ FRIAR I scattered all the fireflies I caught on the road when I ran last night. And now the crowd has trampled them down. I wish I had left them in the woods. Listen to the way they are shouting. I wonder what's the matter. They must have squeezed somebody to death again. LIPA _(closing her eyes)_ When you talk, Vassya, your words seem to pass by me. I hear and I don't hear. I think I should like to stay this way all my life without moving from the spot. I should like to remain forever with my eyes shut, listening to what is going on within me. Oh, Lord! What happiness! Do you understand, Vassya? FRIAR Yes, I understand. LIPA No. Do you understand what it is that has happened to-day? Why, it means that God has said--God Himself has said: "Wait and do not fear. You are miserable. Never mind, it's nothing, it's only temporary. You must wait. Nothing has to be destroyed. You must work and wait." Oh, it will come, Vassya, it will come. I feel it now, I know it. FRIAR What will come? LIPA Life, Vassya, real life will come. Oh, mercy! I still feel like crying for joy. Don't be afraid. _[Speransky and Tony enter, the latter very gloomy, glancing sideways and sighing. In a queer way he sometimes recalls Savva his gait and look._ SPERANSKY Good morning, Miss Olympiada. Good morning, Vassya. What an extraordinary event, if we are to believe what people say. LIPA Believe, Mr. Speransky, believe. SPERANSKY You judge in a very simple offhand manner. If, however, you take into consideration the fact that it is highly probable that nothing exists, that even we ourselves do not exist-- TONY Keep quiet. SPERANSKY Why? There is no miracle for me, Miss Olympiada. If at this moment, for example, everything on this earth were suddenly to be suspended in the air, I shouldn't regard it as a miracle. LIPA As what then? You're a very peculiar man. SPERANSKY I should look on it simply as a change. It was first one thing and then it became another. If you wish, I'll admit that for me the very fact that things are as they are is in itself a miracle. All are glad and rejoicing but I sit and think: "Time is blinking his eyes now, and there is a change. The old people are dead, and in their places appear the young. And they are apparently glad and rejoicing too." TONY Where is Savva? LIPA Why do you want him? SPERANSKY He has been looking for Mr. Savva ever so long. We have looked everywhere, but have not been able to find him. FRIAR He was here awhile ago. TONY Where did he go? FRIAR To the monastery, I think. TONY _(pulling Speransky)_ Come. SPERANSKY Good-bye, Miss Olympiada. How they are shouting over there! The time will come when they will all be silent. _(They go off)_ FRIAR _(disturbed)_ Why are they looking for Mr. Savva? LIPA I don't know. FRIAR I don't like that seminarist. Always nosing about where there are dead around. What does he want? He is a dreadfully disagreeable fellow. Never misses a funeral. He smells death miles away. LIPA He is an unhappy creature. FRIAR Unhappy? Why is he unhappy? Even the dogs in the village are afraid of him. You don't believe it? It's so, upon my word! They bark at him, and then slink away behind the gate. LIPA What does all this matter anyway, Vassya? It's of no account, mere trifles. To-day they are going to sing: "Christ is arisen from the dead. Death has conquered death." Do you understand? "Death has conquered death." FRIAR I understand. I understand. But why does he say "All will become silent" and that sort of stuff? I don't like it, I don't like it. They have crushed a woman to death--perhaps others too. _(Shaking his head)_ I don't like it. In the woods everything is so quiet and nice, and here--I'd prefer that no miracle had happened. I'd rather have things nice and pleasant. What's the use of it? What's the use of the miracle? There is no need of a miracle. LIPA What are you talking about, Vassya? FRIAR Savva Tropinin! The idea. It shouldn't have been done. There was no need of it. He said he'd go with me to the woods and then--I liked him a lot, but now I am afraid of him. Why did he do it? Why? My, what a fearful crowd! More cripples coming, and more and more. LIPA What is the matter, Vassya? What are you so excited about? FRIAR Everything was so nice and fine. Oh, my! Why _don't_ you go home, Miss Olympiada? Do go, please. You have seen all there is to be seen. It's enough. What can you gain by staying here? Come, I'll go with you. Oh, God, there comes Mr. Savva again! LIPA Where? FRIAR There he is. For heaven's sake! SAVVA _(enters and sits down)_ Has Kondraty been here? FRIAR No, Mr. Savva. _[Pause. Again the piteous singing of the blind can be heard._ SAVVA Got a cigarette, Vassya? FRIAR No, I haven't. I don't smoke. LIPA _(harshly)_ What are you waiting for, Savva? Go away. You are not wanted here. Look at yourself. You are a terrible sight. Your face is black. SAVVA I didn't sleep all last night. That's why it's black. LIPA What are you waiting for? SAVVA For an explanation. LIPA You don't believe in the miracle? SAVVA _(smiling)_ Vassya, do you believe in the miracle? FRIAR Yes, of course I do, Mr. Savva. SAVVA Wait. You'll find out. What are they doing down there? They have already crushed three to death. FRIAR Three? SAVVA And they'll kill many more. And they all keep shouting: "A miracle, a miracle!" At last it has come. They have got what they have been waiting for at last. LIPA And it's you, Savva, who gave them the miracle. It's you who are to be thanked for it. SAVVA _(gloomily)_ Well, Vassya, the monks are glad, aren't they? Tell me, don't be afraid. FRIAR They are very glad, Mr. Savva. They are crying. SAVVA _(looking at him)_ _Crying?_ Why are they crying? FRIAR I don't know. I suppose for joy. Father Kirill grunts like a pig "Oui, oui, oui." They all act as if they were drunk. SAVVA _(rising, agitated)_ As if they were drunk? What does that mean? Perhaps they really are drunk. FRIAR Oh no, Mr. Tropinin. It's all on account of the miracle. They are mad with joy. Father Kirill keeps grunting "Oui, oui, oui." He vows that if he remains alive he'll swear off liquor and live as a hermit. SAVVA _(eyeing him)_ Well? FRIAR That's all. SAVVA What do they say? FRIAR They say they'll do penance and stop sinning. They hug each other and behave as if they were drunk. SAVVA _(walking up and down, stroking his forehead with his hand)_ Yes, hm. So that's the way! Yes. LIPA _(following him with her eyes)_ Go away from here, Savva. You are not wanted here. SAVVA What? LIPA _(reluctantly)_ They may recognize you and then--Why don't you put on a hat at least? You look like-- FRIAR Yes, go--please go--dear Mr. Savva. Why, they--why, they might kill you! SAVVA _(in a sudden outburst of anger)_ Leave me alone! No one will kill me. It's bosh! _(Pause. Sits down)_ I wish I could get a drink of water or something. I am very thirsty. Isn't there a pool or something of the kind around here? FRIAR _(looking in terror at Savva)_ No, it's all dried up. SAVVA _(frowning)_ Sorry. FRIAR Oh, that woman there has a jug of water. _(Gleefully)_ I'll go and ask her for it. _(Runs)_ LIPA You ought not to have that water. Go away from here, Savva, go away. Look what gladness there is all around you. Everybody, everything rejoices. The earth is glad. The sun is glad. You are the only one who is not--you alone. I still can't forget that you are my brother. Go. But wherever you go, bear with you the memory of this day always. Remember that the same fate awaits you everywhere. The earth will not surrender her God to you; the people will not surrender to you that whereby they live and breathe. Yesterday I still feared you. To-day I regard you with pity. You are pitiful, Savva! Go! Why are you laughing? SAVVA _(smiling)_ Isn't it a little premature, sister, for you to be delivering my funeral oration? LIPA Aren't you frightened yet? SAVVA Why should I be frightened? At your tricks and jugglery? I am used to the lies and frauds, Lipa. You can't frighten me with them. I still have a lot of stupid confidence left. It will help. It will come in handy the next time. LIPA Savva! FRIAR _(bringing the jug of water)_ I had the hardest time getting it from her. She was like flint. She said she needed it herself. She was a hard case. SAVVA Thank you, boy. _(Drinks with avidity)_ Fine! _(Drinks the last drop)_ That was fine water. Take it back and tell the woman her water was fine and that there is none like it in all the world. FRIAR _(merrily)_ All right, I'll tell her. _(Goes off)_ LIPA _(in a whisper)_ You are the enemy of the human race. SAVVA _(smacking his lips)_ Very well, very well. Just wait. We'll hear what Kondraty has to say. The blackguard! I'll give it to him! LIPA _(with emphasis, but still in a whisper as before)_ You are the enemy of the human race! You are the enemy of the human race! SAVVA Louder! No one hears you. It's a spicy bit of information. LIPA Go away from here. _[The Friar returns._ SAVVA _(looking into the distance with narrowed eyes)_ It's nice out there, isn't it, Vassya? Whose woods are they? Vazykin's? Have I ever been there with you? FRIAR _(gleefully)_ Yes, they're Vazykin's. I was there yesterday, Mr. Savva. I caught a whole handful of fireflies, but as I ran--_(He grows sorrowful at the memory)_ My, how they are shouting! What are they up to anyway? Did you say they killed three, Mr. Tropinin? Was that what you said? SAVVA _(coolly)_ Yes, three. FRIAR What are they pushing and jostling for anyhow? He'll be carried in the procession and they can all see Him. SAVVA When will they carry Him? FRIAR _(looking up)_ It won't be long now. LIPA They'll sing "Christ is Arisen" to-day. SAVVA _(smiling)_ Is that so? Didn't I arrange a feast-day for them though? _[Tony and Speransky appear._ FRIAR Are these fellows here too? For goodness' sake, what do they want? What are they looking for? I don't like it. Mr. Tropinin, come; let's go away from here. SAVVA Why? FRIAR They are coming this way, Speransky-- SAVVA Aha! The "Tramp of Death" is approaching. _[Lipa looks at him in astonishment. The Friar presses his hand to his bosom in a state of agitation._ FRIAR _(plaintively)_ What are you saying? Oh, God! Why did you say that? You mustn't do it. This is no tramp of death, nothing of the kind. SAVVA It's a kind of story he has written--Good morning, good morning. What can I do for you? SPERANSKY Mr. Anthony Tropinin is looking for you, Mr. Savva. SAVVA What do you want? TONY _(very sadly, hiding a little behind Speransky)_ Nothing. FRIAR _(listening attentively and then speaking with passion)_ What are you running around for then, and whom are you hunting? If you want nothing, do nothing. But you are running around and hunting, hunting. It isn't nice, I tell you! TONY _(after a passing glance at the Friar he fixes his gaze on Savva)_ Savva. SAVVA _(irritated)_ What do you want? _[Tony makes no answer, but hides behind Speransky, looking over his shoulder. In the course of what follows he keeps steadily looking at Savva. His lips and eyebrows twitch, and at times he presses both his hands hard against his mouth._ SPERANSKY The crowd is in a state of great agitation, Miss Olympiada. They broke the old gate opening on the other side of the woods and rushed in. The Father Superior came out and asked them to behave. They shout so you can't hear anything at all. Many are rolling on the ground in convulsions. I suppose they are sick. It's very strange, quite unusual in fact. LIPA Will they carry Him out soon? I must go. _(Rises)_ SPERANSKY They say it'll be soon now. One wagon with cripples in it was upset--cripples without hands or feet. They are lying on the ground crying. It's all so strange. FRIAR What? Did you see it yourself? _[Kondraty appears on the road coming from the monastery. He is walking in the company of two pilgrims, who are listening attentively to him. Catching sight of Savva, Kondraty says something to his companions, who remain standing where they are while he goes up to Savva._ SAVVA Aha! KONDRATY _(clean, spruce, beaming)_ Good morning, Miss Olympiada. Good morning to you too, Mr. Savva Tropinin. SAVVA Good morning, good morning. You have come after all? You were not afraid? KONDRATY _(calmly)_ Why should I be afraid? You won't kill me, I suppose, and if you should, it would be sweet to die at your hands. SAVVA What bravery! And how clean you are! You are positively painful to look at. You didn't make quite so smart an appearance when you lay wallowing in the puddle. You were a little the worse for the mud, and so on. KONDRATY _(shrugging his shoulders and speaking with dignity)_ It's no use recalling that incident now. It's quite out of place. Mr. Tropinin, it's time for you to have done with your spite and malice, high time. SAVVA Well? KONDRATY That's all. There is no "well" about it. You have had your shot. Be satisfied. SAVVA Are congratulations upon the miracle in order? KONDRATY Yes, Mr. Tropinin, upon the miracle--the miracle, indeed. _(He weeps with a bland air, wiping his face with his handkerchief)_ God granted that I should live to see the day. SAVVA _(rising and advancing a step toward the monk; peremptorily)_ Enough now! Stop your hocus-pocus. You have played your trick. Now stop, or I'll knock all that jugglery out of you. Do you hear? FRIAR Mr. Savva, good Mr. Savva, please don't. KONDRATY _(drawing back a little)_ Not so loud, not so loud. We are not in the forest where you can kill rich merchants and get away with it. There are people here. SAVVA _(lowering his voice)_ Well, tell me all about it. Come on. KONDRATY What's the use of going away? I can tell you everything right here. I have no secrets. It's you who have secrets. I am all here. SAVVA You'll lie if you tell it here. KONDRATY _(heatedly, with tears)_ Shame, Mr. Tropinin! Shame! Shame! Why do you insult me? Is it because you saw me lying in the puddle? It's a sin, a shame! SAVVA _(perplexed)_ What's the matter with you? KONDRATY Do you think I am going to lie on a day like this? Miss Olympiada, you at least ought to know--Good God! Good God! Why, Christ has just arisen! Do you understand? _[The crowd increases. Some cast glances at the group with the two monks before they pass on._ LIPA _(excitedly)_ Father Kondraty-- KONDRATY _(beating his breast)_ Do you understand? I have lived all my life like a scoundrel, so why, why did God do this with me? Do you understand, Miss Olympiada? Do you understand? Eh? SAVVA _(perplexed)_ Talk sense. Stop blubbering. KONDRATY _(waving his hand)_ I am not angry with you. I bear you no grudge. Who are you that I should bear any resentment against you? SAVVA Talk sense. KONDRATY I'll tell Miss Olympiada. I won't speak to you. You knew me as a drunkard, Miss Olympiada, a mean, worthless creature. Now listen. _(To Speransky)_ And you, young man, may listen also. It will teach you a lesson. It will show you how God works His will unseen. LIPA I see, Father Kondraty. Forgive me. KONDRATY God will forgive you. Who am I to forgive you? So that's the way it was, Miss Olympiada. I followed your advice and went to the Father Superior with the infernal machine. It was indeed an infernal machine! And I told him everything, just the way I felt, with a perfect candor and purity of heart. SPERANSKY _(guessing)_ Is that how it happened? What a remarkable event! FRIAR _(quietly)_ Keep quiet. What are you butting in for? KONDRATY Ye-es. The Father Superior turned pale. "You scamp," he said, "do you know with whom you have had dealings?" "I do," I said, trembling all over. Well, they called together the whole brotherhood and discussed the matter in secret. And then the Father Superior said to me: "It's this way, Kondraty," he said. "God has chosen you as the instrument of His sacred will. Yes. _(Weeps)_ God has chosen you as the instrument--" LIPA Well? Go on. KONDRATY Ye-es, hm. "Go," he said, "and put down the machine as you were told to do, and set it going according to the directions. Carry out the devil's plot in full. I and the other brothers will sing a hymn quietly as we carry the ikon away. Yes, that's what we'll do. We'll carry the ikon away. And thus the devil will be made a fool of." SAVVA Ah! LIPA _(astonished)_ But, Father Kondraty, how can that be? _[Savva laughs heartily._ KONDRATY Patience, patience, Miss Olympiada. "And when," said the Father Superior, "the devil's plot shall have been carried out, then we'll put the ikon--the dear, precious ikon--back in His place." Well, I won't attempt to describe the scene that took place when we carried the ikon away. It's beyond my power. The brothers sobbed and wept. Not one of them was able to sing. The little candles burned with tiny little flames. And then when we carried Him out to the gate, and when we began to think and remembered--who is now in His sacred place--we lay around the ikon, our faces on the ground, and cried and wept bitter, bitter tears, tears of pity and contrition. "O Thou, our own, our precious idol, have mercy on us, return to Thy place." _(Lipa cries; the Friar wipes his eyes with his fist)_ And then--bang! went the machine, and the sulphurous smoke spread all around so that it was impossible to breathe. _(In a whisper)_ And then many beheld the devil in the smoke, and they were so terrified that they lost consciousness. It was horrible! And then, as we carried Him back, all of one accord, as though we had agreed beforehand, began to sing "Christ is arisen." That's how it happened. SAVVA You hear, Lipa? But what's the matter with you? Why are you all crying? FRIAR It makes one feel so sorry, Mr. Savva. SAVVA Why, they fooled you, they played a trick on you. Or else you are all lying, lying with your tears. _[Kondraty makes a gesture of indifference._ LIPA _(shaking her head, weeping)_ No, Savva, you don't understand. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! KONDRATY You have no God, that's the reason you don't understand; You have only reason, and pride, and malice. That's why you don't understand. Ah, Mr. Savva, you wanted to ruin me too. And I tell you as a Christian--it would have been better if you had never been born. SAVVA Oh, fiddlesticks! Whom do you think you can hoodwink? Do you think I have turned blind? KONDRATY _(turning away with a wave of his hand)_ You can shout as much as you like. FRIAR Mr. Savva, you mustn't shout, you mustn't. We have already attracted the attention of the crowd. They are looking at us. SAVVA _(laying his hand on Kondraty's shoulder and speaking in a low voice)_ Look here, I understand. Of course, in the presence of people--but you understand, don't you, Kondraty? You are a clever man, a very bright man. You understand that all this is nonsense. Just consider, brother, consider a moment. Didn't they carry the ikon away? Then where is the miracle? KONDRATY _(twisting himself free from Savva's grasp, shaking his head and speaking aloud)_ Then you don't understand? No, you don't understand. What of it? SAVVA _(in a whisper)_ Listen, remember our talk. KONDRATY _(aloud)_ Don't whisper to me. I have nothing to hide from anybody. How do you think miracles happen anyhow? Say, you are a smart man too, and yet you can't comprehend a simple matter like this. Why, it's all your work, all your doing, isn't it? You gave me the machine. You planned the explosion. Your orders have been carried out. And yet the ikon is untouched; it's whole. That's all I have to say. It's the plain, simple statement of fact. Yet you come here with your arguments and try to get away from those facts by mere reasoning. LIPA _(looking around in a paroxysm of excitement)_ How simple it is! And how terrible! O Lord, O Lord! And to think that it was I who did it, I, with my own hands! O my God! _(She falls on her knees, turning her eyes toward heaven)_ SAVVA _(looking at her savagely, then at Kondraty)_ Well! KONDRATY _(drawing back in fright)_ Why are you staying here? Why haven't you left already? SAVVA _(shouting)_ What a ---- fool you are! KONDRATY _(paling)_ Lower, lower, I say. Don't talk like that, or I'll shout. SAVVA _(turning quickly toward Speransky)_ What are you staring at with your mouth wide open? You are a philosopher. You, you are a philosopher. Can you understand the stupidity of these people? They think it's a miracle. _(Laughs)_ They think it's a miracle. SPERANSKY _(stepping back)_ Excuse me, Mr. Tropinin, but from their point of view--I don't know. SAVVA You don't know? SPERANSKY Who does know? _(Cries out, in despair)_ The dead alone, Mr. Savva, the dead alone. KONDRATY Ah! You are cornered--Antichrist! LIPA _(in terror)_ Antichrist? _[Hearing the cry, the two pilgrims who were with Kondraty approach. They are gradually joined by others, among whom is the Man in Peasant Overcoat._ FIRST PILGRIM What is it, father? Has he revealed himself? KONDRATY Look at him, look at him! SAVVA Vassya, you dear, fine boy--Vassya, what is the matter with them? Hear what they are saying. Hear the nonsense they are talking. You good, nice boy! FRIAR _(drawing back)_ Mr. Savva, don't, don't. Go away from here. Leave this place. SAVVA Vassya, Vassya, you, you-- FRIAR _(crying)_ But I don't know. I don't know anything. I am afraid. LIPA _(ecstatically)_ Antichrist! Antichrist! SECOND PILGRIM Hear! Hear! KONDRATY Ah! You are cornered. Here is your money--take it! It has burned holes in my pockets, your accursed money. Here, take it, take it, you brood of Antichrist! _(Throws the money at him)_ SAVVA _(raising his fist as if to deal a blow)_ I'll teach you-- FIRST PILGRIM Boys, don't be afraid. Here boys, here! SAVVA _(pressing his head between his hands)_ Oh, it hurts, it hurts! Darkness is closing in. KONDRATY It's beginning to get you, is it? That's right, that's right. LIPA Antichrist! TONY _(shouting)_ Savva, Savva! SAVVA _(sinking for a moment into profound, terrible meditation; then he straightens himself suddenly and seems to grow in stature; he cries out with a wild joy as if speaking above the heads of all to reach somebody far off)_ I am right! Therefore I am right! It was all necessary! All! All! _(He stands as if petrified in an upward-striving posture)_ KONDRATY Boys, it's he who did it. That's the fellow. MAN IN OVERCOAT _(pushing himself forward, officiously)_ What's the matter, boys? Aha! He is caught! Which one? This one? Come on with you! _(Takes hold of Savva by the sleeve)_ SAVVA _(shaking him off with such violence that the man falls down)_ Get away from me! VOICES Don't let him go! KONDRATY Hold him! FRIAR _(crying)_ Run, Mr. Savva, run. _[During the following scene Lipa prays. Speransky looks on with keen curiosity, while Tony stares over his shoulder. All the voices become blended into one raging, frightened, savage roar._ CROWD Get at him from that side! Yes, go yourself! You have a stick! Oh, hang it, there isn't a single stone around! Hold him, hold him, he'll escape! MAN IN OVERCOAT _(getting to his feet again and assuming the leadership)_ Surround him, boys, surround him! Block the way to the river! Don't let him run away! Well, now, get a move on you! CROWD Go yourself--I've tried once! Push that way! Get hold of him! Grab him! Aha! KONDRATY _(shouting at the top of his voice)_ Beat him! Beat the Antichrist! Beat him! SAVVA _(the danger brings him back to his senses. He looks around, takes in the path to the river with a quick glance, and gray as dust with rage, he makes for it with a single abrupt movement)_ Get out of the way, you monsters! CROWD He is getting away! He is getting away! Hold him! Boys, he is getting away! He is getting away! _[As Savva advances, the crowd falls back in a semicircle, tumbling against one another. Kondraty begins to make the sign of the cross at Savva and continues to do so throughout the remaining scene._ SAVVA _(advancing)_ Get out of the way! Get out of the way! So you're scared now, you dogs? You've pulled in your tails? Get out of the way! Go on! CROWD He is getting away. _[King Herod issues from the crowd, and plants himself in front of Savva so as to obstruct his way. There is a terrible look on his face. Savva comes up close to him and stops._ SAVVA Well? _[A brief pause. The conversation is carried on in a sort of undertone, almost calmly._ KING HEROD Is that you? SAVVA Is that you? Let me go. KING HEROD A man? SAVVA Yes, let me go. KING HEROD Did you want the Saviour? Christ? SAVVA They fooled you. KING HEROD People may fool, Christ never. What's your name? SAVVA Savva. Get out of my way, I tell you. KING HEROD Surrender Thy servant Savva. Hold! _[He strikes a heavy, swinging blow with his left fist whence Savva did not expect an attack. Savva sinks on one knee. The crowd rushes at him and tramples him down._ CROWD Beat him! Aha! So! He is turning back! Beat him! FRIAR What does this mean? Oh! Oh! Oh! _(He clutches his head with both hands, cries, and runs away)_ SAVVA _(fighting desperately, he appears for a moment looking fierce and terrible)_ Let go--Ho-o-o! _(He sinks back again)_ CROWD That's the way. One, two--Ah! Strike! Got him? Not yet! Got him? What are you waiting for? Strike! Done! A VOICE He's still moving. CROWD Strike! MAN IN OVERCOAT Peter, got a knife? Finish him with your knife. Cut his throat. PETER No, I'd rather do it with my heel. One! Two! KONDRATY _(cursing him)_ Lord Jesus Christ! Lord Jesus Christ! _[Loud cries are heard from the background: "They are carrying Him! They are carrying Him!" The mob begins to disperse and thins out quickly._ CROWD They are carrying Him! Yes, it's enough. It's done. No, let me at him--once more. There! I gave him one good one in his face. They are carrying Him! They are carrying Him! KING HEROD Enough, enough. A grand feast for you, you accursed beasts! CROWD I tell you, they are carrying Him! Lie there, you! Oh my, am I going to be late? Enough now. Are you sorry for him, eh? Is it _your_ head? One more! Come on! _[They run away so that Savva's mangled body becomes visible._ MAN IN OVERCOAT It ought to be taken away from here. It isn't right to leave it here on the road. It's dirty. Boys! Say, boys! _[He goes off following the rest, but is met by the procession pouring in upon the stage. There is a great din and humming of talk. Speransky and Tony approach the body cautiously, bend over it on their knees, one on each side, and stare at it eagerly._ SPERANSKY Dead! His eyes are gone. TONY Shut up! _(He bursts into a groaning laugh, pressing his hands hard to his mouth)_ SPERANSKY But his face is calm. Look, Mr. Anthony. It's because now he knows the truth. TONY Shut up! _(Bursts out laughing)_ What a funny face he has! _[He laughs behind his hand. Then his laugh bursts through his fingers, so to speak, grows in intensity, becomes irresistible, and passes into a whine. The crowd begins to fill the stage, concealing the body, Speransky, and Tony. The bells are rung in the monastery as at Easter, and at the same time the singing of thousands of voices is heard._ CROWD "Christ is risen from the dead. He has conquered death with death and given life to those lain in their graves. Christ--" LIPA _(flinging herself into the crowd)_ "Christ is risen!" _[The crowd continues to pour in, filling the entire stage. Gaping mouths and round, wide-open eyes are seen everywhere. Shrill shrieks are uttered by the crazed epileptics. A momentary outcry is heard:_ "Somebody crushed!" _Tony's laughter dies away somewhere. The triumphant hymn rises, spreads, passes into a titanic roar that drowns every other sound. The bells continue to ring._ CROWD _(shouting at their utmost power)_ "Christ is risen from the dead. He has conquered death with death and given life to those lain in their graves. Christ is risen--" CURTAIN THE LIFE OF MAN (ZHIZN CHELOVIEKA) A PLAY IN FIVE SCENES WITH A PROLOGUE 1906 TO THE BRIGHT MEMORY OF MY FRIEND, MY WIFE I DEDICATE THIS COMPOSITION THE LAST ON WHICH WE WORKED TOGETHER PERSONS Someone in Gray called He Man His Wife Man's Father Relatives Neighbors Friends Enemies Guests Servants Musicians Physicians A Bartender Drunkards Old Women PROLOGUE--_Someone in Gray called He, speaking of the Life of Man_ SCENE I--_The Birth of Man and the Mother's Travail_ SCENE II--_Love and Poverty_ SCENE III--_Wealth. Man's Ball_ SCENE IV--_Man's Misfortune_ SCENE V--_The Death of Man_ THE LIFE OF MAN PROLOGUE SOMEONE IN GRAY CALLED HE, SPEAKING OF THE LIFE OF MAN _A large, rectangular space resembling a room without doors or windows and quite empty. Everything is gray, monocolored, drab--the watts gray, and the ceiling, and the floor. A feeble, even light enters from some invisible source. It too is gray, monotonous, spectral, producing neither lights nor shadows. Someone in Gray moves noiselessly away from the wall, close against which He has been standing. He wears a broad, gray, formless smock, vaguely outlining the contours of His body; and a hat of the same gray throws the upper part of His face into heavy shadow. His eyes are invisible. All that is seen are His cheekbones, His nose, and His chin, which is massive, heavy, and blunt, as if hewn out of rock. His lips are pressed tight together. Raising His head slightly, He begins to speak in a firm, cold, unemotional, unimpassioned voice, like a reader hired by the hour reading the Book of Fate with brutal indifference._ SOMEONE IN GRAY Look and listen, you who have come here to laugh and be amused. There will pass before you the whole life of Man, from his dark beginning to his dark ending. Previously non-existant, mysteriously hidden in the infiniteness of time, neither feeling nor thinking and known to no one, he will mysteriously break through the prison of non-being and with a cry announce the beginning of his brief life. In the night of non-existence a light will go up, kindled by an unseen hand. It is the life of Man. Behold the flame--it is the life of Man. Being born, he will take the form and the name of Man, and in all things will become like other men already living. And their hard lot will be his lot, and his hard lot will be the lot of all human beings. Inexorably impelled by time, he will, with inavertible necessity, pass through all the stages of human life, from the bottom to the top, from the top to the bottom. Limited in vision, he will never see the next step which his unsteady foot, poised in the air, is in the very act of taking. Limited in knowledge, he will never know what the coming day will bring, or the coming hour, or the coming minute. In his unseeing blindness, troubled by premonitions, agitated by hope and fear, he will submissively complete the iron-traced circle foreordained. Behold him a happy youth. See how brightly the candle burns. From boundless stretches of space the icy wind blows, circling, careering, and tossing the flame. In vain. Bright and clear the candle burns. Yet the wax is dwindling, consumed by the fire. Yet the wax is dwindling. Behold him a happy husband and father. But see how strangely dim and faint the candle burns, as if the yellowing flame were wrinkling, as if it were shivering with cold and were creeping into concealment. The wax is melting, consumed by the fire. The wax is melting. Behold him, an old man, ill and feeble. The stages of life are already ended. In their stead nothing but a black void. Yet he drags on with palsied limbs. The flame, now turned blue, bends to the ground and crawls along, trembling and falling, trembling and falling. Then it goes out quietly. Thus Man will die. Coming from the night, he will return to the night and go out, leaving no trace behind. He will pass into the infinity of time, neither thinking nor feeling, and known to no one. And I, whom all call He, shall remain the faithful companion of Man throughout his life, on all his pathways. Unseen by him, I shall be constantly at hand when he wakes and when he sleeps, when he prays and when he curses. In his hours of joy, when his spirit, free and bold, rises aloft; in his hours of grief and despair, when his soul clouds over with mortal pain and sorrow, and the blood congeals in his heart; in the hours of victory and defeat; in the hours of great strife with the immutable, I shall be with him--I shall be with him. And you who have come here to be amused, you who are consecrated to death, look and listen. There will pass before you, like a distant phantom echo, the fleet-moving life of Man with its sorrows and its joys. _[Someone in Gray turns silent. The light goes out, and He and the gray, empty room are enveloped in darkness._ THE FIRST SCENE THE BIRTH OF MAN AND THE MOTHER'S TRAVAIL _Profound darkness; not a stir. Like a swarm of mice in hiding, the gray silhouettes of Old Women in strange headgear are dimly discerned; also vaguely the outline of a large, lofty room. The Old Women carry on a conversation in low, mocking voices._ OLD WOMEN'S CONVERSATIONS --I wonder whether it'll be a boy or a girl. --What difference does it make to you? --I like boys. --I like girls. They always sit at home waiting till you call on them. --Do you like to go visiting? _[The Old Women titter._ --He knows. --He knows. _(Silence)_ --Our friend would like to have a girl. She says boys are so restless and venturesome and are always seeking danger. Even when they are little, they like to climb tall trees and bathe in deep water. They often fall, and they drown. And when they get to be men, they make wars and kill one another. --She thinks girls don't drown. I have seen many girls drowned. They look like all drowned people, wet and green. --She thinks girls don't get killed by stones thrown at them. --Poor woman, she has such a hard time giving birth to her child. We have been sitting here sixteen hours, and she is still crying. At first she cried out loud. Her screams pierced our ears. Then she cried more quietly, and now she is only moaning. --The doctor says she'll die. --No, the doctor says the child will die and she will live. --Why do they bear children? It is so painful. --And why do they die? It is still more painful. _[The Old Women laugh suppressedly._ --Yes, they bear children and die. --And bear children again. _[They laugh. A subdued cry of the suffering woman is heard._ --Beginning again. --She's recovered her voice. That's good. --That's good. --Poor husband. He's lost his head completely. You ought to see him. He's a sight. At first he was glad his wife was pregnant and said he wanted a boy. He thinks his son will be a cabinet minister or a general. Now he doesn't want anything, neither a boy nor a girl. He just goes about grieving and crying. --Every time she is seized with pain he begins to labor, too, and gets red in the face. --He was sent to the chemist's shop for medicine, and he hung about there for two hours without being able to remember what he was sent for. He returned without it. _[The Old Women titter. The cries grow louder and die away. Silence._ --What's the matter with her? Maybe she has died already. --No. If she had, we'd hear crying, and the doctor would come running and begin to talk nonsense. They'd bring her husband out in a faint, and we'd have to work over him. No, she's not dead. --Then what are we sitting here for? --Ask Him. What do we know? --He won't tell. --He won't tell. He never tells anything. --He orders us about as he pleases, gets us out of bed, and makes us watch; and then it turns out that our coming wasn't even needed. --We came of our own accord, didn't we? We must tell the truth. There, she's screaming again. --Haven't you had as much of it as you want? --Are you satisfied? --I keep my mouth shut and wait. --You're an angel. _[They laugh. The cries grow louder._ --Listen to her. What fearful pain she must be suffering. Have you any idea of what the pain is like? It's as if your insides were being torn to pieces. --We all have borne children. --It's just as if she were not herself. I don't recognize our friend's voice. It's naturally so soft and gentle. --Her screaming is more like the roar of a wild beast. --You feel the night in it. --You feel the boundless black forest and hopelessness and terror. --You feel solitude and grief. There are other people with her. Why can't you hear other voices beside that savage, dismal wail? --They are talking, but you can't hear them. Have you ever noticed how solitary man's cries are? Any number of men will talk, and you won't hear them. But let one human being cry, and it seems as if the others were all silent, listening. --I once heard a man scream who had been run over by a Carriage and had his leg crushed. The street was full of people. Yet he seemed to be the only one there. --But this is more terrible. --Say rather it is louder. --I should say it is more prolonged. --No, it's more terrible. You feel death in it. --You had a feeling of death then, too. In fact, the man did die. --Don't dispute. It's all the same to you. _[Silence. Cries._ --How strange man's crying is! When you yourself are ill and cry, you don't notice how strange it is. I can't imagine the mouth that produces such sounds. Can it be a woman's mouth? I can't imagine it. --It's as if it got twisted and crooked. --As if the sound issued from some depth. Now it's like the cry of someone drowning. Listen, she's choking. --A heavy person is sitting on her chest. --Someone is choking her. _[The crying ceases._ --At last she has quieted down. You get tired of crying. It's monotonous and not beautiful. --You're looking for beauty here too, are you? _[The Old Women titter._ --Hush! Is He here? --I don't know. --He seems to be. --He doesn't like laughing. --They say He laughs Himself. --Whoever heard Him laugh? You are simply repeating hearsay. So many lies are told about Him. --He hears us. Let us be serious. _[They laugh quietly._ --After all, I'd like to know whether it'll be a boy or a girl. --I admit, it's interesting to know whom you'll have to deal with. --I wish it died before it was born. --What a kind creature you are. --No better than you. --I hope it turns out to be a general. _[They laugh._ --You are too merry. I don't like it. --And you are too sad. I don't like that. --Don't wrangle. Don't wrangle. We are all both sad and merry. Let each be what she pleases. _(Silence)_ --When they are born, they are so funny. Babies are very funny. --And self-satisfied. --And very exacting, I don't like them. They begin to cry at once and make demands, as if they expected everything to be ready for them. Even before looking, they know there is a breast and milk, and demand them. Then they demand to be put to sleep and rocked and dandled and patted on their red backs. I like them better when they die. Then they're less exacting. They stretch out of themselves and don't ask to be rocked. --No, they are very funny. I like to wash them when they are born. --I like to wash them when they are dead. --Don't dispute. Don't dispute. Each will have her way. One will wash the child when it is born, another when it dies. --But why do they think they have a right to make demands the moment they are born? I don't like it. They don't _think_ they have. It's their stomachs that make the demands. --They're forever demanding. --But their demands are never granted. _[The Old Women laugh. The cries begin again._ --She is screaming again. --Animals give birth to their offspring more easily. --And they die more easily, and live more easily; I have a cat. You ought to see how fat and happy she is. --I have a dog, and I tell him every day: "You are going to die." His only reply is to show his teeth and to wag his tail gayly. --But they are animals. --And these are human beings. _[They laugh._ --Now she'll either die or be delivered. I feel that the whole remnant of her strength is in that wail. --Eyes wide open. --Cold perspiration on her forehead. _[They listen._ --She is giving birth to the child. --No, she is dying. _[The cries cease._ --I tell you-- SOMEONE IN GRAY _(speaks in a resonant, powerful voice)_ Silence! Man is born. _[Almost simultaneously with His announcement the crying of an infant is heard and the candle in His hand lights. A tall candle. It burns hesitatingly and feebly. Gradually the flame grows stronger. The corner in which Someone in Gray stands motionless is always darker than the other corners, and the yellow flame illumines His blunt chin, His tightly closed lips, and His massive, bony face. The upper part of His face is concealed by His cap. He is somewhat taller than an ordinary man. He puts the long, thick candle in an antique candlestick. His hand comes into relief against the green bronze. It is gray, firm, with long, thin fingers. Gradually the room grows brighter. The figures of five hunch-backed Old Women emerge from the gloom, and the room becomes visible. It is rectangular, with high, smooth, monotonously colored walls. Two curtainless windows in the background and two on the right. The night glooms through them. Straight, high-backed chairs against the walls._ THE OLD WOMEN _(talking rapidly)_ --Hear them running about. They're coming here. --How bright it is! Let's go. --Look, the candle is tall and bright. --Let's go, let's go. Quick! --But we'll come back. We'll come back. _[They laugh quietly, mockingly, and disappear into the dusk with odd, zigzagging movements. As they leave, the light grows brighter, but still it remains dim, lifeless, and cold. The corner in which Someone in Gray stands motionless with the burning candle is darker than the others. Enter the Doctor in a white uniform, and Man's Father, whose face wears an expression of extreme exhaustion and joy. There are lines under his eyes; his cheeks are sunken and his hair is dishevelled; he is very negligently dressed. The Doctor looks very learned._ DOCTOR Up to the very last moment I didn't know whether your wife would pull through or not. I used all the means at the disposal of medical skill and science. But science can do very little unless nature helps too; I was really excited. My pulse is still going hard. Though I have assisted at so many births, yet I can't rid myself of a sense of uneasiness. But you are not listening to me, sir. MAN'S FATHER I'm listening, but I can't hear. Her screams are still ringing in my ears, and it's hard for me to pull myself together. Poor woman, how she suffered! I was a fool, I was stupid and wanted to have children. But hereafter I will renounce. It is criminal. DOCTOR You will call me again when your next child comes. FATHER No, never. I'm ashamed to admit it, but just now I hate the child for which she suffered so. I didn't even see him. What sort of a boy is he? DOCTOR He's a well-fed, strong little youngster, and if I'm not mistaken he resembles you. FATHER Me? Fine! Now I'm beginning to love him. I always wanted a boy to look like me. Did you see--his nose is like mine, isn't it? DOCTOR Yes, his nose and eyes. FATHER His eyes too? Ah, that's good. I'll raise your fee. DOCTOR You'll have to pay me for using the instruments also. FATHER _(turning to the corner where He stands motionless)_ God, I thank Thee for having granted my wish and given me a son who resembles me. I thank Thee for preserving my wife from death, and bringing my child into the world alive. I pray Thee that he may grow up big, healthy, and strong; that he may be wise and honest, and that he may never cause us grief, but be a constant joy to his mother and me. If Thou wilt do this, I will always believe in Thee and go to church. _[Enter Relatives, six in number. An elderly woman, uncommonly stout, with a double chin and small, proud eyes and an air of extreme haughtiness and self-importance. An elderly man, her husband, very tall and uncommonly thin, so that his coat hangs loosely on his body; a short goatee, long, smooth hair, as if wet, reaching to his shoulders; eye-glasses; has a frightened; yet pedantic expression; a low black silk hat in his hand. A young girl, their daughter, with naïvely upturned nose, blinking eyes, and open mouth. A weazened woman, with contracted features and a sour expression, in her hand a handkerchief, with which she frequently wipes her mouth; Two young men, looking absolutely alike, with extremely high collars that stretch their necks; glossy hair; a hesitating, embarrassed expression. The characteristics of each of the Relatives is exaggerated in the extreme._ ELDERLY LADY Let me congratulate you on the birth of your son, dear brother. _(Kisses him)_ ELDERLY MAN My dear brother, I heartily congratulate you on the birth of your son, to which you have been looking forward so long. _(Kisses him)_ THE REST We congratulate you, dear uncle, on the birth of your son. _[They kiss him. Exit the Doctor._ MAN'S FATHER _(greatly moved)_ Thank you! Thank you! You are all very good, very nice, dear people, and I love you very much. I had my doubts beforehand thought that you, dear sister, were a little too much rapt up in yourself and your own worth and importance; and that you, dear brother, were somewhat too pedantic. The rest of you I thought were too cold to me, and came here only for the sake of the dinners. Now I see I was mistaken. I'm very happy. I get a son who resembles me, and then all at once I see myself surrounded by so many good people who love me. _(They kiss)_ GIRL Uncle dear, what are you going to call your son? I hope you'll give him a lovely, poetic name. So much depends on a man's name. ELDERLY LADY I should advise a simple, solid name. Men with nice names are usually frivolous and rarely successful. ELDERLY MAN It seems to me, brother, you should name your son after some older relative. Keeping the same names in the family tends to preserve and strengthen the line. FATHER Yes, my wife and I have already discussed the subject, but have not been able to reach a decision. You see, there are so many new things to think of when a child comes, so many new problems to solve which never arose before. ELDERLY LADY It fills up your life. ELDERLY MAN It gives life a beautiful purpose. By properly educating a child, preventing it from making the mistakes which we had to pay for so dearly, and strengthening its mind with our own rich experiences, we produce a better man and advance slowly but surely toward the final goal of existence, which is perfection. FATHER You are quite right, brother. When I was little I loved to torture animals. That developed cruelty in me. I won't allow my son to torture animals. Even after I had grown up I often made mistakes in my friendships and love. I chose friends who were unworthy and women who were faithless. I'll explain to my son-- DOCTOR _(enters and says aloud)_ Your wife is feeling very bad. She wants to see you. FATHER Oh, my God! _(He and the Doctor leave)_ _[The Relatives seat themselves in a semicircle. Solemn silence for a time. Someone in Gray stands motionless in the corner, His stony face turned toward them._ RELATIVES' CONVERSATION --Do you think, dear, she may die? --No, I don't think so. She is a very impatient woman and makes too much of her pains. All women bear children and none of them die. I have borne six children. --But the way she screamed, mamma? --Yes, her face was purple from screaming. I noticed it. --Not from screaming, but from laboring. You don't understand about these things. My face got purple too, but I didn't scream. --Not long ago an acquaintance of mine, the civil engineer's wife, gave birth to a child, and she scarcely made a sound. --I know. There's no need for my brother to be so upset. One must be firm and take things calmly. And I'm afraid, too, he'll introduce a lot of his fantastic notions in the bringing up of his children and indulge their every whim. --He's a very weak character. He has little enough money, and yet he lends it to people who don't deserve to be trusted. --Do you know how much the child's layette cost? --Don't talk to me of it! It gets on my nerves, my brother's extravagance does. I often quarrel with him because he's so improvident. --They say a stork brings babies. What sort of a stork is it? _[The young men burst out laughing._ --Don't talk nonsense. I gave birth to five children right in your presence, and I'm no stork, thank the Lord. _[The young men burst our laughing again. The Elderly Woman eyes them long and sternly._ --It's only a superstition. Children are born in an absolutely natural way, firmly established by science. They've moved to new quarters now. --Who? --The engineer and his wife. Their old place was chilly and damp. They complained to the landlord several times, but he paid no attention. --I think it's better to live in a small place that's warm than in a large place that's damp. You are liable to catch your death of cold and rheumatism if you live in a damp house. --I have a friend, too, who lives in a very damp house. And I too. Very damp. --There are so many damp places nowadays. --Tell me, please--I've been wanting to ask you a long time--how do you remove a grease stain from light-colored material? --Woollen? --No, silk. _[The child's crying is heard behind the scene._ --Take a piece of ice and rub it on the spot hard. Then take a hot iron and press the spot. --No? Fancy, how simple! I heard benzine was better. --No, benzine is good for dark material. For light goods ice is better. --I wonder whether smoking is allowed here. Somehow at never occurred to me before whether one may or may not smoke where there is a new-born baby. --It never occurred to me either. How strange! I know it isn't proper to smoke at funerals, but here-- --Nonsense! Of course you may smoke. --Smoking is a bad habit just the same. You are still a very young man and ought to take good care of your health. There are many occasions in life when good health is highly essential. --But smoking stimulates. --Believe me, it's a very unhealthy stimulant. When I was young and reckless, I was also guilty of using, or rather abusing, tobacco-- --Mamma, listen to him crying. My, how he's crying! Does he want milk, mamma? _[The young men burst out laughing. The Elderly Woman looks at them sternly._ CURTAIN THE SECOND SCENE LOVE AND POVERTY _The entire place is filled with a warm, bright light. A large, very poor room, high walls, the color of old rose, covered here and there with beautiful, fantastic, roughly drawn designs. To the right are two lofty windows, eight panes in each, with the darkness of night glooming through them. Two poor beds, two chairs, and a bare table, on which stands a half-broken pitcher of water and a pretty bunch of flowers. In the darkest corner stands Someone in Gray, the candle in His hand now reduced by a third, but the flame still very bright, high, and white. It throws a powerful light on His face and chin. Enter the Neighbors, dressed in light, gay dresses, their hands full of flowers, grasses, and fresh branches of oak and birch. They run about the room, scattering them. Their faces are merry, simple, and good-natured._ NEIGHBORS' CONVERSATION --How poor they are! Look, they haven't even a single spare chair. --And no curtains in the windows. --And no pictures on the walls. --How poor they are! All they eat is hard bread. --And all they drink is water, cold water from the spring. --They don't own any clothes at all except what they have on. She always goes about in her rosy dress with her neck bare, which makes her look like a young girl. --And he wears his blouse and loose necktie, which makes him look like an artist, and makes the dogs bark at him. --And makes all the respectable people disapprove of him. --Dogs hate the poor. I saw three dogs attack him yesterday. He beat them off with a stick and shouted: "Don't you dare to touch my trousers; they're my last pair!" And he laughed, and the dogs flung themselves at him and showed their teeth and barked viciously. --I saw two respectable people, a lady and a gentleman, meet him on the street to-day. They were terribly frightened and crossed to the other side. "He'll ask for money," said the gentleman. "He'll kill us," piped the lady. From the other side of the street they looked back at him and held on to their pockets. He shook his head and laughed. --He's such a jolly good fellow. --They're always laughing. --And singing. --It's he who sings. She dances. --In her rosy dress, with her little bare neck. --It does one good to look at them. They are so young and wholesome. --I am sorry for them. They're starving. Do you understand? They're actually going without food. --Yes, it's true. They had more clothes and furniture, but they sold every bit, and now they've nothing more to sell. --I know. She had such pretty earrings, and she sold them to buy bread. --He had a beautiful black frock-coat, the one in which he was married, and he sold that too. --The only thing they'll have left is their engagement rings. How poor they are! --That's nothing. I was once young myself, and I know what it is. --What did you say, grandpa? --I said it's nothing, nothing at all. --Look, the mere thought of them makes grandpa want to sing. --And dance. _[They laugh._ --He is so kind. He made my boy a bow and arrow. --She cried with me when my daughter was ill. --He helped me mend the rickety fence. He's strong. --It's nice to have such good neighbors. Their youth warms our cold old age. Their jolliness drives away our cares. --But their room is like a prison, it's so empty. --No, it's like a temple. It's so bright. --Look, they have flowers on the table, the flowers she picked on her walk in the country in her rosy dress with her little bare neck. Here are lilies-of-the-valley. The dew hasn't dried on them yet. --There is the burning campion. --And violets. --Don't touch; don't touch the flowers, girls. Her kisses are upon them. Don't throw them on the floor, girls. Her breath is upon them. Don't blow them away with your breath. Don't touch, don't touch the flowers, girls. --He'll come and he'll see the flowers. --He'll take the kisses. --He'll drink her breath. --How poor they are! How happy they are! --Come, let's leave. --Haven't we brought our dear neighbors anything? --What a shame! --I brought a bottle of milk and a piece of white, sweet-smelling bread. _(Puts them on the table)_ --I brought flowers. _(Scatters them)_ --We brought branches of oak and birch with green leaves. Let's put them up around the walls. The room will look like cheerful green woods. _[They decorate the room with the branches, concealing the dark windows and covering the pinkish nakedness of the walls with leaves._ --I, brought a good cigar. It is a cheap one, but it's strong and fragrant and will give pleasant dreams. --And I brought a ribbon, a red ribbon. It makes a very pretty fancy bow for the hair. It's a present my sweetheart gave me; but I have so many ribbons and she hasn't even one. --What did you bring, grandpa? Did you bring anything? --Nothing, nothing, except my cough. They don't want that, do they, neighbor? --No more than they want my crutches. Hey, girls, who wants my crutches? --Do you remember, neighbor? --Do _you_ remember, neighbor? --Come, let's go to sleep, neighbor. It's late already. _(They sigh and leave, one coughing, the other knocking the floor with his crutches)_ --Come, come! --May God give them happiness. They are such good neighbors. --God grant that they may always be healthy and merry and always love each other. And may the hideous black cat never pass between them. --And may the good man find work. It's bad when a man is out of work. _(They leave)_ _[Enter immediately the Wife of Man, very pretty, graceful, and delicate, wearing flowers in her luxuriant hair which is hanging loose. The expression on her face is very sad. She seats herself on a chair, folds her hands in her lap, and speaks in a sad tone, turned toward the audience._ MAN'S WIFE I've just returned from the city, where I went looking for I don't know what. We are so poor, we have nothing, and it's very hard for us to live. We need money, and I don't know how in the world to get it. People won't give it to you for the asking, and I haven't the strength to take it away from them. I was looking for work, but I can't get work either. There are lots of people and little work, they say. I looked on the ground as I walked to see if some rich person hadn't lost his purse, but either nobody had lost one or somebody luckier than I had already picked it up. I feel so sad. My husband will soon come from his search for work, tired and hungry. What am I to give him except my kisses? But you can't satisfy your hunger on kisses. I feel so sad I could cry. I can go without eating for a long time and not feel it, but he can't. He has a large body which demands food, and when he's gone a long time without it, he gets pale, sick, and excited. He scolds me and then begs me not to be angry at him. I never am angry at him, because I love him dearly. It only makes me feel so sad. My husband is a very talented architect. I even think he's a genius. He was left an orphan when a mere boy, and after his parents' death his relatives supported him for some time; but as he was always of an independent nature, sharp in his talk and prone to make unpleasant remarks, and as he showed them no gratitude, they dropped him. He continued to study, nevertheless, supporting himself by giving lessons, and so made his way through college. He often went hungry, my poor husband. Now he is art architect and draws plans of beautiful buildings, but no one wants to buy them, and many stupid persons make fun of them even. To make one's way in the world one must have either patrons or luck. He has neither. So he goes about looking for a chance, and maybe with his eyes on the ground looking for money like me. He is still very young and simple. Of course, some day fortune will come to us, too. But when will it be? In the meantime it's very hard to live. When we were married we had a little property, but we soon spent it. We went to the theatre and ate candy. He still has hopes, but I sometimes lose all hope and cry to myself. My heart breaks when I think he'll be here soon and I have nothing to give him again except my poor kisses. O God, be a kind, merciful Father to us. You have so much of everything, bread and work and money. Your earth is so rich. She grows corn and fruit in her fields, covers the meadows with flowers, and yields gold and beautiful precious stones from her bowels. And your sun has so much warmth, and your pensive stars have so much quiet joy. Give us, I pray you, a little from your abundance, just a little, as much as you give your birds. A little bread, so that my dear good husband may not be hungry; a little warmth, so that he may not be cold; and a little work, so that he may carry his beautiful head erect. And please do not be angry with my husband because he swears so and laughs, and even sings and makes me dance. He is so young and not a bit staid or serious. Now, after I have prayed, I feel relieved and hopeful again. Why, indeed, should God not grant one's request when one asks Him for it so earnestly? I'll go and hunt a little to see if somebody hasn't dropped a purse or a diamond. _(Exit)_ SOMEONE IN GRAY She knows not that her wish has already been fulfilled. She knows not that this morning two men in a rich house were bending eagerly over a sketch by Man and were delighted with it. They searched for Man the whole day; wealth was looking for him as he was looking for wealth. And to-morrow morning, after the neighbors have gone to work, an automobile will stop in front of this house, and two men bending low will enter the poor room and bring wealth and fame. But neither he nor she knows it. Thus fortune will come to Man, and thus also it will go. _[Enter Man and his Wife. He has, a beautiful proud head, bright eyes, a high forehead, dark eyebrows parting at the root of the nose like two bold wrings, and wavy black hair carelessly tossed back. A low, white, turndown collar reveals a well-formed neck and part of his chest. He is light and quick in his movements, like a young animal._ MAN Nothing again. I'll lie down and remain in bed the whole day. Anyone wanting me will have to come here. I can't go to him. I'll stay in bed the whole of to-morrow too. WIFE Are you tired? MAN Yes, I'm tired and hungry. I could eat a whole ox, like the Homeric hero, but I shall have to content myself with a piece of hard bread. Don't you know that a man can't live all the time on bread alone? I want to tear, bite, chew! WIFE I'm sorry for you, dear. MAN I'm sorry for myself, but that doesn't satisfy my hunger. I stood a whole hour in front of a restaurant to-day, looking at the chickens, pastry, and sausages, as people look at works of art. And then the signs. They describe ham so well that you could eat sign and all. WIFE I like ham too. MAN Who doesn't like ham? How about lobster? Do you like lobster? WIFE Yes. MAN You should have seen the lobster I saw. It was a painted one, but it was even more beautiful than a live one. Red like a cardinal, majestic, stern. You could kneel down and do homage to it. I think I could eat two such cardinals and a priest of a carp besides. WIFE _(sadly)_ You didn't see my flowers, did you? MAN Flowers? You can't eat flowers, can you? WIFE You don't love me. MAN _(kisses her)_ Excuse me, but really I'm so hungry. Look, my hands are trembling and I haven't even the strength to throw a stone at a dog. WIFE _(kisses his hand)_ My poor husband! MAN Where do those leaves, on the floor come from? They smell so good. Is that your work too? WIFE No, the neighbors must have done it. MAN Fine people our neighbors are. It's strange, there are so many good people in the world, and yet a man can die of hunger. Why is it? WIFE You've turned so sad. Your face is growing pale. What is the matter? Do you see anything? MAN Yes, as I was joking, the terrible image of poverty glided in front of me and stopped there, in the corner. Do you see it? Arms stretched out in complaint, a child abandoned in the woods, a praying voice, and the stillness of a human desert. Help! No one hears. Help, I'm dying! No one hears. Look, wife, look! See the dark, gloomy shadows there, quivering and rising like black smoke from a long, terrible chimney leading into hell. Look! And I'm in the midst of them! WIFE I'm afraid. I can't look in that dark corner. Did you see all that in the street? MAN Yes, I saw it in the street, and soon it'll be that way with us. WIFE No, God will not permit it. MAN Then why does He permit it to happen to others? WIFE We're better than others. We are good people. We never offend Him. MAN You think so? I do a lot of swearing. WIFE You're not bad. MAN Yes, I am bad. When I walk along the street and see all the things that don't belong to us, I feel as if I had tusks like a boar. Oh, how much money I haven't got! Listen, my dear wife. I was walking in the park to-day, that lovely park, where the paths are straight as arrows and the beech-trees like kings wearing crowns-- WIFE And I was walking in the city streets. Shops everywhere, such beautiful shops! MAN I saw men, beautifully dressed, carrying canes, and I thought: "I haven't anything like that." WIFE I saw elegantly dressed women, wearing dainty shoes that make your feet beautiful, and pretty hats from under which your eyes shine impenetrably, and silk skirts that make such a mysterious rustle; and I thought: "I haven't a good hat or a silk skirt." MAN A ruffian jostled me. I showed him my tusks, and he fled in disgrace to hide himself in the crowd. WIFE A well-dressed lady jostled me, but I didn't even look at her, I felt so embarrassed. MAN Men rode by on proud, fiery horses. And I have nothing like that. WIFE She had diamonds in her ears. You felt like kissing them. MAN Red and green automobiles glided past noiselessly like phantoms with burning eyes, and people sat in them and laughed and looked lazily from one side to the other. And I have nothing like it. And I have no diamonds, no emeralds, no pure white pearls. MAN I saw a fine restaurant on the Island. It was brightly illuminated, like heaven, and they were eating there. Black-coated monsters carried around butter and bread and wine and beer, and people ate and drank. My little wife, I'm hungry! I want something to eat! WIFE Dearie, you're running around all the time, and that makes you still hungrier. You'd better sit down. I'll kneel beside you, and you can take a piece of paper and draw a beautiful, beautiful building. MAN My inspiration is also hungry. It draws nothing but edible landscapes. My palaces are like portly cakes with fat stuffing, and my churches like sausages. But I see tears in your eyes. What is it, my dear wife? WIFE I feel so miserable not to be able to help you. MAN You make me ashamed of myself. I am a strong man with a good mind; I am able, talented, and healthy, and yet I can't do a thing. My dear wife, my little fairy is crying, and I am not able to help her. A woman's tears are her husband's disgrace, I am ashamed. WIFE But it isn't your fault that people don't appreciate you. MAN My ears are burning just as they used to when I was a boy and had had them boxed. Why, you are hungry too, and I, egoist that I am, haven't noticed it. It's mean of me. WIFE My dear, I don't feel hungry. MAN It's unfair, it's contemptible. That ruffian who jostled me was right. He saw I was a fat pig and that's all, a boar with sharp tusks but a stupid head. WIFE. If you are going to keep on reproaching yourself, I'll cry again. MAN Don't, don't. No tears! Tears in your eyes frighten me. I am afraid of those shining crystal drops, as if some other, some terrible person were shedding them, not you. I won't let you cry. We have nothing, we are poor. But I'll tell you of what we are going to have. I will charm you with a bright fairy tale, my queen. I will array you in dazzling dreams as in roses! WIFE You mustn't be afraid. You are strong, you are a genius, you will conquer. Your momentary despair will pass away, and divine inspiration will again quicken your proud head. MAN _(assumes a challenging attitude and throws an oak leaf into the corner where the Unknown stands, saying)_ Ho, you, whatever your name, Fate, Devil, or Life, I fling my glove down before you, I challenge you to combat! The poor in spirit bow before your enigmatic power. Your stony face inspires them with fear; in your silence they hear the approaching tread of misery and terrible ruin. But I am strong and bold, and I challenge you to combat! Come on! Let the swords glitter, the shields clang! Deal and receive blows so that the earth trembles! Ho, come forth to battle! WIFE _(nestling up at his left, somewhat behind, speaking solemnly)_ Bolder, my husband, still bolder! MAN To your evil-boding inaction I oppose my living, daring strength; to your gloom my clear, resonant laugh! Ho, repel the blows! You have a stone brow, devoid of reason. I will throw the glowing balls of my sparkling thought at it. You have a stone heart, devoid of pity. Take care, I will pour into it the poison of my rebellious outcries. The dark cloud of your grim wrath overshadows the sun. We will light the darkness with our swords. Ho, repel the blows! WIFE Bolder, still bolder, my proud knight! Your squire is behind you. MAN Victorious, I will sing songs which the whole world will reecho; fallen under your blows, my only thought shall be to rise again and rush into battle. There are weak spots in my armor, but when my red blood is flowing, I will gather my last strength and cry: "You have not conquered, evil Enemy of Man!" WIFE Bolder, my knight! I will wash your wounds with my tears. I will stop the flow of your red blood with my kisses. MAN And dying on the field of battle as the brave die, with one cry I will destroy your blind joy: "I have conquered!" I have conquered, O cruel Enemy. Unto my last breath I did not recognize your power! WIFE Bolder, my knight, bolder! I will die beside you. MAN Ho, come forth to battle! Let the swords glitter, the shields clang! Deal and receive blows to make the earth tremble! Ho, come forth! _[For some time Man and his Wife remain in the same posture; then they turn around, facing each other, and kiss._ MAN That's the way we'll deal with life, my dear, won't we? Let it frown like a blind owl in the sun--we'll compel it to smile. WIFE And to dance to our songs--so we will, we two. MAN We two. You're a good wife, you're my true friend, you're a brave little woman, and as long as you are with me I fear nothing. Poverty, what does it amount to? To-day we're poor, to-morrow rich. WIFE And what is hunger? To-day we are hungry, to-morrow satisfied. MAN Do you think so? It's quite possible. But I'll eat a lot. I shall need so much to satisfy my hunger. Tell me, do you think this will prove enough? In the, morning, tea or coffee or chocolate. You can have your choice. It's free. Then a breakfast of three courses, then lunch, then dinner, then-- WIFE More fruit. I like fruit. MAN Very well. I'll buy fruit by the barrel, direct from the wholesale market. It's cheaper and fresher. Besides, we'll have our own garden. WIFE But we have no land. MAN I'll buy land. I've always wanted to have my own piece of land. By the way, I'll build a house for us and design it too. Let the rascals see what sort of an architect I am. WIFE I should like to live in Italy, close by the sea; in a white marble villa in a grove of lemons and cypresses, with marble steps leading straight down to the blue water. MAN I understand. That's all right. But I intend, besides, to build a castle in the mountains of Norway. Below, the fjord; and above, on the steep mountain, the castle. We have no paper. But look, I'll show it to you on the wall here. Here is the fjord, you see? WIFE Yes, beautiful. MAN Here, sparkling blue water gently beating against the green grass; here, beautiful cinnamon-colored stone; and there, in the recess, where this spot is, a bit of blue sky and serene white clouds. WIFE Look, there is a white boat floating on the water--it looks like two swans swimming side by side. MAN And up there rises the mountain. Bright and green below, it turns gloomier and sterner as it ascends--rugged crags, dark shadows, fallen boulders, and patches of clouds. WIFE Like a ruined castle. MAN And there, on that spot--the middle one--I'll build my royal castle. WIFE It's cold up there, and windy. MAN I'll have thick stone walls and large windows with all the panes made out of a single piece of glass. At night, when the winter snowstorms begin to rage and the fjord below to roar, we'll draw the curtains and make a fire in the huge fireplace. It is such a tremendous fireplace that it will hold a whole log. It will burn up a whole forest of pines. WIFE How nice and warm. MAN And how quiet too, if you will please notice. Carpets covering the whole, floor and lots of books will make it cosy and quietly lively. And we'll be there, the two of us. The wind howling outside and we two sitting before the fireplace on a white bear-skin rug. "Wouldn't you like to have a look at what's doing outside?" you'll say. "All right!" And we'll go to the largest window and draw aside the curtain. Good heavens! What a sight! WIFE See the snow whirling. MAN Galloping like white horses, like myriads of frightened little spirits, pale with fear and seeking safety in the night. And what a howling and roaring! WIFE Oh, it's cold. I'm shivering. MAN Go back to the fireplace, quick! Hey there, fetch me grandfather's goblet--not that one, the golden one from which the vikings drank. Fill it up with sparkling wine--not that way--fill it to the brim with the burning draught. Venison is roasting on the spit. Bring it here. I'll eat some. Quick, or I'll eat you. I'm hungry as the devil. WIFE There, they have brought it. Now, go on. MAN Go on? I'll eat some, of course. What else do you expect? What are you doing to my head, little wife? WIFE I am the goddess of fame. I have woven a crown of the oak leaves that our neighbors scattered here, and I'm crowning you. It's Fame that has come to you, the beautiful goddess Fame. _(Puts the wreath on his head)_ MAN Yes, fame; loud, noisy fame. Look at the wall. Do you see this? It's I, walking. And who is this next to me? Do you see? WIFE I. MAN Look, they are bowing to us; they are whispering about us; they are pointing their fingers at us. There is a venerable old gentleman saying with tears in his eyes: "Happy the land that has such children!" See how pale this youth here has turned. Fame looked at him and gave him a smile. That's after I built the People's House, which is the pride of the whole country. WIFE You are my famous husband. The oak wreath suits you so well. A laurel wreath would become you still better. MAN Look, look, there come the representatives of the city where I was born. They bow to me and say: "Our city is proud of the honor--" WIFE Oh! MAN What is it? WIFE I found a bottle of milk. MAN Impossible! WIFE And bread, soft, sweet-smelling bread. And a cigar. MAN Impossible! You are mistaken. It's the dampness from that damned wall, that's what it is. It isn't milk. WIFE But it is. MAN A cigar? Cigars don't grow on windows. They are sold for fortunes in tobacco stores. It's a black stick, a piece of a branch, I'm sure. WIFE Look and see. I suppose our neighbors brought it. MAN Our neighbors? I tell you they're people--they're not human--they're divine. But even if the devil himself brought it--quick, give it here, my sweet little wife. _[Man's Wife seats herself on his knees, and so they eat. She breaks off pieces of bread and puts them in his mouth. He feeds her the milk from the bottle._ MAN Seems to be cream. WIFE No, it's milk. Chew better. You'll choke. MAN. Give me the crust. It's so brown. WIFE I told you, you'd choke. MAN No, it went down. I swallowed it. WIFE The milk is running down my chin and neck. Oh, it's tickling me. MAN. Lean over. I'll lick it off. We mustn't let a drop go to waste. WIFE You're a cunning one. MAN There! Quick work. All good things soon come to an end. This bottle seems to have a double bottom. It looks so large. The glass manufacturers are terrible cheats. _[He lights the cigar with the air of a man relaxing into beatific repose. His Wife ties the red ribbon in her hair, looking at herself in the dark pane of the window._ WIFE Don't you see? MAN I see everything. I see your ribbon, and I see, you want me to kiss you on your dear little bare neck. WIFE. No, sir, I won't permit that. You've grown too forward of late anyway. You take such liberties. Please go on smoking your cigar and leave my neck-- MAN What, isn't your neck mine? I'll be jiggered! Why, it's an attack on the sacred rights of property _(She runs away; he catches her and kisses her)_ So, the property rights have been restored. Now, my dear, we'll dance. Imagine that this is a magnificent, a luxurious, a wonderful, a supernatural, ah exquisitely beautiful palace. WIFE Very well. I'm imagining it. MAN Imagine you're the queen of the ball. WIFE All right. It is imagined. MAN And that counts, marquises, and dukes come up and ask you to dance. But you refuse. You choose that one--What's his name?--the one in uniform--the prince. What's the matter? WIFE I don't like princes. MAN Indeed? Then whom do you like? WIFE Talented artists. MAN Very well. Here's one for you. Why, girl, what are you doing? Are you flirting with the air? WIFE I am imagining. MAN All right. Imagine a wonderful orchestra. Here is the Turkish drum--boom, boom, boom! _(He strikes his fist on the table as on a drum)_ WIFE Why, dear, it's only in the circus that they attract crowds by beating drums, but in a palace-- MAN Oh, hang it! Stop imagining that, then. Now imagine something else. The violins are playing a melodious plaint; the flutes are singing gently; the double bass drones like a beetle. _[Man sits down, still wearing his oak wreath, and strikes up a dance tune, clapping his hands in accompaniment. The melody is the same as in the next scene at Man's ball. The Wife dances. She is well-formed and graceful._ MAN Oh, you darling! WIFE I am the queen of the ball. _[The song and dance grow ever jollier. Man rises slowly and begins to dance lightly on the spot where he is standing; then he seizes his Wife and dances with her. The oak wreath slips to one side. Someone in Gray looks on indifferently, the candle burning brightly in his petrified hand._ CURTAIN THE THIRD SCENE A BALL AT MAN'S HOUSE _The ball is in the drawing-room of Man's large mansion. It is a very lofty, spacious, perfectly rectangular room. The floor is bright and smooth. There is a certain irregularity about the room due to the disproportionate size of the parts. Thus, the doors are very small in proportion to the windows. This produces a strange, irritating impression, as of something disharmonious, something lacking, and also of something superfluous and adventitious. The whole is pervaded by a chilly white, the monotony of which is broken only by a row of windows in the rear wall. They are very high, reaching almost to the ceiling, and dense with the blackness of night. Not one gleam, not a bright spot shows in the blank spaces between the window frames. Man's wealth shows in the abundance of gildings. There are gilded chairs, and very wide gold frames enclose the pictures. These constitute the only furniture as well as the only ornamentation. The lighting is from three chandeliers shaped like tings, with a few electric lights placed at a great distance apart. At the ceiling the light is bright, but considerably less so below, so that the walls seem grayish. The ball is in full swing. The music is furnished by an orchestra of three pieces. The musicians resemble closely their respective instruments; the violinist, a violin--lean neck, small head, a shock of hair brushed to one side, back somewhat bent, a handkerchief correctly adjusted on his shoulder under the violin; the flute-player, a flute--very, tall, with a thin, elongated face, and stiff, thin legs, the bass-violinist, a double-bass--stumpy, round-shouldered, lower part of his body very stout, wide trousers. The uncommon effort with which the musicians play is painfully evident. They beat time, swing their heads, and shake their bodies. The tune is the same throughout the ball, a short polka in two musical phrases, producing a jolly, hopping, extremely insipid effect. The three instruments do not quite keep time with one another, producing a sort of queer detachment, a vacant space, as it were, between them and the sounds which they produce. Young men and girls are dancing dreamily. All are handsome, distinguished-looking, with good figures. In contrast to the piercing notes of the music, their dancing is smooth, noiseless, light. At the first musical phrase, they circle around; at the second, they gracefully part and join again. There is a slight mannerism in their dancing. Along the walls, on the gilded chairs, sit the Guests, stiff and constrained. They scarcely venture to move their heads. Their conversation is also constrained. They do not whisper to one another; they do not laugh, and they scarcely look at one another. They speak abruptly, as if chopping out the words of a text. Their hands hanging superciliously over their laps make their arms look as if they had been broken at the wrists. The monotony of their faces is strongly emphasized. Every face bears the same expression of self-satisfaction, haughtiness, and inane respect for the wealth of Man. The dancing girls are all in white, the men in black. Some of the Guests wear black, white, and brightly yellow? flowers. In the near corner, which is darker than the rest, Someone in Gray called He stands motionless. The candle in his hand is reduced two-thirds and burns with a strong, yellow light, casting a yellow sheen on His stony face and chin._ THE GUESTS' CONVERSATION --It is a very great honor to be a guest at Man's ball. --You may add, it is an honor of which very few have been deemed worthy. The whole city tried to get themselves invited, but only a very few succeeded. My husband, my children, and I are quite proud of the honor Man has showed us. --I am really sorry for those who were not able to get here. They won't sleep the whole night from sheer envy, and to-morrow they'll say nasty things about the ball and call it a bore. --They never saw such magnificence. --Or such wonderful wealth and luxury. --Or, I dare say, such charming, free and easy gayety. --If this isn't gay, I should like to know what is. --Oh, what's the use of talking? You can't convince people consumed by jealousy. They'll tell us we didn't sit on gilded chairs, absolutely not. --They'll say that the chairs were of the commonest sort, bought at second hand. --That the illumination was not by electricity, but just by tallow candles. --Say candle stumps. --Or dirty lamps. --They'll have the impudence to maintain that the mouldings in Man's house are not gilded. --And that the broad picture frames are not made of gold. It seems to me I can hear the very ring of it. --You can see its glitter. That's quite sufficient, I should think. --I have rarely had the pleasure of hearing such music. --It is divine harmony. It transports the soul to higher spheres. --I should think the music good enough, considering the money paid for it. It is the best trio in the city. They play on the most important and solemn occasions. --If you listen awhile, it compels your absolute attention. After a ball at Man's, my children keep singing the tune a long time. --I sometimes think I hear it in the street. I look around--no musicians, no music. --What I like especially in these musicians is the great effort they make when they play. They know the price they're paid and don't want to get the money for nothing. That's very decent of them. --It seems as if they became a part of their instruments, their efforts are so great. --Or as if the instruments became part of them. --How rich! --How magnificent! --How brilliant! --How rich! _[For some time the two expressions, "How rich! How magnificent!" are repeated from different parts of the room, uttered abruptly, like a bark._ --Beside this ballroom there are fourteen other magnificent rooms in Man's house. I have seen them all. The dining-room has such a huge fireplace that you can put a whole log into it. There are magnificent guest-rooms and a beautiful boudoir. A large bedroom, and over the pillows on the beds--just fancy!--canopies! --Why, how wonderful! Canopies! --Did you hear? Canopies! --Permit me to continue. For their son, the little boy, they have a beautiful bright room of golden yellow wood. It looks as if the sun were shining into it all the time. --He is such a fine boy. He has curly hair that looks like the rays of the sun. --That's true. When you look at him you wonder whether the sun has risen. --And when you look at his eyes you think: "Autumn is, gone, and the blue sky is here again." --Man loves his son madly. He bought him a pony for horseback riding, a nice snow-white pony. My children-- --Pray, let me continue. Have I told you yet about the swimming-pool? --No. No. --A swimming-pool, a perfect marvel. --What, a swimming-pool! --Yes. And further on is Man's study, full of books, books, books. They say he's a very learned man. --You can see it by the books. --I have seen his garden. --I haven't. --It was entrancing, I must say. Imagine an emerald-green lawn kept beautifully mowed and trimmed at the edges. In the middle a path of fine red sand. --Flowers--even palms. --Yes, even palms. And all the trees trimmed as carefully and precisely as the lawn, some cut in the shape of pyramids, others in the shape of green columns. There's a lovely fountain and little plaster elves and deer scattered all around in the grass. --How rich! --How magnificent! --How brilliant! --How rich! --Man did me the honor of showing me his stables and barns. I had to tell him how much I admired his horses and carriages. I was particularly impressed by his motor car. --Think of it, he has seven servants; seven--a chef, a woman-cook, two maids, gardeners-- --You forget the coachman and the chauffeur. --Yes, of course, the coachman and the chauffeur. --And they themselves do nothing at all. They are too fine. --You must admit, it is a great honor to have been invited to Man's ball. --Don't you find the music somewhat monotonous? --No, I don't, and I'm surprised you do. Don't you see what kind of musicians they are? --I should like to hear such music all my life. That's what I say. There's something, in that music that stirs me. --Me too. --Me too. --It is a delicious sensation to abandon oneself to dreams of happiness under the influence of this music! --To transport oneself in fancy to the astral spheres! --How fine! --How rich! --How magnificent! _[These phrases are repeated._ --I notice a stir at that door. Man and his Wife will soon pass through the hall. --The musicians are working away for dear life. --There they are! --They're coming! Look, they're coming! _[Man, his Wife, his Friends, and his Enemies appear in the door on the right, cross the room diagonally to the door on the left. The dancers go on dancing, but part to make way for them. The musicians play desperately loud and out of tune. Man has aged greatly. His long hair and long beard are beginning to turn gray. But his face is manly and handsome, and he walks with calm dignity and an air of coldness. He looks straight ahead of him, as if not noticing those around him. His Wife has also aged, but she is still beautiful and walks leaning on his arm. She too seems not to notice the people around her, but looks straight ahead, with a rather strange, almost fixed expression. Both are richly dressed. His Friends follow directly behind Man. They resemble one another very much--noble faces, high and candid foreheads, honest eyes. They walk proudly, throwing out their chests, stepping firmly and confidently, and looking, now to this side, now to that, with condescension and slight disdain. They wear white roses in their buttonholes. Following them at a slight distance come Man's Enemies, also very much resembling one another--mean, cunning faces; low, heavy foreheads; long, ape-like arms. They walk uneasily, pushing, bending, and hiding behind one another, and casting sharp, mean, envious, sidelong glances from beneath lowered lids. Yellow roses appear in their buttonholes. Thus they pass through the room, slowly and in perfect silence. The sounds of the steps, the music, and the exclamations of the Guests produce a sharply discordant noise._ GUESTS' CONVERSATION --There they are. There they are. What an honor! --How handsome he is! --What a manly face! --Look! Look! --He isn't looking at us! --He doesn't see us! --We are his guests! --What an honor! What an honor! --And his wife! Look! Look! --How beautiful she is! --How proud! --I tell you, just look at her diamonds! --Her pearls! Her pearls! --And her rubies! --How rich! What an honor! --Honor! Honor! Honor! _[The same phrases are repeated again._ --Here are Man's Friends! --Look, look, there are Man's Friends. --Noble faces! --Proud gait! --They shine with the reflected splendor of his fame. --How they love him! --How faithful they are to him! --What an honor to be one of Man's Friends! --They regard everything here as their own! --They're at home here! --What an honor! --Honor! Honor! Honor! _[Same phrases are repeated._ --And there are Man's Enemies! --Look, look, Man's Enemies! --They walk like whipped curs! --Man has subdued them! --He's put a muzzle on them! --They're wagging their tails! --They're sneaking behind one another. --They're pushing one another. --Ha-ha! Ha-ha! _[Everybody laughs._ --What mean faces! --What greedy looks! --Cowardly! --Malevolent! --They're afraid to look at us! --They feel we're at home! --Let's frighten them. --Man'll be thankful to us for it. --Ho-ho! _[They shout at Man's Enemies, mingling their shouts with laughter. The Enemies huddle closer together and cast sharp, timid, sideward glances._ --They're going! They're going! --What an honor! --They're going! --Ho-ho! Ha-ha! --They're gone! They're gone! They're gone! _[The procession disappears through the door on the left. A pause of silence. The music plays less loudly, and the dancers begin gradually to fill the hall._ --Where did they go? --I believe they went to the dining-room, where supper is being served. --I suppose they'll soon invite us in. Do you see anybody looking for us? --Yes, it's time for supper. If you eat too late, you can't sleep well. --I always serve supper early. --A late supper lies heavy on your stomach. --And the music is still playing. --And they're still dancing. --I wonder they don't get tired. --How rich! --How magnificent! --Do you know for how many guests they have prepared the supper? --I didn't get a chance to count all the covers. The caterer came in, and I had to get out. --Could they possibly have forgotten us? --Man is so proud, and we are so unimportant. --Don't say that. My husband says we do him an honor by accepting his invitation. We are rich, too. --When you consider the reputation of his wife-- --Do you see anyone looking for us? Maybe he's looking for us in the other rooms. --How rich! --If you are not careful with other people's money, it's easy to get rich, I think. --Oh, now, it's only his enemies who say that. --Well, after all, there are some very respectable people among them. I must admit that my husband-- --It is late, though. --It's clear there must be a mistake somewhere. I can't believe we've simply been forgotten. --Evidently you know people and life very little if you think so. --I am surprised. We are rich enough ourselves. --It seems to me someone called us. --You're mistaken, no one called us. I don't understand it. To be quite frank--why did we come to a house like this, with such a reputation? One should be very careful of the friends one chooses. A LIVERIED LACKEY _(appears at the door)_ Man and his Wife beg the honored guests to step into the dining-room. GUESTS _(rising quickly)_ --What a livery! --He asked us to come in! --I said there must be a mistake somewhere. --Man is so good. I'm sure he hasn't had a chance to sit down at table himself. --Didn't I say someone was looking for us? --What a livery! --They say the supper is grand. --Everything at Man's is done in a grand style. --What music! What an honor to be at Man's ball! --Let those envy us who-- --How grand! --How magnificent! --What an honor! _[They go out one after the other, repeating the last phrases. One couple after the other stop dancing and follow the Guests in silence. For some time a single couple remain circling on the floor, but they too join the others at last. The musicians, however, continue to play, making the same desperate effort. The lackey turns out the electric lights, leaving only one light in the farthest chandelier. The figures of the musicians are vaguely seen in the dim light, swaying to and fro with their instruments. The outline of Someone in Gray is sharply visible. The flame of the candle flickers, illuminating His stony face and chin with a garish, yellow light. He turns around without raising his head, walks slowly and calmly through the whole length of the room, and disappears through the door through which Man passed out._ CURTAIN THE FOURTH SCENE MAN'S MISFORTUNE _A large, gloomy, quadrangular room, with dark watts, dark floor, and dark ceiling. There are two high, curtainless windows with eight panes in the rear watt, and between them a small, low door. Two similar windows appear in the right wall. Night glooms through the windows, and when the door opens, the same deep blackness of night stares into the room. In general, however bright Man's rooms may be, the vast darkness of the windows engulfs the light. On the left wall there is nothing but a small, low door leading to the rest of the house. At the window on the right stands a broad sofa covered with dark oilcloth. Man's desk is very simple and poor. On it are seen a dimly burning, shaded lamp, a sheet of yellow paper with a sketch drawn on it, and a lot of toys--little peaked cap, a wooden horse without a tail, and a red, long-nosed clown with bells. Between the windows there is an old dilapidated bookcase entirely empty. The visible lines of dust left by the books show that they must have been removed recently. The room has only one chair. In the darkest corner stands Someone in Gray called He. The candle in his hand is now no longer than it is thick. The wax is running over a little. The stump burns with a reddish, flickering light, and casts a red sheen on His stony face and chin. The only remaining servant of Man, an Old Woman, is sitting on the chair. She speaks in an even voice, addressing an imaginary companion._ OLD WOMAN There! Man has slipped back into poverty. He had a lot of valuable things, horses and carriages, and even an automobile. Now he has nothing. Of all his servants I am the only one left. There are still some good things in here and in two other rooms. There's the sofa and the bookcase. But in the other twelve rooms there's not a thing. They are dark and empty. Rats run around in them day and night and fight and squeak. People are afraid, but I'm not. It's all the same to me. An iron sign has been hanging on the gate for ever so long, saying the house is for sale. But no one wants to buy it. The sign's rusty already, and the rain has worn the letters away. But no one comes to buy the house. No one wants an old house. Yet maybe someone will buy it. Then we'll be going to look for another place to live in. It'll be a strange place. My mistress will begin to cry, and I dare say, the old gentleman will too. But I won't. It's all the same to me. You wonder what's become of all his riches. I don't know. Maybe it seems strange, but I've been living with other people all my life, and many is the time I've seen money disappear, quietly running off through some leak or other. That's the way it has happened to these folks too. They had a lot, then it got to be a little, and then nothing at all. People came and bought things. Then they stopped coming. I once asked my mistress how it came about. She answered: "People have stopped liking what they used to like; they have stopped loving what they used to love." "How is that possible?" says I. "How can people stop liking what they once liked?" She didn't answer and fell to crying. But I didn't. It's all the same to me. It's all the same to me. People say they are surprised at me. It's terrible, they say, to live in this house; terrible to sit here at night with only the wind whining in the chimney and the rats squeaking and scuffling. Maybe it is terrible, I don't know; but I don't think about it. Why should I? There they sit, the two of them, in their room, looking at each other and listening to the whining of the wind; and I sit in the kitchen alone and listen to the whining of the wind. Doesn't the same wind whine in our ears? Young folks used to come to see their son, and they would all laugh and sing and go through the empty rooms to chase the rats. But nobody comes to me, and I sit alone, all alone. There's no one to talk to, so I talk to myself, and it's all the same to me. I'm sure they had a hard enough time of it--no need of more ill luck. But three days ago another misfortune happened to them. The young gentleman went out walking, his hat cocked, his hair dressed in latest fashion. And a bad man went and threw a stone at him from behind a corner and broke his head like a nut. They brought him home, put him to bed, and now he's dying in there. Maybe he'll recover and live--who knows? The old lady and the old gentleman cried, and then they put all the books on a wagon and sold them. With the money they hired a nurse, bought medicines, and even grapes. So the books, too, were of some good. But he doesn't eat the grapes. He doesn't even look at them. They just lie there on the dish, just lie there. DOCTOR _(enters through the outer door; his face looks red and his manner is uneasy)_ Can you tell me if I am in the right place? I'm a doctor. I have many visits to pay, and I often make mistakes. I'm called here and there and everywhere, and all the houses look alike and the people in them are all sad. Have I struck the right place? OLD WOMAN I don't know. DOCTOR I'll consult my note-book. Is there a child here choking with a sore throat? OLD WOMAN No. DOCTOR Is there a man here who suddenly went insane from poverty and attacked his wife and two children with a hatchet? Four patients in all, I suppose. OLD WOMAN No. DOCTOR Is there a girl here whose heart stopped beating? Don't lie, old woman, I think she is here. OLD WOMAN No. DOCTOR Well, I believe you. You seem to speak the truth. Is there a young man here whose head was broken by a stone and who is dying? OLD WOMAN Yes. Go through that door on the left, but don't go any farther. The rats will eat you up! DOCTOR Very well. They keep ringing, ringing all the time, day and night. Here it is, late at night. All the lights in the street are out, and I am still on the run. Often I make a mistake and enter the wrong house. Yes, old woman, I do. _(Exit through the door leading inside)_ OLD WOMAN One doctor has already treated him, but didn't cure him. Now there's another, and I guess he won't cure him either. Well! Then their son will die, and we'll remain alone in the house. I'll sit in the kitchen and talk to myself, and they'll sit in there keeping quiet and thinking. Another room vacated, another room for the rats to scuffle in. Let them squeak and scuffle. It's all the same to me. It's all the same to me. You ask me why that bad fellow threw the stone at our young gentleman. I don't know--how could I know why people want to kill each other? One threw a stone from behind a corner and ran away; the other one fell in a heap and is now dying--that's all I know. They say that our young gentleman was a fine chap, very brave, and very kind to poor people. I don't know anything about it--it is all the same to me. Whether they are good or bad, young or old, quick or dead, it is all the same to me. It is all the same to me. As long as they pay, I'll stay with them; and when they stop paying, I'll go to other people to do their housework, and finally I shall stop altogether--when I get old, and my eyesight gets poor, so that I can't tell salt from sugar. Then they'll turn me out and say: "Go where you please. We'll hire another one." What of it? I'll go. It's all the same to me. Here, there, or nowhere, it's all the same to me. It's all the same to me. _[Enter Doctor, Man and his Wife. Both have aged greatly and are completely gray. Man's long bristling hair and beard give his face a leonine appearance. He walks slightly stooping, but holds his head erect and looks sternly and resolutely from beneath his gray eyebrows. When he looks at anything closely, he puts on large, silver-framed eye-glasses._ DOCTOR Your son has fallen into a deep sleep. Don't wake him. It may bring on a turn for the better. You go to sleep too. When one has a chance to sleep one should grab it and not stay up talking. WIFE Thank you, doctor, it's been such a relief. Will you call to-morrow again? DOCTOR Yes, to-morrow and the day after to-morrow. Old woman, you go to bed too. It's late, it's time for all to go to bed. Is that the door to leave by? I often make mistakes. _[He goes out. The Old Woman goes also. Man and his Wife are left alone._ MAN Look, wife, I began to draw this while our son was still well. I stopped at this line and thought I'd rest and resume the work later. See what a simple, placid line it is, yet horrible to look at. It may be the last line I shall have drawn in our boy's lifetime. What malicious ignorance there is graven in its simplicity and placidity. WIFE Don't get excited, my dear. Don't think those evil thoughts. I believe the doctor told the truth and our son will recover. MAN Aren't you excited too? Look at yourself in the mirror. You're as white as your hair, my old friend. WIFE Of course, I am a little excited, but I'm convinced there's no danger. MAN Now, as always, you encourage me and fool me so sincerely, so guilelessly. My poor squire, true guardian of my dulled sword, your knight is a poor, broken-down man. He cannot hold a weapon in his feeble hand. What do I see? Our son's toys. Who put them there? WIFE My dear, you put them there yourself long ago. Have you forgotten? You said you found it easier to work with the child's innocent toys beside you. MAN Yes, I had forgotten. But now it's terrible to look at them, as terrible as it is for a convict to look at instruments of torture. If the child dies, his toys will remain as a curse to the living. Wife, wife, the sight of them is terrible to me! WIFE It was when we were still poor that we bought them. How touching it is to look at them, those poor, dear toys! MAN I can't help it, I must take them in my hands. Here's the horse with the tail torn off. Hop, hop, horsie! Where are you galloping off to? I'm going far, far away, papa, to where the fields are and the green woods. Take me along, horsie. Hop, hop, hop! Sit down, dear papa. And there's the soldier's cap, the cheap cap I tried on myself in fun when I bought it. Who are you? I'm a knight, papa. I'm the bravest, the strongest knight. Where are you going, my little knight? I'm going to kill the dragon, dear papa. I'm going to free the captives, papa. Go, go, my little knight. _(The Wife cries)_ And there's our everlasting clown, with his kind, stupid face. But how ragged he is, as if he had come out of a hundred frays. Tinkle, friend, the way you used to tinkle. What, you can't? Only one bell left, you say? Well, I'll throw you on the floor. _(Throws down the toy)_ WIFE What are you doing? Remember how often our boy kissed his funny face. MAN Yes, that was wrong of me. Forgive me, friend, forgive me. _(He bends down with difficulty and picks up the clown)_ Still laughing? Don't. I'll put you away, out of sight. Don't be angry, I can't bear your smile now. Go and laugh in a place where I can't see you. WIFE It breaks my heart to hear you speak like that. Believe me, our son will get well. It wouldn't be just if the young were to die before the old, would it? MAN Just? Where have you ever seen justice, wife? WIFE Please, dear husband, I beg you, kneel down beside me, and let us both pray to God. MAN It's hard for an old man to bend his old knees. WIFE Bend them. You should--you must. MAN He will not hear me, He whose ear I've never troubled with either praise or entreaty. You pray. You are the mother. WIFE You pray--you are the father. If a father is not to pray for his son, who is? To whom are you leaving him? Can one person tell the same things in the same way as the two of us together? MAN Very well. Maybe eternal justice will answer the prayers of an old man who bends his old knees. _[Both go down on their knees, their faces turned to the corner where the Unknown stands motionless; their arms are folded over their breasts while they pray._ THE MOTHER'S PRAYER God, I beg you, let my son live. I can understand only one thing, I can say only one thing, only one thing--God, let my son live. I have no other words, all is dark around me, everything is falling. I understand nothing, and there's such a terror in my heart, O Lord, that I can say only this one thing--God, let my son live! Let him live! Forgive me for praying so poorly. But I cannot pray in any other way. You understand, O Lord, I can't. Look at me! Just look at me! Do you see? Do you see how my head shakes, do you see how my hands shake? But what are my hands, O Lord! Have pity on him. He is so young--he has a birthmark on his right hand. Let him live, even if only a little while, a little while. He is so young, such a mere foolish child--he's still fond of sweets. I bought him grapes. Pity--have pity! _[She weeps in a subdued way, covering her face with her hands. Man speaks without looking at her._ THE FATHER'S PRAYER Here I am praying, you see. I've bent my old knees. I've prostrated myself in the dust before you. I'm kissing the ground, do you see? Maybe I have sometimes offended you. If so, forgive me, forgive me. It is true, I was haughty, arrogant. I demanded and did not beg. Often I condemned--forgive me. And if you wish, if this be your will, punish me, but spare my son. Spare him, I beg you. Not for mercy, not for pity do I pray you. I pray for justice. You are old, and I am old too. You will understand more easily than I. Bad people wanted to kill him, people who insult you by their deeds and defile your earth--bad, heartless people, who throw stones from behind corners. From behind corners, the scoundrels! Do not then, I pray you, permit the fulfilment of this evil deed. Stay the blood, give back the life--give back the life to my noble son! You took everything away from me, but did I ever ask you like a beggar: "Give me back my wealth, give me back my friends, give me back my talent"? No, never. I did not even ask you for my talent, and you know what his talent means to a man. It is more than life. I thought perhaps that's the way it ought to be, and I bore everything, bore everything with pride. But now I ask you on my knees, in the dust, kissing the earth: "Give back my son's life." I kiss your earth! _[He rises. Someone called He listens indifferently to the father's and mother's prayers._ WIFE I'm afraid your prayer was not humble enough. There was a certain tone of pride in it. MAN No, no, my wife, I spoke well to Him, the way a man should speak. He cannot love cringing flatterers better than brave, proud men who speak the truth. No, wife, you cannot understand. Now I believe also and feel reassured--in fact, I am happy. I feel that I too still signify something to my boy, and it makes me glad. Go and see if he's asleep. He needs a lot of good, hard sleep. _[The Wife goes out. Man, with a friendly look to the corner where Someone in Gray stands, picks up the toy clown, plays with it, and gives its red nose a quick kiss. At that instant his Wife enters and Man speaks shamefacedly._ MAN I was begging his pardon. I insulted this fool. Well, how is our dear boy? WIFE He is so pale. MAN That's nothing. It'll pass away. He lost a lot of blood. WIFE It makes me so sad to look at his poor shorn head. He had such beautiful golden curls. MAN They had to be cut so that the wound could be washed. Never mind, wife, his hair will grow again and be still finer. Did you keep what was cut off? Be sure to keep it. His precious, blood is on it. WIFE Yes, I put it away in the chest, the last one left of all our wealth. MAN Don't worry about wealth. Just wait until our son begins to work. He'll restore all we've lost. I feel well again, wife, and I firmly believe in our future. Do you remember our poor little rosy room? The good neighbors scattered oak leaves in it, and you made a wreath of them and put it on my head and said I was a genius. WIFE I say so still. Other people have ceased to appreciate you, but not I. MAN No, my dear little wife, you're wrong. What genius creates outlives the old dirty bundle of rags known as the body, whereas I am still living, and my productions-- WIFE No, they're not dead and they never will die. Do you remember that corner house you built ten years ago? Every evening at sunset you go to look at it. Is there a more beautiful building in the whole city, is there any with more depth to it? MAN Yes, I purposely built it so that the last rays of the setting sun should fall upon it and set its windows aglow. When the whole city is in darkness, my house is still taking leave of the sun. It was well done, and perhaps it will survive me a little while at least. What do you think? WIFE Of course, my friend. MAN The only thing that hurts, wife, is that the people have forgotten me so soon. They might have remembered me a little longer, just a little longer. WIFE They have forgotten what they knew, and ceased to love what they loved. MAN They might have remembered me a little longer, a little longer. WIFE I saw a young artist near that house. He studied it carefully and made a sketch of it in his sketchbook. MAN Ah, why didn't you tell me that before? It's highly significant, highly significant. It means that my ideas are accepted and handed down by others, and even if I am forgotten, my ideas will live. It is tremendously significant. WIFE Yes, my dear, you are not forgotten. Do you remember the young man who bowed so reverently to you on the street? MAN Yes, that's so, wife. He was a fine, very fine youth. He had such a nice young face. It's good you reminded me of his bow. It has sent a ray of brightness into my heart. But I feel sleepy. I must be tired. I am old too, my dear little gray wife. Have you noticed it? WIFE You're just as handsome as ever. MAN And my eyes are bright? WIFE Yes, your eyes are bright. MAN And my hair is black as pitch? WIFE It's so white, so like snow that it's even more beautiful. MAN And no wrinkles? WIFE Yes, there are little wrinkles on your face, but-- MAN Of course, I know I'm a beauty. To-morrow I'll buy myself a uniform and enter the light cavalry. Yes? _(His Wife laughs)_ WIFE There, you're joking too, as in olden times. But lie down here and sleep a little. I'll go to look after our boy. Don't worry, I won't leave him. I'll call you when he wakes. You don't care to kiss an old wrinkled hand, do you? MAN _(kissing her hand)_ Go, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever known. WIFE And the wrinkles? MAN What wrinkles? I only see a dear, kind, good, sensible face. Nothing else. Don't take offence at my stern tone. Go to the boy, watch him, stay with him like a quiet shadow of gentleness and love. And if he is disturbed in his sleep, sing him a song as you used to do. And put the grapes nearer, so that he can reach them. _[The Wife goes out. Man lies down on the sofa, his head toward the spot where Someone in Gray stands immobile, so that His hand almost touches Man's gray, dishevelled hair. Man falls asleep quickly._ SOMEONE IN GRAY Man has fallen into a sound, sweet sleep, deceived by hope. His breath is soft as a child's, his heart beats calmly and evenly, bringing him relief. He knows not that in a few moments his son will die. In mysterious dream-fancies a picture of impossible happiness arises before him. It seems to him that he and his son are drifting in a white boat along a beautiful, quiet stream. It seems to him that it is a glorious day, and he sees the deep sky and the transparent crystal water. He hears the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat. It seems to him that he is happy and glad. All his feelings betray him. Suddenly he is disturbed. The terrible truth has entered through the thick veil of sleep and stung his thoughts. "Why is your golden hair cut so short, my boy? Why?" "I had a headache, papa, that's why." And deceived once more, he feels happy again, sees the deep sky, and hears the rustling of the parting reeds. He knows not that his son is already dying. He hears not how, in a last senseless hope, with a child's faith in the power of adults, his son is calling him without words, with his heart: "Papa, papa, I am dying! Hold me!" Man sleeps soundly and sweetly, and in the deceptive, mysterious fancies there arises before him the picture of impossible happiness. Awake, Man! Your son is dead. _[Man lifts his head, frightened, and rises._ MAN Ha! What is it? I thought I heard someone call me. _[At that moment many women behind the scenes burst into a wail--the loud, long-drawn wail over the dead. The Wife enters, frightfully pale._ MAN Dead? WIFE Yes, he is dead. MAN Did he call me? WIFE No, he never awoke. He didn't call anyone. He is dead--my son, my dear, darling boy! _[She falls on her knees before Man and sobs, clasping his knees. Man puts his hand on her hand and, turning to the corner where Someone in Gray stands indifferently, speaks in a sobbing, but terrible voice._ MAN You insulted a woman, scoundrel! You killed a boy! _(His Wife sobs. Man softly strokes her hair with his trembling hand)_ Don't cry, my dear, don't cry. He will scoff at our tears, just as He scoffed at our prayers. And you--I don't know who you are--God, Devil, Fate, or Life--I curse you! _[Man speaks the following in a loud, powerful voice, one arm about his wife as if to protect her, the other arm fiercely extended toward the Unknown._ MAN'S CURSE I curse everything that you have given. I curse the day on which I was born. I curse the day on which I shall die. I curse the whole of my life, its joys and its sorrows. I curse myself. I curse my eyes, my ears, my tongue. I curse my heart and my head, and I fling everything back at your cruel face, a senseless Fate! Be accursed, be forever accursed! With my curses I conquer you. What else can you do to me? Hurl me to the ground, I will laugh and shout in your face: "Be accursed!" Seal my mouth with the clamps of death, with my last thought I will shout into your stupid ears: "Be accursed, be accursed!" Take my body, tear at it like a dog, drag it into the darkness--I am not in it. I have disappeared, but disappearing I shall repeat: "Be accursed, be accursed!" Through the woman whom you have insulted, through the boy whom you have killed, I convey to you the curses of Man! _[He turns in silence, with fiercely uplifted hand. Someone in Gray listens passively to the curses. The flame of the candle flickers as if blown by the wind. Thus they stand for some time in tense silence confronting each other, Man and Someone in Gray. The wailing behind the scenes grows louder and more prolonged, passing into a doleful chant._ CURTAIN THE FIFTH SCENE THE DEATH OF MAN _An uncertain, unsteady, blinking light, so dim that at first nothing is distinguishable. When the eye grows accustomed to it, the following scene becomes visible. A long, wide room with a very low ceiling and windowless. The entrance is down a flight of steps from somewhere above. The walls are bare and dirty and resemble the coarse, stained hide of some huge animal. Along the entire back wall up to the stairs runs a, bar with a top of smooth glass. This is covered with bottles full of differently colored liquors that are arranged in regular rows. Behind a low table sits the Bartender, immobile, with his hands folded across his paunch. His white face is blotched with red. His head is bald, and he has a large, reddish beard. He wears an expression of utter calm and indifference, which he maintains throughout, never changing his seat or his attitude. Drunkards, both men and women, sit at small tables on wooden stools. Their number seems to be augmented by their shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling. It is one endless monotony of repulsive ugliness and desolation. The men's faces resemble masks with the various features disproportionately magnified or reduced: big noses, or no noses at all; eyes staring savagely, almost starting from their sockets, or eyes narrowed to scarcely visible slits and points; huge Adam's apples and tiny chins. Their hair is tangled, frowzy, dirty, covering half the face on some of them. Despite their differences, a horrible sameness is stamped upon their faces: a greenish, ghastly tinge of decay and an expression that appears grotesque in some, gloomy and stupidly timid in others. They are dressed in dull rags, with here a bony arm bared, there a sharp knee, and there again a frightfully sunken chest. Some are almost entirely naked. The women differ little from the men, except that they are even uglier and more uncouth. All have trembling heads and hands and walk with an uncertain step, as if on a slippery, or hilly, or sliding surface. Their voices, too, are all alike, rough and hoarse. They speak as uncertainly as they walk, as if their lips were frozen and refused to obey. In the centre, at a separate table, sits Man, his gray, unkempt head leaning on his arms. In this position he remains throughout the scene, except during the one moment when he speaks. He is dressed very poorly. In the corner stands Someone in Gray, with the candle burned nearly to the end. The slender blue flame flickers, now bending, now striving upward with its sharp little tongue. Its blue throws a ghastly glare on His face and chin._ THE DRUNKARD'S CONVERSATION --Oh my! Oh my! --Look, everything is swaying so strangely. There's nothing to rest your eyes on. --Everything is shaking as in a fever--the people, the chair, the ceiling. --Everything is floating and rocking as on waves. --Do you hear a noise? I hear a kind of noise, as if an iron wheel were rumbling, or stones falling from a mountain, large stones coming down like rain. --It's the ringing in your ears. --It's the tingling of your blood. I feel my blood. It flows heavy through my veins, thick, thick, black, smelling of rum. And when it gets to my heart, it all falls down, and it's terrible. --It seems to me I see flashes of lightning. --I see huge, red woodpiles and people burning on them. It's disgusting to smell the roasting flesh. --Dark shadows circle around the piles. They are drunk, the shadows are. Hey, invite me! I'll dance with you. --Oh my! Oh my! --I am happy, too. Who will laugh with me? Nobody. So I'll laugh by myself. _(He laughs)_ --A charming woman is kissing my lips. She smells of musk and her teeth are like a crocodile's. She wants to bite me. Get away, you dirty hussy! --I am not a dirty hussy. I am an old pregnant snake. I've been watching a whole hour to see little snakes come out of my body below and crawl around. Say, don't step on my little snakes. --Where are you going? --Who's walking there? Sit down. You make the whole house shake when you walk. --I can't. I feel awful sitting down. --I too. When I am sitting I feel a horror running through my whole body. --So do I. Let me go. _[Three or four Drunkards reel aimlessly about, getting tangled up In the chairs._ --Look what it's doing. It's been jumping for two hours, trying to get on my knee. It just misses by an inch. I drive it away and it comes back again. --Black cockroaches are creeping under my skull and buzzing. --My brain is falling apart. I feel the gray matter separating. My brain is like rotten cheese. It stinks. --There's some sort of a corpse here. I smell it. --Oh my! Oh my! --I'll sneak up to her to-night and cut her throat. --The blood will flow. It's flowing already. See how red it is. --I am constantly being followed by three men. They are calling me into a dark corner of the vacant lot, and they want to kill me. They are already at the door. --Who is walking on the walls and ceiling? --Good Lord! They have come to take me. --Who? --They. --My tongue is getting paralyzed. I'll cry. _(Cries)_ --My whole body is coming out. I'll soon be turned inside out, and then I'll be all red. --Listen, listen. Ho! Somebody! A monster is going for me. He's raising his hand. Help! Ho! --What is it? Help! A spider! --Help! _[For some time they shout "Help!" hoarsely._ --We are all drunkards. Let's call down all the people from above. It's so disgusting up there. --No, don't. When I leave here and go out on the street, it rampages and tears about like a wild beast and soon throws me off my, feet. --We've all come here. We drink rum and it gives us joy. --It gives us fright. I shiver the whole day from fright. --Fright is better than life. Who wants to return to life? --I don't. --I don't. I'd rather croak here. I don't want to live. --No one! --Oh my! Oh my! --Why does Man come here? He drinks little and just sits still. We don't want him. --Let him go to his own house. He has a house of his own. --Fifteen rooms. --Don't touch him. He has no place to go to any more. --He has fifteen rooms. --They're empty. Only rats run around and fight in them. --And his wife. --He hasn't any. Seems she died. _[During this conversation and the following, Old Women in strange headgear enter quietly and replace unnoticeably the Drunkards, who quietly depart. The women mingle in the conversation, but in such a way that no one notices it._ CONVERSATION OF DRUNKARDS AND OLD WOMEN --He'll soon die, too. He can scarcely drag himself along, he's so weak. --He has fifteen rooms. --Listen to the beating of his heart. It's uneven and faint. It'll soon stop beating altogether. --Hey, Man, give us an invitation to your house. You have fifteen rooms. --It'll soon stop beating altogether, that old, sick, feeble heart of Man! --He's asleep, the drunken fool. It's dreadful to sleep, and yet he sleeps. He might die in his sleep. --Hey, there, wake him up! --Do you remember how it used to beat when it was young and strong? _[A low laugh is heard._ --Who's laughing? There are some here who have no business to be here. --It just seems so to you. We are all alone, only we drunkards. --I'll go out on the street and start a fight. I've been robbed. I'm stark naked, and my skin is green. --Good evening. --The wheel is rumbling again. Oh, Lord, they'll crush me! Help! _[No one responds._ --Good evening. --Do you remember his birth? I believe you were there. --I must be dying. Good Lord! Good Lord! Who will carry me to the grave? Who will bury me? I'll be lying like a dog on the street. People will step over me, wagons will ride over me. They'll crush me. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! _(Cries)_ --Permit me to congratulate you, my dear friend, on the birth of your child. --I am positive there is a mistake here. For a circle to fall out of a straight line is an absurdity. I'll demonstrate it on the spot. --You're right. --Oh my! Oh my! --It's only ignoramuses in mathematics who will permit it. I won't. I won't permit it, do you hear? --Do you remember the rosy dress and the little bare neck? --And the flowers? The lilies-of-the-valley on which the dew never dried, and the violets, and the green grass? --Don't touch, don't touch the flowers, girls. _[They utter a low and suppressed laugh._ --Oh my! Oh my! _[The drunkards have all gone. Their places are taken by the Old Women. The light grows steady and very faint. The figure of the Unknown is sharply outlined, and so is Man's gray head, on which a, faint light falls from above._ OLD WOMEN'S CONVERSATION. --Good evening. --Good evening. What a splendid night! --Here we are together again. How are you feeling? --I cough a little. _[They laugh suppressedly._ --It won't take long now. He'll die soon. --Look at the candle. The flame is blue and thin and spreading sideways. There's no more wax. It's only the wick that's burning. --It doesn't want to go out. --When did you ever see a flame that did want to go out? --Don't dispute, don't dispute. Whether it wants to go out, or doesn't want to go out, time is flying. --Do you remember his motor car? He once almost ran me down. --And his fifteen rooms? --I was there a little while ago. The rats almost ate me up, and I caught a cold in the draught. Someone had stolen the window frames, and the wind was blowing through the whole house. --Did you try the bed in which his wife died? Isn't it soft and nice? --Yes, I went through all the rooms and let my fancy play a little. They have such a pretty nursery. It's a pity the window frames are knocked out there too, and the wind makes a racket with the litter on the floor. And the child's bed too is so dear. Now the rats have made their nest in it and breed their children there. --Such dear, naked little rats. _[They titter._ --And in his study the toys are lying on the table: a horse without a tail, a soldier's cap, and a red-nosed clown. I played a little with them. I put on the soldier's cap. It was very becoming to me. But there's such a lot of dust on the things. I got all dirty. --But did you go into the drawing-room where the ball was given? It's so gay there. --Yes, I did. Fancy what I saw. It was dark, the windows were broken, and the wind was playing with the wall-paper-- --Making a sound as of music. --And in the darkness the guests were squatting on their knees at the wall--and you should have seen how they looked! --We know. --And they barked: "How rich! How magnificent! How brilliant! How rich!" --You're joking, of course. --Of course I'm joking. You know I have a funny disposition. --How rich! How magnificent! --How gay! _[They titter._ --Let's remind him of it! --How rich! How magnificent! --Do you remember how the music played at your ball? --He's going to die soon. --The dancers circled about, circled about, and the music played so gently, so beautifully. They played this way. _[They make a semicircle about Man and hum the tune played by the musicians at the ball._ --Let's get up a ball. It's so long since I've danced. --Imagine that this is a palace, a magnificent, an exquisitely beautiful palace. --Call the musicians. Why, you can't have a ball without music. --Musicians! --You remember? _[They sing. At that instant the three musicians who played at the ball come down the stairs. The one with the violin adjusts his handkerchief on his shoulder with great precision, and all three begin to play, making an exaggerated effort. But the notes are soft and gentle as in a dream._ --There you have the ball. --How rich! How magnificent! --How brilliant! --You remember, don't you? _[Singing softly to the music, they begin to circle about Man, imitating in a wild, monstrous fashion the movements of the girls in the white dresses who danced at the ball. At the first musical phrase they circle, at the second they join and part gracefully and quietly, whispering_: --Do you remember? --You're going to die soon--do you remember? --Do you remember? --Do you remember? --You're going to die soon--do you remember? --Do you remember? _[The dance grows brisker, the movements sharper. Strange, whining notes mingle into the singing of the Old Women. An equally strange laugh passes around the circle of dancers, suppressed and quiet at first. As each one glides past Man, she flings an abrupt whisper into his ear_: --Do you remember? --Do you remember? --How gentle! How exquisite! --What balm to the soul! Do you remember? --You're going to die soon, you're going to die soon. --You're going to die soon-- --Do you remember? _[They circle more quickly, their movements growing still more abrupt. Suddenly there is silence and they halt. The musicians grow rigid with the instruments in their hands. The dancers remain fixed in the game position in which they were when the silence fell. Man rises, straightens himself, throws back his gray, beautiful, terribly majestic head, and calls out in a surprisingly loud voice, full of sorrow and wrath. After each short phrase a brief but profound pause follows._ MAN Where is my squire? Where is my sword? Where is my shield? I am disarmed! Come to me quick! Quick! Be accurs-- _[He sinks down on the chair and dies, his head falling backward. At the same moment the candle flares up brightly and goes out. All objects are buried in a dense twilight which seems to be descending the stairs until it gradually covers everything. The face of dead Man alone remains bright. Low, vague conversation, whisperings and derisive mockery are heard from the Old Women._ SOMEONE IN GRAY Silence! Man has died! _[Profound silence. Then the same cold, indifferent voice repeats from a remote depth, like an echo_: Silence! Man has died! _[Profound silence. The twilight thickens, but the mice-like figures of the Old Women are still seen standing rigid. Presently they begin to circle about the dead body mutely, quietly; then they begin to sing softly, and the musicians begin to play. The gloom thickens, the music and the song grow louder and louder, and the wild dance grows more unrestrained, until finally it ceases to be a dance, the Old Women merely whirling about the dead man arm in arm, stamping their feet, screeching, and laughing a wild, prolonged laugh. Complete darkness descends. Only the face of Man is still lighted up. Then this light too is extinguished. Black impenetrable darkness prevails. In the darkness are heard the movements of the mad dancers, their screeching and laughter, and the discordant, desperately loud sounds of the music. Just when they have reached their highest pitch, all the sounds and noises withdraw rapidly somewhere and die away. Stillness._ CURTAIN 
1755	----	IVANOFF A PLAY By Anton Checkov CHARACTERS NICHOLAS IVANOFF, perpetual member of the Council of Peasant Affairs ANNA, his wife. Nee Sarah Abramson MATTHEW SHABELSKI, a count, uncle of Ivanoff PAUL LEBEDIEFF, President of the Board of the Zemstvo ZINAIDA, his wife SASHA, their daughter, twenty years old LVOFF, a young government doctor MARTHA BABAKINA, a young widow, owner of an estate and daughter of a rich merchant KOSICH, an exciseman MICHAEL BORKIN, a distant relative of Ivanoff, and manager of his estate AVDOTIA NAZAROVNA, an old woman GEORGE, lives with the Lebedieffs FIRST GUEST SECOND GUEST THIRD GUEST FOURTH GUEST PETER, a servant of Ivanoff GABRIEL, a servant of Lebedieff GUESTS OF BOTH SEXES The play takes place in one of the provinces of central Russia IVANOFF ACT I The garden of IVANOFF'S country place. On the left is a terrace and the facade of the house. One window is open. Below the terrace is a broad semicircular lawn, from which paths lead to right and left into a garden. On the right are several garden benches and tables. A lamp is burning on one of the tables. It is evening. As the curtain rises sounds of the piano and violoncello are heard. IVANOFF is sitting at a table reading. BORKIN, in top-boots and carrying a gun, comes in from the rear of the garden. He is a little tipsy. As he sees IVANOFF he comes toward him on tiptoe, and when he comes opposite him he stops and points the gun at his face. IVANOFF. [Catches sight of BORKIN. Shudders and jumps to his feet] Misha! What are you doing? You frightened me! I can't stand your stupid jokes when I am so nervous as this. And having frightened me, you laugh! [He sits down.] BORKIN. [Laughing loudly] There, I am sorry, really. I won't do it again. Indeed I won't. [Take off his cap] How hot it is! Just think, my dear boy, I have covered twelve miles in the last three hours. I am worn out. Just feel how my heart is beating. IVANOFF. [Goes on reading] Oh, very well. I shall feel it later! BORKIN. No, feel it now. [He takes IVANOFF'S hand and presses it against his breast] Can you feel it thumping? That means that it is weak and that I may die suddenly at any moment. Would you be sorry if I died? IVANOFF. I am reading now. I shall attend to you later. BORKIN. No, seriously, would you be sorry if I died? Nicholas, would you be sorry if I died? IVANOFF. Leave me alone! BORKIN. Come, tell me if you would be sorry or not. IVANOFF. I am sorry that you smell so of vodka, Misha, it is disgusting. BORKIN. Do I smell of vodka? How strange! And yet, it is not so strange after all. I met the magistrate on the road, and I must admit that we did drink about eight glasses together. Strictly speaking, of course, drinking is very harmful. Listen, it is harmful, isn't it? Is it? Is it? IVANOFF. This is unendurable! Let me warn you, Misha, that you are going too far. BORKIN. Well, well, excuse me. Sit here by yourself then, for heaven's sake, if it amuses you. [Gets up and goes away] What extraordinary people one meets in the world. They won't even allow themselves to be spoken to. [He comes back] Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Please let me have eighty-two roubles. IVANOFF. Why do you want eighty-two roubles? BORKIN. To pay the workmen to-morrow. IVANOFF. I haven't the money. BORKIN. Many thanks. [Angrily] So you haven't the money! And yet the workmen must be paid, mustn't they? IVANOFF. I don't know. Wait till my salary comes in on the first of the month. BORKIN. How is it possible to discuss anything with a man like you? Can't you understand that the workmen are coming to-morrow morning and not on the first of the month? IVANOFF. How can I help it? I'll be hanged if I can do anything about it now. And what do you mean by this irritating way you have of pestering me whenever I am trying to read or write or---- BORKIN. Must the workmen be paid or not, I ask you? But, good gracious! What is the use of talking to you! [Waves his hand] Do you think because you own an estate you can command the whole world? With your two thousand acres and your empty pockets you are like a man who has a cellar full of wine and no corkscrew. I have sold the oats as they stand in the field. Yes, sir! And to-morrow I shall sell the rye and the carriage horses. [He stamps up and down] Do you think I am going to stand upon ceremony with you? Certainly not! I am not that kind of a man! ANNA appears at the open window. ANNA. Whose voice did I hear just now? Was it yours, Misha? Why are you stamping up and down? BORKIN. Anybody who had anything to do with your Nicholas would stamp up and down. ANNA. Listen, Misha! Please have some hay carried onto the croquet lawn. BORKIN. [Waves his hand] Leave me alone, please! ANNA. Oh, what manners! They are not becoming to you at all. If you want to be liked by women you must never let them see you when you are angry or obstinate. [To her husband] Nicholas, let us go and play on the lawn in the hay! IVANOFF. Don't you know it is bad for you to stand at the open window, Annie? [Calls] Shut the window, Uncle! [The window is shut from the inside.] BORKIN. Don't forget that the interest on the money you owe Lebedieff must be paid in two days. IVANOFF. I haven't forgotten it. I am going over to see Lebedieff today and shall ask him to wait. [He looks at his watch.] BORKIN. When are you going? IVANOFF. At once. BORKIN. Wait! Wait! Isn't this Sasha's birthday? So it is! The idea of my forgetting it. What a memory I have. [Jumps about] I shall go with you! [Sings] I shall go, I shall go! Nicholas, old man, you are the joy of my life. If you were not always so nervous and cross and gloomy, you and I could do great things together. I would do anything for you. Shall I marry Martha Babakina and give you half her fortune? That is, not half, either, but all--take it all! IVANOFF. Enough of this nonsense! BORKIN. No, seriously, shan't I marry Martha and halve the money with you? But no, why should I propose it? How can you understand? [Angrily] You say to me: "Stop talking nonsense!" You are a good man and a clever one, but you haven't any red blood in your veins or any--well, enthusiasm. Why, if you wanted to, you and I could cut a dash together that would shame the devil himself. If you were a normal man instead of a morbid hypochondriac we would have a million in a year. For instance, if I had twenty-three hundred roubles now I could make twenty thousand in two weeks. You don't believe me? You think it is all nonsense? No, it isn't nonsense. Give me twenty-three hundred roubles and let me try. Ofsianoff is selling a strip of land across the river for that price. If we buy this, both banks will be ours, and we shall have the right to build a dam across the river. Isn't that so? We can say that we intend to build a mill, and when the people on the river below us hear that we mean to dam the river they will, of course, object violently and we shall say: If you don't want a dam here you will have to pay to get us away. Do you see the result? The factory would give us five thousand roubles, Korolkoff three thousand, the monastery five thousand more-- IVANOFF. All that is simply idiotic, Misha. If you don't want me to lose my temper you must keep your schemes to yourself. BORKIN. [Sits down at the table] Of course! I knew how it would be! You never will act for yourself, and you tie my hands so that I am helpless. Enter SHABELSKI and LVOFF. SHABELSKI. The only difference between lawyers and doctors is that lawyers simply rob you, whereas doctors both rob you and kill you. I am not referring to any one present. [Sits down on the bench] They are all frauds and swindlers. Perhaps in Arcadia you might find an exception to the general rule and yet--I have treated thousands of sick people myself in my life, and I have never met a doctor who did not seem to me to be an unmistakable scoundrel. BORKIN. [To IVANOFF] Yes, you tie my hands and never do anything for yourself, and that is why you have no money. SHABELSKI. As I said before, I am not referring to any one here at present; there may be exceptions though, after all--[He yawns.] IVANOFF. [Shuts his book] What have you to tell me, doctor? LVOFF. [Looks toward the window] Exactly what I said this morning: she must go to the Crimea at once. [Walks up and down.] SHABELSKI. [Bursts out laughing] To the Crimea! Why don't you and I set up as doctors, Misha? Then, if some Madame Angot or Ophelia finds the world tiresome and begins to cough and be consumptive, all we shall have to do will be to write out a prescription according to the laws of medicine: that is, first, we shall order her a young doctor, and then a journey to the Crimea. There some fascinating young Tartar---- IVANOFF. [Interrupting] Oh, don't be coarse! [To LVOFF] It takes money to go to the Crimea, and even if I could afford it, you know she has refused to go. LVOFF. Yes, she has. [A pause.] BORKIN. Look here, doctor, is Anna really so ill that she absolutely must go to the Crimea? LVOFF. [Looking toward the window] Yes, she has consumption. BORKIN. Whew! How sad! I have seen in her face for some time that she could not last much longer. LVOFF. Can't you speak quietly? She can hear everything you say. [A pause.] BORKIN. [Sighing] The life of man is like a flower, blooming so gaily in a field. Then, along comes a goat, he eats it, and the flower is gone! SHABELSKI. Oh, nonsense, nonsense. [Yawning] Everything is a fraud and a swindle. [A pause.] BORKIN. Gentlemen, I have been trying to tell Nicholas how he can make some money, and have submitted a brilliant plan to him, but my seed, as usual, has fallen on barren soil. Look what a sight he is now: dull, cross, bored, peevish---- SHABELSKI. [Gets up and stretches himself] You are always inventing schemes for everybody, you clever fellow, and telling them how to live; can't you tell me something? Give me some good advice, you ingenious young man. Show me a good move to make. BORKIN. [Getting up] I am going to have a swim. Goodbye, gentlemen. [To Shabelski] There are at least twenty good moves you could make. If I were you I should have twenty thousand roubles in a week. [He goes out; SHABELSKI follows him.] SHABELSKI. How would you do it? Come, explain. BORKIN. There is nothing to explain, it is so simple. [Coming back] Nicholas, give me a rouble. IVANOFF silently hands him the money BORKIN. Thanks. Shabelski, you still hold some trump cards. SHABELSKI follows him out. SHABELSKI. Well, what are they? BORKIN. If I were you I should have thirty thousand roubles and more in a week. [They go out together.] IVANOFF. [After a pause] Useless people, useless talk, and the necessity of answering stupid questions, have wearied me so, doctor, that I am ill. I have become so irritable and bitter that I don't know myself. My head aches for days at a time. I hear a ringing in my ears, I can't sleep, and yet there is no escape from it all, absolutely none. LVOFF. Ivanoff, I have something serious to speak to you about. IVANOFF. What is it? LVOFF. It is about your wife. She refuses to go to the Crimea alone, but she would go with you. IVANOFF. [Thoughtfully] It would cost a great deal for us both to go, and besides, I could not get leave to be away for so long. I have had one holiday already this year. LVOFF. Very well, let us admit that. Now to proceed. The best cure for consumption is absolute peace of mind, and your wife has none whatever. She is forever excited by your behaviour to her. Forgive me, I am excited and am going to speak frankly. Your treatment of her is killing her. [A pause] Ivanoff, let me believe better things of you. IVANOFF. What you say is true, true. I must be terribly guilty, but my mind is confused. My will seems to be paralysed by a kind of stupor; I can't understand myself or any one else. [Looks toward the window] Come, let us take a walk, we might be overheard here. [They get up] My dear friend, you should hear the whole story from the beginning if it were not so long and complicated that to tell it would take all night. [They walk up and down] Anna is a splendid, an exceptional woman. She has left her faith, her parents and her fortune for my sake. If I should demand a hundred other sacrifices, she would consent to every one without the quiver of an eyelid. Well, I am not a remarkable man in any way, and have sacrificed nothing. However, the story is a long one. In short, the whole point is, my dear doctor--[Confused] that I married her for love and promised to love her forever, and now after five years she loves me still and I--[He waves his hand] Now, when you tell me she is dying, I feel neither love nor pity, only a sort of loneliness and weariness. To all appearances this must seem horrible, and I cannot understand myself what is happening to me. [They go out.] SHABELSKI comes in. SHABELSKI. [Laughing] Upon my word, that man is no scoundrel, but a great thinker, a master-mind. He deserves a memorial. He is the essence of modern ingenuity, and combines in himself alone the genius of the lawyer, the doctor, and the financier. [He sits down on the lowest step of the terrace] And yet he has never finished a course of studies in any college; that is so surprising. What an ideal scoundrel he would have made if he had acquired a little culture and mastered the sciences! "You could make twenty thousand roubles in a week," he said. "You still hold the ace of trumps: it is your title." [Laughing] He said I might get a rich girl to marry me for it! [ANNA opens the window and looks down] "Let me make a match between you and Martha," says he. Who is this Martha? It must be that Balabalkina--Babakalkina woman, the one that looks like a laundress. ANNA. Is that you, Count? SHABELSKI. What do you want? ANNA laughs. SHABELSKI. [With a Jewish accent] Vy do you laugh? ANNA. I was thinking of something you said at dinner, do you remember? How was it--a forgiven thief, a doctored horse. SHABELSKI. A forgiven thief, a doctored horse, and a Christianised Jew are all worth the same price. ANNA. [Laughing] You can't even repeat the simplest saying without ill-nature. You are a most malicious old man. [Seriously] Seriously, Count you are extremely disagreeable, and very tiresome and painful to live with. You are always grumbling and growling, and everybody to you is a blackguard and a scoundrel. Tell me honestly, Count, have you ever spoken well of any one? SHABELSKI. Is this an inquisition? ANNA. We have lived under this same roof now for five years, and I have never heard you speak kindly of people, or without bitterness and derision. What harm has the world done to you? Is it possible that you consider yourself better than any one else? SHABELSKI. Not at all. I think we are all of us scoundrels and hypocrites. I myself am a degraded old man, and as useless as a cast-off shoe. I abuse myself as much as any one else. I was rich once, and free, and happy at times, but now I am a dependent, an object of charity, a joke to the world. When I am at last exasperated and defy them, they answer me with a laugh. When I laugh, they shake their heads sadly and say, "The old man has gone mad." But oftenest of all I am unheard and unnoticed by every one. ANNA. [Quietly] Screaming again. SHABELSKI. Who is screaming? ANNA. The owl. It screams every evening. SHABELSKI. Let it scream. Things are as bad as they can be already. [Stretches himself] Alas, my dear Sarah! If I could only win a thousand or two roubles, I should soon show you what I could do. I wish you could see me! I should get away out of this hole, and leave the bread of charity, and should not show my nose here again until the last judgment day. ANNA. What would you do if you were to win so much money? SHABELSKI. [Thoughtfully] First I would go to Moscow to hear the Gipsies play, and then--then I should fly to Paris and take an apartment and go to the Russian Church. ANNA. And what else? SHABELSKI. I would go and sit on my wife's grave for days and days and think. I would sit there until I died. My wife is buried in Paris. [A pause.] ANNA. How terribly dull this is! Shall we play a duet? SHABELSKI. As you like. Go and get the music ready. [ANNA goes out.] IVANOFF and LVOFF appear in one of the paths. IVANOFF. My dear friend, you left college last year, and you are still young and brave. Being thirty-five years old I have the right to advise you. Don't marry a Jewess or a bluestocking or a woman who is queer in any way. Choose some nice, common-place girl without any strange and startling points in her character. Plan your life for quiet; the greyer and more monotonous you can make the background, the better. My dear boy, do not try to fight alone against thousands; do not tilt with windmills; do not dash yourself against the rocks. And, above all, may you be spared the so-called rational life, all wild theories and impassioned talk. Everything is in the hands of God, so shut yourself up in your shell and do your best. That is the pleasant, honest, healthy way to live. But the life I have chosen has been so tiring, oh, so tiring! So full of mistakes, of injustice and stupidity! [Catches sight of SHABELSKI, and speaks angrily] There you are again, Uncle, always under foot, never letting one have a moment's quiet talk! SHABELSKI. [In a tearful voice] Is there no refuge anywhere for a poor old devil like me? [He jumps up and runs into the house.] IVANOFF. Now I have offended him! Yes, my nerves have certainly gone to pieces. I must do something about it, I must---- LVOFF. [Excitedly] Ivanoff, I have heard all you have to say and--and--I am going to speak frankly. You have shown me in your voice and manner, as well as in your words, the most heartless egotism and pitiless cruelty. Your nearest friend is dying simply because she is near you, her days are numbered, and you can feel such indifference that you go about giving advice and analysing your feelings. I cannot say all I should like to; I have not the gift of words, but--but I can at least say that you are deeply antipathetic to me. IVANOFF. I suppose I am. As an onlooker, of course you see me more clearly than I see myself, and your judgment of me is probably right. No doubt I am terribly guilty. [Listens] I think I hear the carriage coming. I must get ready to go. [He goes toward the house and then stops] You dislike me, doctor, and you don't conceal it. Your sincerity does you credit. [He goes into the house.] LVOFF. [Alone] What a confoundedly disagreeable character! I have let another opportunity slip without speaking to him as I meant to, but I simply cannot talk calmly to that man. The moment I open my mouth to speak I feel such a commotion and suffocation here [He puts his hand on his breast] that my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Oh, I loathe that Tartuffe, that unmitigated rascal, with all my heart! There he is, preparing to go driving in spite of the entreaties of his unfortunate wife, who adores him and whose only happiness is his presence. She implores him to spend at least one evening with her, and he cannot even do that. Why, he might shoot himself in despair if he had to stay at home! Poor fellow, what he wants are new fields for his villainous schemes. Oh, I know why you go to Lebedieff's every evening, Ivanoff! I know. Enter IVANOFF, in hat and coat, ANNA and SHABELSKI SHABELSKI. Look here, Nicholas, this is simply barbarous You go away every evening and leave us here alone, and we get so bored that we have to go to bed at eight o'clock. It is a scandal, and no decent way of living. Why can you go driving if we can't? Why? ANNA. Leave him alone, Count. Let him go if he wants to. IVANOFF. How can a sick woman like you go anywhere? You know you have a cough and must not go out after sunset. Ask the doctor here. You are no child, Annie, you must be reasonable. And as for you, what would you do with yourself over there? SHABELSKI. I am ready to go anywhere: into the jaws of a crocodile, or even into the jaws of hell, so long as I don't have to stay here. I am horribly bored. I am stupefied by this dullness. Every one here is tired of me. You leave me at home to entertain Anna, but I feel more like scratching and biting her. ANNA. Leave him alone, Count. Leave him alone. Let him go if he enjoys himself there. IVANOFF. What does this mean, Annie? You know I am not going for pleasure. I must see Lebedieff about the money I owe him. ANNA. I don't see why you need justify yourself to me. Go ahead! Who is keeping you? IVANOFF. Heavens! Don't let us bite one another's heads off. Is that really unavoidable? SHABELSKI. [Tearfully] Nicholas, my dear boy, do please take me with you. I might possibly be amused a little by the sight of all the fools and scoundrels I should see there. You know I haven't been off this place since Easter. IVANOFF. [Exasperated] Oh, very well! Come along then! How tiresome you all are! SHABELSKI. I may go? Oh, thank you! [Takes him gaily by the arm and leads him aside] May I wear your straw hat? IVANOFF. You may, only hurry, please. SHABELSKI runs into the house. IVANOFF. How tired I am of you all! But no, what am I saying? Annie, my manner to you is insufferable, and it never used to be. Well, good-bye, Annie. I shall be back by one. ANNA. Nicholas! My dear husband, stay at home to-night! IVANOFF. [Excitedly] Darling, sweetheart, my dear, unhappy one, I implore you to let me leave home in the evenings. I know it is cruel and unjust to ask this, but let me do you this injustice. It is such torture for me to stay. As soon as the sun goes down my soul is overwhelmed by the most horrible despair. Don't ask me why; I don't know; I swear I don't. This dreadful melancholy torments me here, it drives me to the Lebedieff's and there it grows worse than ever. I rush home; it still pursues me; and so I am tortured all through the night. It is breaking my heart. ANNA. Nicholas, won't you stay? We will talk together as we used to. We will have supper together and read afterward. The old grumbler and I have learned so many duets to play to you. [She kisses him. Then, after a pause] I can't understand you any more. This has been going on for a year now. What has changed you so? IVANOFF. I don't know. ANNA. And why don't you want me to go driving with you in the evening? IVANOFF. As you insist on knowing, I shall have to tell you. It is a little cruel, but you had best understand. When this melancholy fit is on me I begin to dislike you, Annie, and at such times I must escape from you. In short, I simply have to leave this house. ANNA. Oh, you are sad, are you? I can understand that! Nicholas, let me tell you something: won't you try to sing and laugh and scold as you used to? Stay here, and we will drink some liqueur together, and laugh, and chase away this sadness of yours in no time. Shall I sing to you? Or shall we sit in your study in the twilight as we used to, while you tell me about your sadness? I can read such suffering in your eyes! Let me look into them and weep, and our hearts will both be lighter. [She laughs and cries at once] Or is it really true that the flowers return with every spring, but lost happiness never returns? Oh, is it? Well, go then, go! IVANOFF. Pray for me, Annie! [He goes; then stops and thinks for a moment] No, I can't do it. [IVANOFF goes out.] ANNA. Yes, go, go--[Sits down at the table.] LVOFF. [Walking up and down] Make this a rule, Madam: as soon as the sun goes down you must go indoors and not come out again until morning. The damp evening air is bad for you. ANNA. Yes, sir! LVOFF. What do you mean by "Yes, sir"? I am speaking seriously. ANNA. But I don't want to be serious. [She coughs.] LVOFF. There now, you see, you are coughing already. SHABELSKI comes out of the house in his hat and coat. SHABELSKI. Where is Nicholas? Is the carriage here yet? [Goes quickly to ANNA and kisses her hand] Good-night, my darling! [Makes a face and speaks with a Jewish accent] I beg your bardon! [He goes quickly out.] LVOFF. Idiot! A pause; the sounds of a concertina are heard in the distance. ANNA. Oh, how lonely it is! The coachman and the cook are having a little ball in there by themselves, and I--I am, as it were, abandoned. Why are you walking about, Doctor? Come and sit down here. LVOFF. I can't sit down. [A pause.] ANNA. They are playing "The Sparrow" in the kitchen. [She sings] "Sparrow, Sparrow, where are you? On the mountain drinking dew." [A pause] Are your father and mother living, Doctor? LVOFF. My mother is living; my father is dead. ANNA. Do you miss your mother very much? LVOFF. I am too busy to miss any one. ANNA. [Laughing] The flowers return with every spring, but lost happiness never returns. I wonder who taught me that? I think it was Nicholas himself. [Listens] The owl is hooting again. LVOFF. Well, let it hoot. ANNA. I have begun to think, Doctor, that fate has cheated me. Other people who, perhaps, are no better than I am are happy and have not had to pay for their happiness. But I have paid for it all, every moment of it, and such a price! Why should I have to pay so terribly? Dear friend, you are all too considerate and gentle with me to tell me the truth; but do you think I don't know what is the matter with me? I know perfectly well. However, this isn't a pleasant subject--[With a Jewish accent] "I beg your bardon!" Can you tell funny stories? LVOFF. No, I can't. ANNA. Nicholas can. I am beginning to be surprised, too, at the injustice of people. Why do they return hatred for love, and answer truth with lies? Can you tell me how much longer I shall be hated by my mother and father? They live fifty miles away, and yet I can feel their hatred day and night, even in my sleep. And how do you account for the sadness of Nicholas? He says that he only dislikes me in the evening, when the fit is on him. I understand that, and can tolerate it, but what if he should come to dislike me altogether? Of course that is impossible, and yet--no, no, I mustn't even imagine such a thing. [Sings] "Sparrow, Sparrow, where are you?" [She shudders] What fearful thoughts I have! You are not married, Doctor; there are many things that you cannot understand. LVOFF. You say you are surprised, but--but it is you who surprise me. Tell me, explain to me how you, an honest and intelligent woman, almost a saint, could allow yourself to be so basely deceived and dragged into this den of bears? Why are you here? What have you in common with such a cold and heartless--but enough of your husband! What have you in common with these wicked and vulgar surroundings? With that eternal grumbler, the crazy and decrepit Count? With that swindler, that prince of rascals, Misha, with his fool's face? Tell me, I say, how did you get here? ANNA. [laughing] That is what he used to say, long ago, oh, exactly! Only his eyes are larger than yours, and when he was excited they used to shine like coals--go on, go on! LVOFF. [Gets up and waves his hand] There is nothing more to say. Go into the house. ANNA. You say that Nicholas is not what he should be, that his faults are so and so. How can you possibly understand him? How can you learn to know any one in six months? He is a wonderful man, Doctor, and I am sorry you could not have known him as he was two or three years ago. He is depressed and silent now, and broods all day without doing anything, but he was splendid then. I fell in love with him at first sight. [Laughing] I gave one look and was caught like a mouse in a trap! So when he asked me to go with him I cut every tie that bound me to my old life as one snips the withered leaves from a plant. But things are different now. Now he goes to the Lebedieff's to amuse himself with other women, and I sit here in the garden and listen to the owls. [The WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard] Tell me, Doctor, have you any brothers and sisters? LVOFF. No. ANNA sobs. LVOFF. What is it? What is the matter? ANNA. I can't stand it, Doctor, I must go. LVOFF. Where? ANNA. To him. I am going. Have the horses harnessed. [She runs into the house.] LVOFF. No, I certainly cannot go on treating any one under these conditions. I not only have to do it for nothing, but I am forced to endure this agony of mind besides. No, no, I can't stand it. I have had enough of it. [He goes into the house.] The curtain falls. ACT II The drawing-room of LEBEDIEFF�S house. In the centre is a door leading into a garden. Doors open out of the room to the right and left. The room is furnished with valuable old furniture, which is carefully protected by linen covers. The walls are hung with pictures. The room is lighted by candelabra. ZINAIDA is sitting on a sofa; the elderly guests are sitting in arm-chairs on either hand. The young guests are sitting about the room on small chairs. KOSICH, AVDOTIA NAZAROVNA, GEORGE, and others are playing cards in the background. GABRIEL is standing near the door on the right. The maid is passing sweetmeats about on a tray. During the entire act guests come and go from the garden, through the room, out of the door on the left, and back again. Enter MARTHA through the door on the right. She goes toward ZINAIDA. ZINAIDA. [Gaily] My dearest Martha! MARTHA. How do you do, Zinaida? Let me congratulate you on your daughter's birthday. ZINAIDA. Thank you, my dear; I am delighted to see you. How are you? MARTHA. Very well indeed, thank you. [She sits down on the sofa] Good evening, young people! The younger guests get up and bow. FIRST GUEST. [Laughing] Young people indeed! Do you call yourself an old person? MARTHA. [Sighing] How can I make any pretense to youth now? FIRST GUEST. What nonsense! The fact that you are a widow means nothing. You could beat any pretty girl you chose at a canter. GABRIEL brings MARTHA some tea. ZINAIDA. Why do you bring the tea in like that? Go and fetch some jam to eat with it! MARTHA. No thank you; none for me, don't trouble yourself. [A pause.] FIRST GUEST. [To MARTHA] Did you come through Mushkine on your way here? MARTHA. No, I came by way of Spassk. The road is better that way. FIRST GUEST. Yes, so it is. KOSICH. Two in spades. GEORGE. Pass. AVDOTIA. Pass. SECOND GUEST. Pass. MARTHA. The price of lottery tickets has gone up again, my dear. I have never known such a state of affairs. The first issue is already worth two hundred and seventy and the second nearly two hundred and fifty. This has never happened before. ZINAIDA. How fortunate for those who have a great many tickets! MARTHA. Don't say that, dear; even when the price of tickets is high it does not pay to put one's capital into them. ZINAIDA. Quite true, and yet, my dear, one never can tell what may happen. Providence is sometimes kind. THIRD GUEST. My impression is, ladies, that at present capital is exceedingly unproductive. Shares pay very small dividends, and speculating is exceedingly dangerous. As I understand it, the capitalist now finds himself in a more critical position than the man who---- MARTHA. Quite right. FIRST GUEST yawns. MARTHA. How dare you yawn in the presence of ladies? FIRST GUEST. I beg your pardon! It was quite an accident. ZINAIDA gets up and goes out through the door on the right. GEORGE. Two in hearts. SECOND GUEST. Pass. KOSICH. Pass. MARTHA. [Aside] Heavens! This is deadly! I shall die of ennui. Enter ZINAIDA and LEBEDIEFF through the door on the right. ZINAIDA. Why do you go off by yourself like a prima donna? Come and sit with our guests! [She sits down in her former place.] LEBEDIEFF. [Yawning] Oh, dear, our sins are heavy! [He catches sight of MARTHA] Why, there is my little sugar-plum! How is your most esteemed highness? MARTHA. Very well, thank you. LEBEDIEFF. Splendid, splendid! [He sits down in an armchair] Quite right--Oh, Gabriel! GABRIEL brings him a glass of vodka and a tumbler of water. He empties the glass of vodka and sips the water. FIRST GUEST. Good health to you! LEBEDIEFF. Good health is too much to ask. I am content to keep death from the door. [To his wife] Where is the heroine of this occasion, Zuzu? KOSICH. [In a plaintive voice] Look here, why haven't we taken any tricks yet? [He jumps up] Yes, why have we lost this game entirely, confound it? AVDOTIA. [Jumps up angrily] Because, friend, you don't know how to play it, and have no right to be sitting here at all. What right had you to lead from another suit? Haven't you the ace left? [They both leave the table and run forward.] KOSICH. [In a tearful voice] Ladies and gentlemen, let me explain! I had the ace, king, queen, and eight of diamonds, the ace of spades and one, just one, little heart, do you understand? Well, she, bad luck to her, she couldn't make a little slam. I said one in no-trumps---- * * The game played is vint, the national card-game of Russia and the direct ancestor of auction bridge, with which it is almost identical. [translator's note] AVDOTIA. [Interrupting him] No, I said one in no-trumps; you said two in no-trumps---- KOSICH. This is unbearable! Allow me--you had--I had--you had--[To LEBEDIEFF] But you shall decide it, Paul: I had the ace, king, queen, and eight of diamonds---- LEBEDIEFF. [Puts his fingers into his ears] Stop, for heaven's sake, stop! AVDOTIA. [Yelling] I said no-trumps, and not he! KOSICH. [Furiously] I'll be damned if I ever sit down to another game of cards with that old cat! He rushes into the garden. The SECOND GUEST follows him. GEORGE is left alone at the table. AVDOTIA. Whew! He makes my blood boil! Old cat, indeed! You're an old cat yourself! MARTHA. How angry you are, aunty! AVDOTIA. [Sees MARTHA and claps her hands] Are you here, my darling? My beauty! And was I blind as a bat, and didn't see you? Darling child! [She kisses her and sits down beside her] How happy this makes me! Let me feast my eyes on you, my milk-white swan! Oh, oh, you have bewitched me! LEBEDIEFF. Why don't you find her a husband instead of singing her praises? AVDOTIA. He shall be found. I shall not go to my grave before I have found a husband for her, and one for Sasha too. I shall not go to my grave--[She sighs] But where to find these husbands nowadays? There sit some possible bridegrooms now, huddled together like a lot of half-drowned rats! THIRD GUEST. A most unfortunate comparison! It is my belief, ladies, that if the young men of our day prefer to remain single, the fault lies not with them, but with the existing, social conditions! LEBEDIEFF. Come, enough of that! Don't give us any mo re philosophy; I don't like it! Enter SASHA. She goes up to her father. SASHA. How can you endure the stuffy air of this room when the weather is so beautiful? ZINAIDA. My dear Sasha, don't you see that Martha is here? SASHA. I beg your pardon. [She goes up to MARTHA and shakes hands.] MARTHA. Yes, here I am, my dear little Sasha, and proud to congratulate you. [They kiss each other] Many happy returns of the day, dear! SASHA. Thank you! [She goes and sits down by her father.] LEBEDIEFF. As you were saying, Avdotia Nazarovna, husbands are hard to find. I don't want to be rude, but I must say that the young men of the present are a dull and poky lot, poor fellows! They can't dance or talk or drink as they should do. AVDOTIA. Oh, as far as drinking goes, they are all experts. Just give them--give them---- LEBEDIEFF. Simply to drink is no art. A horse can drink. No, it must be done in the right way. In my young days we used to sit and cudgel our brains all day over our lessons, but as soon as evening came we would fly off on some spree and keep it up till dawn. How we used to dance and flirt, and drink, too! Or sometimes we would sit and chatter and discuss everything under the sun until we almost wagged our tongues off. But now--[He waves his hand] Boys are a puzzle to me. They are not willing either to give a candle to God or a pitchfork to the devil! There is only one young fellow in the country who is worth a penny, and he is married. [Sighs] They say, too, that he is going crazy. MARTHA. Who is he? LEBEDIEFF. Nicholas Ivanoff. MARTHA. Yes, he is a fine fellow, only [Makes a face] he is very unhappy. ZINAIDA. How could he be otherwise, poor boy! [She sighs] He made such a bad mistake. When he married that Jewess of his he thought of course that her parents would give away whole mountains of gold with her, but, on the contrary, on the day she became a Christian they disowned her, and Ivanoff has never seen a penny of the money. He has repented of his folly now, but it is too late. SASHA. Mother, that is not true! MARTHA. How can you say it is not true, Sasha, when we all know it to be a fact? Why did he have to marry a Jewess? He must have had some reason for doing it. Are Russian girls so scarce? No, he made a mistake, poor fellow, a sad mistake. [Excitedly] And what on earth can he do with her now? Where could she go if he were to come home some day and say: "Your parents have deceived me; leave my house at once!" Her parents wouldn't take her back. She might find a place as a house-maid if she had ever learned to work, which she hasn't. He worries and worries her now, but the Count interferes. If it had not been for the Count, he would have worried her to death long ago. AVDOTIA. They say he shuts her up in a cellar and stuffs her with garlic, and she eats and eats until her very soul reeks of it. [Laughter.] SASHA. But, father, you know that isn't true! LEBEDIEFF. What if it isn't, Sasha? Let them spin yarns if it amuses them. [He calls] Gabriel! GABRIEL brings him another glass of vodka and a glass of water. ZINAIDA. His misfortunes have almost ruined him, poor man. His affairs are in a frightful condition. If Borkin did not take such good charge of his estate he and his Jewess would soon be starving to death. [She sighs] And what anxiety he has caused us! Heaven only knows how we have suffered. Do you realise, my dear, that for three years he has owed us nine thousand roubles? MARTHA. [Horrified] Nine thousand! ZINAIDA. Yes, that is the sum that my dear Paul has undertaken to lend him. He never knows to whom it is safe to lend money and to whom it is not. I don't worry about the principal, but he ought to pay the interest on his debt. SASHA. [Hotly] Mamma, you have already discussed this subject at least a thousand times! ZINAIDA. What difference does it make to you? Why should you interfere? SASHA. What is this mania you all have for gossiping about a man who has never done any of you any harm? Tell me, what harm has he done you? THIRD GUEST. Let me say two words, Miss Sasha. I esteem Ivanoff, and have always found him an honourable man, but, between ourselves, I also consider him an adventurer. SASHA. I congratulate you on your opinion! THIRD GUEST. In proof of its truth, permit me to present to you the following facts, as they were communicated to me by his secretary, or shall I say rather, by his factotum, Borkin. Two years ago, at the time of the cattle plague, he bought some cattle and had them insured-- ZINAIDA. Yes, I remember hearing' of that. THIRD GUEST. He had them insured, as you understand, and then inoculated them with the disease and claimed the insurance. SASHA. Oh, what nonsense, nonsense, nonsense! No one bought or inoculated any cattle! The story was invented by Borkin, who then went about boasting of his clever plan. Ivanoff would not forgive Borkin for two weeks after he heard of it. He is only guilty of a weak character and too great faith in humanity. He can't make up his mind to get rid of that Borkin, and so all his possessions have been tricked and stolen from him. Every one who has had anything to do with Ivanoff has taken advantage of his generosity to grow rich. LEBEDIEFF. Sasha, you little firebrand, that will do! SASHA. Why do you all talk like this? This eternal subject of Ivanoff, Ivanoff, and always Ivanoff has grown insufferable, and yet you never speak of anything else. [She goes toward the door, then stops and comes back] I am surprised, [To the young men] and utterly astonished at your patience, young men! How can you sit there like that? Aren't you bored? Why, the very air is as dull as ditchwater! Do, for heaven's sake say something; try to amuse the girls a little, move about! Or if you can't talk of anything except Ivanoff, you might laugh or sing or dance---- LEBEDIEFF. [Laughing] That's right, Sasha! Give them a good scolding. SASHA. Look here, will you do me a favour? If you refuse to dance or sing or laugh, if all that is tedious, then let me beg you, implore you, to summon all your powers, if only for this once, and make one witty or clever remark. Let it be as impertinent and malicious as you like, so long as it is funny and original. Won't you perform this miracle, just once, to surprise us and make us laugh? Or else you might think of some little thing which you could all do together, something to make you stir about. Let the girls admire you for once in their lives! Listen to me! I suppose you want them to like you? Then why don't try to make them do it? Oh, dear! There is something wrong with you all! You are a lot of sleepy stick-in-the-muds! I have told you so a thousand times and shall always go on repeating it; there is something wrong with every one of you; something wrong, wrong, wrong! Enter IVANOFF and SHABELSKI through the door on the right. SHABELSKI. Who is making a speech here? Is it you, Sasha? [He laughs and shakes hands with her] Many happy returns of the day, my dear child. May you live as long as possible in this life, but never be born again! ZINAIDA. [Joyfully] My dear Count! LEBEDIEFF. Who can this be? Not you, Count? SHABELSKI. [Sees ZINAIDA and MARTHA sitting side by side] Two gold mines side by side! What a pleasant picture it makes! [He shakes hands with ZINAIDA] Good evening, Zuzu! [Shakes hands with MARTHA] Good evening, Birdie! ZINAIDA. I am charmed to see you, Count. You are a rare visitor here now. [Calls] Gabriel, bring some tea! Please sit down. She gets up and goes to the door and back, evidently much preoccupied. SASHA sits down in her former place. IVANOFF silently shakes hands with every one. LEBEDIEFF. [To SHABELSKI] What miracle has brought you here? You have given us a great surprise. Why, Count, you're a rascal, you haven't been treating us right at all. [Leads him forward by the hand] Tell me, why don't you ever come to see us now? Are you offended? SHABELSKI. How can I get here to see you? Astride a broomstick? I have no horses of my own, and Nicholas won't take me with him when he goes out. He says I must stay at home to amuse Sarah. Send your horses for me and I shall come with pleasure. LEBE DIEFF. [With a wave of the hand] Oh, that is easy to say! But Zuzu would rather have a fit than lend the horses to any one. My dear, dear old friend, you are more to me than any one I know! You and I are survivors of those good old days that are gone forever, and you alone bring back to my mind the love and longings of my lost youth. Of course I am only joking, and yet, do you know, I am almost in tears? SHABELSKI. Stop, stop! You smell like the air of a wine cellar. LEBEDIEFF. Dear friend, you cannot imagine how lonely I am without my old companions! I could hang myself! [Whispers] Zuzu has frightened all the decent men away with her stingy ways, and now we have only this riff-raff, as you see: Tom, Dick, and Harry. However, drink your tea. ZINAIDA. [Anxiously, to GABRIEL] Don't bring it in like that! Go fetch some jam to eat with it! SHABELSKI. [Laughing loudly, to IVANOFF] Didn't I tell you so? [To LEBEDIEFF] I bet him driving over, that as soon as we arrived Zuzu would want to feed us with jam! ZINAIDA. Still joking, Count! [She sits down.] LEBEDIEFF. She made twenty jars of it this year, and how else do you expect her to get rid of it? SHABELSKI. [Sits down near the table] Are you still adding to the hoard, Zuzu? You will soon have a million, eh? ZINAIDA. [Sighing] I know it seems as if no one could be richer than we, but where do they think the money comes from? It is all gossip. SHABELSKI. Oh, yes, we all know that! We know how badly you play your cards! Tell me, Paul, honestly, have you saved up a million yet? LEBEDIEFF. I don't know. Ask Zuzu. SHABELSKI. [To MARTHA] And my plump little Birdie here will soon have a million too! She is getting prettier and plumper not only every day, but every hour. That means she has a nice little fortune. MARTHA. Thank you very much, your highness, but I don't like such jokes. SHABELSKI. My dear little gold mine, do you call that a joke? It was a wail of the soul, a cry from the heart, that burst through my lips. My love for you and Zuzu is immense. [Gaily] Oh, rapture! Oh, bliss! I cannot look at you two without a madly beating heart! ZINAIDA. You are still the same, Count. [To GEORGE] Put out the candles please, George. [GEORGE gives a start. He puts out the candles and sits down again] How is your wife, Nicholas? IVANOFF. She is very ill. The doctor said to-day that she certainly had consumption. ZINAIDA. Really? Oh, how sad! [She sighs] And we are all so fond of her! SHABELSKI. What trash you all talk! That story was invented by that sham doctor, and is nothing but a trick of his. He wants to masquerade as an Aesculapius, and so has started this consumption theory. Fortunately her husband isn't jealous. [IVANOFF makes an inpatient gesture] As for Sarah, I wouldn't trust a word or an action of hers. I have made a point all my life of mistrusting all doctors, lawyers, and women. They are shammers and deceivers. LEBEDIEFF. [To SHABELSKI] You are an extraordinary person, Matthew! You have mounted this misanthropic hobby of yours, and you ride it through thick and thin like a lunatic You are a man like any other, and yet, from the way you talk one would imagine that you had the pip, or a cold in the head. SHABELSKI. Would you have me go about kissing every rascal and scoundrel I meet? LEBEDIEFF. Where do you find all these rascals and scoundrels? SHABELSKI. Of course I am not talking of any one here present, nevertheless----- LEBEDIEFF. There you are again with your "nevertheless." All this is simply a fancy of yours. SHABELSKI. A fancy? It is lucky for you that you have no knowledge of the world! LEBEDIEFF. My knowledge of the world is this: I must sit here prepared at any moment to have death come knocking at the door. That is my knowledge of the world. At our age, brother, you and I can't afford to worry about knowledge of the world. So then--[He calls] Oh, Gabriel! SHABELSKI. You have had quite enough already. Look at your nose. LEBEDIEFF. No matter, old boy. I am not going to be married to-day. ZINAIDA. Doctor Lvoff has not been here for a long time. He seems to have forgotten us. SASHA. That man is one of my aversions. I can't stand his icy sense of honour. He can't ask for a glass of water or smoke a cigarette without making a display of his remarkable honesty. Walking and talking, it is written on his brow: "I am an honest man." He is a great bore. SHABELSKI. He is a narrow-minded, conceited medico. [Angrily] He shrieks like a parrot at every step: "Make way for honest endeavour!" and thinks himself another St. Francis. Everybody is a rascal who doesn't make as much noise as he does. As for his penetration, it is simply remarkable! If a peasant is well off and lives decently, he sees at once that he must be a thief and a scoundrel. If I wear a velvet coat and am dressed by my valet, I am a rascal and the valet is my slave. There is no place in this world for a man like him. I am actually afraid of him. Yes, indeed, he is likely, out of a sense of duty, to insult a man at any moment and to call him a knave. IVANOFF. I am dreadfully tired of him, but I can't help liking him, too, he is so sincere. SHABELSKI. Oh, yes, his sincerity is beautiful! He came up to me yesterday evening and remarked absolutely apropos of nothing: "Count, I have a deep aversion to you!" It isn't as if he said such things simply, but they are extremely pointed. His voice trembles, his eyes flash, his veins swell. Confound his infernal honesty! Supposing I am disgusting and odious to him? What is more natural? I know that I am, but I don't like to be told so to my face. I am a worthless old man, but he might have the decency to respect my grey hairs. Oh, what stupid, heartless honesty! LEBEDIEFF. Come, come, you have been young yourself, and should make allowances for him. SHABELSKI. Yes, I have been young and reckless; I have played the fool in my day and have seen plenty of knaves and scamps, but I have never called a thief a thief to his face, or talked of ropes in the house of a man who had been hung. I knew how to behave, but this idiotic doctor of yours would think himself in the seventh heaven of happiness if fate would allow him to pull my nose in public in the name of morality and human ideals. LEBEDIEFF. Young men are all stubborn and restive. I had an uncle once who thought himself a philosopher. He would fill his house with guests, and after he had had a drink he would get up on a chair, like this, and begin: "You ignoramuses! You powers of darkness! This is the dawn of a new life!" And so on and so on; he would preach and preach---- SASHA. And the guests? LEBEDIEFF. They would just sit and listen and go on drinking. Once, though, I challenged him to a duel, challenged my own uncle! It came out of a discussion about Sir Francis Bacon. I was sitting, I remember, where Matthew is, and my uncle and the late Gerasim Nilitch were standing over there, about where Nicholas is now. Well, Gerasim Nilitch propounded this question---- Enter BORKIN. He is dressed like a dandy and carries a parcel under his arm. He comes in singing and skipping through the door on the right. A murmur of approval is heard. THE GIRLS. Oh, Michael Borkin! LEBEDIEFF. Hallo, Misha! SHABELSKI. The soul of the company! BORKIN. Here we are! [He runs up to SASHA] Most noble Signorina, let me be so bold as to wish to the whole world many happy returns of the birthday of such an exquisite flower as you! As a token of my enthusiasm let me presume to present you with these fireworks and this Bengal fire of my own manufacture. [He hands her the parcel] May they illuminate the night as brightly as you illuminate the shadows of this dark world. [He spreads them out theatrically before her.] SASHA. Thank you. LEBEDIEFF. [Laughing loudly, to IVANOFF] Why don't you send this Judas packing? BORKIN. [To LEBEDIEFF] My compliments to you, sir. [To IVANOFF] How are you, my patron? [Sings] Nicholas voila, hey ho hey! [He greets everybody in turn] Most highly honoured Zinaida! Oh, glorious Martha! Most ancient Avdotia! Noblest of Counts! SHABELSKI. [Laughing] The life of the company! The moment he comes in the air fe els livelier. Have you noticed it? BORKIN. Whew! I am tired! I believe I have shaken hands with everybody. Well, ladies and gentlemen, haven't you some little tidbit to tell me; something spicy? [Speaking quickly to ZINAIDA] Oh, aunty! I have something to tell you. As I was on my way here--[To GABRIEL] Some tea, please Gabriel, but without jam--as I was on my way here I saw some peasants down on the river-bank pulling the bark off the trees. Why don't you lease that meadow? LEBEDIEFF. [To IVANOFF] Why don't you send that Judas away? ZINAIDA. [Startled] Why, that is quite true! I never thought of it. BORKIN. [Swinging his arms] I can't sit still! What tricks shall we be up to next, aunty? I am all on edge, Martha, absolutely exalted. [He sings] "Once more I stand before thee!" ZINAIDA. Think of something to amuse us, Misha, we are all bored. BORKIN. Yes, you look so. What is the matter with you all? Why are you sitting there as solemn as a jury? Come, let us play something; what shall it be? Forfeits? Hide-and-seek? Tag? Shall we dance, or have the fireworks? THE GIRLS. [Clapping their hands] The fireworks! The fireworks! [They run into the garden.] SASHA. [ To IVANOFF] What makes you so depressed today? IVANOFF. My head aches, little Sasha, and then I feel bored. SASHA. Come into the sitting-room with me. They go out through the door on the right. All the guests go into the garden and ZINAIDA and LEBEDIEFF are left alone. ZINAIDA. That is what I like to see! A young man like Misha comes into the room and in a minute he has everybody laughing. [She puts out the large lamp] There is no reason the candles should burn for nothing so long as they are all in the garden. [She blows out the candles.] LEBEDIEFF. [Following her] We really ought to give our guests something to eat, Zuzu! ZINAIDA. What crowds of candles; no wonder we are thought rich. LEBEDIEFF. [Still following her] Do let them have something to eat, Zuzu; they are young and must be hungry by now, poor things--Zuzu! ZINAIDA. The Count did not finish his tea, and all that sugar has been wasted. [Goes out through the door on the left.] LEBEDIEFF. Bah! [Goes out into the garden.] Enter IVANOFF and SASHA through the door on the right. IVANOFF. This is how it is, Sasha: I used to work hard and think hard, and never tire; now, I neither do anything nor think anything, and I am weary, body and soul. I feel I am terribly to blame, my conscience leaves me no peace day or night, and yet I can't see clearly exactly what my mistakes are. And now comes my wife's illness, our poverty, this eternal backbiting, gossiping, chattering, that foolish Borkin--My home has become unendurable to me, and to live there is worse than torture. Frankly, Sasha, the presence of my wife, who loves me, has become unbearable. You are an old friend, little Sasha, you will not be angry with me for speaking so openly. I came to you to be cheered, but I am bored here too, something urges me home again. Forgive me, I shall slip away at once. SASHA. I can understand your trouble, Nicholas. You are unhappy because you are lonely. You need some one at your side whom you can love, someone who understands you. IVANOFF. What an idea, Sasha! Fancy a crusty old badger like myself starting a love affair! Heaven preserve me from such misfortune! No, my little sage, this is not a case for romance. The fact is, I can endure all I have to suffer: sadness, sickness of mind, ruin, the loss of my wife, and my lonely, broken old age, but I cannot, I will not, endure the contempt I have for myself! I am nearly killed by shame when I think that a strong, healthy man like myself has become--oh, heaven only knows what--by no means a Manfred or a Hamlet! There are some unfortunates who feel flattered when people call them Hamlets and cynics, but to me it is an insult. It wounds my pride and I am tortured by shame and suffer agony. SASHA. [Laughing through her tears] Nicholas, let us run away to America together! IVANOFF. I haven't the energy to take such a step as that, and besides, in America you--[They go toward the door into the garden] As a matter of fact, Sasha, this is not a good place for you to live. When I look about at the men who surround you I am terrified for you; whom is there you could marry? Your only chance will be if some passing lieutenant or student steals your heart and carries you away. Enter ZINAIDA through the door on the right with a jar of jam. IVANOFF. Excuse me, Sasha, I shall join you in a minute. SASHA goes out into the garden. IVANOFF. [To ZINAIDA] Zinaida, may I ask you a favour? ZINAIDA. What is it? IVANOFF. The fact is, you know, that the interest on my note is due day after to-morrow, but I should be more than obliged to you if you will let me postpone the payment of it, or would let me add the interest to the capital. I simply cannot pay it now; I haven't the money. ZINAIDA. Oh, Ivanoff, how could I do such a thing? Would it be business-like? No, no, don't ask it, don't torment an unfortunate old woman. IVANOFF. I beg your pardon. [He goes out into the garden.] ZINAIDA. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What a fright he gave me! I am trembling all over. [Goes out through the door on the right.] Enter KOSICH through the door on the left. He walks across the stage. KOSICH. I had the ace, king, queen, and eight of diamonds, the ace of spades, and one, just one little heart, and she--may the foul fiend fly away with her,--she couldn't make a little slam! Goes out through the door on the right. Enter from the garden AVDOTIA and FIRST GUEST. AVDOTIA. Oh, how I should like to get my claws into her, the miserable old miser! How I should like it! Does she think it a joke to leave us sitting here since five o'clock without even offering us a crust to eat? What a house! What management! FIRST GUEST. I am so bored that I feel like beating my head against the wall. Lord, what a queer lot of people! I shall soon be howling like a wolf and snapping at them from hunger and weariness. AVDOTIA. How I should like to get my claws into her, the old sinner! FIRST GUEST. I shall get a drink, old lady, and then home I go! I won't have anything to do with these belles of yours. How the devil can a man think of love who hasn't had a drop to drink since dinner? AVDOTIA. Come on, we will go and find something. FIRST GUEST. Sh! Softly! I think the brandy is in the sideboard in the dining-room. We will find George! Sh! They go out through the door on the left. Enter ANNA and LVOFF through the door on the right. ANNA. No, they will be glad to see us. Is no one here? Then they must be in the garden. LVOFF. I should like to know why you have brought me into this den of wolves. This is no place for you and me; honourable people should not be subjected to such influences as these. ANNA. Listen to me, Mr. Honourable Man. When you are escorting a lady it is very bad manners to talk to her the whole way about nothing but your own honesty. Such behaviour may be perfectly honest, but it is also tedious, to say the least. Never tell a woman how good you are; let her find it out herself. My Nicholas used only to sing and tell stories when he was young as you are, and yet every woman knew at once what kind of a man he was. LVOFF. Don't talk to me of your Nicholas; I know all about him! ANNA. You are a very worthy man, but you don't know anything at all. Come into the garden. He never said: "I am an honest man; these surroundings are too narrow for me." He never spoke of wolves' dens, called people bears or vultures. He left the animal kingdom alone, and the most I have ever heard him say when he was excited was: "Oh, how unjust I have been to-day!" or "Annie, I am sorry for that man." That's what he would say, but you-- ANNA and LVOFF go out. Enter AVDOTIA and FIRST GUEST through the door on the left. FIRST GUEST. There isn't any in the dining-room, so it must be somewhere in the pantry. We must find George. Come this way, through the sitting-room. AVDOTIA. Oh, how I should like to get my claws into her! They go out through the door on the right. MARTHA and BORKIN run in laughing from the garden. SHABELSK I comes mincing behind them, laughing and rubbing his hands. MARTHA. Oh, I am so bored! [Laughs loudly] This is deadly! Every one looks as if he had swallowed a poker. I am frozen to the marrow by this icy dullness. [She skips about] Let us do something! BORKIN catches her by the waist and kisses her cheek. SHABELSKI. [Laughing and snapping his fingers] Well, I'll be hanged! [Cackling] Really, you know! MARTHA. Let go! Let go, you wretch! What will the Count think? Stop, I say! BORKIN. Angel! Jewel! Lend me twenty-three hundred roubles. MARTHA. Most certainly not! Do what you please, but I'll thank you to leave my money alone. No, no, no! Oh, let go, will you? SHABELSKI. [Mincing around them] The little birdie has its charms! [Seriously] Come, that will do! BORKIN. Let us come to the point, and consider my proposition frankly as a business arrangement. Answer me honestly, without tricks and equivocations, do you agree to do it or not? Listen to me; [Pointing to Shabelski] he needs money to the amount of at least three thousand a year; you need a husband. Do you want to be a Countess? SHABELSKI. [Laughing loudly] Oh, the cynic! BORKIN. Do you want to be a Countess or not? MARTHA. [Excitedly] Wait a minute; really, Misha, these things aren't done in a second like this. If the Count wants to marry me, let him ask me himself, and--and--I don't see, I don't understand--all this is so sudden---- BORKIN. Come, don't let us beat about the bush; this is a business arrangement. Do you agree or not? SHABELSKI. [Chuckling and rubbing his hands] Supposing I do marry her, eh? Hang it, why shouldn't I play her this shabby trick? What do you say, little puss? [He kisses her cheek] Dearest chick-a-biddy! MARTHA. Stop! Stop! I hardly know what I am doing. Go away! No--don't go! BORKIN. Answer at once: is it yes or no? We can't stand here forever. MARTHA. Look here, Count, come and visit me for three or four days. It is gay at my house, not like this place. Come to-morrow. [To BORKIN] Or is this all a joke? BORKIN. [Angrily] How could I joke on such a serious subject? MARTHA. Wait! Stop! Oh, I feel faint! A Countess! I am fainting, I am falling! BORKIN and SHABELSKI laugh and catch her by the arms. They kiss her cheeks and lead her out through the door on the right. IVANOFF and SASHA run in from the garden. IVANOFF. [Desperately clutching his head] It can't be true! Don't Sasha, don't! Oh, I implore you not to! SASHA. I love you madly. Without you my life can have no meaning, no happiness, no hope. IVANOFF. Why, why do you say that? What do you mean? Little Sasha, don't say it! SASHA. You were the only joy of my childhood; I loved you body and soul then, as myself, but now--Oh, I love you, Nicholas! Take me with you to the ends of the earth, wherever you wish; but for heaven's sake let us go at once, or I shall die. IVANOFF. [Shaking with wild laughter] What is this? Is it the beginning for me of a new life? Is it, Sasha? Oh, my happiness, my joy! [He draws her to him] My freshness, my youth! Enter ANNA from the garden. She sees her husband and SASHA, and stops as if petrified. IVANOFF. Oh, then I shall live once more? And work? IVANOFF and SASHA kiss each other. After the kiss they look around and see ANNA. IVANOFF. [With horror] Sarah! The curtain falls. ACT III Library in IVANOFF'S house. On the walls hang maps, pictures, guns, pistols, sickles, whips, etc. A writing-table. On it lie in disorder knick-knacks, papers, books, parcels, and several revolvers. Near the papers stand a lamp, a decanter of vodka, and a plate of salted herrings. Pieces of bread and cucumber are scattered about. SHABELSKI and LEBEDIEFF are sitting at the writing-table. BORKIN is sitting astride a chair in the middle of the room. PETER is standing near the door. LEBEDIEFF. The policy of France is clear and definite; the French know what they want: it is to skin those German sausages, but the Germans must sing another song; France is not the only thorn in their flesh. SHABELSKI. Nonsense! In my opinion the Germans are cowards and the French are the same. They are showing their teeth at one another, but you can take my word for it, they will not do more than that; they'll never fight! BORKIN. Why should they fight? Why all these congresses, this arming and expense? Do you know what I would do in their place? I would catch all the dogs in the kingdom and inoculate them with Pasteur's serum, then I would let them loose in the enemy's country, and the enemies would all go mad in a month. LEBEDIEFF. [Laughing] His head is small, but the great ideas are hidden away in it like fish in the sea! SHABELSKI. Oh, he is a genius. LEBEDIEFF. Heaven help you, Misha, you are a funny chap. [He stops laughing] But how is this, gentlemen? Here we are talking Germany, Germany, and never a word about vodka! Repetatur! [He fills three glasses] Here's to you all! [He drinks and eats] This herring is the best of all relishes. SHABELSKI. No, no, these cucumbers are better; every wise man since the creation of the world has been trying to invent something better than a salted cucumber, and not one has succeeded. [To PETER] Peter, go and fetch some more cucumbers. And Peter, tell the cook to make four little onion pasties, and see that we get them hot. PETER goes out. LEBEDIEFF. Caviar is good with vodka, but it must be prepared with skill. Take a quarter of a pound of pressed caviar, two little onions, and a little olive oil; mix them together and put a slice of lemon on top--so! Lord! The very perfume would drive you crazy! BORKIN. Roast snipe are good too, but they must be cooked right. They should first be cleaned, then sprinkled with bread crumbs, and roasted until they will crackle between the teeth--crunch, crunch! SHABELSKI. We had something good at Martha's yesterday: white mushrooms. LEBEDIEFF. You don't say so! SHABELSKI. And they were especially well prepared, too, with onions and bay-leaves and spices, you know. When the dish was opened, the odour that floated out was simply intoxicating! LEBEDIEFF. What do you say, gentlemen? Repetatur! [He drinks] Good health to you! [He looks at his watch] I must be going. I can't wait for Nicholas. So you say Martha gave you mushrooms? We haven't seen one at home. Will you please tell me, Count, what plot you are hatching that takes you to Martha's so often? SHABELSKI. [Nodding at BORKIN] He wants me to marry her. LEBEDIEFF. Wants you to marry her! How old are you? SHABELSKI. Sixty-two. LEBEDIEFF. Really, you are just the age to marry, aren't you? And Martha is just suited to you! BORKIN. This is not a question of Martha, but of Martha's money. LEBEDIEFF. Aren't you moonstruck, and don't you want the moon too? SHABELSKI. Borkin here is quite in earnest about it; the clever fellow is sure I shall obey orders, and marry Martha. BORKIN. What do you mean? Aren't you sure yourself? SHABELSKI. Are you mad? I never was sure of anything. Bah! BORKIN. Many thanks! I am much obliged to you for the information. So you are trying to fool me, are you? First you say you will marry Martha and then you say you won't; the devil only knows which you really mean, but I have given her my word of honour that you will. So you have changed your mind, have you? SHABELSKI. He is actually in earnest; what an extraordinary man! BORKIN. [losing his temper] If that is how you feel about it, why have you turned an honest woman's head? Her heart is set on your title, and she can neither eat nor sleep for thinking of it. How can you make a jest of such things? Do you think such behaviour is honourable? SHABELSKI. [Snapping his fingers] Well, why not play her this shabby trick, after all? Eh? Just out of spite? I shall certainly do it, upon my word I shall! What a joke it will be! Enter LVOFF. LEBEDIEFF. We bow before you, Aesculapius! [He shakes hands with LVOFF and sings] "Doctor, doctor, save, oh, save me, I am scared to death of dying!" LVOFF. Hasn't Ivanoff come home yet? LEBEDIEFF. Not yet. I have been waiting for him myself for over an hour. LVOFF walks impatiently up and down. LEBEDIEFF. How is Anna to-day? LVOFF. Very ill. LEBEDIEFF. [Sighing] May one go and pay one's respects to her? LVOFF. No, please don't. She is asleep, I believe. LEBEDIEFF. She is a lovely, charming woman. [Sighing] The day she fainted at our house, on Sasha's birthday, I saw that she had not much longer to live, poor thing. Let me see, why did she faint? When I ran up, she was lying on the floor, ashy white, with Nicholas on his knees beside her, and Sasha was standing by them in tears. Sasha and I went about almost crazy for a week after that. SHABELSKI. [To LVOFF] Tell me, most honoured disciple of science, what scholar discovered that the frequent visits of a young doctor were beneficial to ladies suffering from affections of the chest? It is a remarkable discovery, remarkable! Would you call such treatment Allopathic or Homeopathic? LVOFF tries to answer, but makes an impatient gesture instead, and walks out of the room. SHABELSKI. What a withering look he gave me! LEBEDIEFF. Some fiend must prompt you to say such things! Why did you offend him? SHABELSKI. [Angrily] Why does he tell such lies? Consumption! No hope! She is dying! It is nonsense, I can't abide him! LEBEDIEFF. What makes you think he is lying? SHABELSKI. [Gets up and walks up and down] I can't bear to think that a living person could die like that, suddenly, without any reason at all. Don't let us talk about it! KOSICH runs in panting. KOSICH. Is Ivanoff at home? How do you do? [He shakes hands quickly all round] Is he at home? BORKIN. No, he isn't. KOSICH. [Sits down and jumps up again] In that case I must say goodbye; I must be going. Business, you know. I am absolutely exhausted; run off my feet! LEBEDIEFF. Where did you blow in from? KOSICH. From Barabanoff's. He and I have been playing cards all night; we have only just stopped. I have been absolutely fleeced; that Barabanoff is a demon at cards. [In a tearful voice] Just listen to this: I had a heart and he [He turns to BORKIN, who jumps away from him] led a diamond, and I led a heart, and he led another diamond. Well, he didn't take the trick. [To LEBEDIEFF] We were playing three in clubs. I had the ace and queen, and the ace and ten of spades-- LEBEDIEFF. [Stopping up his ears] Spare me, for heaven's sake, spare me! KOSICH. [To SHABELSKI] Do you understand? I had the ace and queen of clubs, the ace and ten of spades. SHABELSKI. [Pushes him away] Go away, I don't want to listen to you! KOSICH. When suddenly misfortune overtook me. My ace of spades took the first trick-- SHABELSKI. [Snatching up a revolver] Leave the room, or I shall shoot! KOSICH. [Waving his hands] What does this mean? Is this the Australian bush, where no one has any interests in common? Where there is no public spirit, and each man lives for himself alone? However, I must be off. My time is precious. [He shakes hands with LEBEDIEFF] Pass! General laughter. KOSICH goes out. In the doorway he runs into AVDOTIA. AVDOTIA. [Shrieks] Bad luck to you, you nearly knocked me down. ALL. Oh, she is always everywhere at once! AVDOTIA. So this is where you all are? I have been looking for you all over the house. Good-day to you, boys! [She shakes hands with everybody.] LEBEDIEFF. What brings you here? AVDOTIA. Business, my son. [To SHABELSKI] Business connected with your highness. She commanded me to bow. [She bows] And to inquire after your health. She told me to say, the little birdie, that if you did not come to see her this evening she would cry her eyes out. Take him aside, she said, and whisper in his ear. But why should I make a secret of her message? We are not stealing chickens, but arranging an affair of lawful love by mutual consent of both parties. And now, although I never drink, I shall take a drop under these circumstances. LEBEDIEFF. So shall I. [He pours out the vodka] You must be immortal, you old magpie! You were an old woman when I first knew you, thirty years ago. AVDOTIA. I have lost count of the years. I have buried three husbands, and would have married a fourth if any one had wanted a woman without a dowry. I have had eight children. [She takes up the glass] Well, we have begun a good work, may it come to a good end! They will live happily ever after, and we shall enjoy their happiness. Love and good luck to them both! [She drinks] This is strong vodka! SHABELSKI. [laughing loudly, to LEBEDIEFF] The funny thing is, they actually think I am in earnest. How strange! [He gets up] And yet, Paul, why shouldn't I play her this shabby trick? Just out of spite? To give the devil something to do, eh, Paul? LEBEDIEFF. You are talking nonsense, Count. You and I must fix our thoughts on dying now; we have left Martha's money far behind us; our day is over. SHABELSKI. No, I shall certainly marry her; upon my word, I shall! Enter IVANOFF and LVOFF. LVOFF. Will you please spare me five minutes of your time? LEBEDIEFF. Hallo, Nicholas! [He goes to meet IVANOFF] How are you, old friend? I have been waiting an hour for you. AVDOTIA. [Bows] How do you do, my son? IVANOFF. [Bitterly] So you have turned my library into a bar-room again, have you? And yet I have begged you all a thousand times not to do so! [He goes up to the table] There, you see, you have spilt vodka all over my papers and scattered crumbs and cucumbers everywhere! It is disgusting! LEBEDIEFF. I beg your pardon, Nicholas. Please forgive me. I have something very important to speak to you about. BORKIN. So have I. LVOFF. May I have a word with you? IVANOFF. [Pointing to LEBEDIEFF] He wants to speak to me; wait a minute. [To LEBEDIEFF] Well, what is it? LEBEDIEFF. [To the others] Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I want to speak to him in private. SHABELSKI goes out, followed by AVDOTIA, BORKIN, and LVOFF. IVANOFF. Paul, you may drink yourself as much as you choose, it is your weakness, but I must ask you not to make my uncle tipsy. He never used to drink at all; it is bad for him. LEBEDIEFF. [Startled] My dear boy, I didn't know that! I wasn't thinking of him at all. IVANOFF. If this old baby should die on my hands the blame would be mine, not yours. Now, what do you want? [A pause.] LEBEDIEFF. The fact is, Nicholas--I really don't know how I can put it to make it seem less brutal--Nicholas, I am ashamed of myself, I am blushing, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My dear boy, put yourself in my place; remember that I am not a free man, I am as putty in the hands of my wife, a slave--forgive me! IVANOFF. What does this mean? LEBEDIEFF. My wife has sent me to you; do me a favour, be a friend to me, pay her the interest on the money you owe her. Believe me, she has been tormenting me and going for me tooth and nail. For heaven's sake, free yourself from her clutches! IVANOFF. You know, Paul, that I have no money now. LEBEDIEFF. I know, I know, but what can I do? She won't wait. If she should sue you for the money, how could Sasha and I ever look you in the face again? IVANOFF. I am ready to sink through the floor with shame, Paul, but where, where shall I get the money? Tell me, where? There is nothing I can do but to wait until I sell my wheat in the autumn. LEBEDIEFF. [Shrieks] But she won't wait! [A pause.] IVANOFF. Your position is very delicate and unpleasant, but mine is even worse. [He walks up and down in deep thought] I am at my wit's end, there is nothing I can sell now. LEBEDIEFF. You might go to Mulbach and get some money from him; doesn't he owe you sixty thousand roubles? IVANOFF makes a despairing gesture. LEBEDIEFF. Listen to me, Nicholas, I know you will be angry, but you must forgive an old drunkard like me. This is between friends; remember I am your friend. We were students together, both Liberals; we had the same interests and ideals; we studied together at the University of Moscow. It is our Alma Mater. [He takes out his purse] I have a private fund here; not a soul at home knows of its existence. Let me lend it to you. [He takes out the money and lays it on the table] Forget your pride; this is between friends! I should take it from you, indeed I should! [A pause] There is the money, one hundred thousand roubles. Take it; go to her y ourself and say: "Take the money, Zinaida, and may you choke on it." Only, for heaven's sake, don't let her see by your manner that you got it from me, or she would certainly go for me, with her old jam! [He looks intently into IVANOFF'S face] There, there, no matter. [He quickly takes up the money and stuffs it back into his pocket] Don't take it, I was only joking. Forgive me! Are you hurt? IVANOFF waves his hand. LEBEDIEFF. Yes, the truth is--[He sighs] This is a time of sorrow and pain for you. A man, brother, is like a samovar; he cannot always stand coolly on a shelf; hot coals will be dropped into him some day, and then--fizz! The comparison is idiotic, but it is the best I can think of. [Sighing] Misfortunes wring the soul, and yet I am not worried about you, brother. Wheat goes through the mill, and comes out as flour, and you will come safely through your troubles; but I am annoyed, Nicholas, and angry with the people around you. The whole countryside is buzzing with gossip; where does it all start? They say you will be soon arrested for your debts, that you are a bloodthirsty murderer, a monster of cruelty, a robber. IVANOFF. All that is nothing to me; my head is aching. LEBEDIEFF. Because you think so much. IVANOFF. I never think. LEBEDIEFF. Come, Nicholas, snap your fingers at the whole thing, and drive over to visit us. Sasha loves and understands you. She is a sweet, honest, lovely girl; too good to be the child of her mother and me! Sometimes, when I look at her, I cannot believe that such a treasure could belong to a fat old drunkard like me. Go to her, talk to her, and let her cheer you. She is a good, true-hearted girl. IVANOFF. Paul, my dear friend, please go, and leave me alone. LEBEDIEFF. I understand, I understand! [He glances at his watch] Yes, I understand. [He kisses IVANOFF] Good-bye, I must go to the blessing of the school now. [He goes as far as the door, then stops] She is so clever! Sasha and I were talking about gossiping yesterday, and she flashed out this epigram: "Father," she said, "fire-flies shine at night so that the night-birds may make them their prey, and good people are made to be preyed upon by gossips and slanderers." What do you think of that? She is a genius, another George Sand! IVANOFF. [Stopping him as he goes out] Paul, what is the matter with me? LEBEDIEFF. I have wanted to ask you that myself, but I must confess I was ashamed to. I don't know, old chap. Sometimes I think your troubles have been too heavy for you, and yet I know you are not the kind to give in to them; you would not be overcome by misfortune. It must be something else, Nicholas, but what it may be I can't imagine. IVANOFF. I can't imagine either what the matter is, unless--and yet no--[A pause] Well, do you see, this is what I wanted to say. I used to have a workman called Simon, you remember him. Once, at threshing-time, to show the girls how strong he was, he loaded himself with two sacks of rye, and broke his back. He died soon after. I think I have broken my back also. First I went to school, then to the university, then came the cares of this estate, all my plans--I did not believe what others did; did not marry as others did; I worked passionately, risked everything; no one else, as you know, threw their money away to right and left as I did. So I heaped the burdens on my back, and it broke. We are all heroes at twenty, ready to attack anything, to do everything, and at thirty are worn-out, useless men. How, oh, how do you account for this weariness? However, I may be quite wrong; go away, Paul, I am boring you. LEBEDIEFF. I know what is the matter with you, old man: you got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. IVANOFF. That is stupid, Paul, and stale. Go away! LEBEDIEFF. It is stupid, certainly. I see that myself now. I am going at once. [LEBEDIEFF goes out.] IVANOFF. [Alone] I am a worthless, miserable, useless man. Only a man equally miserable and suffering, as Paul is, could love or esteem me now. Good God! How I loathe myself! How bitterly I hate my voice, my hands, my thoughts, these clothes, each step I take! How ridiculous it is, how disgusting! Less than a year ago I was healthy and strong, full of pride and energy and enthusiasm. I worked with these hands here, and my words could move the dullest man to tears. I could weep with sorrow, and grow indignant at the sight of wrong. I could feel the glow of inspiration, and understand the beauty and romance of the silent nights which I used to watch through from evening until dawn, sitting at my worktable, and giving up my soul to dreams. I believed in a bright future then, and looked into it as trustfully as a child looks into its mother's eyes. And now, oh, it is terrible! I am tired and without hope; I spend my days and nights in idleness; I have no control over my feet or brain. My estate is ruined, my woods are falling under the blows of the axe. [He weeps] My neglected land looks up at me as reproachfully as an orphan. I expect nothing, am sorry for nothing; my whole soul trembles at the thought of each new day. And what can I think of my treatment of Sarah? I promised her love and happiness forever; I opened her eyes to the promise of a future such as she had never even dreamed of. She believed me, and though for five years I have seen her sinking under the weight of her sacrifices to me, and losing her strength in her struggles with her conscience, God knows she has never given me one angry look, or uttered one word of reproach. What is the result? That I don't love her! Why? Is it possible? Can it be true? I can't understand. She is suffering; her days are numbered; yet I fly like a contemptible coward from her white face, her sunken chest, her pleading eyes. Oh, I am ashamed, ashamed! [A pause] Sasha, a young girl, is sorry for me in my misery. She confesses to me that she loves me; me, almost an old man! Whereupon I lose my head, and exalted as if by music, I yell: "Hurrah for a new life and new happiness!" Next day I believe in this new life and happiness as little as I believe in my happiness at home. What is the matter with me? What is this pit I am wallowing in? What is the cause of this weakness? What does this nervousness come from? If my sick wife wounds my pride, if a servant makes a mistake, if my gun misses fire, I lose my temper and get violent and altogether unlike myself. I can't, I can't understand it; the easiest way out would be a bullet through the head! Enter LVOFF. LVOFF. I must have an explanation with you, Ivanoff. IVANOFF. If we are going to have an explanation every day, doctor, we shall neither of us have the strength to stand it. LVOFF. Will you be good enough to hear me? IVANOFF. I have heard all you have told me every day, and have failed to discover yet what you want me to do. LVOFF. I have always spoken plainly enough, and only an utterly heartless and cruel man could fail to understand me. IVANOFF. I know that my wife is dying; I know that I have sinned irreparably; I know that you are an honest man. What more can you tell me? LVOFF. The sight of human cruelty maddens me. The woman is dying and she has a mother and father whom she loves, and longs to see once more before she dies. They know that she is dying and that she loves them still, but with diabolical cruelty, as if to flaunt their religious zeal, they refuse to see her and forgive her. You are the man for whom she has sacrificed her home, her peace of mind, everything. Yet you unblushingly go gadding to the Lebedieffs' every evening, for reasons that are absolutely unmistakable! IVANOFF. Ah me, it is two weeks since I was there! LVOFF. [Not listening to him] To men like yourself one must speak plainly, and if you don't want to hear what I have to say, you need not listen. I always call a spade a spade; the truth is, you want her to die so that the way may be cleared for your other schemes. Be it so; but can't you wait? If, instead of crushing the life out of your wife by your heartless egoism, you let her die naturally, do you think you would lose Sasha and Sasha's money? Such an absolute Tartuffe as you are could turn the girl's head and get her money a year from now as easily as you can to-day. Why are you in such a hurry? Why do you want your wife to die now, instead of in a month's time, or a year's? IVANOFF. This is torture! You are a very bad doctor if you think a man can control himself forever. It is all I can do not to answer your insults. LVOFF. Look here, whom are you trying to deceive? Throw off this disguise! IVANOFF. You who are so clever, you think that nothing in the world is easier than to understand me, do you? I married Annie for her money, did I? And when her parents wouldn't give it to me, I changed my plans, and am now hustling her out of the world so that I may marry another woman, who will bring me what I want? You think so, do you? Oh, how easy and simple it all is! But you are mistaken, doctor; in each one of us there are too many springs, too many wheels and cogs for us to judge each other by first impressions or by two or three external indications. I can not understand you, you cannot understand me, and neither of us can understand himself. A man may be a splendid doctor, and at the same time a very bad judge of human nature; you will admit that, unless you are too self-confident. LVOFF. Do you really think that your character is so mysterious, and that I am too stupid to tell vice from virtue? IVANOFF. It is clear that we shall never agree, so let me beg you to answer me now without any more preamble: exactly what do you want me to do? [Angrily] What are you after anyway? And with whom have I the honour of speaking? With my lawyer, or with my wife's doctor? LVOFF. I am a doctor, and as such I demand that you change your conduct toward your wife; it is killing her. IVANOFF. What shall I do? Tell me! If you understand me so much better than I understand myself, for heaven's sake tell me exactly what to do! LVOFF. In the first place, don't be so unguarded in your behaviour. IVANOFF. Heaven help me, do you mean to say that you understand yourself? [He drinks some water] Now go away; I am guilty a thousand times over; I shall answer for my sins before God; but nothing has given you the right to torture me daily as you do. LVOFF. Who has given you the right to insult my sense of honour? You have maddened and poisoned my soul. Before I came to this place I knew that stupid, crazy, deluded people existed, but I never imagined that any one could be so criminal as to turn his mind deliberately in the direction of wickedness. I loved and esteemed humanity then, but since I have known you-- IVANOFF. I have heard all that before. LVOFF. You have, have you? He goes out, shrugging his shoulders. He sees SASHA, who comes in at this moment dressed for riding. LVOFF. Now, however, I hope that we can understand one another! IVANOFF. [Startled] Oh, Sasha, is that you? SASHA. Yes, it is I. How are you? You didn't expect me, did you? Why haven't you been to see us? IVANOFF. Sasha, this is really imprudent of you! Your coming will have a terrible effect on my wife! SASHA. She won't see me; I came in by the back entrance; I shall go in a minute. I am so anxious about you. Tell me, are you well? Why haven't you been to see us for such a long time? IVANOFF. My wife is offended already, and almost dying, and now you come here; Sasha, Sasha, this is thoughtless and unkind of you. SASHA. How could I help coming? It is two weeks since you were at our house, and you have not answered my letters. I imagined you suffering dreadfully, or ill, or dead. I have not slept for nights. I am going now, but first tell me that you are well. IVANOFF. No, I am not well. I am a torment to myself, and every one torments me without end. I can't stand it! And now you come here. How morbid and unnatural it all is, Sasha. I am terribly guilty. SASHA. What dreadful, pitiful speeches you make! So you are guilty, are you? Tell me, then, what is it you have done? IVANOFF I don't know; I don't know! SASHA. That is no answer. Every sinner should know what he is guilty of. Perhaps you have been forging money? IVANOFF. That is stupid. SASHA. Or are you guilty because you no longer love your wife? Perhaps you are, but no one is master of his feelings, and you did not mean to stop loving her. Do you feel guilty because she saw me telling you that I love you? No, that cannot be, because you did not want her to see it-- IVANOFF. [Interrupting her] And so on, and so on! First you say I love, and then you say I don't; that I am not master of my feelings. All these are commonplace, worn-out sentiments, with which you cannot help me. SASHA. It is impossible to talk to you. [She looks at a picture on the wall] How well those dogs are drawn! Were they done from life? IVANOFF. Yes, from life. And this whole romance of ours is a tedious old story; a man loses heart and begins to go down in the world; a girl appears, brave and strong of heart, and gives him a hand to help him to rise again. Such situations are pretty, but they are only found in novels and not in real life. SASHA. No, they are found in real life too. IVANOFF. Now I see how well you understand real life! My sufferings seem noble to you; you imagine you have discovered in me a second Hamlet; but my state of mind in all its phases is only fit to furnish food for contempt and derision. My contortions are ridiculous enough to make any one die of laughter, and you want to play the guardian angel; you want to do a noble deed and save me. Oh, how I hate myself to-day! I feel that this tension must soon be relieved in some way. Either I shall break something, or else-- SASHA. That is exactly what you need. Let yourself go! Smash something; break it to pieces; give a yell! You are angry with me, it was foolish of me to come here. Very well, then, get excited about it; storm at me; stamp your feet! Well, aren't you getting angry? IVANOFF. You ridiculous girl! SASHA. Splendid! So we are smiling at last! Be kind, do me the favour of smiling once more! IVANOFF. [Laughing] I have noticed that whenever you start reforming me and saving my soul, and teaching me how to be good, your face grows naive, oh so naive, and your eyes grow as wide as if you were looking at a comet. Wait a moment; your shoulder is covered with dust. [He brushes her shoulder] A naive man is nothing better than a fool, but you women contrive to be naive in such a way that in you it seems sweet, and gentle, and proper, and not as silly as it really is. What a strange way you have, though, of ignoring a man as long as he is well and happy, and fastening yourselves to him as soon as he begins to whine and go down-hill! Do you actually think it is worse to be the wife of a strong man than to nurse some whimpering invalid? SASHA. Yes, it is worse. IVANOFF. Why do you think so? [Laughing loudly] It is a good thing Darwin can't hear what you are saying! He would be furious with you for degrading the human race. Soon, thanks to your kindness, only invalids and hypochondriacs will be born into the world. SASHA. There are a great many things a man cannot understand. Any girl would rather love an unfortunate man than a fortunate one, because every girl would like to do something by loving. A man has his work to do, and so for him love is kept in the background. To talk to his wife, to walk with her in the garden, to pass the time pleasantly with her, that is all that love means to a man. But for us, love means life. I love you; that means that I dream only of how I shall cure you of your sadness, how I shall go with you to the ends of the earth. If you are in heaven, I am in heaven; if you are in the pit, I am in the pit. For instance, it would be the greatest happiness for me to write all night for you, or to watch all night that no one should wake you. I remember that three years ago, at threshing time, you came to us all dusty and sunburnt and tired, and asked for a drink. When I brought you a glass of water you were already lying on the sofa and sleeping like a dead man. You slept there for half a day, and all that time I watched by the door that no one should disturb you. How happy I was! The more a girl can do, the greater her love will be; that is, I mean, the more she feels it. IVANOFF. The love that accomplishes things--hm--that is a fairy tale, a girl's dream; and yet, perhaps it is as it should be. [He shrugs his shoulders] How can I tell? [Gaily] On my honour, Sasha, I really am quite a respectable man. Judge for yourself: I have always liked to discuss things, but I have never in my life said that our women were corrupt, or that such and such a woman was on the down-hill path. I have always been grateful, and nothing more. No, nothing more. Dear child, how comical you are! And what a ridiculous old stupid I am! I shock all good Christian folk, and go about complaining from morning to night. [He laughs and then leaves her suddenly] But you must go, Sasha; we have forgotten ourselves. SASHA. Yes, it is time to go. Good-bye. I am afraid that that honest doctor of yours will have told Anna out of a sense of duty that I am here. Take my advice: go at once to your wife and stay with her. Stay, and stay, and stay, and if it should be for a year, you must still stay, or for ten years. It is your duty. You must repent, and ask her forgiveness, and weep. That is what you ought to do, and the great thing is not to forget to do right. IVANOFF. Again I feel as if I were going crazy; again! SASHA. Well, heaven help you! You must forget me entirely. In two weeks you must send me a line and I shall be content with that. But I shall write to you-- BORKIN looks in at the door. BORKIN. Ivanoff, may I come in? [He sees SASHA] I beg your pardon, I did not see you. Bonjour! [He bows.] SASHA. [Embarrassed] How do you do? BORKIN. You are plumper and prettier than ever. SASHA. [To IVANOFF] I must go, Nicholas, I must go. [She goes out.] BORKIN. What a beautiful apparition! I came expecting prose and found poetry instead. [Sings] "You showed yourself to the world as a bird----" IVANOFF walks excitedly up and down. BORKIN. [Sits down] There is something in her, Nicholas, that one doesn't find in other women, isn't there? An elfin strangeness. [He sighs] Although she is without doubt the richest girl in the country, her mother is so stingy that no one will have her. After her mother's death Sasha will have the whole fortune, but until then she will only give her ten thousand roubles and an old flat-iron, and to get that she will have to humble herself to the ground. [He feels in his pockets] Will you have a smoke? [He offers IVANOFF his cigarette case] These are very good. IVANOFF. [Comes toward BORKIN stifled with rage] Leave my house this instant, and don't you ever dare to set foot in it again! Go this instant! BORKIN gets up and drops his cigarette. IVANOFF. Go at once! BORKIN. Nicholas, what do you mean? Why are you so angry? IVANOFF. Why! Where did you get those cigarettes? Where? You think perhaps that I don't know where you take the old man every day, and for what purpose? BORKIN. [Shrugs his shoulders] What business is it of yours? IVANOFF. You blackguard, you! The disgraceful rumours that you have been spreading about me have made me disreputable in the eyes of the whole countryside. You and I have nothing in common, and I ask you to leave my house this instant. BORKIN. I know that you are saying all this in a moment of irritation, and so I am not angry with you. Insult me as much as you please. [He picks up his cigarette] It is time though, to shake off this melancholy of yours; you're not a schoolboy. IVANOFF. What did I tell you? [Shuddering] Are you making fun of me? Enter ANNA. BORKIN. There now, there comes Anna! I shall go. IVANOFF stops near the table and stands with his head bowed. ANNA. [After a pause] What did she come here for? What did she come here for, I ask you? IVANOFF. Don't ask me, Annie. [A pause] I am terribly guilty. Think of any punishment you want to inflict on me; I can stand anything, but don't, oh, don't ask questions! ANNA. [Angrily] So that is the sort of man you are? Now I understand you, and can see how degraded, how dishonourable you are! Do you remember that you came to me once and lied to me about your love? I believed you, and left my mother, my father, and my faith to follow you. Yes, you lied to me of goodness and honour, of your noble aspirations and I believed every word---- IVANOFF. I have never lied to you, Annie. ANNA. I have lived with you five years now, and I am tired and ill, but I have always loved you and have never left you for a moment. You have been my idol, and what have you done? All this time you have been deceiving me in the most dastardly way---- IVANOFF. Annie, don't say what isn't so. I have made mistakes, but I have never told a lie in my life. You dare not accuse me of that! ANNA. It is all clear to me now. You married me because you expected my mother and father to forgive me and give you my money; that is what you expected. IVANOFF. Good Lord, Annie! If I must suffer like this, I must have the patience to bear it. [He begins to weep.] ANNA. Be quiet! When you found that I wasn't bringing you any money, you tried another game. Now I remember and understand everything. [She begins to cry] You have never loved me or been faithful to me--never! IVANOFF. Sarah! That is a lie! Say what you want, but don't insult me with a lie! ANNA. You dishonest, degraded man! You owe money to Lebedieff, and now, to escape paying your debts, you are trying to turn the head of his daughter and betray her as you have betrayed me. Can you deny it? IVANOFF. [Stifled with rage] For heaven's sake, be quiet! I can't answer for what I may do! I am choking with rage and I--I might insult you! ANNA. I am not the only one whom you have basely deceived. You have always blamed Borkin for all your dishonest tricks, but now I know whose they are. IVANOFF. Sarah, stop at once and go away, or else I shall say something terrible. I long to say a dreadful, cruel thing [He shrieks] Hold your tongue, Jewess! ANNA. I won't hold my tongue! You have deceived me too long for me to be silent now. IVANOFF. So you won't be quiet? [He struggles with himself] Go, for heaven's sake! ANNA. Go now, and betray Sasha! IVANOFF. Know then that you--are dying! The doctor told me that you are dying. ANNA. [Sits down and speaks in a low voice] When did he IVANOFF. [Clutches his head with both hands] Oh, how guilty I am--how guilty! [He sobs.] The curtain falls. About a year passes between the third and fourth acts. ACT IV A sitting-room in LEBEDIEFF'S house. In the middle of the wall at the back of the room is an arch dividing the sitting-room from the ballroom. To the right and left are doors. Some old bronzes are placed about the room; family portraits are hanging on the walls. Everything is arranged as if for some festivity. On the piano lies a violin; near it stands a violoncello. During the entire act guests, dressed as for a ball, are seen walking about in the ball-room. Enter LVOFF, looking at his watch. LVOFF. It is five o'clock. The ceremony must have begun. First the priest will bless them, and then they will be led to the church to be married. Is this how virtue and justice triumph? Not being able to rob Sarah, he has tortured her to death; and now he has found another victim whom he will deceive until he has robbed her, and then he will get rid of her as he got rid of poor Sarah. It is the same old sordid story. [A pause] He will live to a fine old age in the seventh heaven of happiness, and will die with a clear conscience. No, Ivanoff, it shall not be! I shall drag your villainy to light! And when I tear off that accursed mask of yours and show you to the world as the blackguard you are, you shall come plunging down headfirst from your seventh heaven, into a pit so deep that the devil himself will not be able to drag you out of it! I am a man of honour; it is my duty to interfere in such cases as yours, and to open the eyes of the blind. I shall fulfil my mission, and to-morrow will find me far away from this accursed place. [Thoughtfully] But what shall I do? To have an explanation with Lebedieff would be a hopeless task. Shall I make a scandal, and challenge Ivanoff to a duel? I am as excited as a child, and have entirely lost the power of planning anything. What shall I do? Shall I fight a duel? Enter KOSICH. He goes gaily up to LVOFF. KOSICH. I declared a little slam in clubs yesterday, and made a grand slam! Only that man Barabanoff spoilt the whole game for me again. We were playing--well, I said "No trumps" and he said "Pass." "Two in clubs," he passed again. I made it two in hearts. He said "Three in clubs," and just imagine, can you, what happened? I declared a little slam and he never showed his ace! If he had showed his ace, the villain, I should have declared a grand slam in no trumps! LVOFF. Excuse me, I don't play cards, and so it is impossible for me to share your enthusiasm. When does the ceremony begin? KOSICH. At once, I think. They are now bringing Zuzu to herself again. She is bellowing like a bull; she can't bear to see the money go. LVOFF. And what about the daughter? KOSICH. No, it is the money. She doesn't like this affair anyway. He is marrying her daughter, and that means he won't pay his debts for a long time. One can't sue one's son-in-law. MARTHA, very much dressed up, struts across the stage past LVOFF and KOSICH. The latter bursts out laughing behind his hand. MARTHA looks around. MARTHA. Idiot! KOSICH digs her in the ribs and laughs loudly. MARTHA. Boor! KOSICH. [Laughing] The woman's head has been turned. Before she fixed her eye on a title she was like any other woman, but there is no coming near her now! [Angrily] A boor, indeed! LVOFF. [Excitedly] Listen to me; tell me honestly, what do you think of Ivanoff? KOSICH. He's no good at all. He plays cards like a lunatic. This is what happened last year during Lent: I, the Count, Borkin and he, sat down to a game of cards. I led a---- LVOFF [Interrupting him] Is he a good man? KOSICH. He? Yes, he's a good one! He and the Count are a pair of trumps. They have keen noses for a good game. First, Ivanoff set his heart on the Jewess, then, when his schemes failed in that quarter, he turned his thoughts toward Zuzu's money-bags. I'll wager you he'll ruin Zuzu in a year. He will ruin Zuzu, and the Count will ruin Martha. They will gather up all the money they can lay hands on, and live happily ever after! But, doctor, why are you so pale to-day? You look like a ghost. LVOFF. Oh, it's nothing. I drank a little too much yesterday. Enter LEBEDIEFF with SASHA. LEBEDIEFF. We can have our talk here. [To LVOFF and KOSICH] Go into the ball-room, you two old fogies, and talk to the girls. Sasha and I want to talk alone here. KOSICH. [Snapping his fingers enthusiastically as he goes by SASHA] What a picture! A queen of trumps! LEBEDIEFF. Go along, you old cave-dweller; go along. KOSICH and LVOFF go out. LEBEDIEFF. Sit down, Sasha, there--[He sits down and looks about him] Listen to me attentively and with proper respect. The fact is, your mother has asked me to say this, do you understand? I am not speaking for myself. Your mother told me to speak to you. SASHA. Papa, do say it briefly! LEBEDIEFF. When you are married we mean to give you fifteen thousand roubles. Please don't let us have any discussion about it afterward. Wait, now! Be quiet! That is only the beginning. The best is yet to come. We have allotted you fifteen thousand roubles, but in consideration of the fact that Nicholas owes your mother nine thousand, that sum will have to be deducted from the amount we mean to give you. Very well. Now, beside that---- SASHA. Why do you tell me all this? LEBEDIEFF. Your mother told me to. SASHA. Leave me in peace! If you had any respect for yourself or me you could not permit yourself to speak to me in this way. I don't want your money! I have not asked for it, and never shall. LEBEDIEFF. What are you attacking me for? The two rats in Gogol's fable sniffed first and then ran away, but you attack without even sniffing. SASHA. Leave me in peace, and do not offend my ears with your two-penny calculations. LEBEDIEFF. [Losing his temper] Bah! You all, every one of you, do all you can to make me cut my throat or kill somebody. One of you screeches and fusses all day and counts every penny, and the other is so clever and humane and emancipated that she cannot understand her own father! I offend your ears, do I? Don't you realise that before I came here to offend your ears I was being torn to pieces over there, [He points to the door] literally drawn and quartered? So you cannot understand? You two have addled my brain till I am utterly at my wits' end; indeed I am! [He goes toward the door, and stops] I don't like this business at all; I don't like any thing about you-- SASHA. What is it, especially, that you don't like? LEBEDIEFF. Everything, everything! SASHA. What do you mean by everything? LEBEDIEFF. Let me explain exactly what I mean. Everything displeases me. As for your marriage, I simply can't abide it. [He goes up to SASHA and speaks caressingly] Forgive me, little Sasha, this marriage may be a wise one; it may be honest and not misguided, nevertheless, there is something about the whole affair that is not right; no, not right! You are not marrying as other girls do; you are young and fresh and pure as a drop of water, and he is a widower, battered and worn. Heaven help him. I don't understand him at all. [He kisses his daughter] Forgive me for saying so, Sasha, but I am sure there is something crooked about this affair; it is making a great deal of talk. It seems people are saying that first Sarah died, and then suddenly Ivanoff wanted to marry you. [Quickly] But, no, I am like an old woman; I am gossiping like a magpie. You must not listen to me or any one, only to your own heart. SASHA. Papa, I feel myself that there is something wrong about my marriage. Something wrong, yes, wrong! Oh, if you only knew how heavy my heart is; this is unbearable! I am frightened and ashamed to confess this; Papa darling, you must help me, for heaven's sake. Oh, can't you tell me what I should do? LEBEDIEFF. What is the matter, Sasha, what is it? SASHA. I am so frightened, more frightened than I have ever been before. [She glances around her] I cannot understand him now, and I never shall. He has not smiled or looked straight into my eyes once since we have been engaged. He is forever complaining and apologising for something; hinting at some crime he is guilty of, and trembling. I am so tired! There are even moments when I think--I think--that I do not love him as I should, and when he comes to see us, or talks to me, I get so tired! What does it mean, dear father? I am afraid. LEBEDIEFF. My darling, my only child, do as your old father advises you; give him up! SASHA. [Frightened] Oh! How can you say that? LEBEDIEFF. Yes, do it, little Sasha! It will make a scandal, all the tongues in the country will be wagging about it, but it is better to live down a scandal than to ruin one's life. SASHA. Don't say that, father. Oh, don't. I refuse to listen! I must crush such gloomy thoughts. He is good and unhappy and misunderstood. I shall love him and learn to understand him. I shall set him on his feet again. I shall do my duty. That is settled. LEBEDIEFF. This is not your duty, but a delusion-- SASHA. We have said enough. I have confessed things to you that I have not dared to admit even to myself. Don't speak about this to any one. Let us forget it. LEBEDIEFF. I am hopelessly puzzled, and either my mind is going from old age or else you have all grown very clever, but I'll be hanged if I understand this business at all. Enter SHABELSKI. SHABELSKI. Confound you all and myself, too! This is maddening! LEBEDIEFF. What do you want? SHABELSKI Seriously, I must really do something horrid and rascally, so that not only I but everybody else will be disgusted by it. I certainly shall find something to do, upon my word I shall! I have already told Borkin to announce that I am to be married. [He laughs] Everybody is a scoundrel and I must be one too! LEBEDIEFF. I am tired of you, Matthew. Look here, man you talk in such a way that, excuse my saying so, you will soon find yourself in a lunatic asylum! SHABELSKI. Could a lunatic asylum possibly be worse than this house, or any othe r? Kindly take me there at once. Please do! Everybody is wicked and futile and worthless and stupid; I am an object of disgust to myself, I don't believe a word I say----- LEBEDIEFF. Let me give you a piece of advice, old man; fill your mouth full of tow, light it, and blow at everybody. Or, better still, take your hat and go home. This is a wedding, we all want to enjoy ourselves and you are croaking like a raven. Yes, really. SHABELSKI leans on the piano and begins to sob. LEBEDIEFF. Good gracious, Matthew, Count! What is it, dear Matthew, old friend? Have I offended you? There, forgive me; I didn't mean to hurt you. Come, drink some water. SHABELSKI. I don't want any water. [Raises his head.] LEBEDIEFF. What are you crying about? SHABELSKI. Nothing in particular; I was just crying. LEBEDIEFF. Matthew, tell me the truth, what is it? What has happened? SHABELSKI. I caught sight of that violoncello, and--and--I remembered the Jewess. LEBEDIEFF. What an unfortunate moment you have chosen to remember her. Peace be with her! But don't think of her now. SHABELSKI. We used to play duets together. She was a beautiful, a glorious woman. SASHA sobs. LEBEDIEFF. What, are you crying too? Stop, Sasha! Dear me, they are both howling now, and I--and I--Do go away; the guests will see you! SHABELSKI. Paul, when the sun is shining, it is gay even in a cemetery. One can be cheerful even in old age if it is lighted by hope; but I have nothing to hope for--not a thing! LEBEDIEFF. Yes, it is rather sad for you. You have no children, no money, no occupation. Well, but what is there to be done about it? [To SASHA] What is the matter with you, Sasha? SHABELSKI. Paul, give me some money. I will repay you in the next world. I would go to Paris and see my wife's grave. I have given away a great deal of money in my life, half my fortune indeed, and I have a right to ask for some now. Besides, I am asking a friend. LEBEDIEFF. [Embarrassed] My dear boy, I haven't a penny. All right though. That is to say, I can't promise anything, but you understand--very well, very well. [Aside] This is agony! Enter MARTHA. MARTHA. Where is my partner? Count, how dare you leave me alone? You are horrid! [She taps SHABELSKI on the arm with her fan] SHABELSKI. [Impatiently] Leave me alone! I can't abide you! MARTHA. [Frightened] How? What? SHABELSKI. Go away! MARTHA. [Sinks into an arm-chair] Oh! Oh! Oh! [She bursts into tears.] Enter ZINAIDA crying. ZINAIDA. Some one has just arrived; it must be one of the ushers. It is time for the ceremony to begin. SASHA. [Imploringly] Mother! LEBEDIEFF. Well, now you are all bawling. What a quartette! Come, come, don't let us have any more of this dampness! Matthew! Martha! If you go on like this, I--I--shall cry too. [Bursts into tears] Heavens! ZINAIDA. If you don't need your mother any more, if you are determined not to obey her, I shall have to do as you want, and you have my blessing. Enter IVANOFF, dressed in a long coat, with gloves on. LEBEDIEFF This is the finishing touch! What do you want? SHABELSKI. Why are you here? IVANOFF. I beg your pardon, you must allow me to speak to Sasha alone. LEBEDIEFF. The bridegroom must not come to see the bride before the wedding. It is time for you to go to the church. IVANOFF. Paul, I implore you. LEBEDIEFF shrugs his shoulders. LEBEDIEFF, ZINAIDA, SHABELSKI, and MARTHA go out. SASHA. [Sternly] What do you want? IVANOFF. I am choking with anger; I cannot speak calmly. Listen to me; as I was dressing just now for the wedding, I looked in the glass and saw how grey my temples were. Sasha, this must not be! Let us end this senseless comedy before it is too late. You are young and pure; you have all your life before you, but I---- SASHA. The same old story; I have heard it a thousand times and I am tired of it. Go quickly to the church and don't keep everybody waiting! IVANOFF. I shall go straight home, and you must explain to your family somehow that there is to be no wedding. Explain it as you please. It is time we came to our senses. I have been playing the part of Hamlet and you have been playing the part of a noble and devoted girl. We have kept up the farce long enough. SASHA. [Losing her temper] How can you speak to me like this? I won't have it. IVANOFF. But I am speaking, and will continue to speak. SASHA. What do you mean by coming to me like this? Your melancholy has become absolutely ridiculous! IVANOFF. No, this is not melancholy. It is ridiculous, is it? Yes, I am laughing, and if it were possible for me to laugh at myself a thousand times more bitterly I should do so and set the whole world laughing, too, in derision. A fierce light has suddenly broken over my soul; as I looked into the glass just now, I laughed at myself, and nearly went mad with shame. [He laughs] Melancholy indeed! Noble grief! Uncontrollable sorrow! It only remains for me now to begin to write verses! Shall I mope and complain, sadden everybody I meet, confess that my manhood has gone forever, that I have decayed, outlived my purpose, that I have given myself up to cowardice and am bound hand and foot by this loathsome melancholy? Shall I confess all this when the sun is shining so brightly and when even the ants are carrying their little burdens in peaceful self-content? No, thanks. Can I endure the knowledge that one will look upon me as a fraud, while another pities me, a third lends me a helping hand, or worst of all, a fourth listens reverently to my sighs, looks upon me as a new Mahomet, and expects me to expound a new religion every moment? No, thank God for the pride and conscience he has left me still. On my way here I laughed at myself, and it seemed to me that the flowers and birds were laughing mockingly too. SASHA. This is not anger, but madness! IVANOFF. You think so, do you? No, I am not mad. I see things in their right light now, and my mind is as clear as your conscience. We love each other, but we shall never be married. It makes no difference how I rave and grow bitter by myself, but I have no right to drag another down with me. My melancholy robbed my wife of the last year of her life. Since you have been engaged to me you have forgotten how to laugh and have aged five years. Your father, to whom life was always simple and clear, thanks to me, is now unable to understand anybody. Wherever I go, whether hunting or visiting, it makes no difference, I carry depression, dulness, and discontent along with me. Wait! Don't interrupt me! I am bitter and harsh, I know, but I am stifled with rage. I cannot speak otherwise. I have never lied, and I never used to find fault with my lot, but since I have begun to complain of everything, I find fault with it involuntarily, and against my will. When I murmur at my fate every one who hears me is seized with the same disgust of life and begins to grumble too. And what a strange way I have of looking at things! Exactly as if I were doing the world a favour by living in it. Oh, I am contemptible. SASHA. Wait a moment. From what you have just said, it is obvious that you are tired of your melancholy mood, and that the time has come for you to begin life afresh. How splendid! IVANOFF. I don't see anything splendid about it. How can I lead a new life? I am lost forever. It is time we both understood that. A new life indeed! SASHA. Nicholas, come to your senses. How can you say you are lost? What do you mean by such cynicism? No, I won't listen to you or talk with you. Go to the church! IVANOFF. I am lost! SASHA. Don't talk so loud; our guests will hear you! IVANOFF. If an intelligent, educated, and healthy man begins to complain of his lot and go down-hill, there is nothing for him to do but to go on down until he reaches the bottom--there is no hope for him. Where could my salvation come from? How can I save myself? I cannot drink, because it makes my head ache. I never could write bad poetry. I cannot pray for strength and see anything lofty in the languor of my soul. Laziness is laziness and weakness weakness. I can find no other names for them. I am lost, I am lost; there is no doubt of that. [Looking around] Some one might come in; listen, Sasha, if you love me you must help me. Renounce me this minute; quickly! SASHA. Oh, Nicholas! If you only knew how you are torturing me; what agony I have to endure for your sake! Good thoughtful friend, judge for yourself; can I possibly solve such a problem? Each day you put some horrible problem before me, each one more difficult than the last. I wanted to help you with my love, but this is martyrdom! IVANOFF. And when you are my wife the problems will be harder than ever. Understand this: it is not love that is urging you to take this step, but the obstinacy of an honest nature. You have undertaken to reawaken the man in me and to save me in the face of every difficulty, and you are flattered by the hope of achieving your object. You are willing to give up now, but you are prevented from doing it by a feeling that is a false one. Understand yourself! SASHA. What strange, wild reasoning! How can I give you up now? How can I? You have no mother, or sister, or friends. You are ruined; your estate has been destroyed; every one is speaking ill of you-- IVANOFF. It was foolish of me to come here; I should have done as I wanted to-- Enter LEBEDIEFF. SASHA. [Running to her father] Father! He has rushed over here like a madman, and is torturing me! He insists that I should refuse to marry him; he says he doesn't want to drag me down with him. Tell him that I won't accept his generosity. I know what I am doing! LEBEDIEFF. I can't understand a word of what you are saying. What generosity? IVANOFF. This marriage is not going to take place. SASHA. It is going to take place. Papa, tell him that it is going to take place. LEBEDIEFF. Wait! Wait! What objection have you to the marriage? IVANOFF. I have explained it all to her, but she refuses to understand me. LEBEDIEFF. Don't explain it to her, but to me, and explain it so that I may understand. God forgive you, Nicholas, you have brought a great deal of darkness into our lives. I feel as if I were living in a museum; I look about me and don't understand anything I see. This is torture. What on earth can an old man like me do with you? Shall I challenge you to a duel? IVANOFF. There is no need of a duel. All you need is a head on your shoulders and a knowledge of the Russian language. SASHA. [Walks up and down in great excitement] This is dreadful, dreadful! Absolutely childish. LEBEDIEFF. Listen to me, Nicholas; from your point of view what you are doing is quite right and proper, according to the rules of psychology, but I think this affair is a scandal and a great misfortune. I am an old man; hear me out for the last time. This is what I want to say to you: calm yourself; look at things simply, as every one else does; this is a simple world. The ceiling is white; your boots are black; sugar is sweet. You love Sasha and she loves you. If you love her, stay with her; if you don't, leave her. We shan't blame you. It is all perfectly simple. You are two healthy, intelligent, moral young people; thank God, you both have food and clothing--what more do you want? What if you have no money? That is no great misfortune--happiness is not bought with wealth. Of course your estate is mortgaged, Nicholas, as I know, and you have no money to pay the interest on the debt, but I am Sasha's father. I understand. Her mother can do as she likes--if she won't give any money, why, confound her, then she needn't, that's all! Sasha has just said that she does not want her part of it. As for your principles, Schopenhauer and all that, it is all folly. I have one hundred thousand roubles in the bank. [Looking around him] Not a soul in the house knows it; it was my grandmother's money. That shall be for you both. Take it, give Matthew two thousand-- [The guests begin to collect in the ball-room]. IVANOFF. It is no use discussing it any more, I must act as my conscience bids me. SASHA. And I shall act as my conscience bids me--you may say what you please; I refuse to let you go! I am going to call my mother. LEBEDIEFF. I am utterly puzzled. IVANOFF. Listen to me, poor old friend. I shall not try to explain myself to you. I shall not tell you whether I am honest or a rascal, healthy or mad; you wouldn't understand me. I was young once; I have been eager and sincere and intelligent. I have loved and hated and believed as no one else has. I have worked and hoped and tilted against windmills with the strength of ten--not sparing my strength, not knowing what life was. I shouldered a load that broke my back. I drank, I worked, I excited myself, my energy knew no bounds. Tell me, could I have done otherwise? There are so few of us and so much to do, so much to do! And see how cruelly fate has revenged herself on me, who fought with her so bravely! I am a broken man. I am old at thirty. I have submitted myself to old age. With a heavy head and a sluggish mind, weary, used up, discouraged, without faith or love or an object in life, I wander like a shadow among other men, not knowing why I am alive or what it is that I want. Love seems to me to be folly, caresses false. I see no sense in working or playing, and all passionate speeches seem insipid and tiresome. So I carry my sadness with me wherever I go; a cold weariness, a discontent, a horror of life. Yes, I am lost for ever and ever. Before you stands a man who at thirty-five is disillusioned, wearied by fruitless efforts, burning with shame, and mocking at his own weakness. Oh, how my pride rebels against it all! What mad fury chokes me! [He staggers] I am staggering--my strength is failing me. Where is Matthew? Let him take me home. [Voices from the ball-room] The best man has arrived! Enter SHABELSKI. SHABELSKI. In an old worn-out coat--without gloves! How many scornful glances I get for it! Such silly jokes and vulgar grins! Disgusting people. Enter BORKIN quickly. He is carrying a bunch of flowers and is in a dress-coat. He wears a flower in his buttonhole. BORKIN. This is dreadful! Where is he? [To IVANOFF] They have been waiting for you for a long time in the church, and here you are talking philosophy! What a funny chap you are. Don't you know you must not go to church with the bride, but alone, with me? I shall then come back for her. Is it possible you have not understood that? You certainly are an extraordinary man! Enter LVOFF. LVOFF. [To IVANOFF] Ah! So you are here? [Loudly] Nicholas Ivanoff, I denounce you to the world as a scoundrel! IVANOFF. [Coldly] Many thanks! BORKIN. [To LVOFF] Sir, this is dastardly! I challenge you to a duel! LVOFF. Monsieur Borkin, I count it a disgrace not only to fight with you, but even to talk to you! Monsieur Ivanoff, however, can receive satisfaction from me whenever he chooses! SHABELSKI. Sir, I shall fight you! SASHA. [To LVOFF] Why, oh why, have you insulted him? Gentlemen, I beg you, let him tell me why he has insulted him. LVOFF. Miss Sasha, I have not insulted him without cause. I came here as a man of honour, to open your eyes, and I beg you to listen to what I have to tell you. SASHA. What can you possibly have to tell me? That you are a man of honour? The whole world knows it. You had better tell me on your honour whether you understand what you have done or not. You have come in here as a man of honour and have insulted him so terribly that you have nearly killed me. When you used to follow him like a shadow and almost keep him from living, you were convinced that you were doing your duty and that you were acting like a man of honour. When you interfered in his private affairs, maligned him and criticised him; when you sent me and whomever else you could, anonymous letters, you imagined yourself to be an honourable man! And, thinking that that too was honourable, you, a doctor, did not even spare his dying wife or give her a moment's peace from your suspicions. And no matter what violence, what cruel wrong you committed, you still imagined yourself to be an unusually honourable and clear-sighted man. IVANOFF. [Laughing] This is not a wedding, but a parliament! Bravo! Bravo! SASHA. [To LVOFF] Now, think it over! Do you see what sort of a man you are, or not? Oh, the stupid, heartless people! [Takes IVANOFF by the hand] Come away from here Nicholas! Come, father, let us go! IVANOFF. Where shall we go? Wait a moment. I shall soon put an end to the whole thing. My youth is awake in me again; the former Ivanoff is here once more. [He takes out a revolver.] SASHA. [Shrieking] I know what he wants to do! Nicholas, for God's sake! IVANOFF. I have been slipping down-hill long enough. Now, halt! It is time to know what honour is. Out of the way! Thank you, Sasha! SASHA. [Shrieking] Nicholas! For God's sake hold him! IVANOFF. Let go! [He rushes aside, and shoots himself.] The curtain falls. 
10722	----	PLAYS BY ALEXANDER OSTROVSKY A PROTÉGÉE OF THE MISTRESS POVERTY IS NO CRIME SIN AND SORROW ARE COMMON TO ALL IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR--WE'LL SETTLE IT OURSELVES A TRANSLATION FROM THE RUSSIAN, EDITED BY GEORGE RAPALL NOYES 1917 PREFATORY NOTE The following persons have co-operated in preparing the present volume: Leonard Bacon (verses in "Poverty Is No Crime"), Florence Noyes (suggestions on the style of all the plays), George Rapall Noyes (introduction, revision of the translation, and suggestions on the style of all the plays), Jane W. Robertson ("Poverty Is No Crime"), Minnie Eline Sadicoff ("Sin and Sorrow Are Common to All"), John Laurence Seymour ("It's a Family Affair--We'll Settle It Ourselves" and "A Protégée of the Mistress"). The system of transliteration for Russian names used in the book is with very small variations that recommended for "popular" use by the School of Russian Studies in the University of Liverpool. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION A PROTÉGÉE OF THE MISTRESS POVERTY IS NO CRIME SIN AND SORROW ARE COMMON TO ALL IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR--WE'LL SETTLE IT OURSELVES INTRODUCTION ALEXANDER NIKOLAYEVICH Ostróvsky (1823-86) is the great Russian dramatist of the central decades of the nineteenth century, of the years when the realistic school was all-powerful in Russian literature, of the period when Turgénev, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy created a literature of prose fiction that has had no superior in the world's history. His work in the drama takes its place beside theirs in the novel. Obviously inferior as it is in certain ways, it yet sheds light on an important side of Russian life that they left practically untouched. Turgénev and Tolstoy were gentlemen by birth, and wrote of the fortunes of the Russian nobility or of the peasants whose villages bordered on the nobles' estates. Dostoyevsky, though not of this landed-proprietor school, still dealt with the nobility, albeit with its waifs and strays. None of these masters more than touched the Russian merchants, that homespun moneyed class, crude and coarse, grasping and mean, without the idealism of their educated neighbors in the cities or the homely charm of the peasants from whom they themselves sprang, yet gifted with a rough force and determination not often found among the cultivated aristocracy. This was the field that Ostróvsky made peculiarly his own. With this merchant class Ostróvsky was familiar from his childhood. Born in 1823, he was the son of a lawyer doing business among the Moscow tradesmen. After finishing his course at the gymnasium and spending three years at the University of Moscow, he entered the civil service in 1843 as an employee of the Court of Conscience in Moscow, from which he transferred two years later to the Court of Commerce, where he continued until he was discharged from the service in 1851. Hence both by his home life and by his professional training he was brought into contact with types such as Bolshóv and Rizpolozhensky in "It's a Family Affair--We'll Settle It Ourselves." As a boy of seventeen Ostróvsky had already developed a passion for the theatre. His literary career began in the year 1847, when he read to a group of Moscow men of letters his first experiments in dramatic composition. In this same year he printed one scene of "A Family Affair," which appeared in complete form three years later, in 1850, and established its author's reputation as a dramatist of undoubted talent. Unfortunately, by its mordant but true picture of commercial morals, it aroused against him the most bitter feelings among the Moscow merchants. Discussion of the play in the press was prohibited, and representation of it on the stage was out of the question. It was reprinted only in 1859, and then, at the instance of the censorship, in an altered form, in which a police officer appears at the end of the play as a _deus ex machina_, arrests Podkhalyúzin, and announces that he will be sent to Siberia. In this mangled version the play was acted in 1861; in its original text it did not appear on the stage until 1881. Besides all this, the drama was the cause of the dismissal of Ostróvsky from the civil service, in 1851. The whole episode illustrates the difficulties under which the great writers of Russia have constantly labored under a despotic government. Beginning with 1852 Ostróvsky gave his whole strength to literary work. He is exceptional among Russian authors in devoting himself almost exclusively to the theatre. The latest edition of his works contains forty-eight pieces written entirely by him, and six produced in collaboration with other authors. It omits his translations from foreign dramatists, which were of considerable importance, including, for example, a version of Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew." The plays of Ostróvsky are of varied character, including dramatic chronicles based on early Russian history, and a fairy drama, "Little Snowdrop." His real strength lay, however, in the drama of manners, giving realistic pictures of Russian life among the Russian city classes and the minor nobility. Here he was recognized, from the time of the appearance on the stage of his first pieces, in 1853 and the following years, as without a rival among Russian authors for the theatre. Of this realistic drama the present volume gives four characteristic examples. The tone of "Poverty Is No Crime" (1854), written only four years after "A Family Affair," is in sharp contrast with that of its predecessor. In the earlier play Ostróvsky had adopted a satiric tone that proved him a worthy disciple of Gógol, the great founder of Russian realism. Not one lovable character appears in that gloomy picture of merchant life in Moscow; even the old mother repels us by her stupidity more than she attracts us by her kindliness. No ray of light penetrates the "realm of darkness"--to borrow a famous phrase from a Russian critic--conjured up before us by the young dramatist. In "Poverty Is No Crime" we see the other side of the medal. Ostróvsky had now been affected by the Slavophile school of writers and thinkers, who found in the traditions of Russian society treasures of kindliness and love that they contrasted with the superficial glitter of Western civilization. Life in Russia is varied as elsewhere, and Ostróvsky could change his tone without doing violence to realistic truth. The tradesmen had not wholly lost the patriarchal charm of their peasant fathers. A poor apprentice is the hero of "Poverty Is No Crime," and a wealthy manufacturer the villain of the piece. Good-heartedness is the touchstone by which Ostróvsky tries character, and this may be hidden beneath even a drunken and degraded exterior. The scapegrace, Lyubím Tortsóv, has a sound Russian soul, and at the end of the play rouses his hard, grasping brother, who has been infatuated by a passion for aping foreign fashions, to his native Russian worth. Just as "Poverty Is No Crime" shows the influence of the Slavophile movement, "A Protégée of the Mistress" (1859) was inspired by the great liberal movement that bore fruit in the emancipation of the serfs in 1861. Ostróvsky here departed from town to a typical country manor, and produced a work kindred in spirit to Turgénev's "Sportsman's Sketches," or "Mumu." In a short play, instinct with simple poetry, he shows the suffering brought about by serfdom: the petty tyranny of the landed proprietor, which is the more galling because it is practised with a full conviction of virtue on the part of the tyrant; and the crushed natures of the human cattle under his charge. The master grim, the lowly serf that tills his lands; With lordly pride the first sends forth commands, The second cringes like a slave. --_Nekrasov._ Despite the unvarying success of his dramas on the stage, Ostróvsky for a long time derived little financial benefit from them. Discouragement and overwork wrecked his health, and were undoubtedly responsible for the gloomy tone of a series of plays written in the years following 1860, of which "Sin and Sorrow Are Common to All" (1863) is a typical example. Here the dramatist sketches a tragic incident arising from the conflict of two social classes, the petty tradesmen and the nobility. From the coarse environment of the first emerge honest, upright natures like Krasnóv; from the superficial, dawdling culture of the second come weak-willed triflers like Babáyev. The sordid plot sweeps on to its inevitable conclusion with true tragic force. Towards the end of his life Ostróvsky gained the material prosperity that was his due. "There was no theatre in Russia in which his plays were not acted" (Skabichévsky). From 1874 to his death he was the president of the Society of Russian Dramatic Authors. In 1885 he received the important post of artistic director of the Moscow government theatres; the harassing duties of the position proved too severe for his weak constitution, and he passed away in the next year. As a dramatist, Ostróvsky is above all else a realist; no more thoroughly natural dramas than his were ever composed. Yet as a master of realistic technique he must not be compared with Ibsen, or even with many less noted men among modern dramatists. His plays have not the neat, concise construction that we prize to-day. Pages of dialogue sometimes serve no purpose except to make a trifle clearer the character of the actors, or perhaps slightly to heighten the impression of commonplace reality. Even in "Sin and Sorrow" and "A Protégée" whole passages merely illustrate the background against which the plot is set rather than help forward the action itself. Many plays, such as "A Family Affair," end with relatively unimportant pieces of dialogue. Of others we are left to guess even the conclusion of the main action: will Nádya in "A Protégée" submit to her degrading fate, or will she seek refuge in the pond? Ostróvsky rarely uses the drama to treat of great moral or social problems. He is not a revolutionary thinker or an opponent of existing society; his ideal, like that of his predecessor Gógol, is of honesty, kindliness, generosity, and loyalty in a broad, general way to the traditions of the past. He attacks serfdom not as an isolated leader of a forlorn hope, but as an adherent of a great party of moderate reformers. Thus Ostróvsky's strength lies in a sedate, rather commonplace realism. One of the most national of authors, he loses much in translation.[1] His style is racy, smacking of the street or the counting-house; he is one of the greatest masters of the Russian vernacular. To translate his Moscow slang into the equivalent dialect of New York would be merely to transfer Broadway associations to the Ilyínka. A translator can only strive to be colloquial and familiar, giving up the effort to render the varying atmosphere of the different plays. And Ostróvsky's characters are as natural as his language. Pig-headed merchants; apprentices, knavish or honest as the case may be; young girls with a touch of poetry in their natures, who sober down into kindly housewives; tyrannical serf-owners and weak-willed sons of noble families: such is the material of which he builds his entertaining, wholesome, mildly thoughtful dramas. Men and women live and love, trade and cheat in Ostróvsky as they do in the world around us. Now and then a murder or a suicide appears in his pages as it does in those of the daily papers, but hardly more frequently. In him we can study the life of Russia as he knew it, crude and coarse and at times cruel, yet full of homely virtue and aspiration. Of his complex panorama the present volume gives a brief glimpse. [Footnote 1: Ostróvsky, it may be remarked, has been singularly neglected by translators from the Russian. The only previous versions of complete plays in English known to the present writer are "The Storm." by Constance Garnett (London and Chicago, 1899, and since reprinted), and "Incompatibility of Temper" and "A Domestic Picture" (in "The Humour of Russia," by E.L. Voynich, London and New York, 1895).] A PROTÉGÉE OF THE MISTRESS SCENES FROM VILLAGE LIFE IN FOUR PICTURES CHARACTERS MADAM ULANBÉKOV,[1] _an old woman of nearly sixty, tall, thin, with a large nose, and thick, black eyebrows; of an Eastern type of face, with a small mustache. She is powdered and rouged, and dressed richly in black. She is owner of two thousand serfs._ [Footnote 1: The name hints at a Circassian origin and a tyrannical disposition. Ostróvsky frequently gives to the persons in his plays names that suggest their characteristics.] LEONÍD, _her son, eighteen years old, very handsome, resembling his mother slightly. Wears summer dress. Is studying in Petersburg._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA, _a toady of_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV'S, _an old maid of forty. Scanty hair, parted slantingly, combed high, and held by a large comb. She is continually smiling with a wily expression, and she suffers from toothache; about her throat is a yellow shawl fastened by a brooch._ POTÁPYCH, _the old steward. Tie and vest, white; coat black. Has an air of importance._ NADÉZHDA[2] (_called_ NÁDYA), _seventeen years old, favorite protégée of_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV; _dressed like a young lady._ [Footnote 2: Hope.] GAVRÍLOVNA, _the housekeeper; an elderly woman, plump, with an open countenance._ GRÍSHA, _a boy of nineteen, a favorite of the mistress, dandified in dress, wearing a watch with a gold chain. He is handsome, curly-headed, with a foolish expression._ NEGLIGÉNTOV, _a clerk in a government office; a very disreputable young man._ LÍZA, _a housemaid, not bad-looking, but very stout and snub-nosed; in a white dress, of which the bodice is short and ill-fitting. About her neck is a little red kerchief; her hair is very much pomaded._ _A peasant girl, a footman, and a housemaid: mute personages._ _The action takes place in the springtime, at the suburban estate of_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV A PROTÉGÉE OF THE MISTRESS I _Part of a densely grown garden; on the right benches; at the back a rail fence, separating the garden from a field._ SCENE I _Enter_ NÁDYA _and_ LÍZA NÁDYA. No, Líza, don't say that: what comparison could there be between country and city life! LÍZA. What is there so specially fine about city life? NÁDYA. Well, everything is different there; the people themselves, and even the whole social order are entirely different. [_She sits down on a bench_.] When I was in Petersburg with the mistress, one had only to take a look at the sort of people who came to see us, and at the way our rooms were decorated; besides, the mistress took me with her everywhere; we even went on the steamer to Peterhof, and to Tsarskoe Selo. LÍZA. That was pretty fine, I suppose. NÁDYA. Yes indeed, it was so splendid that words can't describe it! Because, no matter how much I may tell you about it, if you haven't seen it yourself, you'll never understand. And when a young lady, the mistress's niece, was visiting us, I used to chat with her the whole evening, and sometimes we even sat through the night. LÍZA. What in the world did you talk about with her? NÁDYA. Well, naturally, for the most part about the ways of high society, about her dancing partners, and about the officers of the guard. And as she was often at balls, she told me what they talked about there, and whom she had liked best. Only how fine those young ladies are! LÍZA. What do you mean? NÁDYA. They're very gay. And where did they learn all that? Afterwards we lived a whole winter in Moscow. Seeing all this, my dear, you try to act like a born lady yourself. Your very manners change, and you try to have a way of talking of your own. LÍZA. But why should we try to be fine ladies? Much good it does! NÁDYA. Much good, you say? Well, you see the ladies promised to marry me off, so I am trying to educate myself, so that no one'll be ashamed to take me. You know what sort of wives our officials have; well, what a lot they are! And I understand life and society ten times better than they do. Now I have just one hope: to marry a good man, so I may be the mistress of my own household. You just watch then how I'll manage the house; it will be no worse at my house than at any fine lady's. LÍZA. God grant your wish! But do you notice how the young master is running after you? NÁDYA. Much good it'll do him! Of course, he's a pretty fellow, you might even say, a beauty; only he has nothing to expect from me; because I am decidedly not of that sort; and on the other hand, I'm trying now in every way that there may be no scandal of any sort about me. I have but one thing in mind: to get married. LÍZA. Even married life is sometimes no joy! You may get such a husband that ... God help you! NÁDYA. What a joy it would be to me to marry a really fine man! I, thank God, am able to distinguish between people: who is good, who bad. That's easy to see at once from their manners and conversation. But the mistress is so unreasonable in holding us in so strictly, and in keeping everlasting watch over us! Indeed, it's insulting to me! I'm a girl that knows how to take care of herself without any watching. LÍZA. It looks as if the master were coming. NÁDYA. Then let's go. [_They rise and go out._ LEONÍD _comes in with a gun._ SCENE II LEONÍD _and then_ POTÁPYCH LEONÍD. Wait a bit! Hey, you, where are you going? Why are they always running away from me? You can't catch them anyhow! [_He stands musing. Silence._ A GIRL _sings behind the rail fence:_ "No man may hope to flee the sting Of cruel affliction's pain; New love within the heart may sing-- Regret still in its train." LEONÍD. [_Running up to the fence_] What a pretty girl you are! GIRL. Pretty, but not yours! LEONÍD. Come here! GIRL. Where? LEONÍD. To me in the garden. GIRL. Why go to you? LEONÍD. I'll go to town and buy you earrings. GIRL. You're only a kid! _She laughs loudly and goes out._ LEONÍD _stands with bowed head musing._ POTÁPYCH _enters in hunting-dress, with a gun._ POTÁPYCH. One can't keep up with you, sir; you have young legs. LEONÍD. [_All the while lost in thought_] All this, Potápych, will be mine. POTÁPYCH. All yours, sir, and we shall all be yours.... Just as we served the old master, so we must serve you.... Because you're of the same blood.... That's the right way. Of course, may God prolong your dear mamma's days.... LEONÍD. Then I shan't enter the service, Potápych; I shall come directly to the country, and here I shall live. POTÁPYCH. You must enter the service, sir. LEONÍD. What's that you say? Much I must! They'll make me a copying clerk! [_He sits down upon a bench._ POTÁPYCH. No, sir, why should you work yourself? That's not the way to do things! They'll find a position for you--of the most gentlemanly, delicate sort; your clerks will work, but you'll be their chief, over all of them. And promotions will come to you of themselves. LEONÍD. Perhaps they will make me vice-governor, or elect me marshal of the nobility. POTÁPYCH. It's not improbable. LEONÍD. Well, and when I'm vice-governor, shall you be afraid of me? POTÁPYCH. Why should I be afraid? Let others cringe, but for us it's all the same. You are our master: that's honor enough for us. LEONÍD. [_Not hearing_] Tell me, Potápych, have we many pretty girls here? POTÁPYCH. Why, really, sir, if you think it over, why shouldn't there be girls? There are some on the estate, and among the house servants; only it must be said that in these matters the household is very strictly run. Our mistress, owing to her strict life and her piety, looks after that very carefully. Now just take this: she herself marries off the protégées and housemaids whom she likes. If a man pleases her, she marries the girl off to him, and even gives her a dowry, not a big one--needless to say. There are always two or three protégées on the place. The mistress takes a little girl from some one or other and brings her up; and when she is seventeen or eighteen years old, then, without any talk, she marries her off to some clerk or townsman, just as she takes a notion, and sometimes even to a nobleman. Ah, yes, sir! Only what an existence for these protégées, sir! Misery! LEONÍD. But why? POTÁPYCH. They have a hard time. The lady says: "I have found you a prospective husband, and now," she says, "the wedding will be on such and such a day, and that's an end to it; and don't one of you dare to argue about it!" It's a case of get along with you to the man you're told to. Because, sir, I reason this way: who wants to see disobedience in a person he's brought up? And sometimes it happens that the bride doesn't like the groom, nor the groom the bride: then the lady falls into a great rage. She even goes out of her head. She took a notion to marry one protégée to a petty shopkeeper in town; but he, an unpolished individual, was going to resist. "The bride doesn't please me," he said, "and, besides, I don't want to get married yet." So the mistress complained at once to the town bailiff and to the priest: well, they brought the blockhead round. LEONÍD. You don't say. POTÁPYCH. Yes, sir. And even if the mistress sees a girl at one of her acquaintances', she immediately looks up a husband for her. Our mistress reasons this way: that they are stupid; that if she doesn't look after them closely now, they'll just waste their life and never amount to anything. That's the way, sir. Some people, because of their stupidity, hide girls from the mistress, so that she may never set eyes on them; because if she does, it's all up with the girls. LEONÍD. And so she treats other people's girls the same way? POTÁPYCH. Other people's, too. She extends her care to everybody. She has such a kind heart that she worries about everybody. She even gets angry if they do anything without her permission. And the way she looks after her protégées is just a wonder. She dresses them as if they were her own daughters. Sometimes she has them eat with her; and she doesn't make them do any work. "Let everybody look," says the mistress, "and see how my protégées live; I want every one to envy them," she says. LEONÍD. Well, now, that's fine, Potápych. POTÁPYCH. And what a touching little sermon she reads them when they're married! "You," she says, "have lived with me in wealth and luxury, and have had nothing to do; now you are marrying a poor man, and will live your life in poverty, and will work, and will do your duty. And now forget," she says, "how you lived here, because not for you I did all this; I was merely diverting myself, but you must never even think of such a life; always remember your insignificance, and of what station you are." And all this so feelingly that there are tears in her own eyes. LEONÍD. Well, now, that's fine. POTÁPYCH. I don't know how to describe it, sir. Somehow they all get tired of married life later; they mostly pine away. LEONÍD. Why do they pine away, Potápych? POTÁPYCH. Must be they don't like it, if they pine away. LEONÍD. That's queer. POTÁPYCH. The husbands mostly turn out ruffians. LEONÍD. Is that so? POTÁPYCH. Everybody hopes to get one of our protégées, because the mistress right away becomes his patroness. Now in the case of these she marries to government clerks, there's a good living for the husband; because if they want to drive him out of the court, or have done so, he goes at once to our mistress with a complaint, and she's a regular bulwark for him; she'll bother the governor himself. And then the government clerk can get drunk or anything else, and not be afraid of anybody, unless he is insubordinate or steals a lot.... LEONÍD. But, say, Potápych, why is it that the girls run away from me? POTÁPYCH. How can they help running? They must run, sir! LEONÍD. Why must they? POTÁPYCH. Hm! Why? Why, because, as you are still under age, the mistress wants to watch over you as she ought to; well, and she watches over them, too. LEONÍD. She watches us, ha, ha, ha! POTÁPYCH. Yes, sir. That's the truth! She was talking about that. You're a child, just like a dove, but, well--the girls are foolish. [_Silence_] What next, sir? It's your mamma's business to be strict, because she is a lady. But why should you mind her! You ought to act for yourself, as all young gentlemen do. You don't have to suffer because she's strict. Why should you let others get ahead of you? That'd disgrace you. LEONÍD. Well, well, but I don't know how to talk to the girls. POTÁPYCH. But what's the use of talking to them a long time? What about? What kind of sciences would you talk about with them? Much they understand such stuff! You're just the master, and that's all. LEONÍD. [_Glances to one side_] Who's this coming? That's NÁDYA, evidently. Ah, Potápych, how pretty she is! POTÁPYCH. She is related to me, sir, my niece. Her father was set free by the late master; he was employed in a confectioner's in Moscow. When her mother died, her mistress took and brought her up, and is awful fond of her. And because her father is dead, why, now, she's an orphan. She's a good girl. LEONÍD. Looks as if they were coming this way. POTÁPYCH. Well, let 'em. GAVRÍLOVNA _and_ NÁDYA _enter_. SCENE III _The same_, GAVRÍLOVNA _and_ NÁDYA GAVRÍLOVNA. How do you do, good master? LEONÍD. [_Bows_] How do you do? GAVRÍLOVNA. Well, master, I suppose you're bored in the country? LEONÍD. No, not at all. GAVRÍLOVNA. What, not bored yet! Why, you see it's like a monastery here; they look after you with a hundred eyes. Well, as for you, it goes without saying, you're a young gentleman, you ought to have some amusement; but you can't. It's no great joy to shoot ducks! [_She laughs._ LEONÍD. [_Going up to_ GAVRÍLOVNA] Yes, yes, Gavrílovna. NÁDYA. [_To_ GAVRÍLOVNA] Let's go. GAVRÍLOVNA. Where do you want to go? Now, seeing that the mistress isn't at home, you ought to have a little fun with the young master. That's what young folks need. And what a clever girl she is, master! In talking, and in everything. NÁDYA. Come, what's the use! GAVRÍLOVNA. Well, there's no harm in it! I was young once. I didn't run away from the gentlemen, and you see they didn't eat me. Perhaps even he won't bite you. Quit playing the prude, and stay here! But I'm going to get the tea ready! Good-by, good master! [_She goes out._ LEONÍD. Why did you not wish to remain with me? POTÁPYCH. What's this, sir! You talk to her as if she were a young lady! Call her Nádya! LEONÍD. What are you afraid of, Nádya? NÁDYA _is silent._ POTÁPYCH. Talk! What are you keeping still for? And I'm going, sir; I must get dressed for tea, too. [_He goes out._ SCENE IV LEONÍD, NÁDYA, _and then_ LÍZA NÁDYA. Of course I'm a girl of humble position, but, indeed, even we do not want anybody to speak evil of us. Pray consider yourself, after such talk, who would marry me? LEONÍD. Are you going to get married? NÁDYA. Yes, sir. Every girl hopes to get married some time. LEONÍD. But have you a suitor? NÁDYA. Not yet, sir. LEONÍD. [_Timidly_] If you have no suitor, then, maybe you're in love with somebody? NÁDYA. You want to know a lot! Well, no, I needn't fib about it, I'm not in love with anybody, sir. LEONÍD. [_With great joy_] Then love me! NÁDYA. It's impossible to force the heart, sir. LEONÍD. Why? Don't you like me? NÁDYA. Well, how could I help liking you? But I'm not your equal! What sort of love is that? Clean ruin! Here comes Líza running after me, I suppose. Good-by. Good luck to you! [_She goes away._ LÍZA _comes in._ LÍZA. Master, if you please! Your mamma has come. LEONÍD. Líza! LÍZA. [_Approaching_] What is it, please? LEONÍD. [_He embraces_ LÍZA; _she trembles with pleasure_] Why won't Nádya love me? LÍZA. [_Affectedly_] What are you talking about, master! Girls of our sort must look out for themselves! LEONÍD. Look out for yourselves how? LÍZA. [_Looks him in the face and smiles_] Why, everybody knows. What are you talking like a child for? LEONÍD. [_Sadly_] What shall I do now? Indeed, I don't know. They all run away from me. LÍZA. But don't lose courage; just make love a little bit. Heavens, our hearts aren't of stone! LEONÍD. But see here! I asked her: she said she didn't love me. LÍZA. Well, if you aren't a queer one! Whoever asked girls right out whether they were in love or not! Even if one of us girls was in love, she wouldn't say so. LEONÍD. Why? LÍZA. Because she's bashful. Only let me go, sir! [_She gets free_] There goes the old fury! LEONÍD. Come out here into the garden after supper, when mamma goes to bed. LÍZA. You don't lose any time! LEONÍD. Please come. LÍZA. Well, we'll see later. [VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _enters_] Master, please come to tea, your mamma is waiting. LEONÍD. All right, I'm coming. SCENE V _The same and_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I saw you, my dear, I saw you. LÍZA. There was nothing to see. [_She goes out._ LEONÍD. Well, what did you see? What are you going to complain about? I shall simply say that you lie. Whom are they going to believe quicker, you or me? [_He makes a grimace and goes out._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. There, that's the way they all treat me. I can't stand it! My heart is just sick. I'm a martyr in this world. [_She plucks a flower viciously and pulls off its petals_] I believe that if I had the power I'd do this to all of you! I'd do this to all of you! I'd do this to all of you! You just wait, you young scamp! I'll catch you. My heart boils, it boils, it boils over! And now I must smirk before the mistress as if I were a fool. What a life! What a life! The sinners in hell do not suffer as I suffer in this house! [_She goes out._ II _A parlor. Rear centre, a door opening into the garden. Doors at the sides; in the centre a round table._ SCENE I _From a side door there enter a footman with a samovar and a maid with a tea-service; they place both on the table and go out._ GAVRÍLOVNA _and_ POTÁPYCH _enter after them_. GAVRÍLOVNA _prepares the tea_. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _enters from the garden_. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. My dear, you always serve me only water. GAVRÍLOVNA. It isn't good for you to drink strong tea, madam. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. It's not your business to worry about me! GAVRÍLOVNA. It dries up the chest, and you're all dried up as it is. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What a life! What a life! I am not dried up from tea-drinking, my dear, but from the insults of the world. GAVRÍLOVNA. Insults! You insult everybody yourself, as if something were stirring you up! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Don't you dare talk to me like that. Just remember who you are. I once owned serfs myself; at my place, such people as you didn't dare peep, they walked the chalk. I didn't let your sort get high-headed! GAVRÍLOVNA. That time's gone by. God gives a vicious cow no horns. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Oh, you monsters, wretches! You want me to die. Soon I shall die, soon; my soul feels its fast approaching end! _Raising her eyes heavenward_ Shelter me from men, O lid of my coffin! Take me to thee, moist earth! Then you'll be happy; then you'll be joyful! POTÁPYCH. We? What's it to us?.... Tend to your own business. GAVRÍLOVNA. While God is patient with your sins. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. For my sins I have already been tortured here. I mourn now the sins of others. GAVRÍLOVNA. It would be better for you not to bother with other people's sins. Now you're getting ready to die, yet you talk about the sins of others. Aren't you afraid? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Afraid of what? Why should I be afraid? GAVRÍLOVNA. Of that little black man with the hook. He's waiting for you now, I guess. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Where am I? Where am I? My God! Just as if I were in a slough; monsters.... _From the left side_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV, NÁDYA, LÍZA, _and_ GRÍSHA _come in_. SCENE II _The same and_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV, GRÍSHA, NÁDYA, _and_ LÍZA. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Did our benefactress deign to attend prayer service? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Yes, I went to vespers in town; to-day is a holiday there. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Did you distribute generous alms among the people present? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No, I only called in Pustaya Street at old man NEGLIGÉNTOV's. He asked me to set up his nephew; you see, the nephew is my godson. I'm sorry for these people! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. And you, dear soul, are a benefactress to all. To all alike, to all! You do favors to people who aren't even worth your looking at. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Sits down_] Never mind, my dear. One must do good to his neighbor. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But do they feel that good? Can they understand, heartless creatures, how great is your condescension to them? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. It's all the same to me, my dear! One must do good for his own sake, for his own soul. Then I stopped in to see the chief of police, and asked him to make NEGLIGÉNTOV head-clerk. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But, my benefactress, is he worthy? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Don't interrupt! A strange man, our chief of police! I ask him, and he says: "There's no job!" I say to him: "You evidently don't understand who's asking you?" "Well!" says he, "do you expect me to drive out a good man for your godson?" Churlish fellow! However, he promised! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. To think of his hesitating! I cannot understand how he could even talk back to you. Here his ill-breeding shows up at once. Maybe NEGLIGÉNTOV, because of his life, isn't worth saying much about; nevertheless, the chief ought to do everything in the world for him for your sake, no matter how worthless a scamp NEGLIGÉNTOV might be. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Don't you forget that he's my godson! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. And for that very reason, benefactress, I add: he is your godson; well, and that's all there is to it; the chief of police ought not to listen to any kind of gossip. And, besides, what things they do say! They say that he's utterly worthless, that his uncle got him a court job, but he won't stay with it. He was gone a whole week, they say, somewhere or other about three miles down the highroad, near the tavern, fishing. Yes, and that he is a drunkard beyond his years. But whose business is it? He must be worthy of it, since you ask it. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I've never heard that. I've never seen him drunk; but I spoke to the chief of police on his behalf, because he's my godson. I take his mother's place. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I know, benefactress, I know; every one knows that if you take a notion, you, my benefactress, can make a man out of mud; but if you don't take a notion to do so, he'll fall into insignificance no matter how brainy he may be. He's to blame himself, because he didn't deserve it! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I'm sure I never did any one any harm. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Harm? You, who because of your angelic heart wouldn't hurt even a fly! Of course all we mortals are not without sins; you have done many things; you can't please everybody. Indeed, to tell the truth, my dear benefactress, there are people enough who complain about you. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Who complains about me? What a lie! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. It's impossible for you to know everything, dear benefactress. And it's not worth while for you, in your gentility, to trouble yourself about every low-lived person. And though they do complain, what's the use of paying attention; are they worth your notice? Since you do so many good deeds for others, God will forgive you, our benefactress. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. All the same, I want to know whom I have offended? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Well, there are some persons, benefactress. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Forcibly_] But who? Speak! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Don't be angry, benefactress! I spoke as I did because you yourself know how touchy people are nowadays--never satisfied. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You spoke as you did in order to cause me some unpleasantness. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. May my eyes burst if I did. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Well, I know you. You're never at rest in your own soul unless you're about to say something mean. You will please be more careful; otherwise you'll drive me out of patience one of these days; it'll be all the worse for you. [_Silence_] Serve the tea. GAVRÍLOVNA. Right away, mistress. _She pours out two cups_. POTÁPYCH _hands them to_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV _and to_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Pour Grísha a cup, too; he went with me to-day, and he's tired out. GAVRÍLOVNA. Yes, mistress. [_She pours out a cup and hands it to_ GRÍSHA. GRÍSHA. Why didn't you put more milk in it? Are you stingy, eh? GAVRÍLOVNA. [_Adding milk_] As it is, you're fattened on milk, like a calf. GRÍSHA _takes the cup and goes out through the door into the garden._ MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I have thought of marrying NÁDYA to NEGLIGÉNTOV--with a decent settlement, of course. You say that he leads a bad life; consequently we must hasten the wedding. She is a girl of good principles, she'll hold him back, otherwise he'll ruin himself with his bachelor habits. Bachelor life is very bad for young men. NÁDYA. [_To_ LÍZA] Do you hear, Líza? What's this? My God! LÍZA. You just have to listen, and you can't say a word. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. It's high time she was married, benefactress; why should she be hanging around here? And now your young son, the angel, has come. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Oh, be still! What are you thinking up now? Why, he's only a child! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. A child, benefactress! Well, there's nothing more to be said; God gave you a son as a joy and a consolation. And we can never feast our eyes enough on him. It's just as if the sunshine had come into our house. So good-natured, so merry, so gentle with every one! But he's already running after the girls so; he never lets one pass; and they, silly things, are tickled to death; they fairly snort with delight. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You're lying. He never has a chance to see the girls anywhere, I think; all day long they are in their own side of the house, and, besides, they never go anywhere. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Ah, benefactress, there are no locks to keep a girl in, once she takes a notion to do something. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You hear, Gavrílovna! Look after my girls. You know I won't have any loose conduct. You tell them that so they'll know I mean it. [_To_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA] But no, there can't be anything like that. You're merely disturbing me with your silly notions. What a dirty tongue you have! What business had you to chatter? And now I can't get the stuff out of my head! Keep watch, Gavrílovna! GAVRÍLOVNA. What's the use of listening to her, mistress? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But really, benefactress, am I saying anything bad? Would I dare to think any harm about him, that little angel? Of course he's still a child, he wants to frisk a little; but here he hasn't any companions, so he plays with the girls. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. There's poison on your tongue. [_She reflects_. POTÁPYCH _takes the cups_. GAVRÍLOVNA _fills them and gives them back_. GRÍSHA _comes in from the garden, gives_ GAVRÍLOVNA _a push, and makes a sign with his head that she is to pour him another cup_. GAVRÍLOVNA _does so_. GRÍSHA _goes out_] However, I must marry off Nádya. NÁDYA. [_Almost weeping_] Mistress, you have shown me such kindness that I can't even express it. Forgive me for daring to speak to you now; but, because of your attitude towards me, I expected quite a different favor from you. In what respect have I displeased you now, mistress, that you wish to marry me to a drunkard? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. My dear, it's not for you to argue about that; you're just a girl. You ought to rely in all things upon me, your patroness. I brought you up, and I am even bound to establish you in life. And again, you ought not to forget this: that he is my godson. Rather, you ought to be thankful for the honor. And now I tell you once and for all: I do not like it when my girls argue, I simply do not like it, and that's all there is to it. That's a thing I cannot permit anybody. I've been accustomed, from my youth, to having people obey my every word; it's time you knew that! And it's very strange to me, my dear, that you should presume to oppose me. I see that I have spoiled you; and you at once get conceited. [NÁDYA _weeps._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Benefactress, one must have feeling for his fellow creature, one must have feeling. But what kind of feelings can such as they have, save ingratitude? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No one's talking to you! What are you mixing into everything for? [_To_ NÁDYA, _sternly_] What new tale is this? Still crying! Let's have no more tears! [NÁDYA _weeps_] I'm talking to you. [_Rising slightly_] Your tears mean absolutely nothing to me! When I make up my mind to do a thing, I take a firm stand, and listen to no one on earth! [_She sits down_] And know, first of all, that your obstinacy will lead to nothing; you will simply anger me. NÁDYA. [_Weeping_] I'm an orphan, mistress! Your will must be obeyed! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Well, I should say! Of course it must; because I brought you up; that's equal to giving you life itself. LEONÍD _enters._ SCENE III _The same and_ LEONÍD LEONÍD. How are you, mamma? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How are you, my dear? Where have you been? LEONÍD. I went hunting with Potápych. I killed two ducks, mamma. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You don't spare your mother; the idea, going hunting in your state of health! You'll fall sick again, God forbid! and then you'll simply kill me! Ah, my God, how I have suffered with that child! [_She muses._ GAVRÍLOVNA. Some tea, master? LEONÍD. No, thanks. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_To_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA] When he was born, I was ill a very long time. Then he was always sickly, and he grew up puny. How many tears have I shed over him! Sometimes I would just look at him, and my tears would flow; no, it will never be my lot to see him in the uniform of the guardsmen! But it was most distressing of all for me when his father, owing to the boy's poor health, was unable to send him to a military school. How much it cost me to renounce the thought that he might become a soldier! For half a year I was ill. Just imagine to yourself, my dear, when he finishes his course, they will give him some rank or other, such as they give to any priest's son clerking in a government office! Isn't it awful? In the military service, especially in the cavalry, all ranks are aristocratic; one knows at once that even a junker is from the nobility. But what is a provincial secretary, or a titular councillor! Any one can be a titular councillor--even a merchant, a church-school graduate, a low-class townsman, if you please. You have only to study, then serve awhile. Why, one of the petty townsmen who is apt at learning will get a rank higher than his! That's the way of the world! That's the way of the world! Oh, dear! [_She turns away with a wave of her hand_] I don't like to pass judgment on anything that is instituted by higher authority, and won't permit others to do so, but, nevertheless, I don't approve of this system. I shall always say loudly that it's unjust, unjust. LEONÍD. Why are Nádya's eyes red from crying? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. She hasn't been flogged for a long time. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. That's none of your business, my dear. Nádya, go away, you're not needed here. [NÁDYA _goes out._] LEONÍD. Well, I know why: you want to marry her off. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Whether I do or not, my dear, is my own business. Furthermore, I do not like to have any one meddle in my arrangements. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What a clever young man you are; you know everything, you get into everything! LEONÍD. Indeed, mamma dear, I don't mean to meddle in your arrangements. Only he's a drunkard. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. And that, again, is none of your business. Leave that to your mother's judgment. LEONÍD. I'm only sorry for her, mamma. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. All very fine, my dear; but I should like to know from whom you heard that I'm going to marry NÁDYA. If one of the housemaids has.... LEONÍD. No, mamma, no. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How could you find out otherwise? How did that get out? [_To_ GAVRÍLOVNA] Find out without fail! LEONÍD. No, indeed, mamma; the man she's going to marry told me. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What sort of a man? LEONÍD. I don't know what sort! He said he was a clerk in a government office.... a peculiar surname: NEGLIGÉNTOV. What a funny fellow he is! He says he's your godson, and that he's afraid of nobody. He's dancing in the garden now, drunk. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Drunk, in my house! LEONÍD. If you want, I'll invite him in. Potápych, call NEGLIGÉNTOV! He said that you were at his uncle's to-day, and that you promised to give him Nádya. Already he's reckoning, in anticipation, how much income he will get in the court, or "savings," as he says. What a funny fellow! He showed me how they taught him at school. Do you want me to bring him in? _Enter_ POTÁPYCH _and_ NEGLIGÉNTOV. SCENE IV _The same,_ NEGLIGÉNTOV _and_ POTÁPYCH MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Oh, oh, how disgusting! Don't come near me! NEGLIGÉNTOV. I'm sent from uncle to thank you for your bounty. LEONÍD. He says, mamma, that they taught him a good deal, only it was impossible for him to learn anything. NEGLIGÉNTOV. Impossible; from my birth I had no aptitude for the sciences. I received from fifty to a hundred birch rods nearly every day, but they didn't quicken my understanding. LEONÍD. Oh, mamma, how amusingly he tells about the way he learned! Here, just listen. Well, and how did you learn Latin? NEGLIGÉNTOV. Turpissime! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Shrugging her shoulders_] What in the world is that? NEGLIGÉNTOV. Most abominably. LEONÍD. No, wait a bit; and what did the teacher do with you? NEGLIGÉNTOV. [_Bursts out laughing_] It made you laugh. Once, after a cruel torture, he commanded two students to fasten me by the neck with a belt, and to lead me through the market-place as a laughing-stock. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How is it they took you into the civil service if you never learned anything? NEGLIGÉNTOV. Through the mediation of influential people. LEONÍD. And did they expel you from school? NEGLIGÉNTOV. They didn't expel me; but they excluded me because I grew too much. LEONÍD. Grew too much? NEGLIGÉNTOV. Well, as I, during all this teaching and grilling, remaining in the lower grades, was getting on in years, and grew more than the other fellows of my class, of course I was excluded because I was too big. I suffered all the more from the venality of those at the head. Our rector liked gifts; and a week before the examinations, he sent us all to our parents for presents. According to the number of these presents, we were promoted to the higher classes. LEONÍD. What was your conduct like? NEGLIGÉNTOV. Reprehensible. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What in the world! Good heavens! Go away, my dear sir, go away! LEONÍD. Oh, mamma, he's comical; wait a bit before driving him out. Dance, NEGLIGÉNTOV! NEGLIGÉNTOV. [_Dances and sings_] "I shall go, shall go to mow Upon the meadow green." GRÍSHA _bursts out laughing._ MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Stop, stop! [NEGLIGÉNTOV _ceases_. _To_ GRÍSHA] What are you laughing at? GRÍSHA. The member dances very comically. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What do you mean, "member"? GRÍSHA. Why, he himself tells us all that he is a member in the court, not a copy-clerk. And so they call him the member. NEGLIGÉNTOV. I call myself the member, although falsely, but expressly for the respect of the court menials, and in order to escape scoffing and insult. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Be gone, and don't you ever dare to show yourself to me! NEGLIGÉNTOV. Uncle says that I fell into loose living because of my bachelor life, and that I may get mired in it unless you show me your favor. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No, no, never! NEGLIGÉNTOV. [_On his knees_] Uncle told me to beg you with tears, because I am a lost man, subject to many vices, and, without your favor, I shall not be tolerated in the civil service. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Tell your uncle that I shall always be your benefactress; but don't you even think about a wife! Be gone, be gone! NEGLIGÉNTOV. I thank you for not deserting me! [_To_ GRÍSHA] Ask the mistress to let you go to the fair, and catch up with me! [_He goes out_. SCENE V _The same, except_ NEGLIGÉNTOV MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How easy it is to be mistaken in people! You take pains for them, work your head off, and they don't even feel it. I should have been glad to establish that boy in life, but he crawls into the house drunk. Now, if he's a prey to that weakness, he ought, at least, to try to hide it from me. Let him drink where he will, but don't let me see it! I should know, at least, that he respected me. What clownishness! What impudence! Whom will he be afraid of, pray tell, if not of me? LEONÍD. Oh, what a comical fellow! Don't be angry with me, mamma. When I found out that you wanted to marry NÁDYA to him, I felt sorry for her. And you're so good to everybody! [_He kisses her hand_] I didn't want you to do anything unjust. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Such people fairly drive you into sin. [_Kissing him_] You have a beautiful soul, my dear! [_To_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA] Indeed, I have always thought that God himself sometimes speaks with the lips of babes. Líza! Go tell Nadezhda not to cry, that I have turned out NEGLIGÉNTOV. LÍZA. Yes, ma'am. [_She goes out_. GRÍSHA. [_Approaches, swaggering, and stops in a free and easy pose_] Mistress! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What's the matter with you? GRÍSHA. Let me go down-town; to-day's a holiday there. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What do you want to go for? To stare at the drunkards? GRÍSHA. [_Clasping his hands behind him_] Please, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No, most certainly not! GRÍSHA. Please do, mistress. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I tell you, positively, no! One's morals are just spoiled at these fairs. Your greedy ears will take in all kinds of nastiness! You're still a boy; that's no place for you! GRÍSHA. No, but please let me, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You stay right here! Put that nonsense out of your head! GRÍSHA. Well, I declare! I slave, and slave, and can't ever go anywhere! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Oh me, oh my! Oh me, oh my! How spoiled you are! How spoiled you are! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What are you cackling about? Keep still! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But how can I keep still, benefactress? Such lack of feeling! Such ingratitude! It pierces the heart. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I command you to keep still, and you must keep still! GRÍSHA. Please let me, ma'am! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. As if the mistress didn't love you, as if she didn't fondle you, more, if anything, than her own son! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Stamping her foot_] Shhh!.... I'll turn you out! GRÍSHA. I want awfully to go to the fair; please let me, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Well, go along then! but come back early! GRÍSHA. Yes, ma'am. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Kiss the dear lady's hand, you blockhead! GRÍSHA. What are you trying to teach me for? I know my own business. [_He kisses the mistress's hand and goes out._ MADAM ULANBÉKOV. As for you, my dear, if I ever hear anything like this again, I'll have them drive you off the place with brooms. _She goes out._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _remains standing in a stupor._ SCENE VI _The same, except_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV; _then_ LÍZA LEONÍD. Well, you caught it, didn't you? And you deserved it, too! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I'll have my turn yet. LÍZA _enters._ LÍZA. [_Quietly to_ LEONÍD] Nádya sent me to say that we'll come to the garden. LEONÍD. Give her a kiss from me. GAVRÍLOVNA. God give you health, master, for taking our part. Any wretch can insult us; but there's no one to take our part. You'll get a rich reward for that in the next world. LEONÍD. I'm always ready to help you. [_He goes out to the right, with a caper._ GAVRÍLOVNA. Thanks, my dear! [_She goes out with_ LÍZA, _to the left_. SCENE VII VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _and_ POTÁPYCH VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Why don't you insult me? They all insult me, why don't you? You heard how she herself wanted to flog me; "I'll have them do it with brooms," she said. May her words choke her! POTÁPYCH. What, I!.... I insult anybody! But as to the gentlefolk there ... I don't know, but perhaps they have to. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Do you see what's going on in this house! Do you see? Do you understand it, or don't you? Just now when I began to talk about Grísha, you heard how she began to roar? You heard how she began to hiss? POTÁPYCH. What's that to me? I, by the mistress's kindness, in her employ....I shall carry out all her orders.... What business is it of mine? I don't want to know anything that isn't my business. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But did you see how Nádya and Líza--the hussies!--looked at me? Did you see how the snakes looked? Ha! I must look after them, I must! [POTÁPYCH, _with a wave of his hand, goes out_] Bah! you! you old blockhead! What people! What people! There's no one to whom I can talk, and relieve my heart. [_She goes out_. III _Part of the garden; to the rear, a pond, on the shore of which is a boat. Starry night. A choral song is heard in the far distance. For a while the stage is empty._ SCENE I _Enter_ NÁDYA _and_ LÍZA LÍZA. Oh, Nádya, what's this we're doing? When the mistress hears of this, it'll be your last day on earth. NÁDYA. If you're afraid, take yourself home. LÍZA. No, I'll wait for you. But all the same, my girl, it's awful, no matter what you say! Lord preserve us when she finds it out. NÁDYA. Always singing the same tune! If you fear the wolf, keep out of the woods. LÍZA. But what has happened to you? Before, you didn't talk like this. You used to hide yourself; and now you go to him of your own accord. NÁDYA. Yes, before I ran away from him; now I don't want to. [_She stands musing_] Now I myself don't know what has suddenly happened within me! Just when the mistress said, a short while ago, that I shouldn't dare to argue, but marry the man she said to marry, just then my whole heart revolted. "Oh, Lord, what a life for me!" I thought. [_She weeps_] What's the use in my living purely, guarding myself not merely from every word, but even from every look? Even so, evil seized upon me. "Why," I thought, "should I guard myself?" I don't want to! I don't want to! It was just as if my heart died within me. It seemed that if she said another word, I should die on the spot. LÍZA. What are you saying! Why, I really thought you were coming to the master as a joke. NÁDYA. As a joke! I can't bear an insult! I cannot. [_Silence_] Oh, Líza, if life were better, I shouldn't have come into the garden at night. You know how it used to be, when I would think about myself--I suppose it must have come into your head, too--that here you are, an honest girl; you live like a bird, suddenly you're fascinated by some man, he makes love to you, comes to see you often, kisses you.... You're abashed before him, yet happy to see him. That's the way it always is. Although you may not be rich; although it may be you have to sit with your lover in the servants' room; yet it is as if you were a queen, just as if every day were a holiday for you. Then they marry you, and all congratulate you. Well, then, no matter how hard married life may be, perhaps there may be lots of work, in spite of that you live as if in paradise; just as if you were proud of something. LÍZA. Naturally, my girl. NÁDYA. But when they say to you: "Pack off to this drunkard, and don't you dare argue, and don't you dare cry over yourself!".... Oh, Líza!.... And then you think how that horrid man will make fun of you, will bully you, show his authority, will begin to ruin your life, all for nothing! You grow old by his side without having a chance to live. [_She weeps_] It breaks your heart even to tell about it! [_Waving her hand_] And so, indeed, the young master is better. LÍZA. Oh, Nádya; it would be better if you hadn't spoken, and I hadn't listened! NÁDYA. Stop, Líza! Why are you playing the prude with me? What would you do yourself if the master fell in love with you? LÍZA. [_Stammering_] Well, how should I know? Of course, what shall I say.... the old Nick is strong. NÁDYA. There you are!.... [_Silence_] Here is what I wanted to say to you, Líza. What a strange inspiration has come over me! When such thoughts came into my head, and, Líza, when I began to think about the master--then how dear he became to me!.... so dear, that, really, I can't tell.... Before, when he ran after me, I didn't care; but now it's just as if something drew me to him. LÍZA. Oh, my girl! Just think of it; surely this is fate! NÁDYA. And such a spirit came into me, I am afraid of nothing! I feel as if you could cut me to pieces, and still I'd not change my mind. And why this is so, I don't know. [_Silence_] I could hardly wait till night! It seems as if I could fly to him on wings! The one thing that I have in mind is that, at any rate, I am not a pretty girl for nothing; I shall have something by which to remember my youth. [_Musingly_] I thought to myself: "What a young man, how handsome! Am I, silly girl that I am, worth his loving me?" May I be choked here, in this lonely spot, if he does not. LÍZA. What's this, Nádya? You seem beside yourself. NÁDYA. And I really am beside myself. While she spoiled me, caressed me, then I thought that I was a person like other people; and my thoughts about life were entirely different. But when she began to command me, like a doll; when I saw that I was to have no will of my own, and no protection, then, Líza, despair fell upon me. What became of my fear, of my shame--I don't know. "Only one day, but mine!" I thought; "then come what may, I don't care to inquire. Marry me off to a herdsman, lock me in a castle with thirty locks!.... it's all the same to me!" LÍZA. I think the master's coming. LEONÍD _enters from the opposite side, in a cloak._ NÁDYA. Well, Líza, isn't he handsome, ha? LÍZA. Oh, stop! You're either sick or half out of your head! SCENE II _The_ same _and_ LEONÍD LEONÍD. [_Approaching_] I was thinking you would deceive me by not coming. NÁDYA. Why did you think so? LEONÍD. Well, you see, you said you didn't love me. NÁDYA. No matter what girls say, don't you believe them. How could one help loving such a handsome fellow? LEONÍD. [_Surprised_] Why, Nádya! He takes her hand, for a short time holds it, then kisses it. NÁDYA. [_In fright withdrawing her hand_] Oh! why did you do that? Dear, kind master! Aren't you ashamed? LEONÍD. I love you ever so much, Nádya! NÁDYA. You love me? Well, then, you might give me a kiss! LEONÍD. May I, Nádya? Will you let me? NÁDYA. What's the harm in it? LEONÍD. [_Turning about_] Oh, and you, Líza, here.... LÍZA. I'm going, I'm going ... I shan't meddle. LEONÍD. [_Confused_] I didn't mean that. Where did you get that idea? LÍZA. Oh, don't dodge. We know, too.... [_She goes out behind the shrubs._ LEONÍD. And so you will let me kiss you? [_He kisses her timidly_] No, no, let me kiss your hand. NÁDYA. [_Hides her hand_] No, no, how could you! What do you mean.... LEONÍD. Why not? I'll tell you what, you are the most precious thing on earth to me. NÁDYA. Is that really so? LEONÍD. You see, no one ever loved me before. NÁDYA. Aren't you fooling? LEONÍD. No, truly!.... Truly, no one has ever loved me. Honest to God.... NÁDYA. Don't swear; I believe you without it. LEONÍD. Let's go sit down on the bench. NÁDYA. Yes, let's. [_They sit down._ LEONÍD. Why do you tremble so? NÁDYA. Am I trembling? LEONÍD. You are. NÁDYA. Then, it must be that I feel a bit chilly. LEONÍD. Just let me wrap you up. He covers her with one side of his cloak, embracing her as he holds it around her. She takes his hand and holds it. NÁDYA. And now let's sit this way and talk. LEONÍD. What are we going to talk about? I shall say only one thing to you: I love you. NÁDYA. You will say it, and I shall listen. LEONÍD. You'll get tired of one and the same thing. NÁDYA. Maybe you'll get tired of it; I never shall. LEONÍD. Then let me speak. I love you, little Nádya. [_He rises and kisses her._ NÁDYA. Why do you do that? Just sit quietly, as we said we would. LEONÍD. Shall we sit like this, with our hands folded? NÁDYA. [_Laughing_] Like that. Hear, a nightingale is singing in the thicket. Sit down and listen. How nice it is to listen! LEONÍD. Like this? NÁDYA. Yes, as we sit together. It seems as if I could sit here all my life and listen. What could be better, what more could one want?.... LEONÍD. Nádya, dear, that would really be a bore. NÁDYA. What fellows you men are! You get sick of things in no time. But I, you see, am ready to sit out the whole night, to look at you, without lowering my eyes. It seems as if I should forget the whole world! _Tears start in her eyes, she bends her head, and then looks at_ LEONÍD _fixedly and musingly._ LEONÍD. Now it would be nice to go rowing; it is warm, the moon is shining. NÁDYA. [_Absently and almost mechanically_] What is it, sir? LEONÍD. To go rowing; I should row you out to the little island. It is so pleasant there, on the island. Well, let's go. [_He takes her by the hand._ NÁDYA. [_In a revery_] Where, sir? LEONÍD. Where, where? I told you; didn't you hear me? NÁDYA. Oh, forgive me, dearest master. I was thinking and didn't hear anything. Dearest master, forgive me! [_She lays her head upon his shoulder._ LEONÍD. I say, let's go to the island. NÁDYA. [_Nestling up to him_] Oh, wherever you please! Even to the end of the world! If only with you.... Take me wherever you want. LEONÍD. Nádya, you are so good, so sweet, that it seems as if I must burst out crying, just to look at you. [_They approach the boat_] Good-by, Líza. LÍZA. [_Coming from the bushes, she makes a warning gesture_] Look out, you two! [LEONÍD _and_ NÁDYA _sit down in the boat and move away_] There, they've gone! And I must wait here for them! This is awful, simply awful! At night, in the garden, and all alone, too! What a fix for me--afraid of everything, and.... [_She glances about her_] Heavens, this is deadly! If there were only somebody here, it would be all right, I'd have somebody to talk to. Holy Saints! Somebody's coming! [_She looks_] Oh, all right; just our old folks from the fair. [_She hides herself._ SCENE III _Enter_ POTÁPYCH _in an overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat, and with a cane, somewhat tipsy;_ GAVRÍLOVNA _in an old-fashioned bonnet. They sit down on the bench._ POTÁPYCH. No, Gavrílovna, not that ... don't say that!... Our lady is so ... such a kind mistress!... Here, we asked if we could go to the fair, and she said to go along.... But what they say about her ... that I don't know: it's not my business, and so I don't know anything about it. GAVRÍLOVNA. Why _not_ let us go, Potápych? You and I are not youngsters; we shan't be spoiled! POTÁPYCH. You can't let the young folks go, because you must have models for everything, Gavrílovna. Whatever models a person has in front of him, he may, very likely ... most probably.... GAVRÍLOVNA. Well, why did she let Grísha go? She said she wouldn't; well, and then she ought not to have done it. POTÁPYCH. Vasilísa Peregrínovna stirred me up a lot on Grísha's account a while ago ... she stirred me up a lot, but I don't know. It's not my business, so I don't know anything about it. GAVRÍLOVNA. What's this you were saying about models? It would be better for her to show a better example herself! As it is, she only keeps shouting: "Watch, I tell you, watch the girls!" But what's the use of watching them? Are they all babies? Every person has his own brains in his head. Let every one think for himself. All you need to do is to look out for the five-year-olds, that they don't spoil something or other. What a life for a girl! There's nothing worse on earth! But the mistress doesn't want to consider whether a girl gets much fun out of life. Well, _does_ she get much? Say! POTÁPYCH. [_Sighs_] A dog's life. GAVRÍLOVNA. It surely is! Consequently one ought to pity them and not insult them at every step. As it is, it's simply awful! Nobody trusts them at all; it's just as if they weren't human beings. Just let a girl poke her nose out, and the guards are on the job! POTÁPYCH. But you can't. GAVRÍLOVNA. Can't what? You can do everything. That'll do, Potápych! You're used to saying over other people's words like a magpie; but just think for yourself. POTÁPYCH. But I don't know ... I don't know anything. GAVRÍLOVNA. You won't gain anything through severity. You may tell 'em, if you please, that they'll be hung for such-and-such; they'll go and do it anyway. Where there's the greatest strictness, there's the most sin. You ought to reason like a human being. No matter if our masters pay money for their wits while we have only what we're born with, we have our own way of thinking, all the same. It's all right to lay down the law strictly; but don't always punish a fellow who makes a slip; let him off now and then. Some bad comes from spoiling people; but now and then you can't help going wrong. POTÁPYCH. Now, if you ask me ... what can I answer to that? How can I answer you? GAVRÍLOVNA. Well, how? POTÁPYCH. Just this: I don't know anything about it, because it isn't my business ... it's the mistress's business. GAVRÍLOVNA. Bah, you old idiot! You've lost your wits in your old age. POTÁPYCH. Why should I ... I, thanks to the lady's kindness, now in her employ ... I carry out all her orders ... but I don't know. GAVRÍLOVNA. Well, let's go home. She may have thought up something or other about even you and me. [_They go out._] SCENE IV LÍZA. [_Enters_] Alone again! Where are those precious darlings of mine? I suppose they've forgotten about me! But, then, why should they remember me? Saints alive, it'll soon be daylight. This night is shorter than a sparrow's beak. How can we go home then? How brave that Nádya is! _Enter_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. SCENE V LÍZA _and_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What are you doing there, dearest? LÍZA. Can't you see? I'm taking a stroll. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I see! How can I help it? But what kind of a night-walk is this? LÍZA. Well, when can we go walking? We work all day and wait on the gentry, and we go walking at night. But I am surprised at you! Don't you walk enough daytimes that you still want to wander around at night and scare people, just like.... VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Just like what?... Well, say it, say it! LÍZA. What? Oh, nothing. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. No, you said, "Just like" ... well, say it now; just like who? LÍZA. I said what I said. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. No, don't you dare sneak out of it! Come, speak up! LÍZA. Why did you stick to it? All right, I'll tell you: like a spook. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What, what! Like a spook!... How do you dare, you dirty hussy, ha? What's this! You want to push me alive into the grave! But I'll find your lover here, and take you to the mistress. Then we'll see what song you'll sing. LÍZA. I haven't any lover! There's no use in your looking. Search the whole garden if you want to! And even if I had, it's none of your business! It's shameful for you even to speak of it. You ought not even to know about it: you're an old maid. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Sing on, sing on, my dear; you sing very finely on the wing; but you'll perch pretty soon! You're not going to roam about at night for nothing. I know your tricks. I'll show you all up! I'm so mad now, that even if you bow down to my feet, I'll not forgive you. LÍZA. Just wait! I see myself bowing before you! Don't count on it! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. No, now I'm going to look around every bush. LÍZA. Do it! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _looks about on both sides, then approaches the pond._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Ha, what's this? Do tell, what tricks they're up to! In the boat! Hugging each other! How tender that is! Just like a picture! You ought to have thought to take a guitar along and sing love-songs!... They're kissing each other! Very good! Delightful! Again! Excellent! What could be better? Phew, what an abomination! It's disgusting to look at! Well, my dears, you will remember me. _Now_ I have nothing to say to you. _To-morrow_ I shall! [_She goes out._ LÍZA. What devil brought her here? You can't clear up the mess now! LEONÍD _and_ NÁDYA _reach the shore and disembark from the boat._ SCENE VI LÍZA, NÁDYA, _and_ LEONÍD LÍZA. What have you done, what have you done!... NÁDYA. [_Not listening to her, softly to_ LEONÍD] You will come to-morrow? LEONÍD. I will. LÍZA. What's the matter, don't you hear? NÁDYA. If I can't come, I'll send a note somehow or other. LEONÍD. Good! NÁDYA. Well, good-by. [_They kiss._ LÍZA. [_Loudly_] Nádya! NÁDYA. [_Goes up to_ LÍZA. LEONÍD _sits down upon the bench_] What's the matter? LÍZA. Vasilísa Peregrínovna saw you rowing on the pond. NÁDYA. Well, deuce take her! LÍZA. My dear girl, don't carry your head too high! LEONÍD. Nádya! [NÁDYA _goes to him_] Oh, Nádya, what a vile, good-for-nothing fellow I am! NÁDYA. What do you mean? LEONÍD. Little Nádya! [_He whispers in her ear._ NÁDYA. [_Shakes her head_] Oh, my precious darling, why did that come into your head? I'm not sorry for this, but you are. How kind you are! Now, good-by! It's high time. I shouldn't leave you, but I can't help it; I'm not my own mistress. LEONÍD. Good-by, then! _Slowly, as if unwillingly, they separate._ NÁDYA _returns, overtakes_ LEONÍD _and gazes into his eyes._ NÁDYA. Do you love me? LEONÍD. I do love you, indeed I do! [_They kiss and go out in different directions._ IV Same room as in second picture SCENE I[1] [Footnote 1: The whole scene in a whisper.] POTÁPYCH _is leaning against the door-jamb, his hand to his head._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _enters quietly._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Result of yesterday evening, I suppose, my friend? POTÁPYCH. Wha-a-t? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Your head aches. POTÁPYCH. Did you put up the money? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. You haven't any money for anything else; but you have for such things. POTÁPYCH. Well, anyhow, it ain't your business. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Of course, Potápych, you're an old man, why shouldn't you take a drink once in a while? POTÁPYCH. Sure, I guess I work for it. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Just so, Potápych! POTÁPYCH. I'm tired of being lectured by you! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I wish you well, Potápych. POTÁPYCH. No need for it! [_Silence_] But you keep upsetting the mistress so! If you'd only put in a word for us when she's in a good humor; but you just look for the wrong time, in order to complain of us. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What do you say, Potápych? God preserve me! POTÁPYCH. What's that! No matter how much you swear, I know you! For instance, why are you coming to the mistress now? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. To wish the benefactress good morning. POTÁPYCH. You'd better not come. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Why so? POTÁPYCH. It must be she got out the wrong side of bed; she's out of sorts. [VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA _rubs her hands with pleasure_] Here now, I see that you're happy; you're dying for some deviltry or other. Phew! Lord forgive us! What a disposition! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. You are saying insulting words to me, Potápych, insulting to my very heart. When did I ever say anything about you to the mistress? POTÁPYCH. If not about me, then about somebody else. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. But that's my business. POTÁPYCH. Your spite's always getting in its work. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Not spite, not spite, my friend! You're mistaken! I have just been so insulted that it's impossible to live in this world after it. I shall die, but I shall not forget. MADAM ULANBÉKOV _enters._ POTÁPYCH _goes out._ SCENE II MADAM ULANBÉKOV _and_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. [_Kissing both of_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV'S _hands_] You have risen early, benefactress. You must have an awful lot of things on your mind. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Sitting down_] I didn't sleep much. I had a bad dream. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What, a dream, benefactress? The dream may be terrible, but God is merciful. Not the dream, but what is going on in reality, disturbs you, benefactress. I see that; I've seen it a long time. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Bah, what is it to me what's going on? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Why, benefactress, don't we know that your son, dear little soul! is struck with every creature he meets? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You make me tired. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. I'm so sorry for you, benefactress! Don't look for any consolation in this life! You scatter benefactions upon every one; but how do they repay you? The world is full of lust. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Go away! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. [_Weeping_] I can't keep back my tears when I look at you! My heart bleeds that they don't respect you, that they don't respect you even in your own house! In your honorable house, in such pious premises as these, to do such things! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Frowning_] You silly crow! You want to croak about something or other. Well, croak away! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Benefactress, I'm afraid it might upset you. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You've upset me already. Talk! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. [_Glances about in all directions and sits down on a stool at the feet of_ MADAM ULANBÉKOV] Yesterday, benefactress, I was ending my evening prayer to the Heavenly Creator, and went out to stroll in the garden, and to occupy myself for the night with pious meditations. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Well! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. And what did I see there, benefactress! How my legs held me up, I don't know! That Líza of yours was running through the bushes with a depraved look; it must be she was seeking her lovers. Our master, the little angel! was rowing in the boat on the pond, and Nádya, also with a depraved expression, was clinging to him with her arms about his neck, and was kissing him. And it was easy to see that he, because of his purity, was trying to thrust her away; but she kept clasping him about the neck, kissing and tempting him. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Are you lying? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. You may quarter me, benefactress. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. It's enough if there is one grain of truth in your words. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. It's all true, benefactress. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Fiddlesticks! not all--it can't be! You always make up more than half. But where were the servants? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. All of them, benefactress, were more or less drunk. No sooner had you gone to bed, than they all went to the fair and got tipsy. Gavrílovna, Potápych, all were drunk. What an example to the young! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. This must be looked into thoroughly. Of course, I shouldn't have expected the least mischief of Leoníd. Quiet lads like him! Well, if he'd been a soldier, it would be pardonable; but as it is.... [_She muses._ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. And furthermore, benefactress, so far Grísha hasn't come back from the fair. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How's that? He didn't sleep at home? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. He did not, benefactress! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You lie, you lie, you lie! I'll drive you off the place! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. May I die in my tracks! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. [_Sinking back in her chair_] You want to kill me. [_Raising herself from the chair_] You simply want to kill me. [_She rings. Enter_ POTÁPYCH] Where's Grísha? POTÁPYCH. Just came, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Send him here! [POTÁPYCH _goes out_] This certainly beats all! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. You'll not find anybody more devoted than I, benefactress; only I am unhappy in one respect: that my disposition displeases you. _Enter_ GRÍSHA, _his hair tousled and dishevelled._ SCENE III _The same, and_ GRÍSHA MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Where've you been? GRÍSHA. [_Now opens, now closes his eyes, not sure of his tongue, and unsteady on his legs_] At the fair, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Just come from it? [GRÍSHA _is silent_] Why don't you talk? [_Silence_] Am I going to get a word out of you, or not? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Answer the mistress. GRÍSHA. What's that to you? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Answer me! Where have you been all this time? GRÍSHA. I've done wrong, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. I'm not asking you whether you've done wrong or not; I'm asking you where you were! GRÍSHA. [_Looks at the ceiling with a vacant stare_] Why, where should I be? The idea! The same place as usual! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Well, where's that? GRÍSHA. I just informed you that I was there all the time, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. You'll drive me out of patience! Where's there? GRÍSHA. But, really, ma'am! Your will in everything, ma'am. What did I, ma'am.... I've done wrong, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Good Lord! You're still drunk, I guess. GRÍSHA. Not a bit, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Nonsense! I can see. GRÍSHA. But, really, ma'am! One can say anything about a man. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Bah, you disgraceful scamp! He still denies it! This is awful! This is awful! Now, speak up, where've you been? GRÍSHA. Why, really, ma'am! I just informed you, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Were you at the fair all night? GRÍSHA. I just informed you so, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. How did you dare, when I let you go for only a short time? GRÍSHA. Well, really, ma'am! I did want to go home, but they wouldn't let me, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Who wouldn't let you go? GRÍSHA. My friends wouldn't, ma'am. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Who are these friends of yours? GRÍSHA. Why, really, ma'am! Government office clerks. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Great heavens! Clerks! Do you understand what kind of people they are? GRÍSHA. Who, ma'am, clerks? Understand what about them, ma'am? MADAM ULANBÉKOV. And you prowled about with them all night! It would have been better if you hadn't told me, nasty scamp that you are! I know how they act! They'll teach you all sorts of things! What does this mean? Be-gone! And don't you dare show yourself before my eyes! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Ask forgiveness, you blockhead! Kiss the dear lady's hand! GRÍSHA _waves his hand impatiently and goes out._ MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What an affliction! It'll simply make me ill! Already I feel my spasms are beginning. What a worthless scamp! He went out just as if he had no responsibilities! And without a sign of repentance! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Ah, benefactress, you see he's still a child; he did it just out of stupidity. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No, he needs a good.... VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. What do you say, benefactress? He's still a regular booby! What can you expect of him! He'll get wiser, then it will be altogether different. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. What offends me most is ingratitude! It seems to me he ought to feel what I am doing for him. I'm positively sick. Go for the doctor! VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Calm yourself, benefactress; as if that rabble were worth your getting upset over! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Hand me the smelling-salts. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. [_Hands her them_] Snap your fingers at them, that's all. Now, if only those girls.... MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Oh, here's another affliction! Now I certainly can't collect my thoughts; I'm completely distracted, and now she begins on the girls! I shall take to my bed at any moment. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Lust, benefactress, is beyond all endurance. MADAM ULANBÉKOV. No, they needn't expect any mercy from me. As it is, I forgive one, then another, and so the whole crowd is spoiled. [_She rings; enter_ POTÁPYCH] Call Nadezhda, and come here yourself! [POTÁPYCH _goes out_] That's what it is to be a woman. If I were a man, would they dare be so willful? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. They don't give a fig for you, benefactress, not a fig. They aren't a little bit afraid of you! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. They're going to find out pretty quick whether I amount to anything. _Enter_ POTÁPYCH _and_ NÁDYA. GAVRÍLOVNA _and_ LÍZA _look through the door_. SCENE IV _The same_, POTÁPYCH _and_ NÁDYA MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Nadezhda! Vasilísa PEREGRÍNOVNA says she saw you in the garden last night with the master. Is that so? [NÁDYA _is silent_] You're silent, that means it's true. Well, now, you can thank yourself. I'm not a conniver at loose conduct, and I won't endure it in my house. I can't turn you out as a vagabond, that would weigh upon my conscience. I am obliged to marry you off. [_To_ POTÁPYCH] Send to town and tell NEGLIGÉNTOV that I shall marry Nádya to him; and let the wedding be just as soon as possible. [_She rises from her chair and is about to leave_]. NÁDYA. [_Falling at her feet_] Whatever you wish, only not marriage with him! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Fiddlesticks! What I have once said is sacred. And what do you mean by this scene? Can't you see that I'm not well? To keep on plaguing me! Potápych! She has no father; you be a father to her instead; and impress upon her in fatherly fashion the baseness of her conduct, and the fact that she must obey my commands. POTÁPYCH. You listen, Nadezhda, to what the mistress commands! Because when she intrusts you to me, it means that I must show my authority over you. If you command it, mistress, I can at once, in your presence, give her some moral instruction with my own hand! Here, if you dare to say one tiny word to the contrary, I'll drag you off by the hair, no matter what any one says. [_He raises his hand threateningly._] NÁDYA. Oh!... [_She crouches._] MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Don't strike her! What disgusting scenes! POTÁPYCH. But, mistress! You can't get results by talking! Besides, if I'm her father, that's the regular thing! That's the law, and according to that, since she is rebelling against you now, I ought to give you that satisfaction. NÁDYA. [_Weeping_] Mistress, don't ruin me! MADAM ULANBÉKOV. Oh, my God! You don't spare me at all. Tears, squabblings! Send for the doctor at once! How many times have I got to say it? It's your own fault, you've nobody to blame for your tears. Potápych! get this business over with! I don't like to repeat the same thing ten times over. _She goes out,_ GAVRÍLOVNA _after her. Silence_. GAVRÍLOVNA _returns_. GAVRÍLOVNA. She's gone to bed, and banged the door behind her. POTÁPYCH. [_At the window_] Antoshka! Antoshka! Post boy! Saddle the horse and ride to town for the doctor. Oh, you! Lord! NÁDYA. [_Rising from her knees_] Don't you think it's a sin for you to abuse me, Potápych? What have I ever done to you? POTÁPYCH. What do I care? What do I care about you? When the mistress really wants something, I have to try to please her in every way; because I was born her servant. NÁDYA. If she had commanded you to kill me, would you have done it? POTÁPYCH. That's not my affair, I can't argue about that. GAVRÍLOVNA. That's enough, Nádya, don't cry! God doesn't abandon orphans. NÁDYA _falls upon_ GAVRÍLOVNA'S _bosom_. LÍZA. [_To_ VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA] Well, is your heart content now? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Wait, my dear, your turn will come. LEONÍD _enters_. SCENE V _The same and_ LEONÍD LEONÍD. What's this? What has happened? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. You made all the trouble yourself, and then ask what has happened. LEONÍD. What trouble did I make? What are you continually thinking up? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Now, don't pretend! The whole truth has come out. You've been having a little fun. What of it? At your age, why shouldn't you have? LÍZA. She's reported the whole thing to the mistress. The mistress got so angry that it was awful! And now, sir, she is going to marry Nádya to that government clerk. LEONÍD. Are you sure? NÁDYA. The thing's settled, dearest master! I have to answer for last evening's sport. LEONÍD. Is mamma very angry? GAVRÍLOVNA. No one dares go near her. LEONÍD. But how can that be? Isn't it possible to talk her over somehow or other? GAVRÍLOVNA. Just go and try. No, she won't come out of her room now for five days; and she won't let any one at all see her there. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Do you want to talk your mamma over? LEONÍD. Yes. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Do you want me to tell you how? LEONÍD. Please be so kind, Vasilísa Peregrínovna. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Well, permit me. Our benefactress is very much hurt at Grísha, because he didn't spend the night at home: he came in drunk, and didn't even ask forgiveness nor kiss her hand. It was this vexation that made her sick. And then this Nadezhda happened to come her way when she was angry. Now our benefactress won't even come out of her room, and won't allow any one to go to her, so long as that stubborn Grísha doesn't beg forgiveness. GAVRÍLOVNA. How contrarily everything happened! Grísha will keep up his character, too. Although he is a blockhead, he has some sense. Now he'll flop down on the hay and he'll lie there on his belly for four days. POTÁPYCH. Somebody ought to take Uncle Gerasim's club and dress him down from top to toe. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Now, our dear master, wouldn't you like to go present your compliments to him, in order that he might hurry up and ask your mamma's forgiveness? LEONÍD. [_Upon reflection_] That would be too great an honor for him. But see here, Gavrílovna, is mamma actually very angry? GAVRÍLOVNA. So angry, sir, that it's terrible! LEONÍD. Well, what's to be done now! NÁDYA. Why are you bothering? You see, there's nothing you can do: better leave me! Now you'll soon go away to Petersburg; you will be happy: why should you think about such trifles, or disturb yourself? LEONÍD. Why, you see, I'm sorry for you! NÁDYA. Don't be sorry, if you please! I ran to my own destruction of my own free will, like a mad girl, without once stopping to think. LEONÍD. What are you planning to do now? NÁDYA. That's my business. LEONÍD. But, you see, it's going to be very hard for you. NÁDYA. What business is it of yours? It will be all the happier for you. LEONÍD. But why do you talk like this? NÁDYA. Because you're still a boy!... Leave me! LEONÍD. But, you see, he's such a drunken, vile fellow. NÁDYA. Oh, my God! It would be better for you to go off somewhere: out of my sight. LEONÍD. Yes, really, it would be better for me to spend a week with our neighbors. NÁDYA. For God's sake, do! LEONÍD. But Nádya, if it should be awfully hard for you to live with your husband, what then? NÁDYA. [_Weeping_] Oh, leave me alone! Be good enough to leave me alone! [_Sobbing_] I beg only one thing of you: leave me, for God's sake! [_She sobs_. GAVRÍLOVNA _and_ LÍZA. [_Motioning with their hands_] Go away! Go away! LEONÍD. Why do you drive me out? I guess I'm sorry enough for her! I keep thinking somehow or other, that it may still be possible to help her in some way. NÁDYA. [_With desperation_] I don't want any helpers or defenders! I don't want them! If my patience fails, that pond of ours isn't far off! LEONÍD. [_Timidly_] Well, I'll go away if you wish.... Only what is she saying? You folks, look after her, please! Good-by! [_He goes to the door_. NÁDYA. [_After him in a loud voice_] Good-by! LEONÍD _goes out_. LÍZA. And so the old proverb is true: What's fun for the cat is tears for the mouse. POVERTY IS NO CRIME A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS CHARACTERS GORDÉY KÁRPYCH TORTSÓV, _a rich merchant_. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, _his wife_. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, _his daughter_. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH TORTSÓV, _his brother, a man who has squandered his property_. AFRIKÁN SÁVVICH KÓRSHUNOV[1], _a manufacturer_. [Footnote 1: Vulture] MÍTYA, TORTSÓV'S _clerk_. YÁSHA GÚSLIN, _nephew of_ TORTSÓV. GRÍSHA RAZLYULYÁYEV, _a young merchant, the son of a rich father_. ANNA IVÁNOVNA, _a young widow_. MÁSHA } } _friends of_ LYUBÓV TORTSÓV. LÍZA } EGÓRUSHKA, _a boy, distant relative of_ TORTSÓV. ARÍNA, _nurse of_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. GUESTS, SERVANTS, MUMMERS, AND OTHERS. _The action takes place in a district town in the house of the merchant TORTSÓV during the Christmas holidays_. POVERTY IS NO CRIME ACT I _A small office room; in the rear wall a door; in the corner on the left a bed, on the right a cupboard. In the left wall a window, and beside the window a table. Near the table a chair; near the right wall a desk and a wooden stool. Beside the bed a guitar; on the table and desk are books and papers_. SCENE I MÍTYA _is walking back and forth in the room_. EGÓRUSHKA _is seated on the stool reading_ "Bová Korolévich." EGÓRUSHKA. [_Reads_] "My sovereign father, glorious and brave king, Kiribít Verzoúlovich, I do not possess the courage to marry him now. Because when I was young I was wooed by King Gvidón." MÍTYA. Well, Egórushka, is any one at home? EGÓRUSHKA. [_Putting his finger on the place where he is reading in order not to make a mistake_] Nobody; they've all gone driving. There's only Gordéy Kárpych at home. [_Reads_] "Whereupon Kiribít Verzoúlovich said to his daughter"--[_Again marking the place_]--only he's in such a rage, it's awful! I cleared out--he keeps on cursing. [_Reads_] "Then the beautiful Militrísa Kirbítyevna called her servant Licharda to her." MÍTYA. With whom was he angry? EGÓRUSHKA. With my uncle, with Lyubím KÁRPYCH. On the second day of the holidays Uncle Lyubím KÁRPYCH dined with us; at dinner he got drunk and began to play the fool; it was awfully funny. I always get the giggles. I couldn't stand it, and then I burst out laughing, and they were all looking at me. Uncle Gordéy KÁRPYCH took it as a great insult to himself and very bad manners, and he was furious with him and turned him out. Uncle Lyubím Kárpych made a great row, and out of revenge went and stood with the beggars by the church door. Uncle Gordéy Kárpych said: "He has put me to shame," he said, "in the eyes of the whole town." And now he gets angry with everybody who comes near him, no matter who they are. [_Reads_] "With the intention of advancing toward our town." MÍTYA. [_Looking out of the window_] Here they come, I think. Yes, it's so. Pelagéya Egórovna, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, and guests with them. EGÓRUSHKA. [_Concealing his story in his pocket_] I'll run up-stairs. [_Goes out_. SCENE II MÍTYA alone MÍTYA. Oh, Lord, what misery! Everybody in the streets is having a holiday, and everybody in the houses too, and you have to sit between four walls! I am a stranger to all, no relations, no friends!--And then besides!--O well! I'd better get to work; perhaps this wretchedness will pass off. [_Seats himself at the desk and muses, then begins to sing_. "Her beauty I cannot describe! Dark eyebrows, with languishing eyes." Yes, with languishing eyes. And yesterday when she came from mass, in her sable coat, and her little handkerchief on her head, like this--ah!--I really think such beauty was never seen before! [_Muses, then sings_. "Where, O where was this beauty born!" My work all goes out of my head! I'm always thinking of her! My heart is tormented with sorrow. O misery most miserable! _Covers his face with his hands and sits silent. Enter_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, _dressed in winter clothes; she stops in the doorway._ SCENE III MÍTYA and PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Mítya, Mítya dear! MÍTYA. What do you want? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Come up to us later on in the evening, my dear, and play with the girls. We're going to sing songs. MÍTYA. Thank you exceedingly, I shall make it my first duty. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Why are you always sitting alone in the office? It's not very cheerful! You'll come, won't you? Gordéy Kárpych won't be at home. MÍTYA. Good, I shall come without fail. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. He's going off again, you see; he's going off there to that friend of his--what's his name? MÍTYA. To Afrikán Savvich? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, yes! He's quite gone on him! Lord forgive him! MÍTYA. Take a seat, Pelagéya Egórovna. [_Fetches a chair_. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, I have no time. Well, yes, I'll sit down a bit. [_Sits down_] Now just think, what a misfortune! Really, they've become such friends that it beats everything! Yes, that's what it's come to! And why? What's the use of it all? Tell me that, pray. Isn't Afrikán Savvich a coarse, drunken fellow? Isn't he? MÍTYA. Perhaps Gordéy Kárpych has some business with Afrikán Savvich. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What sort of business! He has no business at all. You see Afrikán Savvich is always drinking with that Englishman. He has an Englishman as director of his factory, and they drink together! But he's no fit company for my husband. But can you reason with him? Just think how proud he is! He says to me: "There isn't a soul here to speak to; all," he says, "are rabble, all, you see, are just so many peasants, and they live like peasants. But that man, you see, is from Moscow--lives mostly in Moscow--and he's rich." And whatever has happened to him? Well, you see, it was all of a sudden, my dear boy, all of a sudden! He used to have so much sense. Well, we lived, of course not luxuriously, but all the same pretty fairly decently; and then last year he went for a trip, and he caught it from some one. He caught it, he caught it, they have told me so--caught all these tricks. Now he doesn't care for any of our Russian ways. He keeps harping on this: "I want to be up to date, I want to be in the fashion. Yes, yes! Put on a cap," he says! What an idea to get! Am I going to try to charm any one in my old age and make myself look lovely? Bah! You just try to do anything with him. He never drank before--really he didn't--but now he drinks with this Afrikán. It must be that drink has turned his brain [_points to her head_] and muddled him.... [_Silence_] I think now that the devil has got hold of him! Why can't he have some sense! If he were a young fellow! For a young fellow to dress up and all that is all right; but you see he's nearly sixty, my dear, nearly sixty! Really! "Your fashionable up-to-date things," says I, "change every day; our Russian things have lived from time immemorial! The old folks weren't any stupider than we." But can you reason with him, my dear, with his violent character? MÍTYA. What is there to say? He's a harsh man. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Lyubóv is just at the right age now; we ought to be settling her, but he keeps dinning it in: "There's no one her equal, no! no!" But there is! But he says there isn't. How hard all this is for a mother's heart. MÍTYA. Perhaps Gordéy Kárpych wishes to marry Lyubóv Gordéyevna in Moscow. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Who knows what he has in his mind? He looks like a wild beast, and never says a word, as if I were not a mother. Yes, truly, I never say anything to him; I don't dare; all you can do is to speak with some outsider about your grief, and weep, and relieve your heart; that's all. [_Rises_] You'll come, Mítya? MÍTYA. I'll come, ma'am. GÚSLIN _comes in_. SCENE IV The _same and_ GÚSLIN PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Here's another fine lad! Come up-stairs to us, Yasha, and sing songs with the girls; you're good at that; and bring along your guitar. GÚSLIN. Thank you, ma'am: I don't think of that as work; I must say it's a pleasure. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Well, good-by! I'm going to take a nap for half an hour. GÚSLIN _and_ MÍTYA. Good-by. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _goes out_; MÍTYA _seats himself dejectedly at the table_; GÚSLIN _seats himself on the bed and takes up the guitar_. SCENE V MÍTYA _and_ YÁSHA GÚSLIN GÚSLIN. What a crowd there was at the fair! Your people were there. Why weren't you? MÍTYA. Because I felt so awfully miserable. GÚSLIN. What's the matter? What are you unhappy about? MÍTYA. How can I help being unhappy? Thoughts like these keep coming into my head: what sort of man am I in the world? My mother is old and poor now, and I must keep her--and how? My salary is small; I get nothing but abuse and insults from Gordéy Kárpych; he keeps reproaching me with my poverty, as if I were to blame--and he doesn't increase my salary. I'd look for another place, but where can one find one without friends? And, yes, I will confess to you that I won't go to another place. GOSLIN. Why won't you go? There at the Razlyulyáyevs' it's very nice--the people are rich and kind. MÍTYA. No, Yasha, that doesn't suit me! I'll bear anything from Gordéy Kárpych, I'll stand poverty, but I won't go away. That's my destiny! GÚSLIN. Why so? MÍTYA. [_Rises_] Well, I have a reason for this. It is, Yasha, because I have another sorrow--but nobody knows about it. I haven't spoken to any one about my sorrow. GÚSLIN. Tell me about it. MÍTYA. [_Waving his hand_] What for? GÚSLIN. Yes, tell me; don't put on airs! MÍTYA. Whether I tell you or not, you can't help me! GÚSLIN. How do you know? MÍTYA. [_Walking toward_ GÚSLIN] Nobody can help me--I am a lost man! I've fallen wildly in love with Lyubóv Gordéyevna. GÚSLIN. What's the matter with you, Mítya? Whatever do you mean? MÍTYA. Well, anyhow, it's a fact. GÚSLIN. You'd better put it out of your head, Mítya. Nothing can ever come of that, so there's no use thinking about it. MÍTYA. Though I know all this, one cannot control one's heart. "To love is most easy, one cannot forget." [_He speaks with violent gestures_] "I love the beautiful girl more than family, more than race; but evil people forbid me, and they bid me cease." GÚSLIN. Yes, indeed; but you must stop it! Now Anna Ivánovna is my equal; she has no money, and I haven't a kopek--and even so uncle forbids me to marry. It's no use for you to think of doing so. You'll get it into your head and then it'll be still harder for you. MÍTYA. [_Declaiming_] "What of all things is most cruel? The most cruel thing is love." [_Walking about the room_.] Yasha, have you read Koltsóv? GÚSLIN. Yes, why? MÍTYA. How he describes all these feelings! GÚSLIN. He does describe them exactly. MÍTYA. Exactly, to perfection. [_Walking about the room_] Yasha! GÚSLIN. What? MÍTYA. I myself have composed a song. GÚSLIN. You? MÍTYA. Yes. GÚSLIN. Let's make up a tune for it, and we'll sing it. MÍTYA. Good! Here, take this [_gives him a paper_] and I'll write a little--I have some work: most likely Gordéy Kárpych will be asking me about it. [_Sits and writes_. GÚSLIN _takes the guitar and begins to pick out a tune_. RAZLYULYÁYEV _comes in with an accordion_. SCENE VI _The same and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV RAZLYULYÁYEV. Hello, boys! [_Plays on the accordion and begins to dance_. GÚSLIN. What a fool! What did you buy that accordion for? RAZLYULYÁYEV. Why, I bought it to play on, of course--this way. [_Plays_. GÚSLIN. Well, that's fine music, I must say! Stop, I tell you! RAZLYULYÁYEV. What! Do you think I'll stop? I'll stop when I want to.--What airs! Haven't I got any money? [_Slapping his pocket_] It chinks! If we go on a spree--then it's some spree! "One mountain is high, And another is low; One darling is far, And another is near." Mítya! [_Strikes_ MÍTYA _on the shoulder_] Mítya, why are you sitting still? MÍTYA. I have some work to do. [_Continues to work_. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Mítya! Say, Mítya, I'm on a spree, my boy! Really, I am. Oh, come on! [_Sings, "One mountain is high," etc_.] Mítya! Say, Mítya, 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! MÍTYA. Well, go on a spree as much as you like. RAZLYULYÁYEV. And after the holidays I shall marry!--Upon my word I shall marry! I'll get a rich girl. GÚSLIN. Now, then, listen; how does this sound? RAZLYULYÁYEV. Sing it, sing it! I'll listen. GÚSLIN. [_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_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _stands as if rooted to the ground, and listens with emotion; when the song is finished all are silent_. RAZLYULYÁYEV. 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. GÚSLIN _plays the tune_. MÍTYA. That's enough of your fooling. Come, now, let's sit down in a circle and sing in a low tone. RAZLYULYÁYEV. All right. [_They sit down_. GÚSLIN. [_Begins to sing_; MÍTYA _and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _join in_] "Now my young, my young lads, You my friends...." _Enter_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH; _all stand up and stop singing_. SCENE VII _The same and_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What's all this screeching! Bawling like so many peasants! [_To_ MÍTYA] 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? MÍTYA. I was looking over the accounts, sir. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Takes the book by Koltsóv, and the copy-book with verses_] And this, too, what's this rubbish? MÍTYA. I was copying these poems of Koltsóv's to pass the time away, since it's a holiday. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You are sentimental for a poor lad! MÍTYA. I just study for my own education, in order to understand things. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Education! Do you know what education is?--And yet you keep on talking! You ought to get yourself a new coat! For when you come up-stairs to us and there are guests, it's a disgrace! What do you do with your money? MÍTYA. I send it to my mother because she is old and has nowhere to get any. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Send it to your mother! You ought to educate yourself first; God knows what your mother needs! She wasn't brought up in luxury; most likely she used to look after the cows herself. MÍTYA. It's better that I should suffer than that my mother should be in any want at all. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. This is simply disgusting! If you don't know yourself how to observe decency, then sit in your hovel! If you haven't anything to wear, then don't have any fancies! You write verses, you wish to educate yourself--and you go about looking like a factory hand! Does education consist in this, in singing idiotic songs? You idiot! [_Through his teeth and looking askance at_ MÍTYA] Fool! [_Is silent_] Don't you dare to show yourself in that suit up-stairs. Listen, I tell you! [_To_ RAZLYULYÁYEV] And you too! Your father, to all appearances, rakes up money with a shovel, and you go about in this Russian smock. RAZLYULYÁYEV. What do you say! It's new--French goods--I ordered it from Moscow--from an acquaintance--twenty rubles a yard! Do you think I ought to go about in a bob-tailed coat, like Franz Fédorych at the apothecary's! Why, they all tease him there!--the deuce of a coat! What's the use of making people laugh! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Much you know! It's hopeless to expect anything of you! You yourself are an idiot, and your father hasn't much more sense--he always goes about in dirty old clothes. You live like ignorant fools, and like fools you will die. RAZLYULYÁYEV. That's enough! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What? RAZLYULYÁYEV. That's enough, I say! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Clown! You don't even know how to talk straight! It's simply waste of words to speak to you--like shooting peas against a wall--to waste words on such as you, fools! [_Goes out_. SCENE VIII _The same without_ TORTSÓV RAZLYULYÁYEV. Just look! How savage! What a rage he's in! Oh, we're awfully scared of you--you bet we are! MÍTYA. [_To_ GÚSLIN] There, that's the sort of life I lead! That's the sort of thing I have to put up with! RAZLYULYÁYEV. It'll drive you to drink--upon my word, it'll drive you to drink! But you'd better stop thinking about it. [_Sings_. "One mountain is high, And another is low; One darling is far, And another is near." _Enter_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, MÁSHA, _and_ LÍZA. SCENE IX _The same and_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, MÁSHA, _and_ LÍZA. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Peace, honest company! RAZLYULYÁYEV. I welcome you to our shanty. MÍTYA. Our respects! Please come in! What good wind brings you here? ANNA IVÁNOVNA. No wind--we just took it into our heads and came. Gordéy Kárpych has gone out, and Pelagéya Egórovna has gone to lie down, so now we are free! Be as jolly as you please! MÍTYA. I humbly beg you to sit down. _They sit down_; MÍTYA _seats himself opposite_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA; RAZLYULYÁYEV _walks about_. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. It grew dull sitting silent cracking nuts. "Come on, girls," said I, "and see the boys," and that suited the girls. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What stories you do make up! We never thought of coming here--that was your idea. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Much you didn't! You were the first! Everybody knows, if a person wants a thing, then he thinks about it; the boys of the girls, and the girls of the boys. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Ha, ha, ha! Anna Ivánovna, you have said it exactly. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Not a bit of it! MÁSHA. [_To_ LÍZA] Oh, how embarrassing! LÍZA. Anna Ivánovna, you are just saying what isn't true. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Oh, you modest thing! I'd like to say a word--but it wouldn't be nice before the boys!--I've been a girl myself. I know all about it. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. There are girls and girls! MÁSHA. Oh, how embarrassing! LÍZA. What you say sounds very strange to us, and, I must say, it's disconcerting. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Ha, ha, ha! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. What were we talking about just now up-stairs? Do you want me to tell? Shall I tell them? Well, have you calmed down now? RAZLYULYÁYEV. Ha, ha, ha! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. What are _you_ opening your mouth for? It wasn't about you--don't you worry. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Even if it wasn't about me, still it may be there is some one who thinks about me. I know what I know! [_Dances to a tune_. "Who does not love a hussar! Life without love would be sad!" ANNA IVÁNOVNA. [_Walking towards_ GÚSLIN] Well, guitar player, when will you marry me? GÚSLIN. [_Playing on the guitar_] When I can get permission from Gordéy Kárpych. What's the use of hurrying! It isn't raining on us! [_Nods his head_] Come along here, Anna Ivánovna; I've got something to say to you. _She goes to him, and sits near him; he whispers in her ear, looking towards_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _and_ MÍTYA. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. What do you say!--Really? GÚSLIN. It's really true. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Well, then, all right; keep quiet! [_They talk in a whisper_. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. You, Mítya, will you come to us later on in the evening? MÍTYA. I will. RAZLYULYÁYEV. And I'm coming; I'm good at dancing. [_Stands with arms akimbo_] Girls! do fall in love with me, one of you! MÁSHA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! What's that you're saying? RAZLYULYÁYEV. Why such airs! I say, fall in love with me, somebody--yes--for my simplicity. LÍZA. People don't talk like that to girls. You ought to wait till they do fall in love with you. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Yes, much I'll get from you by waiting! [_Dances_ "Who does not love a hussar!" LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Looking at_ MÍTYA] It may be somebody loves somebody and won't tell! He must guess himself. LÍZA. How can any girl in the world say that! MÁSHA. I know it! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. [_Goes up to them and looks now at_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _and now at_ MÍTYA _and sings_: "Already it is seen If somebody loves somebody-- Opposite the beloved one she seats herself Heavily sighing." MÍTYA. Who does that apply to? ANNA IVÁNOVNA. We know to whom. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Stay, girls, I'll sing you a song. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Sing, sing! RAZLYULYÁYEV. [_Sings slowly_] "A bear was flying through the sky." ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Don't you know anything worse than that! LÍZA. We might think you were making fun of us. RAZLYULYÁYEV. If this isn't good enough I'll sing you another, for I'm a jolly fellow. [_Sings_. "Beat! Beat! upon the board. Moscow! Moscow! that's the word. Moscow's got it in his head That Kolomna he will wed. Tula laughs with all his heart. But with the dowry will not part. Buckwheat is tuppence. It's twenty for oats. Millet is sixpence and barley three groats. [_Turns towards the girls_. If only oats would but come down! It's costly carting 'em to town." See! What weather! MÁSHA. This doesn't concern us. LÍZA. We don't trade in flour. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. What are you interrupting for! Just guess this riddle. What's this: round--but not a girl; with a tail--but not a mouse?[1] [Footnote 1: A turnip.] RAZLYULYÁYEV. That's a hard one! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Indeed it is!--You just think it over! Now, girls, come along! [_The girls rise and get ready to go_] Come along, boys! GÚSLIN _and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _get ready_. MÍTYA. But I'll come later. I'll put things to rights here first. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. [_Sings while they are getting ready_] "Our maids last night, Our pretties last night, They brewed us a brew of the beer last night. And there came to our maids, And there came to our pretties A guest, a guest whom they didn't invite." ANNA IVÁNOVNA _lets them all pass through the door, except_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA; _she shuts the door and does not allow her to pass_. SCENE X MÍTYA _and_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_At the door_] Stop, don't be silly! [_Through the door the girls are heard laughing_] They won't let me out! Oh, what girls! [_Walks away from the door_] They're always up to something. MÍTYA. [_Hands her a chair_] Be seated, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, and talk to me for just a moment. I'm very glad to see you in my room. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Why are you glad? I don't understand. MÍTYA. Oh, why!--It is very pleasant for me to see on your side such consideration; it is above my deserts to receive it from you. This is the second time I have had the good fortune-- LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. There's nothing in that! I came here, sat awhile, and went away again. That means nothing. Maybe I'll go away again at once. MÍTYA. Oh, no! Don't go!--Why should you! [_Takes the paper out of his pocket_] Permit me to present to you my work, the best I can do--from my heart. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What is this? MÍTYA. I made these verses just for you. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Trying to hide her joy_] Still, it may be just some sort of foolishness--not worth reading. MÍTYA. That I cannot judge, because I wrote it myself, and without studying besides. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Read it. MÍTYA. Directly. _Seats himself at the table, and takes the paper_: LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _approaches very near to him_. "In the meadow no grasses wither, And never a flower doth fade; However a fair lad fadeth That once was a lusty blade. He loved a handsome damsel; For that his grief is great, And heavy his misfortune, For she came of high estate. The lad's heart is breaking, But vain his grief must be, Because he loved a damsel Above his own degree. When all the night is darkened The sun may not appear; And so the pretty maiden. She may not be his dear." LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Sitting and reflecting for some time_] Give it here. [_Takes the paper and hides it, then rises_] Now I will write something for you. MÍTYA. You! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Only I don't know how to do it in verse, but--just plain Russian. MÍTYA. I shall regard such a kindness from you as a great happiness to myself. [_Gives her paper and pen_] Here they are. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. It's a great pity that I write so abominably. [_She writes_; MÍTYA _tries to look_] Only don't you look, or I'll stop writing and tear it up. MÍTYA. I won't look. But kindly condescend to permit me to reply, in so far as I am able, and to write some verses for you on a second occasion. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Laying down the pen_] Write if you wish--only I've inked all my fingers; if I'd only known, I'd better not have written. MÍTYA. May I have it? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, take it; only don't dare to read it while I'm here, but after, when I've gone. _Folds together the paper and gives it to him; he conceals it in his pocket_. MÍTYA. It shall be as you wish. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Rises_] Will you come up-stairs to us? MÍTYA. I will--this minute. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Good-by. MÍTYA. To our pleasant meeting! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _goes to the door; from the doorway_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH _comes in_. SCENE XI _The same and_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Ah! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. [_Looking at_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] Wait! What sort of a creature is this? On what pretext? On what business? We must consider this matter. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Is it you, uncle! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Oh, it's I, niece! What? You got a fright? Clear out, never mind! I'm not the man to tell tales. I'll put it in a box, and think it over after, all in my spare time. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Good-by. [_Goes out_. SCENE XII MÍTYA _and_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Mítya, receive unto thyself Lyubím Kárpych TORTSÓV, the brother of a wealthy merchant. MÍTYA. You are welcome. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. [_Sits down_] My brother turned me out! And in the street, in a coat like this--one has to dance about a bit! The frost--at Christmas time--brrr!--My hands are frozen, and my feet nipped--brrr! MÍTYA. Warm yourself up, Lyubím Kárpych. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. You will not drive me away, Mítya? If you do, I'll freeze in the yard--I'll freeze like a dog. MÍTYA. How could I? What are you saying? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. You see, Mítya, my brother turned me out. As long as I had a little money, I strolled about in warm places; now I have no money, and they won't let me come in anywhere. All I had was two francs and some-odd centimes! Not a great capital! It wouldn't build a stone house! It wouldn't buy a village! What could one do with such a capital? Where put it? Not take it to a bank! So then I took this capital and drank it up!--squandered it!--That's the way of it! MÍTYA. Why do you drink, Lyubím Kárpych? That makes you your own enemy. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Why do I drink? From stupidity! Yes, from my own stupidity. Why did you think I drank? MÍTYA. You'd better stop it. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. It's impossible to stop; I've got started on this track. MÍTYA. What track? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Ah, well, listen--you're a kind soul--what this track was. Only, you listen, take note of it. I was left when my father died, just a kid, tall as a bean pole, a little fool of twenty. The wind whistled through my head like an empty garret! My brother and I divided up things: he took the factory himself, and gave me my share in money, drafts and promissory notes. Well, now, how he divided with me is not our business--God be his judge! Well, then I went to Moscow to get money on the drafts. I had to go! One must see people and show oneself, and learn good manners. Then again, I was such a handsome young man, and I'd never seen the world, or spent the night in a private house. I felt I must try everything! First thing, I got myself dressed like a dandy. "Know our people!" says I. That is, I played the fool to a rarity! Of course, I started to visit all the taverns: "_Schpeelen sie polka_! Give us a bottle off the ice!" I got together enough friends to fill a pond! I went to the theatres-- MÍTYA. Well, Lyubím Kárpych, it must be very nice in the theatre. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. I kept going to see the tragedies; I liked them very much, only I didn't see anything decently, and I didn't understand anything because I was nearly always drunk. [_Rises_] "Drink beneath the dagger of Prokóp Lyapunóv." [_Sits down_] By this sort of life I soon squandered all my money; what was left I intrusted to my friend Afrikán Kórshunov, on his oath and word of honor; with him I had drunk and gone on sprees, he was responsible for all my folly, he was the chief mixer of the mash! He fooled me and showed me up, and I was stuck like a crab on a sand bank. I had nothing to drink, and I was thirsty--what was to be done? Where could I go to drown my misery? I sold my clothes, all my fashionable things; got pay in bank-notes, and changed them for silver, the silver for copper, and then everything went and all was over. MÍTYA. How did you live, Lyubím Kárpych? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. How did I live? May God never give such a life to a Tatar! I lived in roomy lodgings, between heaven and earth, with no walls and no ceiling. I was ashamed to see people. I hid from the world; and yet you have to go out into God's world, for you have nothing to eat. You go along the street, and everybody looks at you.--Every one had seen what a life I used to lead, how I rattled through the town in a first-class cab, and now went about tattered and torn and unshaven. They shook their heads and away they went. Shame, shame, shame! [_Sits and hangs his head_] There is a good business--a trade which pays--to steal. But this business didn't suit me--I had a conscience, and again I was afraid: no one approves of this business. MÍTYA. That's a last resort. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. They say in other countries they pay you thalers and thalers for this, but in our country good people punch your head for it. No, my boy, to steal is abominable! That's an old trick, we'll have to give it up! But, you see, hunger isn't a kind old aunty, and you have to do something! I began to go about the town as a buffoon, to get money, a kopek at a time, to make a fool of myself, to tell funny stories, and play all sorts of tricks. Often you shiver from early morn till night in the town streets; you hide somewhere behind the corner away from people, and wait for merchants. When one comes--especially if he is rather rich--you jump out and do some trick, and one gives you five kopeks, and another ten: with that you take breath for a day and so exist. MÍTYA. It would have been better, Lyubím Kárpych, to go to your brother, than to live like that. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. It was impossible; I'd been drawn in. Oh, Mítya, you get into this groove, and it isn't easy to get out again. Don't interrupt! You'll have a chance later. Well, then, listen! I caught cold in the town--it was winter; I stood in the cold, smartly dressed, in this coat! I was blowing on my fingers and jumping from foot to foot. Good people carried me to the hospital. When I began to get better and come to my senses, my drunken spell was over. Dread came over me! Horror seized me! How had I lived? What had I done? I began to feel melancholy; yes, such melancholy that it seemed better to die. And so I decided that when I got quite well, I would go on a pilgrimage, then go to my brother, and let him take me as a porter. This I did. I threw myself plump at his feet! "Be a father to me!" says I, "I have lived abominably--now I wish to reform." And do you know how my brother received me! He was ashamed, you see, that he had such a brother. "But you help me out," I said to him, "correct me, be kind to me, and I will be a man." "Not at all," says he, "where can I put you when important guests, rich merchants, and gentry come to see me? You'll be the death of me," says he! "With my feelings and intellect," says he, "I ought not to have been born in this family at all. See how I live," says he; "who'd ever guess that our father was a peasant! For me," says he, "this disgrace is enough, and then you must come and obtrude yourself again." He overwhelmed me as with thunder! After these words I went from bad to worse. "Oh, well," I thought, "deuce take him! He is very thick here. [_Points to his forehead_] He needs a lesson, the fool. Riches are no use to fools like us; they spoil us. You need to know how to manage money." [_Dozes off_] Mítya, I'll lie down here; I want to take a nap. MÍTYA. Do lie down, Lyubím Kárpych. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Mítya, don't give me any money--that is, don't give me much; just give me a little. I'll take a nap here, and then go and warm myself a little, you understand! I only need a little--no, no! Don't be foolish! MÍTYA. [_Taking out money_] Here, take as much as you need. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. I need ten kopeks. This is all silver; I don't need silver. Give me two kopeks more, that will be just right. [MÍTYA _gives them_] That's enough. You have a good heart, Mítya! [_Lies down_] My brother doesn't know how to appreciate you. Yes, I'll play a joke on him! For fools riches are an evil! Give money to a sensible man, and he'll do something with it. I walked about Moscow, I saw everything, everything!--I've been through a long course of study! You'd better not give money to a fool; he'll only go smash! Foh, foh, foh, brr! just like brother and like me, the brute! [_In a voice half asleep_] Mítya, I will come and spend the night with you. MÍTYA. Come on. The office is empty now--it's a holiday. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Oh, but I'll play a funny joke on brother. [_Falls asleep_. MÍTYA. [_Walks towards the door and takes the letter out of his pocket_] What can she have written? I'm frightened!--My hands tremble!--Well, what is to be will be! I'll read it. [_Reads_] "And I love you. Lyubóv Tortsóv." [_Clutches his head and runs out_. ACT II _Guest-room in the house of_ TORTSÓV. _Against the rear wall a sofa, in front of the sofa a round table and six armchairs, three on each side; in the left corner a door; on each wall a mirror, and under them little tables. A door in each side wall, and a door in the rear wall in the corner. On the stage it is dark; from the left door comes a light._ SCENE I LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _and_ ANNA IVÁNOVNA _enter through the lighted door._ ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Why don't they come, our fine lads? Shall we go and fetch them? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. No, you'd better not. Well, yes, if you like, fetch them. [_Embraces her_] Fetch them, Annushka. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Well, evidently you aren't happy without him! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Oh, Annushka, if you only knew how I love him! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Love him, then, my dear, but don't lose your wits. Don't let him go too far, or you may be sorry for it. Be sure you find out first what sort of a fellow he is. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. He's a good lad!--I love him very much; he's so quiet, and he's an orphan. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Well, if he's good, then love him; you ought to know best. I just said that! Many a girl comes to grief because of them. It's easy to get into trouble, if you don't use your sense. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What is our love? Like a blade of grass in the field; it blooms out of season--and it fades. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Wait a moment! Some one's coming, I think. Isn't it he? I'll go and you wait, perhaps it's he! Have a good talk with him. [_She goes out._ MÍTYA _enters._ SCENE II LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _and_ MÍTYA LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Who's there? MÍTYA. It's I, Mítya. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Why were you so long in coming? MÍTYA. I was detained. [_Approaches_] Lyubóv Gordéyevna, are you alone? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Yes, what of it? MÍTYA. Lyubóv Gordéyevna, how do you wish me to understand your letter? Do you mean it, or is it a joke? [LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _is silent_] Tell me, Lyubóv Gordéyevna! I am now in such perplexity that I cannot express it to you. My position in your house is known to you; subordinate to everybody, and I may say utterly despised by Gordéy Kárpych. I've had only one feeling, that for you, and if I receive ridicule from you, then it would have been better for me never to have lived in this world. You may trust me! I am telling you the truth. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. No, Mítya dear, what I wrote to you was the truth, and not a joke. And you, do you love me? MÍTYA. Indeed, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, I do not know how to express to you what I feel. But at least let me assure you that I have a heart in my breast, and not a stone. You can see my love from everything. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. But I thought that you loved Anna Ivánovna. MÍTYA. That is not true! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Really, they told me so. MÍTYA. If this were true, then what sort of a man should I be after acting as I have? Could I declare with words what my heart does not feel! I think such a thing would be dishonorable! I may not be worth your regard, but I'm not the man to deceive you. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. It is impossible to believe you men; all men in the world are deceivers. MÍTYA. Let them be deceivers, but I am not. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. How can one know! Perhaps you also are deceiving me and want to play a joke on me! MÍTYA. It would be easier for me to die in this place than to hear such words from you! [_Turns away._ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. No, Mítya, I didn't mean it. I know that you love me. I only wanted to tease you. [MÍTYA _is silent_] Mítya dear! Mítya! Why are you silent? Are you angry with me? I tell you I was only joking! Mítya! Yes! Now, then, say something. [_Takes his hand._ MÍTYA. Oh, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, I'm not in a joking humor! I'm not that sort of man. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Don't be angry. MÍTYA. If you love me, then stop these jokes! They are not in place. Oh, it's all the same to me now! [_Embraces her_] Maybe they can take you from me by force, but I won't give you up of my free will. I love you more than my life! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Returning his embrace_] Mítya dear, what shall we do now? MÍTYA. What shall we do? We didn't fall in love with each other just to say good-by! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, but what if they promise me to some one else? MÍTYA. Look here, Lyubóv, one word! To-morrow we must go together to Gordéy Kárpych, and throw ourselves at his feet. We'll say so and so--whatever you please, but we can't live without each other. Yes, if you love me, then forget your pride! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What pride, Mítya? Is this a time for pride! Mítya dear, don't be angry with me; don't remember my past words. It was only girlish foolishness; I'm sorry that I did it! I shouldn't have joked with you; I should have caressed you, my poor boy. [_Throws her arms round his neck_] Oh, but, if father doesn't consent to our happiness--what then? MÍTYA. Who can tell beforehand? It will be as God wills. I don't know how it is with you, but for me life is not life without you! [_Is silent_. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Some one's coming! Go away quietly, dearest, and I'll come later. MÍTYA _goes out quietly_. ARÍNA _comes in with a candle_; LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _goes to meet her_. SCENE III ARÍNA, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, _and afterwards_ EGÓRUSHKA ARÍNA. Well, you! You frightened me enough! What are you doing here? Your mother is looking for you there, and here you are! Why are you wandering about in the dark! Oh, you modest maiden! Fairy princess. [LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _goes out_] Well, really, wasn't some one there with her? [_Looks into the corner_] But I'm a silly old woman, I suspected some one! [_Lights the candles_] Oh, deary me, some trouble will be sure to come in my old age. [EGÓRUSHKA _enters_] Go along, Egórushka, and call the girls in from the neighbors; tell them Pelagéya Egórovna told you to invite them to come and sing songs. EGÓRUSHKA. Oh! how are you, Arína, my dear? ARÍNA. What are you so happy about, silly? EGÓRUSHKA. Why shouldn't I be happy? It's such fun! Ha, ha, ha! [_Jumps about._ ARÍNA. And maybe the mummers are coming; the young people wanted to dress up. EGÓRUSHKA. Oh, I shall die! Oh, Lord, I shall die! ARÍNA. What's the matter with you, you scamp? EGÓRUSHKA. Oh, I shall die of laughing! Oh, granny, I've got such giggles! ARÍNA. Dress up yourself. EGÓRUSHKA. I will, I will! Oh, Lord! Oh, Oh, Oh. ARÍNA. Now you run along quickly and fetch the girls. EGÓRUSHKA. In a second! [_Goes out._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _comes in._ SCENE IV ARÍNA _and_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Arinushka, did you send for the girls? ARÍNA. I did, my dear. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. That's right. Let them have a song with our folks, and cheer up Lyubóv and the guests. This is the time for them to enjoy themselves--while they're young. You know what a girl's life is--behind bolts and bars, never seeing the world! Now's their holiday!--Yes, let 'em have a good time! ARÍNA. Yes, to be sure, to be sure! Why shouldn't they? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Bring in some Madeira, Arinushka, the oldest we have; and gingerbread for the young people, and sweets--whatever you choose! Attend to it yourself, but don't forget the Madeira. ARÍNA. I understand, I understand; there'll be enough of everything. Directly, my dear, directly! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. And a snack for the young men. ARÍNA. Everything, everything will be all right. Don't you worry yourself; you join the guests. I'll do everything with pleasure. [_Goes out._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. [_Going to the door_] Girls, boys, come here! There's more room here and it's lighter. _Enter_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, MÁSHA, LÍZA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, RAZLYULYÁYEV, MÍTYA, GÚSLIN, _and two_ GUESTS. SCENE V PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, MÁSHA, LÍZA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, RAZLYULYÁYEV, MÍTYA, GÚSLIN, _and two_ GUESTS _(old women)._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. [_To the old women_] We'll sit here. [_Seats herself on the sofa, with the old women near her;_ ANNA IVÁNOVNA _and_ GÚSLIN _take chairs and talk quietly;_ MÍTYA _stands near them;_ MÁSHA, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, _and_ LÍZA _walk about the room with their arms round each other;_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _follows them_] We'll watch them while they play. LÍZA. "Just imagine, mother!" I said, "he doesn't know how to talk properly, and he even uses such words that it's absolutely impolite." RAZLYULYÁYEV. Do you mean me? LÍZA. We aren't talking about you; it's no business of yours. [_She continues_] "But why, mother, must I love him?" [_Speaks in a whisper._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, my friend, I love the good old ways. Yes, our good old Russian ways. But there! my husband doesn't care for them! What can you do about it? That's his character. But I love them, I'm naturally jolly; yes, I love to give a person a bite and to get them to sing songs to me! Yes, I take after my family. Our family are all jolly, and love singing. FIRST GUEST. When I look round, my dear Pelagéya Egórovna, there isn't the gayety that there used to be when we were young. SECOND GUEST. No, no. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. In my young days I was the merriest sort of girl--always singing and dancing---indeed I was. Yes, what songs I knew! They don't sing such songs now. FIRST GUEST. No, they don't sing them; new songs have come in now. SECOND GUEST. Yes, yes, one remembers the old times. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yasha dear! Sing us some good old songs. GÚSLIN _takes the guitar._ RAZLYULYÁYEV. [_To the girls_] So it's no use for me to wait; evidently I shan't get any sense out of you. LÍZA. What do you mean by sense? I don't understand. MÁSHA. It's ridiculous to listen to you. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Yes, it's funny for you; but how is it for me? Really, why don't you love me? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Let's sit down. _They sit down._ GÚSLIN. [_Sings_] "Four huts beside the brook That swift doth run. There is a gossip In every one. Dear gossips all four, My friends that be, Be friendly and kindly And nice to me. When you're in the green garden, Take me with you; When you pluck flowers, Pluck me a few. When you weave garlands, Weave me some too; When you go to the river, Take me with you. When you throw in the garlands, Throw also my wreath; The others will float, When mine sinks beneath. All of the sweethearts, They have come home; Mine, and mine only, He has not come." ARÍNA. [_Enters with bottles and glasses; and a servant-girl with relishes_] Here, I've brought them! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. [_To the servant_] Pass it to the young ladies. [_The servant carries wine round to the girls, places the tray on the table and goes out_] Arína! Bring us some wine. Yes, pour it out, pour out the Madeira, the Madeira; it will cheer us up. That's all right! Let's have a glass; they won't condemn us--we're old folks! [_They drink_] Annushka! Come along and drink some wine. Won't you have some? ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Well, why shouldn't I drink some! They say, don't drink when there's no one round, but when there's company, it's all right. _Goes to_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, _drinks and talks in a whisper_. ARÍNA. Have you had a drop too much, my boys? MÍTYA. I don't drink. RAZLYULYÁYEV. With pleasure! [_He comes up with_ GÚSLIN _and drinks; then catches hold of_ ARÍNA] Now, then, let's start an old song. [_Sings_. "Oh, I'll sing an old song, Of Eréma, of Fomá--" ARÍNA. Stop, saucy; you've crumpled me all up! RAZLYULYÁYEV. [_Sings_] "The reins were in Kalúga; In Tarús' the hames were hid. Grooved runners had the sleigh; All by itself it slid." _The girls laugh_. ARÍNA. Let me go, I say! Now that's enough! [_Goes out_. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. What are you teasing the old woman for? Come and dance with me. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Come on, then! Play for us, Yasha! YÁSHA _plays; they dance_. FIRST GUEST. That's a lively little woman. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, very lively, very lively. RAZLYULYÁYEV. [_Stamping his feet_] That's the way we do it. [_Stops dancing_. EGÓRUSHKA. [_Enters_] The girls have come. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Ask them in. [EGÓRUSHKA _goes out; the girls come in_. ARÍNA _brings in a dish and covers it_] Sit down and sing the dish songs; I'm so fond of them. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, MÁSHA, LÍZA, _and_ ANNA IVÁNOVNA _take off their rings and put them into the dish; the girls sing_. "Sow the wheat, my mother, and bake the cake for me. Glory! Many guests are coming, my lovers for to be. Glory! Your guests will wear bast slippers, but mine have boots of hide. Glory! The girl of whom the song is sung, much good it doth betide. Glory! The girl whose ring is taken out, will find it so without a doubt. Glory!" RAZLYULYÁYEV _rolls up his sleeves, takes out a ring and gives it to_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. High time, high time! GIRLS. [_Sing_] "In Bélgorod a sparrow small, Glory! In Bélgorod sits on a wall. Glory! In a strange land he looks about. Glory! Her ring and fortune will come out. Glory!" ARÍNA. [_Enters_] The mummers have come; shall I let them in? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, let them in; let them have a dance. And you girls can sing afterwards. SCENE VI _The same and mummers; an_ OLD MAN _with a balalaika or guitar, a_ TRAINER _with a bear and goat_, EGÓRUSHKA _with molasses_. OLD MAN. [_Bowing_] To all this honest company, greeting! TRAINER. Make a bow, Mishka! [_The bear bows_. OLD MAN. Do you wish me to sing and dance and amuse you, and to limber up my old bones? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. That's all right; yes, dance! Give them some wine, Arinushka. ARÍNA _serves the wine; some of them drink_. OLD MAN. Thank you humbly for your kind words, and for the entertainment. [_Sings_. "Our lads, though stripped unto the buff, Even so are bold enough. Their twelve hands go weaving on; Now the web of cloth is done. They made kaftans for us here; Kaftans do not cost you dear When you've grist within your hopper. In our purses silver bright Will not let us sleep at night. And the jingling coins of copper For the tavern raise the call. Tapster Andrew, quick undo The inn-door. We've a kaftan new Here to put in pawn with you; We won't take it home at all." [_Goes to one side_. EGÓRUSHKA. [_Dances with the molasses_] "Molasses! Molasses! It simmers so sweet. Oh, winter is bitter, The frost and the sleet. Stormy and snowy, oh, ways choked with snow, Unto my darling there's no way to go. Molasses! Molasses! It simmers so sweet. Like a little quail my wife Sits on her seat. And I love her for this, and her praises I tell, For she jaunts on so prettily, proudly and well." [_Bows_. FIRST GUEST. Oh, what a fine boy! Ah! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Why, yes, my friend, he's still a child; but he does the best he can. He's young yet. Come here, Egórushka. [EGÓRUSHKA _comes_] Here's some gingerbread for you. [_Gives it to him_; EGÓRUSHKA _bows and goes out_] Yes, he's still a child; you can't expect much from him! _The_ TRAINEE _leads the bear; the goat dances_. OLD MAN. [_Sings_] "We had a little billy-goat, And he was clever, too; He carried in the water, And set the mush to brew. He fed Grandpa and Grandma; But when he went one day To the dark forest seven wolves In waiting for him lay. And one of them was hungry, And many and many a year Had he roamed, forever asking For goat's meat far and near." TRAINER. [_To the bear_] Ask for wine, in honor of the goat. [_Bear bows_. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Arinushka, bring some refreshments for the mummers. ARÍNA _brings them something to drink; they drink and bow_. TRAINER. Now, then, amuse the honorable company. Show how the fair young darlings, the fair young girls, pale and rosy ones, glance at the young men, and watch their suitors. [_Bear shows off_] And how the old woman goes to work, bending, shrivelled; old age has overcome her, the years have broken her down. [_Bear shows off_] Well, now bow to the honorable company.[1] [Footnote 1: Ostróvsky is of course reproducing actual Christmas customs. Count Ilya Tolstoy, in his _Reminiscences of Tolstoy_, tells how his father played the part of the bear at the family Christmas party.] _They go out; the_ OLD MAN _plays the guitar; the other mummers dance; all watch them_. GÚSLIN _and_ MÍTYA _stand near_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA; MÍTYA _whispers something to her, and kisses her_. RAZLYULYÁYEV _comes up_. RAZLYULYÁYEV. What are you doing? MÍTYA. What's that to you? RAZLYULYÁYEV. I'll tell Pelagéya Egórovna; just see if I don't! MÍTYA. You just dare to tell! GÚSLIN. [_Approaching him_] Look out for me! You see we'll go away from here together; it'll be dark and the alley is lonely--just remember that! RAZLYULYÁYEV. What are you meddling with me for? What's the use? I want to marry her, and I'm going to make proposals. What are you up to! Yes, I mean to marry her! MÍTYA. We'll see about that. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Do you think they'll marry her to you? Not much! Not if I know it--I've got lots of money! ARÍNA. What a racket! Stop! Some one seems to be knocking. [_All listen_] That's true! They are knocking. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Go and open the door. ARÍNA. [_Goes out, then returns_] He's come back himself! _All rise._ SCENE VII _The same with_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH _and_ KÓRSHUNOV GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_To the mummers_] What's this rabble!--Get out! [_To his wife_] Wife! Pelagéya Egórovna! Greet my guest. [_Speaks in a low voice_] You've ruined me! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. You are welcome, Afrikán Savvich, you are welcome. KÓRSHUNOV. Good evening, Pelagéya Egórovna. He, he, he! It's very cheerful here! We've struck it just at the right time. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, here I am with the girls. Yes, I'm always with the girls. It's holiday time; I want to give my daughter some fun. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You are welcome, Afrikán Savvich; make yourself at home. [AFRIKÁN SÁVVICH _seats himself in the armchair at the table. To his wife_] Turn the hussies out. KÓRSHUNOV. Why turn them out! Who's going to turn the girls out. He, he, he! They'll sing a song, and we'll listen and watch them, and we'll give them some money, but not turn them out. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. As you wish, Afrikán Savvich! Only I am abashed before you! But don't conclude from this that we are all uneducated--this is all the wife; nothing can knock anything into her head. [_To his wife_] How many times have I told you: if you want to have a party in the evening, call in the musicians, and have things in good form. You can't say I deny you anything. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Well, what's the use of musicians--for us old women? _You_ can amuse yourself with them! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. There, that's the idea of life she has! It makes you laugh to hear her. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What do you mean? _Idea, idea_! It would be better for you to give your guest something to eat. Would you like something, Afrikán Savvich? Some wine with us old women? [_Pours out Madeira_. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Severely_] Wife! Have you really gone out of your mind! Hasn't Afrikán Savvich ever seen Madeira before! Order champagne--a half dozen--and be quick about it! Then order lighted candles in the reception-room where the new furniture is. That will give quite another effect. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. I will do it myself at once. [_Rises_ Arinushka, come on. Excuse me, my dear neighbors. FIRST GUEST. We will come with you, my dear; it's time we were going home. SECOND GUEST. It's time, it's time! The nights are dark, and the dogs in the lanes are fierce. FIRST GUEST. Yes, fierce; very fierce! [_They bow and go out_. SCENE VIII GORDÉY KÁRPYCH, KÓRSHUNOV, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, MÁSHA, LÍZA, _girls_, MÍTYA, GÚSLIN, _and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV. KÓRSHUNOV. Let's join the young ladies. Where did you pick up such beauties--he, he! [_Walks towards_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] Good evening, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, my beauty. [LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _bows_] May I join your company? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. We don't drive any one away. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Be seated; you'll be our guest. KÓRSHUNOV. You're pretty chilly to the old man! It's Christmas time now, and I suppose we may exchange kisses. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Why be so affectionate? KÓRSHUNOV. Gordéy Kárpych, may I kiss your daughter? And I must confess--he, he--I'm fond of this sort of thing. Yes, well, who doesn't like it! He, he! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You're welcome to do so; don't stand on ceremony. KÓRSHUNOV. Will you give me a kiss, young lady? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. If my father wants me to. [_They exchange kisses_. KÓRSHUNOV. Well now, every one of them, right down the line. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. I suppose so! I'm not proud. MÁSHA. Oh, how embarrassing! LÍZA. Well, there's nothing to be said; I must say it's a treat! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Going up to_ MÍTYA] Why are you here? Is this your place? "The crow has flown into the lofty palace!" MÍTYA, GÚSLIN _and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _go out_. SCENE IX GORDÉY KÁRPYCH, KÓRSHUNOV, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, MÁSHA, LÍZA _and girls_. KÓRSHUNOV. [_Seats himself near_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] I'm not like you, Lyubóv Gordéyevna; you didn't even want to kiss me, he, he, he! And I've brought you a little present. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. You needn't have taken the trouble. KÓRSHUNOV. Here I've brought you some diamonds, he, he! [_Gives them to her_. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Oh, they're earrings! I thank you humbly. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Show them to us. MÁSHA. But they are charming! LÍZA. And in such good taste! KÓRSHUNOV. Give me your hand. [_Takes it and kisses it_] You see, I like you very much, he, he, he! I like you very much; well, but you don't like me, I suppose? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Why shouldn't I like you? KÓRSHUNOV. Why? You like some one else, that's why. But you will come to love me! I'm a good man--a jolly man, he, he, he! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. I don't know what you are talking about. KÓRSHUNOV. I say, you will come to love me. Why not? I'm not old yet. [_Looks at her_] Am I an old man? He, he, he! Well, well, there's no harm in that. To make up for it you shall wear cloth of gold. I haven't any money! I'm a poor man. I've only got about five hundred thousand, he, he, he! In silver! [_Takes her hand_. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Rising_] I don't need your money. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Lyubóv, where are you going? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. To mother! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Wait! She'll come here. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _sits down._ KÓRSHUNOV. You don't want to sit by the old man? Give me your hand, young lady; I will kiss it. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Gives her hand_] Oh, good heavens! KÓRSHUNOV. What a hand! He, he, he! Like velvet! [_Strokes her hand, and then puts on a diamond ring._ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Freeing her hand_] Oh, let me go! I don't want it; I don't want it! KÓRSHUNOV. That's all right; it's no loss to me--it won't ruin me. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. But I don't want it. Give it to whomever you like. [_Takes it off and returns it._ KÓRSHUNOV. I gave it to you, and I won't take it back! He, he, he! _Enter_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, _and after her,_ ARÍNA _and_ EGÓRUSHKA _with wine and glasses._ SCENE X _The same with_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, ARÍNA, _and_ EGÓRUSHKA GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Come now and have a drink. KÓRSHUNOV. All right, Gordéy Kárpych, give me something to drink. And you girls, sing a song in my honor--I love to have respect shown me. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Girls, sing a song for him. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Uncorks the bottle, pours out champagne, and offers it to him_] To our dear friend Afrikán Savvich! Make a bow, wife! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. If you please, Afrikán Savvich, I humbly beg you. KÓRSHUNOV _takes the glass._ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Takes the glass_] Wife, drink! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, somehow I don't like this kind of wine! Well, yes! I'll take just a glass. GIRLS. [_Sing_] "Ah, who is he, our bachelor, And who is still unwed? Afrikán's our bachelor And Savvich still unwed. He jumped on the horse, The horse skips to and fro; He rides through the meadows, And green the meadows grow, And flowers blow." KÓRSHUNOV. [_Seats himself near_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] That's nice. I like that. Now, then, come here some one. [_A girl comes up, he pats her on the cheek_] Oh, you little bright eyes! You girls, I suppose, need a lot to set off your fair faces and rosy blushes; he, he, he! But I haven't any money! It will be on me, he, he, he! Hold out your apron! [_He tosses her some small change; the girl bows and goes out_] Now, then, Gordéy Kárpych, tell your wife why we came. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. I told you, wife, long ago, that living in this town bored me, because you can't take a step here without seeing that the people are absolutely ignorant and uneducated. And so I want to move from this place to Moscow. But there will be a man there who is no stranger to us--our dear son-in-law, Afrikán Savvich. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh! Oh! What are you saying! KÓRSHUNOV. Yes, we've shaken hands on it, Pelagéya Egórovna. What are you afraid of? I'm not going to eat her! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, Lord! [_Seizes her daughter_] She's my daughter! I won't give her up! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Wife! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. My dear Gordéy Kárpych! Don't trifle with a mother's heart! Stop! You've fairly staggered me! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Wife, you know me! And you, Afrikán Savvich, don't be uneasy: with me saying is doing! KÓRSHUNOV. You have promised--then keep your word. [_Rises, goes to the girls, and speaks to them in a low voice._ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Goes to her father_] Father, I will never take a step against your will. But have pity on me, poor girl that I am! Don't ruin my young life! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You're a fool, and don't understand your own happiness! You'll live in Moscow like a lady; you'll ride in a coach. In the first place, you'll live in the city--and not in a wilderness like this! In the second place, these are my orders! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. I dare not disobey your command. Father! [_Bows down to his feet_] Don't make me unhappy for my whole life! Relent, father! Make me do whatever you like, only don't compel me to marry a man I don't love! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. I never take back my word. [_Rises._ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. As you wish, father! [_Bows and goes to her mother._ KÓRSHUNOV. There, that business is over! Now, then, girls--a marriage song! GIRLS. [_Sing_] "The flowers in the garden will wither all about me, The blue flower in the meadow will be faded and forlorn; And so will my darling of the red cheeks without me; So rise up early, mother, in the morn. You must water all the flowers In the dawn and evening hours With water very often and with bitter tears in showers." LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Not that, not that! Sing another! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Let's go into the reception-room, Afrikán Savvich. Wife, all of you, come there! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Where can I hide myself! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Arína, bring along the wine! ARÍNA. Oh, wait, I can't attend to you now! My darling child! Girls, my dearies! Here's the song we'll sing. [_She sings._ "Thou art my own, my mother, Who grievest day by day, And at night to God dost pray. Thou who art so downcast, Look but once on her here, Thy daughter who was so dear-- For the last time--the last." LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. For the last time. _At the end of this song_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH _and_ KÓRSHUNOV _go out;_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _remains in the embrace of her mother, surrounded by her friends._ ACT III _A small room in the house of_ TORTSÓV, _furnished with cupboards of various sorts; chests and shelves with plates and silver. Furniture: sofas, armchairs, and tables, all very expensive and crowded together. Usually this room is used as a sort of sitting-room for the mistress of the house, where she directs her household, and where she receives her guests informally. One door leads into the room where the guests are dining, and the other into the inner rooms._ SCENE I ARÍNA _is seated on a chair near the door leading into the dining-room; near her are several girls and women._ ARÍNA. [_Looking into the dining-room_] I didn't expect this, my dear friends! I never thought to see it! He fell upon us like a hawk--like snow on the head; he seized our darling swan from the flock of her dear ones, from father, from mother, from kinsfolk, and from friends. We didn't realize what was happening. What things happen in this world of ours! Nowadays people are double-faced and sly, crafty, and cunning. He fairly befogged Gordéy Kárpych with this and that in his old age, and he began to hanker after his wealth. They have engaged our lovely beauty to a disgusting old man. Now she is sitting there, my darling, broken-hearted! Oh, I'm ready to die! After I have brought you up and nursed you, and carried you in my arms! I cared for you like a little bird--in cotton wool! Just now she and I were talking it over together. "We won't give you up, my child," I said, "to a common man! Only if some prince comes from foreign lands, and blows his trumpet at our door." But things didn't turn out our way. Now there he sits--the man who is going to tear her away--fat and flabby! Staring and smirking at her! He likes it! Oh, confound you! Well, now they've finished eating and are getting up; I must set to work. _Rises from her chair; the women go out;_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _comes in._ SCENE II ARÍNA _and_ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Come along, Arinushka, and help me to get the table ready. Yes, I'll sit down and rest--I'm tired. ARÍNA. Of course you are tired, my dear! Day in, day out, on your feet! You aren't as young as you were once! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. [_Seating herself on the sofa_] Oh! Tell them to send the big samovar to the maids' room--the very biggest; and find Annushka and send her to me. ARÍNA. Certainly, certainly. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, go along! Go along! Oh, I can't stand it! [ARÍNA _goes out_] My head's fairly splitting! Nothing but sorrow--and here comes more trouble! Yes, yes, I'm worried to death! Oh, oh, oh! I'm tired out, absolutely tired out! I've a lot to do, and my head's just spinning. I'm needed here, and I'm needed there, and I don't know what to begin on! Really--yes--[_Sits and tries to think_] What a husband for her! What a husband! Oh, oh, oh! How can you expect her to love him! Do you think she is hankering after his money? She is a girl now--in the bloom of youth--and I suppose her heart beats now and then! What she ought to have now is a man she can love--even if he's poor--that would be life! That would be paradise! ANNA IVÁNOVNA _comes in._ SCENE III PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _and_ ANNA IVÁNOVNA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Here are the keys of the tea cupboard. Go along and pour it out for the guests, and do everything that is necessary--you know yourself! I've walked my legs off! But you don't mind it; you're young yet--yes, go and serve them. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. I'd just as soon as not. It's no great work; my hands won't wear out! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. There--there's the tea in the cupboard, in the little red caddy. ANNA IVÁNOVNA _unlocks the door and takes out the caddy._ MÍTYA _comes in._ SCENE IV _The same and_ MÍTYA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What do you want, Mítya dear? MÍTYA. [_Keeping back his tears_] I--I--Pelagéya Egórovna, for all your kindness, and for all your consideration--even though it may be I am not worth it--seeing that while I was an orphan--you never deserted me--and like a mother--I will be thankful to you all my life, and will always pray to God for you. [_Bows down to her feet._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. But what are you doing, Mítya? MÍTYA. I thank you for everything. And now good-by, Pelagéya Egórovna. [_Rises._ PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Where are you going? MÍTYA. I plan to go to my mother's. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Are you going for long? MÍTYA. Yes, I asked the master for a vacation, and it's most likely that I'll stay there for good. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. But why do you wish to leave us, Mítya? MÍTYA. [Hesitating] Why, I just!--You see--I've already decided. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. But when are you going? MÍTYA. To-night. [_Is silent_] I thought to myself that I shouldn't see you before to-night, and so I came to say good-by. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Very well, Mítya, if you are needed there--we won't keep you; God be with you! Good-by! MÍTYA. [_Bows down to the feet of _PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, _exchanges kisses with her and with_ ANNA IVÁNOVNA; _then bows again and waits_] Might I be allowed to say good-by to Lyubóv Gordéyevna? You see we have lived in the same house--maybe I shall die before I see her again! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, you must, you must. Say good-by to her, of course! Annushka, go and fetch Lyubóv. ANNA IVÁNOVNA. [_Shaking her head_] "One man leads her by one hand, another by the other, a third stands and sheds tears; he loved her, but did not get her." SCENE V PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA and MÍTYA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, Mítya, my dear! What trouble we are in! How can we drive it away--get rid of it--I cannot think. It's as if a thunderbolt had struck me! I can't recover myself. MÍTYA. You have no one to blame but yourself for your unhappiness, Pelagéya Egórovna; you are marrying her off yourself, ma'am. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, we are doing it ourselves; we are marrying her off ourselves! Only it's not with my consent, Mítya! If I had my way, do you think I'd give her up? Do you think I'm her enemy? MÍTYA. He's a man--from what I hear--not a very great catch! There's nothing good to be heard of him--except what's bad. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. I know, Mítya dear, I know. MÍTYA. Well, from all accounts, I must say this, that most likely Lyubóv Gordéyevna, married to such a man, and living far away from you, will absolutely perish--no doubt of it. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, don't speak of it to me, don't speak of it! I'm distracted enough about it without your saying anything. I've worn my eyes out with gazing at her! If I could only look at her enough to last me forever! It's as if I were getting ready to bury her. MÍTYA. [Nearly weeping] How can such things happen? How can people do such things? She's your own daughter, I suppose! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. If she weren't my own, then I shouldn't be weeping and wailing, and my heart wouldn't be breaking over her tears. MÍTYA. Why weep? It would be better not to marry her. Why are you ruining the girl's life, and giving her into slavery? Isn't this a sin? You will have to answer for it to God. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. I know, I know it all, but I tell you, Mítya, it's not my doing. Why do you keep on blaming me? It's horrible enough for me without your talking about it, and you stir me up still more. Mítya, you should pity me! MÍTYA. It's true, Pelagéya Egórovna, but I can't endure this sorrow. Maybe it's worse for me than for you! I trust you so much, Pelagéya Egórovna, that I will open my heart to you as if you were my own mother. [_Dries his eyes with his handkerchief_] Yesterday evening, when you were having the evening party. [_Tears prevent him from speaking_] PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Well, well, tell me, tell me! MÍTYA. Well, then, she and I made a compact in the dark, that we would go together to you and to Gordéy Kárpych, and beg you humbly; we were going to say: "Give us your blessing; we cannot live without each other any longer." [_Dries his tears_] And now suddenly, this morning, I heard--and my arms just dropped by my side! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What are you saying? MÍTYA. I swear it, Pelagéya Egórovna, in the name of the Lord! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, my dear boy! What a luck-less lad you are, now that I know all! _LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA comes in._ SCENE VI The same and LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Here, Lyubóv dear! Mítya has come to say good-by; he is going away from here to his mother's. MÍTYA. [Bows] Good-by, Lyubóv Gordéyevna! Don't bear me any ill will! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Good-by, Mítya! [_Bows_] PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Kiss each other good-by; it may be that God will not let you see each other again. Well, never mind! [_MÍTYA and LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA kiss each other; she seats herself on the sofa and weeps; MÍTYA also weeps_] Stop, stop your weeping! you will drive me wild! MÍTYA. Oh, I'll risk everything now; everything in the world! [_Goes to PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA_] Pelagéya Egórovna, are you sorry to marry your daughter to an old man, or not? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. If I weren't sorry, I shouldn't be crying. MÍTYA. Will you permit me to speak, Pelagéya Egórovna? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Speak! MÍTYA. This is what I have to say: Get her ready and put on her warm clothes. Let her slip out quietly; I'll seat her in my fairy sleigh, and that's the last of us. Then the old man will never see her any more than his own ears! And no matter if I do go to ruin! I will take her to my mother and there we will get married. Oh, just give us a chance! I want some joy in life! At any rate, if I have to pay the price, at least I shall know that I've really lived. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What do you mean? What do you mean, you scamp? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What an idea, Mítya! MÍTYA. So you don't love me? Or have you ceased to love me? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What you say is dreadful! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What an idea, you scamp! Who would dare to take such a sin on his soul? Yes, come to your senses! What are you thinking of? MÍTYA. Why, I said if you're sorry! But if you're not sorry--then give her to Afrikán Savvich; sell her into slavery forever and ever. You'll be miserable yourselves when you see her wretched life; you'll come to your senses, you and Gordéy Kárpych, but then it will be too late. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. But how could you, without her father's blessing? How could you? Judge for yourself! MÍTYA. Certainly, how could we live without a blessing! Then you bless us, Pelagéya Egórovna. [_Kneels down_] and Gordéy Kárpych, it may be--himself, in time--somehow--- PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. What can I say to you? I feel altogether distracted.--Yes, I'm going out of my mind! I don't know anything! I don't remember anything! Yes, yes, my head spins. Oh, my darlings, my heart is torn! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. _Goes to MÍTYA_] No, Mítya, this can't be! Don't torture yourself for nothing; stop! [Raises him up] Don't tear my soul! Already my heart is all withered away within me! God be with you; good-by! MÍTYA. Why did you deceive me and mock at me? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Don't, Mítya! Why should I deceive you? Why? I fell in love with you; so I told you, myself. But now we must not go against the will of our parents. For it is the will of my father that I should marry; I must submit to him--that is a girl's lot. It must be that that's the right thing since it was so ordained of old. I don't want to go against my father; I don't wish people to talk about me and make an example of me. Although it may be I have broken my heart because of this--at any rate I know that I am acting according to law; no one will dare to look me in the face and jeer. Good-by! [_They kiss_] MÍTYA. Well, now I know my fate! [_LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA seats herself on the sofa and weeps_] Good-by! [_Bows to PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA_] Good-by, Pelagéya Egórovna, you have been my benefactress! So long as I live I shall not forget your goodness and kindness to me; you did not forget the orphan in a strange land. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Good-by, my dear; do not blame us in any way--that would be a sin for you. God grant that you may live happily; we shall not forget you. MÍTYA _bows and goes out_. SCENE VII PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _and later_ KÓRSHUNOV. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. How I pity that boy, Lyubóv dear! Oh, my child, oh, dear! It never entered my head that you loved him. How could I guess it, poor old woman that I am! What do I amount to? There, crying is our business, and I haven't any authority over my daughter! But it would be a good idea! I'd enjoy the sight of you in my old age. The boy is such an honest fellow, with such a tender heart, and he would be fond of me in my old age. And as I look at you, my child, how can you help being sad? And I have no way to help you, my darling! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, mother, what's the use of thinking about what's impossible, and only torturing ourselves? _Seats herself and is silent; some one knocks; the voice of KÓRSHUNOV is heard,_ "May I come in?" PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Come in, sir. KÓRSHUNOV. [_Entering_] Ah, there she is, my bride! Where were you hiding yourself? He, he! I'll find you, I'll find you anywhere. If you please, Pelagéya Egórovna, permit me to talk confidentially with your daughter about our own affairs. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Certainly. [_Goes out_. KÓRSHUNOV. [_Seats himself near_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] What are you crying about, young lady? For shame, for shame! He, he, he! There! I'm older than you, and I don't cry. [_Looks at her searchingly_] Oh, well, I know what it's about! I suppose you want to marry a young fellow? Now, this, my pretty one [_takes her hand and kisses it_] is just girlish folly. Now, just listen to what I'm going to tell you; I'll tell you the truth straight out. I don't like to deceive any one, and have no need to. Will you listen, eh? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Yes. KÓRSHUNOV. Good! Now, we'll begin with this point. Will a young man appreciate your love? Any girl will love a young man; that is nothing unusual for him; but to an old man it is precious. An old man will reward you for your love with some little gift, this and that--with gold, and with velvet--and there's nothing he won't give you. [_Kisses her hand_] And in Moscow there are lots of nice things in the shops; there are things worth giving! So it's nice to fall in love with an old man. That's number one for you! And then this is what happens with a young and good-looking husband. You see they are a fickle lot! Before you know it he will be running after some one else, or some young lady will fall in love with him, and then his wife may pine away. Then come reproaches and jealousy. And what is this jealousy, eh? He, he, he! Do you know, young lady, what this jealousy is? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. No, I don't know. KÓRSHUNOV. But I know! It isn't like a needle prick in the finger; it's far more painful than that. You see the cursed thing consumes a man. From jealousy people stab one another, and poison one another with arsenic! [_Laughs spasmodically and coughs_] But when any one falls in love with an old man, then all is peaceful for his wife. And here's something else I will tell you, my dear young lady: Young men like to go on sprees; they like gayety and distraction, and all sorts of dissipations, and their wives may sit at home and wait for them till midnight. And they come home drunk, and bully their wives, and swagger. But an old man will just sit near his wife; he'll die before he'll leave her. And he would like to look into her eyes all the time and to caress her and to kiss her hands. [_Kisses them_] Just like that. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Did your deceased wife love you? KÓRSHUNOV. [_Looks at her attentively_] And why do you ask this, young lady? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. I just wanted to know. KÓRSHUNOV. You wanted to know? [_Rises_] No, she didn't love me, and I didn't love her either. She wasn't worth loving--I took her, poor, a beggar, just for her beauty; I took care of her whole family; I saved her father from prison; she went about in gold. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Love cannot be bought with gold. KÓRSHUNOV. Whether you love a man or not, you ought to show him some regard. They needed money, they had nothing to live on; I gave it to them, I didn't refuse. And _I_ needed their love. Had I a right to exact this or not? You see I paid money for it! It's a sin to make complaints about me. Whoever I love has a good living in the world, and if I don't love any one, then he need not reproach me. [_He becomes excited and walks about_] Yes, I'm that man's enemy; he'd better keep out of my sight! My words and looks, more than my deeds, shall pursue him! I won't give the man room to breathe! I--[_Stops and bursts out laughing_] And you really thought that I was such a cross man? He, he! I said it in fun, for a joke! I'm a simple, kind old man! I'll dandle you in my arms [_hums_]; I'll rock you in a little cradle; I'll sing you to sleep. [_Kisses her hands_. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH _comes in._ SCENE VIII LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, KÓRSHUNOV, and GORDÉY KÁRPYCH GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Ah, so that's where my son-in-law is! We've been looking for you. We've already started in on the champagne. Come along to the guests; at our house a feast isn't a feast without you. KÓRSHUNOV. I like it here. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Then we'll order it to be served here, and we'll drink it with you. [_Walks to the door_] Hey, boy, serve the wine here! On a silver tray! [_Sits down_] Now, son-in-law, what do you say? KÓRSHUNOV. Nothing. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. How, nothing? KÓRSHUNOV. Just nothing. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. But don't you really? [_Looks at him_] Can you understand me now? KÓRSHUNOV. Why shouldn't I understand you? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Now we've had this little spree! So now you tell me, what sort of a man I am. Can they appreciate me here? KÓRSHUNOV. Why should they appreciate you? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. No, tell me this: Isn't everything well done here? In other houses a young fellow waits at table in a Russian smock, or there's a peasant girl; but in my house there's a butler in cotton gloves. This butler is a trained man, from Moscow; he knows all the ways of society--where each man should be seated, and what's to be done. But how is it at other people's houses? They collect in one room, they sit down in a ring, and sing peasant songs. Of course it's jolly, but I consider it's vulgar; there's no style about it. And what do they drink in their boorishness? Home-made cordials, all sorts of cherry water! And they don't even _know_ that champagne is the proper thing! Oh, if I could live in Moscow, or in Petersburg, I'd make a point of following every fashion. KÓRSHUNOV. You don't mean every fashion? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Every one. As long as my money held out, I wouldn't stint myself. You just look out, Lyubóv; you toe the mark! Or else your bridegroom--you see he's from Moscow--may be ashamed of you. I suppose you don't even know how to walk gracefully, and you don't understand how to talk as is proper in company. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. I say what I feel, father; I wasn't brought up in a boarding-school. _The butler enters, and gives wine to KÓRSHUNOV and GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. He places the bottles on the table, and goes out._ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. That's it, son-in-law! Just let them know what sort of man Gordéy Kárpych Tortsóv is! _EGÓRUSHKA comes in._ EGÓRUSHKA. Uncle Gordéy Kárpych, come here, if you please. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What's the matter with you? EGÓRUSHKA. Come, please: there's such a scene! [_Laughs_] GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Approaching_] What's the matter? EGÓRUSHKA. Uncle Lyubím Kárpych has come in. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Why did they let him in? EGÓRUSHKA. It must be that he just took it into his head; we can't stop him, anyhow. [_Bursts out laughing._] GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What's he doing? EGÓRUSHKA. He's turning out the guests. [_Bursts out laughing_] "You're glad to eat another man's bread," says he. "I'm also the host," says he. "I," says he---- [_Bursts out laughing._] GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Sh--he's ruined me! [_Goes out with EGÓRUSHKA._] KÓRSHUNOV. What's all this about? LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. I don't know. It must be that uncle is--Sometimes he takes a notion. _Enter_ RAZLYULYÁYEV, MÁSHA, _and_ LÍZA. SCENE IX LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA, KÓRSHUNOV, RAZLYULYÁYEV, MÁSHA, _and_ LÍZA. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. [_At the door_] Where is your brother? Where is Lyubím Kárpych? What has he done? Oh, misery! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. He isn't here, mother. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _goes out._ RAZLYULYÁYEV. There you are! Lyubím Kárpych is playing some famous tricks! Ha, ha, ha! He's cutting up such capers, it beats all! LÍZA. It isn't at all funny, it's just rude! MÁSHA. I simply didn't know what to do from embarrassment. _They seat themselves on the sofa._ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH _comes in._ SCENE X _The same and_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH LÍZA. Oh, good heavens, again! MÁSHA. This is terrible! RAZLYULYÁYEV. Ha, ha, ha! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Gurr, gurr, gurr; bul, bul, bul! With the finger nine! With the cucumber fifteen! How do, friend! [_Holds out his hand to_ KÓRSHUNOV] My respects! I haven't seen you for a thousand years and a day! How are you? KÓRSHUNOV. Oh, is this you, Lyubím? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. [_Covering his face with his hands_] I'm not I, and the horse is not mine, and I'm not a coachman. KÓRSHUNOV. I remember you, brother! You used to roam the town and pick up kopeks. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. You remember how I used to pick up kopeks, but do you remember how you and I used to go on sprees together? How we sat through the dark autumn nights, and how we skipped back and forth, from the tavern to the wine-shop? And don't you know who ruined me, and who turned me out with a beggar's wallet? KÓRSHUNOV. Why didn't you look out for yourself? Nobody dragged you in by the collar, my dear fellow. It's your own fault. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. I was a fool! But, well, _you_ haven't much to be proud of! You raised me to such heights, you promoted me to such a place--I've stolen nothing, and yet I'm ashamed to look men in the eyes! KÓRSHUNOV. You're the same old joker as ever! [_Turning to_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] You've got a jolly uncle! For old acquaintance sake, we'll surely have to give him a ruble. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Sh! It's not a question of rubles here! Pay up your old debts, and for my niece here a million three hundred thousand! I won't sell her cheaper. KÓRSHUNOV. [_Laughing_] Won't you come down? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Not a kopek! RAZLYULYÁYEV. Aha, Lyubím Kárpych! Don't you take any less! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH _comes in._ SCENE XI The same with GORDÉY KÁRPYCH GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. So you are here! What are you doing in my house? Clear out! KÓRSHUNOV. Wait a bit, Gordéy Kárpych; don't turn him out! Why turn him out? Let him show off and make jokes. He, he, he! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. It's my brother that's joking, in giving his daughter to you, but I'll play such a joke on you as won't suit your stomach! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. This isn't the place for him. Get out! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Wait, brother, don't turn me out! Do you think Lyubím Tortsóv has come to make jokes? Do you think Lyubím Tortsóv is drunk? I have come to you to ask riddles. [_To KÓRSHUNOV_] Why has an ass long ears? Now, then, give us an answer? RAZLYULYÁYEV. That's a hard one! KÓRSHUNOV. How do I know? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. So that all may know that he is an ass. [_To his brother_] Here's a riddle for you! To whom are you marrying your daughter? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. That's not your affair! You've no business to ask me. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. And here's another question for you. Are you an honest merchant, or not? If you are honest, don't associate with a dishonest one. You can't touch soot and not be defiled. KÓRSHUNOV. Joke away--but don't forget yourself, my dear fellow! Turn him out, or make him keep quiet. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. That meant you! One can see you are as clean as a chimney-sweep! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Brother, go away quietly, or it will be the worse for you. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Starting up in a fright_] Uncle, stop! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. I won't be quiet! Now blood has begun to talk! _All the domestics and guests enter._ SCENE XII _The same with PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA, ANNA IVÁNOVNA, GÚSLIN, guests, and servants._ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Listen, good people! They are insulting Lyubím Tortsóv, they are driving him away. But am I not a guest too? Why should they drive me away? My clothes are not clean, but I have a clean conscience! I'm not Kórshunov; I didn't rob the poor, I didn't ruin another's life, I didn't torment my wife with jealousy. Me they drive away, but he's their most esteemed guest, and he's put in the place of honor. Well, never mind! They'll give him another wife. My brother is marrying his daughter to him! Ha, ha, ha! [_Laughs tragically_] KÓRSHUNOV. [_Jumps up_] Don't believe him; he lies! He says this out of spite to me. He's drunk! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. How out of spite? I pardoned you long ago. I'm a man of small account, a crawling worm, the lowest of the low! But don't you do evil to others. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_To the servants_] Take him away! LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. [_Holding up one finger_] Sh, don't touch me! It's an easy life in this world for a man whose eyes are shameless! Oh, men, men! Lyubím Tortsóv is a drunkard, but he's better than you! Here, now, I'll go away of my own accord. [_Turning to the crowd_] Make way--Lyubím Tortsóv is going! [_Goes, and suddenly turns round_] Unnatural monster! [_Goes out_] KÓRSHUNOV. [_Laughing in a forced way_] So that's the way you keep order in your house! That's how you follow the fashions! At your house drunkards insult the guests! He, he, he! "I," says he, "shall go to Moscow; here they don't understand me!" Such fools are almost extinct in Moscow! They laugh at 'em there! "Son-in-law, son-in-law!" He, he, he! "Dear father-in-law!" No, humbug, I won't let myself be insulted for nothing. No, you come along and bow down to me! Beg me to take your daughter! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You think I'll bow down to you? KÓRSHUNOV. Yes, you will; I know you! You want a fine wedding. You'd hang yourself if only to astonish the town! But nobody wants her! How unlucky for you! He, he he! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. After you've said such words as these I won't have anything more to do with you! I never bowed down to any one in my life! If it comes to this, I'll marry her to any man I choose. With the money that I shall give as her dowry any man will---- _MÍTYA comes in, and stops in the doorway._ SCENE XIII _The same and MÍTYA_ MÍTYA. [_Turning towards the crowd_] What's all this noise? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Here, I'll marry her to Mítya! MÍTYA. What, sir? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Silence! Yes--I'll marry her to Mítya--to-morrow! And I'll give her such a wedding as you never saw! I'll get musicians from Moscow! I'll ride alone in four coaches! KÓRSHUNOV. We'll see, we'll see! You'll come to ask my pardon, you will! [_Goes out_. SCENE XIV _The same without_ KÓRSHUNOV PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. To whom, Gordéy Kárpych, did you say? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. To Mítya--Yes! What airs he put on! As if I were worse than he! "You'll come and bow down!" He lies! I won't go and bow down! Just to spite him I'll marry her to Dmitry. [_All are astonished_. MÍTYA. [_Takes_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _by the hand and goes to_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH] Why out of spite, Gordéy Kárpych? One does not do such things out of spite. I don't want you to do it out of spite. I'd rather suffer torment all my life. If you are kind enough, then give us your blessing as is proper, in a fatherly fashion, with love. Because we love each other, and even before this happened, we wanted to confess our guilt to you. And now I'll be a true son to you forever, with all my heart. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What, what, "with all your heart"? You're glad of the chance! But how did you ever dare to think of it? Is she your equal? Remember to whom you're talking. MÍTYA. I know very well that you are my master, and that I, because of my poverty, cannot be her equal; but however, think as you please. Here I am; I've fallen in love with your daughter with all my heart and soul. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH _comes in and takes his stand in the crowd._ SCENE XV _The same and_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Well, how could you help loving her? Your taste isn't bad! And you'll get plenty of money with her, which is fine for a penniless fellow like you--without a rag to your back! MÍTYA. It is so insulting for me to hear this from you, that I have no words. Better keep silent. [_Walks away_] If you please, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, you speak. LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Father, I have never gone against your will! If you wish for my happiness, then give me to Mítya. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Why, why, really, Gordéy Kárpych, why do you keep changing your mind so? Why do you? I was beginning to feel happy; my heart was just beginning to feel easy, and now you begin again. Do stick to something; otherwise what does all this mean? Really! First you say to one man, and then to the other! Was she born your daughter just to be a martyr? LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. [_From the crowd_] Brother, give Lyubóv to Mítya! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You here again! Do you understand what you've done to me to-day? You've put me to shame before the whole town! If you felt this you wouldn't dare to show yourself in my sight--and then you slink in and give me advice! If it were only a man talking and not you. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. You'd better bow down to Lyubím Tortsóv's feet, just because he has put you to shame. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. That's it, dear Lyubím! We ought to bow down to your feet; that's just it! You have taken a great sin from our souls; all our prayers could never have freed us from this sin. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What, am I a monster to my own family? PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. You're no monster, but you would have ruined your daughter through your own folly; I tell you this straight out! They marry girls to old men who are a lot better than Afrikán Savvich, and even so they live miserable lives. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Permit me! [_Sings_] Tum-ty-tum, tum-ty-tum! [_Dances_] Look at me, here's an example for you! Lyubím Kárpych stands before you large as life! He went along that road, he knows what it is! And I was rich and respected, I drove about in coaches, I played such pranks as would never come into your head; and then head over heels down. Just see what a dandy I am! GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. No matter what you say to me, I don't want to listen; you are my enemy for the rest of my life. LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Are you a man, or a wild beast? Have pity on Lyubím Tortsóv! [_Kneels down_] Brother, give Lyubóv to Mítya--he will give me a corner. I was chilled and hungry. I was growing old, and it was hard for me to play the fool in the cold for a piece of bread; at least in one's old age one wants to live decently. You see I've been cheating people, I've been begging alms, and have spent it in drink. They'll give me work, and then I'll have my kettle of soup. Then I'll thank God, brother; even my tears will reach to heaven. What if he is poor, eh? If I had been poor, I should have been a man. Poverty is no crime. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Gordéy Kárpych, haven't you any feelings? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Wiping away a tear_] And you really thought that I hadn't? [_Lifts up his brother_] Well, brother, thank you for bringing me back to reason; I almost went out of my mind completely. I don't know how such a rotten notion got into my head. [_Embraces_ MÍTYA _and_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA] Now, children, say thank you to your Uncle Lyubím Kárpych, and live in happiness. PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA _embraces the children._ GÚSLIN. Uncle, may I speak now? GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You may, you may! Ask for whatever you want, every one of you! Now I have become another man. GÚSLIN. Well, Annushka, it's our turn now! ANNA IVÁNOVNA. Well, now, we'll have a dance; only hold your hat on! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Yes, let's dance, let's dance! RAZLYULYÁYEV. [_Goes to_ MÍTYA _and slaps him on the shoulder_] Mítya! For a friend I give up everything! I loved her myself, but for you--I give her up. Give me your hand. [_Clasps his hand_] That's all--take her; I give her up to you! For a friend I don't regret anything! That's the way we do it when it comes to the point! [_Wipes away his tears with the lappet of his coat and kisses_ MÍTYA] He told the truth then; drunkenness is no crime--well, I mean--poverty is no crime. I always make slips! PELAGÉYA EGÓROVNA. Oh, yes, here they all are! [_To the girls_] Now, then, girls, a jolly song! Yes, a jolly one! Now we'll celebrate the wedding with all our hearts! With all our hearts! [_The girls begin to sing._ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH. Sh! Obey orders! _He sings; the girls join in._ "We have done the business; All the trade is driven. The betrothal we will plight, And upon the wedding night A fine feast shall be given." SIN AND SORROW ARE COMMON TO ALL A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS CHARACTERS VALENTÍN PÁVLYCH BABÁYEV[1], _a young landowner_ [Footnote 1: womanish] LEV RODIÓNYCH KRASNÓV, _a shopkeeper, about thirty years of age_ TATYÁNA DANÍLOVNA (_called_ TÁNYA), _his wife_ LUKÉRYA DANÍLOVNA ZHMIGÚLIN (_called,_ LÚSHA), _her sister, an old maid and daughter of a government clerk now dead._ ARKHÍP, _blind old man, grandfather of_ KRASNÓV AFÓNYA (AFANÁSY), _invalid boy about eighteen years of age, brother of_ KRASNÓV MANÚYLO KALÍNYCH KÚRITSYN, _flour dealer about forty-five years of age_ ULYÁNA RODIÓNOVNA KÚRITSYNA, _his wife, sister of_ KRASNÓV SHISHGÁLEV, _government clerk_ ZÁYCHIKHA (_called PROKÓFYEVNA_), _landlady of the lodgings taken by_ BABÁYEV KARP, BABÁYEV'_s attendant The action takes place in a district town_. SIN AND SORROW ARE COMMON TO ALL ACT I TABLEAU I _A room, cheaply papered, shabbily furnished; in the rear two doors, one opening on the street, the other leading into an adjoining room; the windows are hung with chintz curtains._ SCENE I _KARP is unfastening a valise, and ZÁYCHIKHA (PROKÓFYEVNA) is looking out of the window._ PROKÓFYEVNA. Just look, dear sir, how many people have gathered. KARP. What do they want? Why are they curious? PROKÓFYEVNA. Every one, dear sir, wishes to know who it is that has arrived. KARP. They say you're provincials, and you certainly are provincials. Well, tell them that it's Babáyev, Valentin Pávlich, a landowner. PROKÓFYEVNA. [_Speaking through the window_] Babáyev, a landowner. [_To KARP_] They're asking why you came. KARP. On business, of course. Did you think we came here for sport? Much chance there would be for that here. PROKÓFYEVNA. [_Through the window_] For business. [_To KARP_] Will you remain long? KARP. We certainly haven't come to settle here. We may stay two days; not longer, you may be sure. PROKÓFYEVNA. [_Through the window_] For two days. [_Withdraws from the window_] Now I've satisfied them. In five minutes the entire city will know. KARP. Your lodging is all right; it's clean. PROKÓFYEVNA. Certainly it's clean, sir. No great frills, but it's clean. Of course there's no great travelling to our town. KARP. It isn't on the highway. PROKÓFYEVNA. Highway, not much! Yet the best people that do come here, lodge with me. I know a lot of the landowners who come here. They are used to me; very few of them ever go to the hotel. KARP. Because it's so noisy. PROKÓFYEVNA. Yes, I should say so! Down-stairs is a bar-room; and on market days the noise is dreadful. Please tell me, wasn't your master's mother Sofya Pavlovna, the wife of General Babáyev? KARP. Exactly so. PROKÓFYEVNA. Is their estate called Zavetnoye? KARP. Yes. PROKÓFYEVNA. So, so. I recognized him just now. I used to see him as a youngster. He often rode to town with his mother, and they would call on me. Does he live in the country? KARP. No, we are most of the time in St. Petersburg; but now we have come to the country to arrange business matters. PROKÓFYEVNA. So, so. But is he a good man to deal with? KARP. Pretty good. PROKÓFYEVNA. Well, thank the Lord! May He reward him! What business brought you to our town? KARP. Oh, those endless legal matters. Petty business, something to bear witness to; but I suppose he'll waste five days over it. PROKÓFYEVNA. It wouldn't be surprising. Have you called on the judges? KARP. Yes, we called on them all. Just now they sent us a clerk from court. PROKÓFYEVNA. They'll probably do it quicker for you than for us. If you need anything, knock on the wall, and I'll come. [_Goes out_. BABÁYEV _and_ SHISHGÁLEV _enter at the side door_. SCENE II BABÁYEV, SHISHGÁLEV, _and_ KARP BABÁYEV. So you say, my dear sir, that it is absolutely impossible? SHISHGÁLEV. [_Bowing and continually blowing his nose and covering his mouth with his hand_] But, believe me, sir, if it were at all possible we should have---- BABÁYEV. Maybe it is possible? SHISHGÁLEV. Judge for yourself, sir. Now the court session has ended, it is quite impossible to assemble the members; to-morrow is a holiday--then comes Saturday and then Sunday. BABÁYEV. Just think, my dear sir, how you are treating me! SHISHGÁLEV. How am I to blame? I'm the humblest sort of man. BABÁYEV. But, my dear sir, what shall I do here for the next four days? It is dreadful! SHISHGÁLEV. You can look around, sir, and take a glance at our city. KARP. What's the use of looking at it? What is there to see here? I suppose you'll say that St. Petersburg is not as fine a city as yours. BABÁYEV. Have you any kind of social life? SHISHGÁLEV. I beg pardon, sir? BABÁYEV. I said, have you any social life, any sort of club, entertainment with music, or parties? SHISHGÁLEV. No, we haven't. BABÁYEV. But where do the members of the court and the rest of them spend their time? SHISHGÁLEV. They usually spend it together. BABÁYEV. How together? SHISHGÁLEV. Every day is assigned. For instance, to-day they are with the prefect, to-morrow with the judge, day after to-morrow with the attorney; then with the farmer of the spirit tax, and next with the retired police captain--and so all the week goes by. BABÁYEV. At what time do they meet? SHISHGÁLEV. About six o'clock. BABÁYEV. What do they do then? SHISHGÁLEV. They play preference. BABÁYEV. And what else, certainly not only preference? SHISHGÁLEV. That's the truth, just preference. But usually they have tables with drinks and refreshments--just as it should be. They play, and then they take a bite, and so they pass the time. BABÁYEV. And do they all drink, from six o'clock on? SHISHGÁLEV. Oh, no, by no means! Only the dealer, or some one who has to pay a fine. BABÁYEV. Then, my dear sir, I can't help it. I've got to wait. SHISHGÁLEV. Just wait awhile, sir. On Monday you will please appear in court, and we'll arrange the matter without delay. BABÁYEV. Very well, I will be in court on Monday. But you'll have some writing to do for me. Then I'll give you--as is proper--I don't like any one to labor for me for nothing. SHISHGÁLEV. My family is large, Your Honor---- BABÁYEV. What's that? SHISHGÁLEV. Do have the kindness to bestow a little something---- BABÁYEV. Really, I don't know; how's that? How much do you want? KARP. Give him one ruble, sir; that'll be enough for him. BABÁYEV. [_Giving the money_] Here you are--I'm really ashamed. SHISHGÁLEV. [_Depositing the coin in his pocket_] Not at all. I thank you heartily; I wish you all good fortune. [_Goes out_. SCENE III BABÁYEV _and_ KARP BABÁYEV. How rude you are, Karp. KARP. If you begin to be sentimental with 'em, sir, they'll get the habit of calling around here and bewailing their fate. No amount of money will suffice 'em. They're a godless crowd. BABÁYEV. Well, what'll I do? I'd like to go for a walk, but it's still hot. Karp, what shall I do? KARP. I'll tell you what, go to sleep; after travelling it's a good thing. BABÁYEV. But what shall I do at night? KARP. At night just the same. They say people sleep when they're bored. BABÁYEV. How stupid I was not to bring any books. If I only had some frivolous intrigue to amuse myself with for four days. [_Goes out through the side door._] KARP. So that's what you wish! An intrigue! That's his style! He was his mother's spoiled darling and he was raised with young ladies and in the housemaids' room, and he has a hankering for that kind of thing now. Since I've lived in St. Petersburg with him, what things I have seen; it was shameful! I wonder if he's asleep? I'd like to have a nap. [_He's about to lie down when the door opens_] Who's that? LUKÉRYA _comes in._ SCENE IV KARP and LUKÉRYA KARP. What do you want? LUKÉRYA. Valentin Pávlich. KARP. What do you want of him? LUKÉRYA. If I want to see him, of course it must be necessary. KARP. Do you want help of some sort? LUKÉRYA. How rude! Aren't you aware that the Zhmigulin ladies were always welcome at the home of your master's mother? I am also very intimately acquainted with Valentin Pávlich. KARP. You are? I doubt it. LUKÉRYA. Maybe you stupidly misunderstand my words in some way that's beyond me. [_Sits down_] Your business is to go right off and announce me. KARP. I tell you he's asleep now. LUKÉRYA. That can't be, because I've just seen him through the window. KARP. Well, I see I can't do anything with you; I'll have to announce you. [_Goes out._] LUKÉRYA. In these modern times, these new changes have done a lot to spoil people. He ought to have found out first what my rank was, and then treated me accordingly. And it's not his business whether I came to ask for aid or not. To be sure, people of our station are often engaged in that, but not all. Maybe Valentin Pávlich has become so proud since he has lived in St. Petersburg that he will not wish to see me. But I'm so anxious to show every one here what acquaintances we have. I think he didn't disdain us formerly, especially sister Tánya. _BABÁYEV comes in._ SCENE V BABÁYEV and LUKÉRYA BABÁYEV. Whom have I the honor of addressing? LUKÉRYA. I hardly expected, Valentin Pávlich, that you would so soon forget old acquaintances. BABÁYEV. Be seated, please. [_Both sit down_] I somehow do not recall. LUKÉRYA. Of course, nowadays feelings are not in vogue; now it's all a matter of calculation; but we provincials aren't like you in St. Petersburg; we remember our former acquaintances, and especially our benefactors. BABÁYEV. I agree with you--benefactors should always be remembered. LUKÉRYA. We are so indebted to your mother that words fail me to express it. She did so much for the Zhmigulin family. BABÁYEV. The Zhmigulins? LUKÉRYA. Especially for sister Tánya and me. BABÁYEV. [_Rising_] Tánya--Tatyána Danílovna? LUKÉRYA. Do you remember, now? BABÁYEV. So you are her sister? LUKÉRYA. Lukérya Danílovna Zhmigulin. BABÁYEV. Pardon me, I beg of you. LUKÉRYA. I'm not in the least offended because you remember my sister more readily than you do me. She's so beautiful that it's impossible to forget her. BABÁYEV. Yes, yes, she was an exceedingly beautiful girl; we were great friends. LUKÉRYA. I'm aware of that. Who should know it if not I? Being the elder sister I had to care for the younger. BABÁYEV. Yes, yes, to be sure. Tell me, if you please, where is she now? What is she doing? LUKÉRYA. She's here in the city, married. BABÁYEV. Married? Does she live happily? LUKÉRYA. Judge for yourself. She lives in poverty among stupid, ignorant people. It isn't as it was in your mother's house at Zavetnoye. That was an earthly paradise! Your mother was the kindest of ladies, and liked to have everybody happy at her house. There were always lots of young ladies in her house, and likewise young gentlemen, and they played games from morning till night. She made even the chambermaids play tag with us and other games, and she looked on and enjoyed it. BABÁYEV. Yes, yes, it was but a short time ago. It's no more than three years since I left for St. Petersburg. LUKÉRYA. I remember it very well. You left three years ago last carnival time. Your mother didn't like any of her guests to be moody or to read books. She would say: "Why, you're spoiling everybody's spirits." Every one was madly gay for her sake, but in the midst of all that gayety anybody who had a keen eye could see quite a little. BABÁYEV. Nothing more natural! Men, girls, and young ladies continually together--of course they couldn't help falling in love. LUKÉRYA. You were especially strong in that line. You were continually with Tánya, and you never left her, so they called you the "doves." BABÁYEV. One's heart's not a stone, Lukérya Danílovna. Even you yourself--do you remember the surveyor? LUKÉRYA. He isn't worth remembering. Later on he behaved in a very ungentlemanly way to me. But fate has punished him for his lack of courtesy towards a girl of noble birth. He's now in jail for being drunk and disorderly. BABÁYEV. Kindly tell me how it happened that your sister married? LUKÉRYA. When your mamma died last summer we had absolutely no one left to help us. Our papa in his old age was of no account in the city. He was a timid man, and so he didn't get on well. Our father was a clerk in the Chancery Office, and he received a salary of thirty rubles a year. How could we live on such a sum? And yet we saw something of society. At first we were hardly ever at home, and your mamma aided us in many ways. Suddenly all that stopped, and soon our father died. At that time Tánya received an offer from--I'm almost ashamed to tell you. BABÁYEV. Why, what are you ashamed of? LUKÉRYA. You are receiving me so graciously, and your interest in my sister makes me feel that our actions have been very uncivil. BABÁYEV. That can't be helped. Probably it was all due to circumstances. What are you to blame for? LUKÉRYA. You can hardly imagine the degree of embarrassment this relationship causes me. In a word, our circumstances were such that she was forced to marry a petty shopkeeper. BABÁYEV. A petty shopkeeper? What kind of shop has he? LUKÉRYA. A vegetable shop. You can see it from here, the sign reads, "Lev Krasnóv." BABÁYEV. Yes, I noticed it. Is he a good man? LUKÉRYA. Considering the type, he's a very nice man, and he loves sister very dearly. Yet there is something so inherently bad about his calling that, judge as you will, he's still not very far removed from a peasant. That trait of character, if you boil a man for seven years in a kettle, you cannot boil out. Yet I must give him credit for taking good care of his house. He doesn't give himself any rest day or night; he toils hard all the time. As for my sister, he's willing to give her whatever her heart desires, even his last kopek, just to please her, so that she does absolutely nothing, and lives like a lady. But his manners are boorish, and his conversation embarrasses us very much. Altogether this is not the kind of happiness I wished for Tánya. Judging by her beauty and the standing of her former admirers, she should now be riding in a carriage. As it is, necessity has forced her to marry a peasant, almost for a crust of bread, and to blush for him whenever she sees anybody. BABÁYEV. So Tatyána Danílovna has married--I'm sorry. LUKÉRYA. You needn't feel sorry. She's no match for you. BABÁYEV. Of course.--Here I am in this city, and owing to circumstances I'm forced to remain at least four days, and maybe more. What am I going to do? I'm very much pleased that you have called on me. If it hadn't been for you I don't know what I should have done with myself. Now, just imagine, if your sister weren't married, we'd spend these four days so that we shouldn't know how the time was passing. [_Takes her by the hand_] Isn't that true? LUKÉRYA. Who's keeping you from that now? BABÁYEV. Well, you see it's awkward; being married, what will her husband think? It's really provoking. LUKÉRYA. You don't mean it! It seems to me that you used to have different opinions on such things. You weren't so anxious to know what pleased the husbands and what didn't. BABÁYEV. Yes, but that was in an entirely different social circle. There manners are much more free. LUKÉRYA. How do you know whether my sister has freedom or hasn't? BABÁYEV. [_Taking both her hands_] At all events, I'm so glad, so thankful to you for furnishing me with diversion when I was bored. Don't you want something? Be good enough to make yourself at home; everything is at your service. Will you have some tea? LUKÉRYA. Thank you, I've just had tea. But I must hurry home now. I have to attend to some matters with sister. Shall I extend her your greetings? BABÁYEV. Please be so kind. LUKÉRYA. [_Going to the door_] Why don't you invite sister and me to call on you? BABÁYEV. I should be so happy to have you, only I really don't know how to arrange it. I should like very much to see Tatyána Danílovna. LUKÉRYA. If you wish to see her, then where's the obstacle? She isn't a princess imprisoned behind ten locks. You'll go for a walk, no doubt, as you can't remain in your room? BABÁYEV. I should like to go, but I hardly know in what direction. LUKÉRYA. You needn't go far. Stroll out of the rear gate to the river-bank, sit down on the bench and enjoy the beauty of nature. It's a quiet, secluded place; few people ever go there. It's a most delightful walk for sentimental young people. Sister and I will go that way, and there you may be able to see her. Good day! [_She goes out._ BABÁYEV. What a surprise! Could I have expected such good fortune? Little Tánya, little Tánya! I shall see her again! I'll go mad with joy. She was so charming, so delicate. Some people said that she didn't have much sense, but is that a fault in a woman? And then her beauty, her beauty! It's likely that instead of four days I'll stay four weeks. [_Goes out._ TABLEAU II _The bank of a river; at one side a fence and gate, at the other a corner of a barn; beyond the river stretches the countryside; sunset._ SCENE I _Enter_ ARKHÍP _and_ AFÓNYA AFÓNYA. Grandfather, let's rest here awhile. I feel ill to-day. Sit down here, on the bench. ARKHÍP. Very well, Afónya, we'll sit down here. You and I are unfortunate: age is overcoming me and sickness you. AFÓNYA. I'm not ailing. I was born so. Grandfather, I shan't live long in this bright world. ARKHÍP. Don't listen to old wives' tales. No one knows what fate awaits him. AFÓNYA. What do I care for old wives! I know that I shall not live long. My appetite is failing. Others have such hearty appetites after working. They eat a whole lot and want more. There's brother Lev, when he's tired--just keep giving him food. But I don't care if I never eat at all. My soul won't take anything. I just swallow a crust--and am satisfied. ARKHÍP. That helps growth. AFÓNYA. No, it doesn't. Why should I grow any more, anyhow! As it is, I am tall for my age. But it's a sign that I shall not live. Just listen, grandfather; a man who is alive thinks of living things, but I don't have any interest in anything. Some people like nice clothes, but for me it's all the same--whatever rag is near at hand--just so I'm warm. For instance, all the boys have some hobby; some like fishing, others games, some sing songs; but nothing attracts me. While others are happy I feel depressed. Misery seems to grip my heart. ARKHÍP. That is God's gift to you. From your childhood you have had no love for this vain world. Some lose their faint-heartedness with years, when woes and afflictions, Afónya, crush and grind a man into powder; but you have never lived, have not yet tasted the world's sorrows or joys, and yet you reason like an old man. Thank God that he has made you wise. The world does not charm you: you do not know temptation, so your sins are less. That is your good fortune. Just listen to me. I, Afónya, have known temptation and have not always turned aside from it, and most often I sought temptation of my own free will. You say everything seems the same to you, that nothing in the world delights you; but to me God's world was good and bright. Everything beckoned and charmed me. An unsated eye and free will command one to taste all the pleasures of the universe. But in the world, Afónya, good and evil go hand in hand. Well, one's sins may be more in number than the sands of the sea. Luckily God prolonged my life, that I might repent, and did not strike me down in my sins. We repent and humble ourselves and hope for mercy; but you will have nothing to repent of; you, Afónya, are a man of God. AFÓNYA. No, grandfather, no, do not speak so. How am I a man of God? I have seen men of God, but they are good and do not remember evil. They are abused and mocked, but they laugh at it, while I am rough and harsh, just like my brother; only brother is forgiving though quick-tempered, while I am not. I, grandfather, I have an evil temper. ARKHÍP. At whom should you be angry, my child; who injures you? AFÓNYA. No one injures me, but my heart aches for every one--for you, for brother, for all of you. ARKHÍP. Why are you grieving for us? We have nothing to complain of. AFÓNYA. We didn't have anything to complain of, grandfather, before brother married. Grandfather, why does brother love his wife so? ARKHÍP. Why shouldn't he love her? Why did he marry her? You should be happy because he loves his wife. What a foolish fellow you are! AFÓNYA. No, I speak the truth. Formerly brother used to love you and me much more than now. ARKHÍP. So you are jealous! Probably you are envious. AFÓNYA. No, it isn't envy; but is my brother blind? Does she love him as he does her? Is she worthy of him? Why is he so servile in the presence of her and her kin? His servility offends me. Is he inferior to her and her sister? One marries a wife to have a helper; but she sits with folded hands. Brother alone works and dances attendance on them. I pity him. ARKHÍP. What business is it of yours? It's his own choice. He works and doesn't force you to. You and I are fed by his kindness. AFÓNYA. Don't I know that? Tell me, grandfather, is she any better than brother or not? ARKHÍP. Better or not, she is of different sort. AFÓNYA. What do you mean by "different sort"! As it is, brother is obliged to work for them, feed and clothe them, while they give themselves airs. There isn't a better man in the world than brother, and they have made him their drudge. ARKHÍP. How do you know? Your brother himself may not wish her to work. AFÓNYA. But if she doesn't work then she'd better not put on airs. Since she married a commoner she should be one like the rest of us. Are we a sort of accursed people? Lord, pardon me for saying it! We too have our communal society and we pay taxes and take part in other obligations. My brother gets money by sweat and toil, and contributes it to the community. She might stay at home and play the lady, but if she marries, then she should know that there is one master in the house--her husband. You see, grandfather, I see and hear everything, since they are so shameless as not to pay any heed to me. Brother gives her kerchiefs and silk dresses, while she and her sister laugh at him and call him a fool. I hear it all; it is bitter to me, grandfather, bitter. I began to speak to brother about it, but he scolded me. [_Pause_] Grandfather, that is why I can't sleep. What I see by day appears to me at night, gnaws at my heart, and I weep all night. I shan't live long. My health cannot improve now because my temper is altogether too violent. If God would only take me quickly so that I should have less suffering! ARKHÍP. Don't say such sinful things! You have to live and live! You see, Afónya, I have nothing to live for, yet I keep on living. God knows the reason of all this. What a man I am! I never see the fair sun or the bright moon, and likewise I shall never see the green meadows or the cool waters and all creatures of God. But hardest of all is that I cannot see the bright face of man. AFÓNYA. It is a pity, grandfather, that you cannot see; but I'm tired of everything, nothing comforts me. ARKHÍP. The reason you are not comforted is that your heart is not at peace. Look at God's world longer and more often, and less at men and women, and you will become lighter of heart; you will sleep at night and have pleasant dreams. Where are we sitting now, Afónya? AFÓNYA. On the bank, grandfather, beside Prokófyevna's house. ARKHÍP. Is the bridge at our right? AFÓNYA. Yes, grandfather. ARKHÍP. Is the sun at our left? AFÓNYA. Yes, grandfather, but it's almost set. ARKHÍP. In a cloud? AFÓNYA. No, it is clear. The twilight is so brilliant. We'll have fine weather. ARKHÍP. That's it, that's it. I feel it myself. The air is so light and the breeze so fresh that I do not want to leave. Beautiful, Afónya, beautiful is God's world. Now the dew will fall and fragrance will rise from every flower; and yonder the stars will come out; and above the stars, Afónya, is our merciful Creator. If we remembered more constantly that He is merciful, we ourselves should be more merciful. AFÓNYA. I will try to subdue my heart, grandfather. [BABÁYEV _comes in_] Let us go. Some strange gentleman is walking here; he would probably laugh at our talk. ARKHÍP. [_Following_ AFÓNYA] My soul magnifies God. _They go out_. SCENE II BABÁYEV _alone_ BABÁYEV. When you are waiting for something pleasant the time seems to drag! I purposely came by the longest road so as not to arrive too early, but nevertheless I got here before they did. How I hate to wait! What a foolish situation! Women generally like to torment: it's their nature; they like to have someone wait for them. Of course, that doesn't apply to Tánya; I believe she's very, very glad that I have arrived. I speak of women of our own sort. I think they torment, because--how shall I express it--the idea is entirely original--in order to compensate themselves in advance for the rights which they lose later. That's the result of being in a lovely landscape face to face with nature! What brilliant thoughts come to one! If this thought were developed at leisure, in the country, it might form a small novel, even a comedy on the order of Alfred de Musset. But such things are not played in our country. They must be presented delicately, very delicately--here the principal thing is the--bouquet. I think some one is coming. Is it they? How shall we meet? Two years of separation mean much. TATYÁNA _and_ LUKÉRYA _come in_. SCENE III BABÁYEV, TATYÁNA, and LUKÉRYA TATYÁNA. [_Extending her hand to_ BABÁYEV] How do you do, Valentin Pávlich! I was so happy when sister told me that you had returned. BABÁYEV. So, do you still remember me? TATYÁNA. Indeed I do! We frequently, that is, sister and I, very frequently speak of you. She tells me that you have forgotten us. BABÁYEV. No, I have not forgotten you. There are memories, my darling Tatyána Danílovna, which are not readily forgotten. My acquaintance with you was of that sort. Isn't that so? TATYÁNA. [_Dropping her eyes_] Yes, sir. BABÁYEV. Let me assure you that as soon as I could tear myself away from St. Petersburg, and come to the country, I continually sought an occasion to visit this city and to find you without fail. LUKÉRYA. Have you never found such an occasion before now? Don't tell me that! BABÁYEV. I assure you. LUKÉRYA. Much we believe you! Tánya, do not believe the gentlemen; they always deceive. BABÁYEV. Why speak so to me? LUKÉRYA. That doesn't apply just to you, but to all other fine young gentlemen. TATYÁNA. Shall you remain long in this city? BABÁYEV. Shall I remain long? At first I thought it would depend upon the clerks who have my affair in hand, but now I see that it will depend upon you, my darling Tatyána Danílovna. TATYÁNA. That honors me entirely too much. No, tell me, shall you be here three or four days? BABÁYEV. They promised to arrange my affairs in three days, but maybe I'll stay three or four days longer, if you wish me to. TATYÁNA. Certainly, I do. BABÁYEV. There is just one drawback, my darling Tatyána Danílovna: your city is dreadfully lonesome. I will remain on one condition, that I may see you as often as possible. TATYÁNA. That's very simple. Call on us. We shall be delighted to have you come to tea to-morrow. BABÁYEV. Yes, but it's impossible to call on you often, as gossip and talk spreads, and then there's your husband---- TATYÁNA. This doesn't concern him. You are my acquaintance; you call on me, not him. LUKÉRYA. Then we on our side will observe the courtesies and will return your call. Besides, we often visit your landlady, so if it's pleasant for you to see us, you can call in there. BABÁYEV. [_Withdrawing to one side with_ TATYÁNA] Doesn't married life bore you? TATYÁNA. [_After a pause_] I don't know; what can I say to that? BABÁYEV. My darling Tatyána Danílovna, be perfectly frank with me. You know what kind feelings I've always had for you. TATYÁNA. Why should I be so frank with you? What good can come of it? It's too late to mend things now. BABÁYEV. If you can't mend things entirely, at least, darling Tatyána Danílovna, you can sweeten your existence for a time, so that you will not be entirely smothered by the vulgar life around you. TATYÁNA. For a time, yes! Then life will be harder than ever. BABÁYEV. Do you know, I want to move to the country; then we could be near to one another. I am even ready to move to this town, if only you---- TATYÁNA. [_Turning away_] Please don't talk to me like that! I didn't expect to hear such things from you, Valentin Pávlich. LUKÉRYA. [_To_ BABÁYEV] You're getting in pretty deep there. I hear everything you're saying. BABÁYEV. Lukérya Danílovna, I think some one is coming. Take a look out on the bank there. I'm anxious that we should not be seen here together. LUKÉRYA. Oh, you're a sly gentleman! [_Goes away_. TATYÁNA. So you will have tea with us to-morrow, Valentin Pávlich? BABÁYEV. I really don't know--very likely. TATYÁNA. No, don't fail to come! [_Pause_] Well, how shall I invite you? [_Takes_ BABÁYEV _by the hand_] Well, my darling! Well, my precious! BABÁYEV. It seems to me that you have changed, Tatyána Danílovna. TATYÁNA. I, changed! Honestly I haven't. Not a bit. Why are you so cruel to me? BABÁYEV. Do you remember Zavetnoye, Tatyána Danílovna? TATYÁNA. Why? I remember it all. BABÁYEV. Do you remember the garden? Do you remember the linden walk? Do you remember how, after supper, while mother slept, we used to sit on the terrace? Do you recall the narrow ribbon? TATYÁNA. [_In a low voice_] Which one? BABÁYEV. With which you tied my hands. TATYÁNA. [_Embarrassed_] Well, what of that? Yes, I remember absolutely everything. BABÁYEV. Just that you, my precious, are now entirely different; you have met me so coldly. TATYÁNA. Ah, Valentin Pávlich! Then I was a girl and could love any one I wished; now I am married. Just think! BABÁYEV. Why, certainly. Yet I can't imagine you belonging to any one else. Do what you will, I can hardly control my desire to call you Tánya, as I used to. TATYÁNA. Why control yourself? Call me Tánya. BABÁYEV. But what's the use, my dear! You don't love me any more! TATYÁNA. Who told you that? I love you as much, even more than before. BABÁYEV. [_Bending towards her_] Is it possible, Tanechka, that that is the truth? TATYÁNA. [_Kissing him_] Well, here's my evidence! _Now_ do you believe? But, darling Valentin Pávlich, if you don't wish me unhappiness for the rest of my life, we must love one another as we are doing now; but you mustn't think of more than that. Otherwise, good-by to you--away from temptation! BABÁYEV. Set your mind at rest, darling, about that. TATYÁNA. No, you swear to me! Swear, so that I may not fear you. BABÁYEV. How foolish you are! TATYÁNA. Yes, I am foolish, certainly. If I should listen to the opinions of older people, then I am committing a great wrong. According to the old law, I must love no one other than my husband. But since I can't love him--and loved you before my marriage, and can't change my heart, so I--only God preserve you from--and I won't in any respect--because I wish to live right. BABÁYEV. Calm yourself. TATYÁNA. That's the way, my dear Valentin Pávlich. It means that we shall now have a very pleasant love-affair, without sinning against God, or feeling shame before men. BABÁYEV. Yes, yes, that'll be splendid! TATYÁNA. Now I'll give you a kiss because you're so clever! [_Kisses him_] So you will come to-morrow evening? BABÁYEV. And then you'll visit me? TATYÁNA. Be sure to come! Then we'll visit you. Now I'm not afraid of you. BABÁYEV. How beautiful you are! You're even lovelier than you used to be. TATYÁNA. Let that be a secret. Good-by. Come on, Lusha! LUKÉRYA. [_Approaching_] Good-by! Good night, pleasant dreams--of plucking roses, of watering jasmine! [_Going_] But what a man you are! Oh, oh, oh! He's clever, I must say! I just looked and wondered. [_They go out_. BABÁYEV. Now the novel is beginning; I wonder how it'll end! ACT II TABLEAU I _A room in_ KRASNÓV'_s house; directly in front a door leading to a vestibule; to the right a window and a bed with chintz curtains; to the left a stove-couch and a door into the kitchen; in the foreground a plain board table and several chairs; along the back wall and window benches; along the left wall a cupboard with cups, a small mirror, and a wall clock_. SCENE I TATYÁNA _stands before the mirror putting on a kerchief_; AFÓNYA _is lying on the stove-couch_; LUKÉRYA _comes in with a figured table-cloth_. LUKÉRYA. There, Tánya, I've borrowed a cloth from the neighbor to cover our table. Ours is awfully poor. [_Lays the cloth on the table_. TATYÁNA. Have you started the samovar? LUKÉRYA. Long ago; it'll boil soon. Well, you see it's just as I told you; that kerchief is much more becoming to you. But why did you stick the pin through it? [_Adjusting it_] There, that's much better. AFÓNYA. Where are you dressing up to go to? Why are you prinking so at that mirror? TATYÁNA. Nowhere; we're going to stay at home. LUKÉRYA. What business is it of yours? Do you think we ought to be as slovenly as yourself? AFÓNYA. But who are you fixing up for? For your husband? He loves you more than you deserve even without the fine clothes. Or is it for some one else? LUKÉRYA. Hear him! A fool, a fool! yet he understands that she's dressing up for some one else. TATYÁNA. Why should I dress for my husband? He knows me anyway. When I dress, of course it's for a stranger. AFÓNYA. Who are you going to flirt with? Who are you going to charm? Have you no conscience? LUKÉRYA. What's the use of arguing with a fool! All he has to do is to chatter. Lies on the stove-couch and plots trouble. TATYÁNA. What kind of judge are you, anyway? My husband never says anything to me, and yet you dare to put in your opinion! AFÓNYA. Yes, but he's blinded by you, blinded. You've given him some sort of love-charm. LUKÉRYA. Keep still, seeing that God has made you a sick man. Tend to your own business; keep on coughing, there's no sin in that. AFÓNYA. Fool--brother is a fool! He's ruined himself. LUKÉRYA. Tánya, shouldn't I bring the samovar in here? TATYÁNA. Yes, and I'll set the cups. [_Puts cups on the table_. LUKÉRYA _goes out_] You'd better go into the kitchen. AFÓNYA. I'm all right here. TATYÁNA. Strangers are coming and you'll make us gloomy. AFÓNYA. I won't go. TATYÁNA. It's a true proverb: "There's no brewing beer with a fool." Our guest is no cheap shopkeeper like your brother. A gentleman is coming, do you hear? What are you fussing about? AFÓNYA. What sort of a gentleman? Why is he coming? TATYÁNA. Just the same kind of gentleman as all the rest. He's our acquaintance, a rich landowner; well, now get out! AFÓNYA. He's a gentleman in his own house, but I'm one here. I'm not going to him, but he's coming here. I'm in my own house, and sick, so I won't consider anybody. Was it him you dressed up for? TATYÁNA. That's my business, not yours. LUKÉRYA _brings in the samovar_. LUKÉRYA. [_Placing the samovar on the table_] Lev Rodionych is coming with some people. TATYÁNA. I guess some of his relatives; what a horrid nuisance! AFÓNYA. Nuisance! Why did you ever intrude into our family? _Enter_ KRASNÓV, KÚRITSYN, ULYÁNA. SCENE II KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, AFÓNYA, KÚRITSYN, _and_ ULYÁNA. KRASNÓV. [_To his wife_] How are you? [_Kisses her_. TATYÁNA. How affectionate! KRASNÓV. Never mind. We have a perfect right to! Let me treat you. We've just received fresh grapes. [_Gives her a bunch_] Here I have brought you some company. The samovar is all ready--that's good. ULYÁNA. How do you do, sister? You are so proud you never call on us! But we're common folks; so we picked ourselves up and came, uninvited. KÚRITSYN. How do you do, sister? Why are you so contemptuous of your relatives? You might run over once in a while for tea; your feet are able to carry you! KRASNÓV. How has she time to go visiting? She has so much to do at home. She's just beginning to get used to the household! ULYÁNA. Yes, sister, you must get used to the household. That's our woman's duty. You didn't marry a millionaire, so you needn't put on airs. KÚRITSYN. Yes, you'd better learn, and well. ULYÁNA. [_Approaching_ AFÓNYA] Ah, Afónya, are you still sick? You ought to take something! KÚRITSYN. [_Also approaching_ AFÓNYA] You eat more--then you'll get well. If you don't want to, then force yourself to eat; that's what I tell you! [_Speaks in a low voice to_ AFÓNYA. TATYÁNA. [_To her husband_] What have you done! What sort of company have you brought? LUKÉRYA. To be frank, you've spoiled everything. How embarrassing, how awfully embarrassing! KRASNÓV. What, embarrassing? Is some lord coming? What's the odds! Nothing to get excited over! Let him see our relatives. LUKÉRYA. Much he's interested! KRASNÓV. I can't chase my sister away for him. So there's nothing more to be said about it. I haven't set eyes on him yet, I don't know what he's like; these, at any rate, are our own. And, besides, they'll not stay long. [_To his wife_] Be seated; pour the tea! Brother, sister, have a cup of tea. _All excepting_ AFÓNYA _seat themselves at the table_. KÚRITSYN. Brother, this is a holiday occasion, so it is customary before tea to--just a little. Don't you drink, yourself? KRASNÓV. From the day I married Tatyána Danílovna I stopped all that. Tatyána Danílovna, treat brother and sister with some vodka. TATYÁNA. [_Takes out of the cupboard and places on the table decanter, glasses, and refreshments_] Have some, sister! [ULYÁNA _drinks_] Have some, brother! KÚRITSYN. That's no invitation, you don't know how to do it. KRASNÓV. Brother, don't be quite so particular! My wife doesn't know your common ways, and there's no use knowing them. Please, without ceremony. KÚRITSYN. [_After drinking_] You are spoiling your wife, that's what I tell you. Freedom spoils even a good wife. You ought to take example from me, and teach her common sense; that would be lots better. Ask your sister how I trained her; we had a hot time of it. ULYÁNA. Yes, you, Manuylo Kalinich, are a terrible barbarian, and a blood-sucker! You spend your whole life bossing your wife and showing your authority. KÚRITSYN. What words are those? Who's talking? What's that you say? [_Looking around_] Is any stranger here? Seems to me, my people in my own house don't dare to speak that way! ULYÁNA. [_With a start_] I just said that for instance, Manuylo Kalinich. Because, sister, women like us can't live without strict discipline. It's a true proverb: "If you beat your wife, the soup tastes better." TATYÁNA. Every one to his own taste! You, sister, like such treatment, while I consider it the height of rudeness. LUKÉRYA. Nowadays, such peasant's conduct is discarded everywhere; it's getting out of fashion. KÚRITSYN. You lie! Such treatment of women can never get out of fashion, because you can't get along without it. Brother, listen to what point I've brought Ulyana. We used to have disputes among ourselves, among acquaintances or relatives, whose wife was more attentive; I'd bring 'em to my house, sit on the bench, and push my foot out, so--and say to wife, "What does my foot want?" and she understood because she'd been trained. Of course she at once fell at my feet. ULYÁNA. Yes, that's so, that used to happen. I can say that without shame, to everybody. KRASNÓV. There's nothing good in that, just swagger. KÚRITSYN. Ah, brother! Beat your overcoat and it will be warmer; beat a wife--she'll be smarter. TATYÁNA. Not every wife will allow herself to be beaten, and the one that allows it, isn't worth any other treatment. ULYÁNA. Why are you giving yourself such airs all of a sudden, sister? Am I worse than you? You just wait awhile, you'll taste all that. We can clip your wings, too. KRASNÓV. Yes, but be careful. ULYÁNA. What are you saying? Married a beggar and you're putting on airs. Do you think that you've married the daughter of a distinguished landowner? KRASNÓV. What I think--is my business, and you can't understand it with your wits. You'd better keep still. LUKÉRYA. What an interesting conversation--worth while hearing! ULYÁNA. It seems to me she doesn't come from nobles but from government clerks. Not a very great lady! Goats and government clerks are the devil's own kin. KRASNÓV. I told you to keep still! I shouldn't have to tell you ten times. You ought to understand it at once. KÚRITSYN. Leave them alone. I like it when the women start a row. KRASNÓV. But I don't like it. ULYÁNA. What do I care what you like! I'm not trying to please you. My, how stern you are! You'd better scold your own wife, not me; I'm not under your orders; you aren't my boss. I have a good husband who can boss me, not you. I'm not to blame because your wife wanders around highways and byways, and flirts with young gentlemen for hours. KRASNÓV. [_Jumping up_] What's that! TATYÁNA. I know nothing of highways and byways; I have told you, Lev Rodionych, that I met Valentin Pávlich on the bank, and even everything that we said. LUKÉRYA. Yes, I was there with them. ULYÁNA. Yes, you're the same sort. KRASNÓV. You're a regular snake in the grass! And you call yourself a sister. What do you want? To make trouble between us? You're spiteful because I love my wife! You may rest assured that I wouldn't change her for anybody. For thirty years I've slaved for my family, labored till I sweated blood, and I thought of marriage only when I'd provided for the whole family. For thirty years I haven't known any pleasures. That's why I have to be thankful to my wife, who has beauty and education, for loving me, a peasant. Formerly I worked for you; now I will work for her forever. I'll perish working, but I'll give her every comfort. I should kiss her feet, because I very well understand that I and my whole household aren't worth her little finger. Do you think after this I will allow her to be abused! I respect her--and you all must respect her! LUKÉRYA. Sister herself understands that she deserves all respect. KRASNÓV. What's that you were saying, Ulyana? If you're right, then it's all up with me! See here! I have only one joy, one consolation, and I should have to give it up. Is that easy? Is it? I'm not made of stone that I can look at such wifely doings through my fingers! Your foolish words have entered my ears and wrenched my heart. If I believed you, then--God keep me from it--I should soon do some violence! One can't vouch for himself as to what may happen. Maybe the devil will jog my elbow. God save us! This is not a joking matter! If you wanted to hurt me, you should have taken a knife and thrust it into my side--that would have been easier for me. After such words it's better that I never see you again, you breaker-up of families. I'd rather disown all my people than endure your poison. ULYÁNA. I'm not the cause of separation. It's she that's breaking up families. KÚRITSYN. Well, brother! Evidently, if it's the wife's kin--open the door; but if it's the husband's kin--then shut the door. You visit us and we'll show you hospitality. Come, wife, we'd better go home! ULYÁNA. Well, good-by, sister, but remember! And you, brother, just wait; we'll settle accounts somehow. [_They go out_. SCENE III KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, and AFÓNYA KRASNÓV. [_Approaching his wife_] Tatyána Danílovna, I hope you won't take that to heart, because they're a rough lot. TATYÁNA. That's the kind of relatives you have! I lived better beyond comparison as a girl; at least I knew that no one dared to insult me. LUKÉRYA. [_Clearing the table_] We didn't associate with the common people. KRASNÓV. And I'll never let you be insulted. You saw I didn't spare my own sister, and drove her out of my house; but if it had been a stranger, he wouldn't have got off alive. You don't know my character yet; at times I'm afraid of myself. TATYÁNA. What, do you become dreadfully furious? KRASNÓV. Not that I'm furious, I'm hot-tempered. I'm beside myself, and don't see people at such times. TATYÁNA. How terribly you talk! Why didn't you tell me about your character before? I wouldn't have married you. KRASNÓV. There's nothing bad in a man's being hot-tempered. That means that he's eager in all things, even in his work, and he can love better, because he has more feeling than others. TATYÁNA. Now I shall be afraid of you. KRASNÓV. I don't want you to fear me. But I should like to know when you are going to love me? TATYÁNA. What sort of love do you want to have from me? KRASNÓV. You know yourself what sort; but maybe you don't feel it. What's to be done? We'll wait, perhaps it'll come later. Everything can happen in this world! There have been cases where love has come the fifth or sixth year after marriage. And what love! Better than if it came at first. TATYÁNA. Keep on waiting. LUKÉRYA. You're very hot in your love; but we're of entirely different bringing up. KRASNÓV. You speak of bringing up? I'll tell you this, that if I were younger, I'd take up and study for Tatyána Danílovna. I know, myself, what I lack, but now it's too late. I've a soul but no training. If I were trained---- LUKÉRYA. [_Glancing towards the window_] He's coming, Tánya; he's coming! [_Both run out of the room_. KRASNÓV. Where so suddenly? What are you running after? LUKÉRYA. What do you mean? Recollect yourself. We must be courteous and go to meet him. [_They go out_. AFÓNYA. Brother! You drove sister away. Whether right or not, let God judge you! But I tell you, you'd better watch the gentleman. KRASNÓV. What the deuce have you got to do with this? You hiss like a snake. You want to wound me. Get out of here! Go, I tell you, or I'll kill you. AFÓNYA. Well, kill! My life isn't very sweet to me, and I haven't long to live, anyway. But don't be blind! Don't be blind! [_Goes out_. KRASNÓV. What are they doing to me? Must I really be on my guard, or are they just frightening me? Where then is love! Is it possible, Lord, that I have taken unto me not a joy but a torture! Rouse yourself, Lev Rodionych, rouse yourself. Hearken not to the fiend. You have one joy--he's seizing it, and draining your heart. You will ruin your whole life! You will perish for no cause. All those are slanderous words. They're spiteful because my wife is good, and we get along together--so they begin to stir up trouble. That's clearly seen. It's so in every family. The best way is to drop it and not think about it. The gentleman will have to be gotten rid of; I must see that he never looks our way any more. "Come oftener," I'll tell him, "we like it better when you aren't here." So there'll be less talk and my heart will be calmer. _Enter_ BABÁYEV, TATYÁNA, _and_ LUKÉRYA. SCENE IV BABÁYEV, KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, and LUKÉRYA BABÁYEV. So this is where you live! Is this your own little house? TATYÁNA. Our own. This is my husband. BABÁYEV. I'm delighted. I've known your wife a long while. KRASNÓV. That's your affair. BABÁYEV. You're in business? KRASNÓV. That's my affair. TATYÁNA. Won't you be seated? [BABÁYEV _and_ KRASNÓV _take seats_] Shouldn't you like some tea? BABÁYEV. No, thank you; I don't care for tea now. LUKÉRYA. Ah, Tánya, we've forgotten that now in St. Petersburg they have different tastes. [To BABÁYEV] We can have coffee immediately. BABÁYEV. No, please do not trouble yourself; I've already had some. Let us rather sit and talk. Are you happy here? Have you any amusements here? TATYÁNA. No. What sort of amusements can one have here? BABÁYEV. How do you spend your time? Is it possible you are always at home? TATYÁNA. Mostly. KRASNÓV. And that is proper among such as us. Our Russian way is: husband and dog in the yard, and wife and cat in the house. LUKÉRYA. [In a low voice to KRASNÓV] Can't you speak more politely? KRASNÓV. I know my business. BABÁYEV. So you're a housekeeper. I should think it must have been hard for you to get used to your new duties. TATYÁNA. [_Glancing at her husband_] Yes; of course I can't say--of course--at first---- BABÁYEV. [_To_ LUKÉRYA] I'm asking, but I don't really know myself what these duties consist of. LUKÉRYA. But considering your noble birth, that's beneath your knowledge. KRASNÓV. There's nothing vulgar about it. BABÁYEV. Really, what is there vulgar in it? LUKÉRYA. The words are low and even quite coarse, and they aren't usually spoken before people of good breeding. BABÁYEV. Well, imagine that I'm a man of no breeding. What are the words, tell me? LUKÉRYA. You're embarrassing Tánya and me. But if you're interested to hear those words, all right! The kitchen and other common things belong to the household: the frying-pan, the handle, the oven fork. Isn't that low? KRASNÓV. Whether the oven fork is high or low, if you put the soup in the stove you've got to get it out. TATYÁNA. You might spare your wife before guests. KRASNÓV. I haven't insulted you a hair's breadth either before guests or without guests. When you're asked what sort of a housekeeper you are for your husband, right before him, then I should think you'd answer, that you're a good housekeeper, and aren't ashamed of your position, because among such as us that is the first duty. LUKÉRYA. [_In a low voice to_ KRASNÓV] You're disturbing our conversation with our guest. BABÁYEV. [_In a low voice to_ TATYÁNA] Is he always like this? TATYÁNA. [_In a low voice_] I don't know what's the matter with him. BABÁYEV. [_In a low voice_] You see for yourself that I've no business here. You'd better come to me to-day, and I'll go home now. [_Aloud_] Well, good-by. I hope this isn't the last time we meet. LUKÉRYA. Certainly, certainly. TATYÁNA. We are most grateful for your visit! KRASNÓV. [_Bowing_] Good-by to you! Are you going away from here soon? BABÁYEV. I don't know. Whenever my affairs are settled. KRASNÓV. But when, do you think? BABÁYEV. They tell me, at court, the day after to-morrow. KRASNÓV. So, when that's over you're going directly? BABÁYEV. I think so. What is there to do here? KRASNÓV. Yes, there's nothing to do here. My regards to you! [BABÁYEV, TATYÁNA, _and_ LUKÉRYA _go out_] An unbidden guest is worse than a Tatar. What do we want with him? What use is he to us? I won't have his help; we aren't beggars. Well, be off with you! Go to St. Petersburg, and good luck to you. _Enter_ TATYÁNA _and_ LUKÉRYA. SCENE V KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, _and_ LUKÉRYA TATYÁNA. What are you doing? Why did you go and insult me so? KRASNÓV. There's no insult! Now, look here! We haven't quarrelled once since our wedding, and I hope that we may never do so, but may always live in love. LUKÉRYA. Fine love, I must say! [KRASNÓV _looks at her sharply._ TATYÁNA. Where is your love? Now we see it very plainly. I must serve your relatives and friends like a cook; but when our friend came, a gentleman, then you almost drove him away. LUKÉRYA. You did drive him away, only in a roundabout fashion. TATYÁNA. You'd better not speak of your love. What do I want with your love when you disgrace me at every step. KRASNÓV. I don't understand the reason for this argument! The whole affair isn't worth discussing. We probably won't ever see him again, and we have no need of him; he went with what he came. We have to live our life together; it isn't worth our having trouble over him. TATYÁNA. Ah, Lusha, what a disgrace! I wonder what he'll think of us now? LUKÉRYA. Yes. He'll soon go back to St. Petersburg; a fine opinion of us he'll take away with him! KRASNÓV. I tell you again, that you should dismiss him and his opinions from your mind. The whole affair isn't worth a kopek. I think that whether he's alive or no, it's all the same to us. TATYÁNA. It may be all the same for you, but not so for us. Sister and I have promised to visit him and we want to go to-day. KRASNÓV. There's no need. TATYÁNA. How, no need? I tell you that I want to see him. KRASNÓV. You want to, but I'm not anxious. Ought you to consider my wishes or not? TATYÁNA. You seem to have assumed authority all of a sudden. You certainly don't imagine that we'll obey you.--No, indeed, _we won't_. KRASNÓV. [_Striking the table_] What do you mean by "no, indeed"? No, if I tell you something, then that has to go. I'm talking sense and what's good for you, and that's why I give you strict orders. [_Again strikes the table._ TATYÁNA. [_Crying_] What tyranny! What torture! LUKÉRYA. [With a laugh] Oh, what a fearful, oh, what a terrible man, ha, ha, ha! KRASNÓV. What are you cackling about? I'll fire you out so fast that your skirts will squeak on the gate. TATYÁNA. Well, do what you like, even kill us, but we'll go. We don't want to show him we're boors. We surely have to thank him for remembering us, and wish him a pleasant journey. KRASNÓV. Tatyána Danílovna, please understand what you are told. TATYÁNA. I hope you aren't going to fight? That'll be just like you. That's what's to be expected. KRASNÓV. You're mistaken. You'll never see me do that. I love you so much that this time I'll even respect your caprices. Go along, but never set your foot there again. Only one more thing, Tatyána Danílovna: you see this clock! [_Points to the wall clock_] Look at the clock when you leave, and be back in half an hour! [_Pointing to the floor_] On this very spot. Understand? TATYÁNA. Come, Lusha, let's dress. [_Both go out._ KRASNÓV. I think everything will be all right now. They were a little spoiled; in that case sternness will do no harm. If I hold on she'll come to love me. Then when the gentleman is gone, I can humor her again; then our misunderstanding will be forgotten. What wouldn't I give for the half-hour they're with the gentleman? But what's to be done? I can't cut her off sharp--that'd entirely turn her away from me. Whatever I try to think of, horrid things come into my head. But he certainly isn't a bandit. And then my wife, a little while ago--I'm just an enemy to myself! There surely can't be anything bad; but I think of all sorts of nonsense! I'd better go and have a chat with my friends at the tavern. What did he whisper to her just now? Well, they're old acquaintances; just something! [Takes his cap] Tatyána Danílovna! I pined for you until I married you; and now that I have married you, all my heart aches. Don't ruin me, poor lad that I am; it will be a sin for you! [Goes out. TABLEAU II Same room as in ACT I SCENE I KARP and PROKÓFYEVNA come in PROKÓFYEVNA. Is he asleep? KARP. Don't know. I guess not; he hasn't that habit. It isn't time yet, anyway. What do you think? In St. Petersburg it isn't dinner-time yet, it's still morning. PROKÓFYEVNA. What's that, good heavens! KARP. Why, at times in the winter, when it's already dusk and the lights are lit everywhere, it's still considered morning. PROKÓFYEVNA. What's the wonder! It's a big city, the capital, not like this. I just came in to see if anything was needed. [Glancing out of the window] I believe some one is coming here. I'll go and meet them. [Goes out. KARP. One is bored to extinction here. If he'd grease the palms of the principal men at the court, then they'd have done it in a jiffy. At least we'd now be home, at business. I wonder how it is he isn't bored! I wonder if he hasn't found some prey here! He surely doesn't go about town for nothing! I know his ways: he walks and walks past the windows, and casts his eye around for some brunette. PROKÓFYEVNA _comes in._ PROKÓFYEVNA. Go and tell him that he is wanted, my dear sir. KARP. Why is he wanted? PROKÓFYEVNA. You tell him; he knows why. KARP. [_Through the door_] Please, sir, you have visitors. BABÁYEV. [_From the door_] Who? PROKÓFYEVNA. Come out, sir, for a minute; you're wanted! BABÁYEV _enters._ SCENE II KARP, PROKÓFYEVNA, BABÁYEV PROKÓFYEVNA. Listen! Tatyána Danílovna, the wife of the shopkeeper, has come with her sister, and wants to know if they may come in. BABÁYEV. Ask them in. I'll tell you what! Listen, landlady! Please avoid gossip! It's possible that she'll come again, so you'll please say that she comes to see you. If any one asks you, you know; the city is small, and every one knows every one else, and every one watches every one else, where each goes, and what each does. PROKÓFYEVNA. Oh, sir! What's that to me! I looked but I didn't see. You're a stranger, not of this place. BABÁYEV. Ask them in! You and I, dear landlady, are old friends. [_Pats her on the shoulder._ PROKÓFYEVNA. Indeed we are, sir, friends! [_Goes out._ KARP. [_With an impatient wave of his hand_] Sins! [_Goes out._ TATYÁNA _and_ LUKÉRYA _come in._ SCENE III BABÁYEV, TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA LUKÉRYA. How do you do, again! Were you looking for us? BABÁYEV. To be frank, I didn't expect you so soon. Be seated; why are you standing? [_They all sit down_. LUKÉRYA. We fairly ran over here. We had such a time getting away. TATYÁNA. That's enough, Lusha; stop! LUKÉRYA. There's no use concealing matters! You can't do it. Valentin Pávlich has seen our local gentry to-day, himself. You should see what a rumpus we had after you left! TATYÁNA. Ah, Lusha, those things happen in every family; there's no need telling every one! It's no one's affair how we live. LUKÉRYA. Now you understand, Valentin Pávlich, what a peasant is when he assumes importance? TATYÁNA. It's well for you to talk, since you aren't concerned. You might spare me! He's my husband, and I have to live with him till the brink of the grave. BABÁYEV. You weren't careful in your marriage, Tatyána Danílovna; you weren't careful. TATYÁNA. How queer you are! What are you reproaching me for? Where were you when we had nothing to eat? But now there is no going back. All that remains for me to do is to cry all the rest of my life. [_Cries_. BABÁYEV. Why are you crying now? TATYÁNA. What have I to rejoice over? You? I might be happy if I had freedom. Understand this: on your account I quarrelled with my husband; you'll be going away to-day or to-morrow, while I have to remain with him. You only made matters worse by coming; until you came he didn't seem so bad, and suddenly he has changed entirely. Before he saw you he fulfilled my every wish, he licked my hands like a dog; but now he has begun to look askance at me and to scold. How can I endure torment all my life with the man I loathe! [_Cries_. BABÁYEV. Now, please stop! Why do you grieve! [_To_ LUKÉRYA] Listen, Lukérya Danílovna! You go to the landlady, I can calm her better alone. LUKÉRYA. All right, but don't be too sly! [_Goes out_. SCENE IV BABÁYEV _and_ TATYÁNA BABÁYEV. [_Draws nearer and puts one arm around_ TATYÁNA] Darling, Tanechka, now stop! Why do you weep so! Let's think, together, how we can help your grief. TATYÁNA. There's no use thinking! There's no way. BABÁYEV. Is that so? But what if I take you off to the village? TATYÁNA. Which one? Where? BABÁYEV. To my own village. There everything is the same as when mother lived: the same lanes, ponds, and arbors; everything is familiar to you, and will remind you of the past. There you'd be my housekeeper. TATYÁNA. [_Freeing herself from his arm_] What ideas you do get, my dear sir! How could you get such a foolish notion into your head! Do you think my husband would allow such a thing! Why, he'd find me, at the bottom of the sea! BABÁYEV. For a time we'll be able to hide you so that he won't find you; and meanwhile we can smooth it over with him. TATYÁNA. What! What! That's a bright idea! Stop talking such nonsense! You'd better advise me how to live with my husband the rest of my life. BABÁYEV. Why so! Much I care for that! TATYÁNA. So, you don't love me a little bit! You're just making believe! Yes, that's it! BABÁYEV. Tánya, isn't it a sin for you to talk so? Now, tell me, isn't it? TATYÁNA. What? BABÁYEV. Isn't it a sin to suspect me? TATYÁNA. Oh, you! One can't tell whether you're making believe or not. BABÁYEV. Why should you tell, my angel! Don't worry about me! Just ask your own heart what it tells you! [_Embraces her_. TATYÁNA. But what does yours tell you? BABÁYEV. Yes, but, Tánya, you don't believe me; you say that I'm making believe, and yet you are asking questions. But how could I deceive you? TATYÁNA. You aren't a bit interested! You're just talking. BABÁYEV. Don't be afraid; I'll not deceive! Why should I deceive you? [_Leans towards her; she listens with downcast eyes_] I'll tell you what, Tánya! My heart tells me that I have never loved any one as I do you. It's all the same whether you believe me or not. But I will prove that it is the truth, and you yourself will agree with me. Why, I don't tell you that I've never seen women more beautiful than you, or cleverer. Then you might tell me to my face that I lied. No, I have seen more beautiful women than you, and cleverer; but I have never seen such a darling, charming, artless little woman as you. TATYÁNA. [Sighing] Artless--Ah, you speak the truth. BABÁYEV. Well, I've told you what I feel. Why don't you tell me? TATYÁNA. What should I say? I don't know how. I might say more than you. But why say anything--you know yourself. BABÁYEV. That is, possibly, I guess, but---- TATYÁNA. Why "but"? There's nothing to be said! BABÁYEV. Yes, there is. I guess the secret but I get no good from it. [_Pause_] Tell me yourself that you love me! Well, how about it, Tánya? TATYÁNA. What do you want? BABÁYEV. Do you love me? [_Pause_] Do you love me? TATYÁNA. [_Dropping her eyes_] Well, yes. BABÁYEV. Very much? [_Pause_] Why are you silent? Do you love me very much? TATYÁNA. Yes. BABÁYEV. Will you go to the village with me? TATYÁNA. Ah, stop urging me! BABÁYEV. Well, you needn't go to the village then. I know what we'll do: I'll rent a lodging here in the city, and will come here every other week. Do you agree to that? TATYÁNA. Yes. BABÁYEV. Now you see, my darling Tanechka, I'm ready to do anything for you. TATYÁNA. I see. BABÁYEV. And you? [_Pause_] Why are you silent? TATYÁNA. But our compact? BABÁYEV. What compact? TATYÁNA. Yesterday's. You remember, on the bank. BABÁYEV. What's there to remember? There wasn't any compact. TATYÁNA. Shameless, you're shameless! Can you forget so soon! BABÁYEV. I don't want to know of any compacts. [_Embraces and kisses her_. TATYÁNA. [_Rising_] Oh! Stop, please! BABÁYEV. Why "stop"? What do you mean by "stop"? TATYÁNA. I mean, stop. BABÁYEV. What whims! TATYÁNA. No whims at all, only please move a little further off. BABÁYEV. If you're going to be so whimsical, then I'll go away. I'll drop the business for which I came and will go away immediately. TATYÁNA. Very well, go. BABÁYEV. I'm not joking. Karp! [KARP _comes in_] Pack up and then go order horses. KARP. Yes, sir. TATYÁNA. So that's the way? Well, good luck to you! Good-by! [_Runs out_. KARP. Well, sir, do you want me to pack up? BABÁYEV. Pack up, for where? You make me tired, man! [_Goes to the window_] I wonder if they've gone home? KARP. They won't leave. BABÁYEV. That's none of your business! Get out! KARP _goes out_; LUKÉRYA _comes in_. SCENE V BABÁYEV and LUKÉRYA LUKÉRYA. Sister has asked me to tell you to put off your going. An acquaintance is visiting the landlady; so you'll understand that it's awkward for her to come to you. But when she goes away sister will come to you. She has something to talk over with you. BABÁYEV. You're very kind, Lukérya Danílovna! LUKÉRYA. I can't believe my ears! Is it possible that I hear such compliments from you! [_Courtesies_. ACT III TABLEAU I _Same room as in_ ACT II SCENE I TATYÁNA _is lying on the bed_; LUKÉRYA _comes in_ LUKÉRYA. Tánya, are you asleep? TATYÁNA. No. LUKÉRYA. Then you'd better get up! What are you lying around for all day? You've been in bed all the morning, and still not up. TATYÁNA. What's the use of getting up? What's there to do? LUKÉRYA. If you were only asleep--but to lie in bed and cry just rends your heart. Better get up and let's talk it over! TATYÁNA. [_Getting up_] Oh, what an unhappy, gloomy day this is! [_Sits down_] How unfortunate I am! What have I done to myself? Why did I marry? I've drowned my happiness, simply drowned it! LUKÉRYA. Who could have told? As a suitor he was as quiet as water and as meek as the grass; now I don't know what has happened to him. Why, yesterday I thought he was joking when he told us to be back in a half-hour. TATYÁNA. I did, too. If you only had seen how he pounced on me, and how terrible he's become. He looked daggers all the morning, left without saying good-by, and now he hasn't even come back for dinner. LUKÉRYA. What did he say to you when you were left alone yesterday? TATYÁNA. He scolded and abused, got all wrought up, and wept himself; what didn't he do! "For all my love for you," he said, "I ask you only one thing in return: soothe me, give me back my peace of mind, because I am jealous." LUKÉRYA. What an affliction! TATYÁNA. He said he wasn't jealous of any one but this gentleman. LUKÉRYA. The idea of his being jealous of every one! That would be a great idea! TATYÁNA. "When that man leaves," he said, "then you may do anything you like, and go anywhere, but because you didn't heed my command, don't dare cross the threshold until he has left the city for good." LUKÉRYA. What did you say to that? TATYÁNA. He kept shouting but I kept still through it all; but it hurts me because he lords it over me so. At first he was sly as a fox, but now he has started to order me about, and talk to me in his vulgar, peasant's way. He doesn't care that he has insulted me, but I've been crying all day. I couldn't love him if he killed me. If he gave me freedom, then I might have some affection for him; but now I'll do everything he doesn't want me to, just for meanness; even if I had wronged him, I wouldn't regret it. I must get even with him some way. I can't fight with him; I haven't the strength for that. LUKÉRYA. Certainly. He ought to be satisfied that you married him; and now he's got the notion of watching your deportment. TATYÁNA. Since yesterday I've begun to fear him so. You won't believe me; why, I shudder when he looks at me. LUKÉRYA. What do you think you'll do now? TATYÁNA. What's the use of thinking? My head's all in a muddle. It's bad, no matter how you look at it. I sold my very youth to one I cannot love, just for a piece of bread, and from one day to another he becomes more repulsive to me. LUKÉRYA. After such actions on his part, it's no wonder he's repulsive. Especially when you compare him with others. The other man is a born gentleman in every sense of the word. TATYÁNA. Now what shall I do? If I could break off all connection with Valentin Pávlich, I should be very glad. But I see I should have thought of that before, and attended to the matter earlier; but now it's too late. It's beyond my strength. LUKÉRYA. But he loves you very much, Tánya. TATYÁNA. Is that so? Oh, bother him. That's just it; at first I haven't enough sense, then I have to cry over it. My mother used to say to me: "Be careful, daughter, your lack of common sense will be your ruin." LUKÉRYA. You want to see him, I suppose? I think he's waiting. TATYÁNA. Well, of course. If it depended on me, I'd fly to him. LUKÉRYA. We'll have to rack our brains how we may work that. TATYÁNA. No matter how I rack my brain, I can't think of anything. LUKÉRYA. I know what, Tánya! You'll have to fool your husband. TATYÁNA. How? LUKÉRYA. We women couldn't live without cunning, because we're the weaker sex, and abused on all sides. TATYÁNA. But what cunning? Tell me! LUKÉRYA. Now that you and your husband live like cats and dogs, he can't help getting the notion into his noddle that you don't love him, but do love another. TATYÁNA. How shall I manage? LUKÉRYA. You'll have to change your tactics. Be very submissive; peasants like that. Make believe that you're in love with him; give him all sorts of humbug and he'll prick up his ears at it. Flatter him with all sorts of flatteries--that'll be a new thing for him. TATYÁNA. I'll have to say what I don't feel. LUKÉRYA. Where's the harm in that? How does he know what's in your heart? He doesn't need to understand that your action is make-believe, and not sincere. You'll see, after such actions, he'll believe in you so much that even though you made love before his very eyes, he wouldn't notice it. TATYÁNA. One can't make such a sudden change in oneself. LUKÉRYA. It certainly must be sudden. What's there to wait for? TATYÁNA. He's angry with me now; how can I approach him? I can't beg his pardon! LUKÉRYA. Why pardon? [_She thinks_] Do it this way: you tell grandfather Arkhíp that you'd like to make up with your husband, so that you'd have no misunderstandings, that you love your husband, and that you feel his displeasure very much. TATYÁNA. Well, I'll try. LUKÉRYA. It's all the same to me! I'm talking for your own good. TATYÁNA. Go and bring grandfather; he's sitting in the garden. [LUKÉRYA _goes out_] That's what it is for a woman to have wits! Even if she takes a fancy to a man she won't let anybody guess it. She'll so fool her husband that he'll just dote on her. But without wit one is lost. LUKÉRYA _comes in leading_ ARKHÍP. SCENE II TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, ARKHÍP ARKHÍP. Do you need me? What do you want me for? Tatyána, are you here? TATYÁNA. Yes, grandfather. ARKHÍP. Lukérya is leading me, and she says: "Grandfather Arkhíp, we need you!" What business can you have of me in my old age? LUKÉRYA. You see, grandfather, sister is displeased with her husband. ARKHÍP. Well, what of that? Who is the judge between husband and wife? Let them live as they wish. TATYÁNA. What happiness is there in living so? It is better to live in harmony. ARKHÍP. Then what's the matter? Live in harmony! Who's preventing you? LUKÉRYA. You see, he has a very crude manner, and we're not used to it. ARKHÍP. Wait, don't put in your word. She has a tongue of her own. You tell me, Tatyána. TATYÁNA. My husband is now angry with me and doesn't even look at me; he thinks I don't love him, and in that he's mistaken. LUKÉRYA. [_Motioning to_ TATYÁNA _to talk_] She's afraid of his temper. TATYÁNA. I love him as my duty requires. If he thinks badly of me, I don't deserve it. Does he think I could betray him for any one else? I would never do such a thing in my life. LUKÉRYA. And such a splendid man! Doesn't she realize it? TATYÁNA. If I had wronged him in any way, then he might scold, and be done with it. But if he'll only be kind to me, then I'll show him all respect. I'll indulge him as he never dared hope. LUKÉRYA. How many times she's told me: "I love my husband very much, very, very much." ARKHÍP. What do you keep backing each other up for? Have you been plotting together? LUKÉRYA. Why should I be silent? Is it pleasant for me to see that my sister, whom I adore, lives in such discord with her husband? [_Signals to_ TATYÁNA. TATYÁNA. Grandfather Arkhíp, I want to ask you to have a talk with my husband----- ARKHÍP. Wait! Wait! Give me time--don't take me off my feet! You say that your husband is angry with you? Then you're to blame? TATYÁNA. Much I am to blame! ARKHÍP. Much or little, you're certainly to blame. You don't want to humble yourself; you're ashamed to--so you ask me. Is that so? TATYÁNA. Yes, grandfather Arkhíp. ARKHÍP. Are you speaking sincerely, or just words? TATYÁNA. Sincerely, grandfather. ARKHÍP. But what's that to me! It's not my business. If you lie, then you'll answer to God! But I will speak to him. Why not? If you stop quarrelling, then it will be pleasant for all of us. LUKÉRYA. You talk to him to-day. ARKHÍP. I'll talk to him when he comes home. _Enter_ AFÓNYA. SCENE III TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, ARKHÍP, and AFÓNYA ARKHÍP. Who came in? AFÓNYA. I, Grandfather Arkhíp. ARKHÍP. To-day we have a holiday, Afónya. Tatyána wishes to make peace with her husband, and to submit to him. AFÓNYA. Submit? Submit? Don't believe her, Grandfather Arkhíp, she's fooling you. ARKHÍP. That's enough from you! TATYÁNA. Why should I fool you? What's the use? AFÓNYA. You came to your senses when brother frightened you a little. You ought to have done it long ago. If you're in earnest, then drop your proud ways. You ought to bow down to your husband's feet, right to his feet. And to all of us, to all. You have wronged all of us. LUKÉRYA. [_In a low voice_] That would be entirely too much honor. TATYÁNA. Why should I bow down to my husband? AFÓNYA. For everything that he's done for you. I saw myself how he kneeled before you! It's a shame! [_Covers his face with his hands_. LUKÉRYA. What of it, if he wanted to? AFÓNYA. He's no worse than you, yet he bowed down to you; now you bow down to him. Make up to him for his humiliation. It won't hurt you! And bow down to all of us, even to our brother-in-law and sister. TATYÁNA. Bowing down to my husband has some sense in it, but why should I to you? AFÓNYA. Because brother insulted all of us on your account. On account of you our family has been broken up. You're dearer to him than anybody, dearer than all his own. ARKHÍP. Calm yourself! Try to control this fit of anger! We want to make peace, and you are starting a quarrel again. LUKÉRYA. He's not even her husband, yet what awful things he says! If you gave him his way, he would make our life unbearable. ARKHÍP. [_Patting_ AFÓNYA _on the head_] What do you expect of him? He's a sick man. KRASNÓV _comes in_. SCENE IV KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, ARKHÍP, _and_ AFÓNYA LUKÉRYA. [_In a low voice to_ ARKHÍP] Lev Rodionych is here. ARKHÍP. Lev, you haven't had any dinner to-day. KRASNÓV. I had no time. TATYÁNA. If you wish, we'll serve you now. KRASNÓV. [_Sitting down to the table_] Certainly. I can't get along without eating! TATYÁNA. Set the table, sister! [_Goes to the kitchen_. LUKÉRYA _sets the table_. ARKHÍP. Lev, are you going back to the shop? KRASNÓV. No, I'm all through there. ARKHÍP. Will you stay at home? KRASNÓV. I'll be here for an hour, then I have to go across the river to make a collection. TATYÁNA _brings a plate of cabbage soup, puts it on the table, and goes out with_ LUKÉRYA. KRASNÓV, _after eating several spoonfuls, is lost in thought_. ARKHÍP. Lev! I can't see you, but it seems as if you weren't happy. KRASNÓV. What's there to be happy about? ARKHÍP. Why are you so sad? What's your sorrow? KRASNÓV. It's my sorrow, grandfather, mine. My very own. It's for me to judge of it. ARKHÍP. Well, as you choose! It's your sorrow, and for you to bear. [_Pause_] If I say anything, you know I'm not your enemy; if you scold me, there's no harm in it. I've lived longer than you, and I've seen more sorrow; maybe what I say will be good for you. KRASNÓV. It isn't the kind of affair, grandfather, that needs advice! You can't tell me anything. ARKHÍP. You're foolish, foolish! How do you know? Are you wiser than the rest of us? KRASNÓV. Please stop. I can't discuss with you. What do you want? _Strikes the spoon against the bowl angrily_. LUKÉRYA _enters, places a bowl of mush on the table, and goes out_. ARKHÍP. Your wife is wiser than you, really wiser. KRASNÓV. If she were wise she'd obey her husband. ARKHÍP. Not necessarily! One can't be on one's guard every minute! Don't you hold anger for every little thing. One wrong--is no wrong; and two wrongs--a half wrong; it takes three wrongs to make a whole wrong. KRASNÓV. What wrongs! All wrongs aren't the same. For some wrongs strangling would be mild. ARKHÍP. What makes you so fierce? Nowadays, they don't hang a man even for highway robbery. KRASNÓV. I can't even eat my food. ARKHÍP. You have a terrible temper! I began to talk about your wife; that wasn't just for the sake of saying something. She came to her senses before you did. [KRASNÓV _listens_] "Grandfather Arkhíp," says she, "put in a word for me to my husband! I love him," says she, "but I'm afraid of his temper. He seems to think me bad without any reason. I wouldn't exchange him for any one," says she. "I'd try to please him in every way, just so he forgives me and doesn't get angry." KRASNÓV. Is that true? ARKHÍP. Have you gone absolutely crazy? Do you think I'd turn liar in my old age? She'd have told you herself; she wants to bow down to you but, you see, she's ashamed, and then she's afraid. KRASNÓV. [_Rising_] Grandfather Arkhíp, understand me! You know how I love her, there's no need telling! Until this happened, we lived together very comfortably; you all saw how I simply doted on her. Now that this gentleman has come I see that he talks in too free and easy a way with her; and that made me angry. Would you believe me, I didn't know what I was doing or saying. When she went to him, I waited half an hour--she didn't return; I waited an hour--she didn't return; I became furious; my very teeth began to chatter. Here I was imagining all sorts of things! Maybe I'm doing her wrong, am unjust to her; maybe she meant nothing; but what was there to do? I'm consumed with a fire, absolutely consumed, I wronged her, I admit; but was it easy for me? If you'd told me that she'd just died--I don't know what I'd do with myself, but it would be easier; then no one could take her from me. [_Weeps_] Some want money or reputation, but I need nothing except her love. Give me the choice: Here, Krasnóv, you can have gold-mines and royal castles, if you'll only give up your wife; or here, you can have a roofless mud hut, all sorts of hard work, but you may live with your wife. I won't utter a sound. I'll carry water on my back, just to be with her always. So listen, grandfather! Is it strange that with my hot temper I hurt her? If there's no love, then there's no anger. But you tell me that she herself wants to bow down to me! Such happiness can't come to me even in a dream. Certainly that is a load off my shoulders. It seems as though I'd just been born into the world! Thank you, grandfather Arkhíp! I was a dead man and you brought me to life again! I had such thoughts in my head that I can't make up for them by praying all my life. The devil was surely near me. Not only did he whisper in my ear, but--it's a sin to say it--[_in a low voice_] he might have made me raise my arm. ARKHÍP. What! At whom? KRASNÓV. Well, what's past is past. God preserve me from such torment in the future! I wouldn't wish such for my enemy. ARKHÍP. You'd better calm your heart! KRASNÓV. Ah, grandfather! I'd be glad to, but one can't restrain oneself. All at once your eyes become clouded, your head whirls, it seems as if some one were gripping your heart with his hand and you can think only of misfortune and sin. You walk about as if half crazed, and see nothing all around you. But now when your anger has calmed down, then you're at ease, as if nothing had happened. [LUKÉRYA _comes in and takes the bowl from the table_] Where's Tatyána Danílovna? LUKÉRYA. She's there, in the kitchen. KRASNÓV. Why in the kitchen? What is she doing there? The kitchen is no place for her to sit in! Call her in here. LUKÉRYA _goes out_. AFÓNYA. [_In a low voice to_ ARKHÍP] Grandfather, will she bow down to brother's feet or not? If not, then I'll leave. ARKHÍP. As they please, that's not our business! _Enter_ TATYÁNA and LUKÉRYA. SCENE V KRASNÓV, TATYÁNA, LUKÉRYA, ARKHÍP, _and_ AFÓNYA TATYÁNA. Did you call me? KRASNÓV. Yes, because the kitchen is no fit place for you to sit in. ARKHÍP. I have spoken to him, Tatyána; now do as you like yourself. TATYÁNA. Lev Rodionych! If I've done you any wrong whatever, please pardon me. If you wish it, I'll bow down to your feet. KRASNÓV. No, why should you? I can feel it without your doing that. I could never allow you to do that--to bow down before me! What kind of man would I be then? TATYÁNA. I'm willing to do anything, only do not be angry with me. KRASNÓV. I need nothing but your word. You gave your word--that's enough; it's my duty to believe you. TATYÁNA. Then you're not angry with me? KRASNÓV. Not at all! I'm not a man of polished manners; in my excitement I stormed--but don't take it ill of me; I did it because I was fond of you. LUKÉRYA. Oh, stop! Who could take it ill of you? TATYÁNA. I've already forgotten it. Your words didn't hurt me so much as that you didn't even look at me to-day. ARKHÍP. Well, now they've made up! What's the use of thrashing over old scandals! Now kiss, as you should. Now everything will go on as it ought. TATYÁNA. We won't fuss over that, grandfather. I'll be very glad to. I wanted to long ago, but I didn't know how it would please Lev Rodionych. KRASNÓV. If it's a pleasure to you, it's a double one for me! [_They kiss each other_. LUKÉRYA. I've always marvelled, Lev Rodionych, to see how sister loves you. KRASNÓV. What's there to marvel at? LUKÉRYA. I know her, Lev Rodionych, better than you do. She's of a quiet temperament and can't tell you everything; but you just ought to know what her real feelings are. KRASNÓV. That makes it more pleasant still. LUKÉRYA. She would have liked to tell you how much she loved you; but she's so timid that she can't. KRASNÓV. [_To his wife_] Why are you timid with me? I'm only an ordinary man. LUKÉRYA. We are so naturally. KRASNÓV. [_To his wife_] Then be kind enough not to be afraid of me in the future. That would trouble my conscience. Am I a bogie? TATYÁNA. I'll not be afraid of you any more, Lev Rodionych; I'll love you. LUKÉRYA. Other women would make you all sorts of promises that they didn't mean a bit, but my sister--she's different. KRASNÓV. Now I can understand you. There were times when I didn't know just how to approach you--whether you'd be pleased or not! TATYÁNA. You always please me. AFÓNYA. Come, Grandfather Arkhíp, let's go out on the street! ARKHÍP. As you wish; come on! Now, thank God, we again have peace and love. It's good when there's agreement in the house! It's good, children, good! [_Going out_] The demon has vanished under the earth, and God walks on the earth! [_Goes out_. LUKÉRYA. I just looked in here and now I must go somewhere else. [_Goes out_. SCENE VI KRASNÓV and TATYÁNA KRASNÓV. [_Sitting down on the bench_] Ah, Tatyána Danílovna, if God would only grant that we might live our entire lives in such harmony as now! TATYÁNA. [_Sitting down beside him_] We will. KRASNÓV. If you were always so kind, you could fairly twist me round your finger. You can do anything with me by kindness, Tatyána Danílovna. TATYÁNA. [_Placing her hand on his shoulder_] I don't need anything from you; I'm satisfied with everything. But don't think ill of me. Why were you so jealous? KRASNÓV. [_Embracing her_] So you were offended! [_Looking at her lovingly_] You're my dear! Whatever is dear to one he guards. Why, you're dearer to me than everything in the world! What a wife you are! Who else has such a one? You're the envy of the whole city--don't I see that? Who would want to lose such a wife? In the first place, it's just like tearing a piece out of his heart; and secondly with their taunts and reproaches they would give me no peace, drive me wild. I must tell you, I love you more than my soul, and I had no intention of abusing you, but--how can I explain it?--I can't help having notions. TATYÁNA. Don't have them. KRASNÓV. That's all over now. TATYÁNA. [_Kindly_] Don't you insult me by watching me! KRASNÓV. I tell you that's all past! Give me a good hard kiss! [_They kiss each other_] That's right! Now tell me why you love me? How can you be so attached to me? TATYÁNA. I just love you, that's all. KRASNÓV. No, do tell me! It does me good to hear it from you. I want to know what there is in me that could make such a beauty fall in love with me. Did I please you by my wit or by something else? TATYÁNA. By everything. Who could say anything bad of you? Everybody knows you're a good man. KRASNÓV. And what else? TATYÁNA. You're very kind, and you don't begrudge me anything. KRASNÓV. That's the talk! [_Embraces her fervently and kisses her_] Well, love me still more and then I'll be still kinder. What are you frowning at? Did I muss you a little? TATYÁNA. You're holding me too tight. KRASNÓV. Oh, for the Lord's sake! I just can't help it! I squeeze you the way I love you. It's right from the heart, no humbug. I don't suppose you're made of sugar; you won't fall to pieces. TATYÁNA. That's all right. KRASNÓV. I know you didn't mean anything. What's there to complain of! No need to get angry at such treatment! Isn't that so? TATYÁNA. You know yourself, why ask! KRASNÓV. Such is life with a good woman! Peaches and cream! Simply lovely! Nothing on earth is better! What is the reason that you're so precious to us men? TATYÁNA. I don't know. KRASNÓV. It's the work of Providence--truly, of Providence! It's beyond our understanding! We know one thing, that--if you're attached to your wife, that's enough. If you're once attached, then that's all. Now that we're friends, the house might burn down over my head. [_Kisses her_] To-day I'll go and collect some money, and to-morrow I'll buy you a new outfit. TATYÁNA. What for? You don't need to. KRASNÓV. If I say I'll buy it, then that's my affair. So I do need to buy it. You attend to your business; comfort your husband! And I'll attend to mine. [_Looking at his watch_] Oh, there's lots of time! I'd better go! I wish I didn't have to leave you. TATYÁNA. Don't go! KRASNÓV. Don't you really want me to go? Don't act spoiled! Business before pleasure! If I don't make the collection to-day, I can't get my money for a whole week. It's so far to go, too! I wish he'd--Why, it's on the other side of the river! It'll take an hour; confound him! [_Takes his cap_] So you don't want me to go? TATYÁNA. Of course not! KRASNÓV. Oh, what a woman you are! [_Embraces her_] I know your kind, and very well too! You just wait for me an hour, you'll live through it! [_Kisses her_] Good-by! Otherwise I'd really be bound to stay with you. You women were created for man's temptation in this world! [_Starts off_. TATYÁNA. Come back soon! KRASNÓV. I'll be back 'fore you can count ten! Speaking seriously, I can't return within an hour. [_He goes out_. SCENE VII TATYÁNA _alone_ TATYÁNA. [_As soon as her husband goes_] Well, good-by! At last he's gone! I'm unfortunate, unfortunate! They say one ought to love one's husband; but how can I love him? He's vulgar, uneducated--and he fondles me as a bear would! Sits there--and swaggers like a peasant; and I have to pretend to love him, to humor him; how disgusting! I'd give anything on earth not to have to do that. But how can I help it! I have to submit to one I don't love! [_Silence_] I wonder where everybody is? Here I am all alone! Such loneliness! [_Sits down at the window_] Even the streets are deserted, and there's no one to look at. Where's my sister? [_Sings softly_. "O, mother I'm sad! Sad, my lady! My heart is cast down, Cast down and aching; My beloved knows not How my heart is bleeding." SCENE VIII TATYÁNA _and_ LUKÉRYA LUKÉRYA. What, is he gone? TATYÁNA. Yes. LUKÉRYA. Far? TATYÁNA. Across the river. LUKÉRYA. Will he be long? TATYÁNA. He said, not sooner than an hour. LUKÉRYA. Now you might run over. I was just there--he's waiting. He leaves to-day. TATYÁNA. Surely not to-day? How can that be, Lusha, my dear? He didn't tell me. If I could only see him! LUKÉRYA. Take my kerchief and cover yourself all up with it. It's so dark outside that no one will know you. TATYÁNA. You think it'll be all right? LUKÉRYA. If you're afraid of the wolf don't go into the woods. It isn't far, you can run over in a minute. But don't stay too long! TATYÁNA. No, no, of course I shan't. [_Puts the kerchief on_. LUKÉRYA. You'd better be watching out! God forbid that Lev Rodionych should return first. What should I do then! Shall I say that you went for some thread to a neighbor? It'll be lucky if he believes it. What did you say to him when you were alone? TATYÁNA. What did I say--I don't know; and what I'm doing now--I can't understand. LUKÉRYA. Well, run along! run along! TATYÁNA _goes out_. SCENE IX LUKÉRYA _and later_ AFÓNYA LUKÉRYA. [_At the window_] Just look at her! She's flying like an arrow. Who'd scheme for her if I didn't? She's a pretty girl, only she hasn't any sense, and that's bad. She has to be taught everything; she has to be looked after as though she were a small child. If I hadn't advised her to make up with her husband, what would have happened? Quarrel and abuse. She probably wouldn't have wanted to give in; then there'd have been a continual squabble in the house and scandal among the neighbors. But now she can do as she likes; everything will be smoothed over. _Enter_ AFÓNYA. AFÓNYA. Where is Tatyána? Where is she, where is she? LUKÉRYA. What do you want her for? AFÓNYA. I need her. Tell me, where? Tell me, where? LUKÉRYA. Probably in the garden. AFÓNYA. Why are you fooling me? For once in your life tell the truth! Has she gone? Speak, has she gone? LUKÉRYA. Maybe she has gone. AFÓNYA. Did she just slip out of the gate? LUKÉRYA. Probably it was she. Wasn't it for thread she went? She's been wanting to run over to the neighbor's for some time. AFÓNYA. For thread? LUKÉRYA. Well, yes, for thread. AFÓNYA. You lie, lie! LUKÉRYA. Leave me alone! Why are you worrying me? Why did you leave grandfather? AFÓNYA. That's none of your business. I know where she went. You're devils. You've deceived brother. I saw it long ago in your eyes; in your eyes flames flickered, devilish flames! LUKÉRYA. My, but you're a malicious imp! AFÓNYA. You just wait, just wait! You'll get sick of deceiving us; I'll show you up. LUKÉRYA. Don't threaten! We're not afraid of you. AFÓNYA. [_With tears_] Heavens! My God! What's all this? What a man it is they're deceiving before his very eyes! [_Runs out_. ACT IV TABLEAU I _A street before_ PROKÓFYEVNA'_s house. Twilight_ SCENE I ULYÁNA _and_ PROKÓFYEVNA _come out of the gate_ PROKÓFYEVNA. What is it, Ulyana! What is it! How is it possible! Don't think of such a thing! You just imagined it. Believe me, you just imagined it. ULYÁNA. Say what you like about imagining! Thank Heaven, I'm not blind yet. Not to recognize her! Why, I'd pick her out of a thousand by her dress. We have only one style for our clothes; on holidays we don't wear the clothes she does on week-days. You and I were just coming out of the door, and she was just going in to see him. PROKÓFYEVNA. I tell you it's a mistake. It's true, she isn't without faults. There's a woman here who comes to him, and looks like her, but it isn't she. What's that to me! Wouldn't I tell you? But if it isn't true, then why talk nonsense? ULYÁNA. You're just helping them out. PROKÓFYEVNA. Don't tell wrong stories, Ulyana; don't tell wrong stories! ULYÁNA. But where's the wrong, Prokófyevna! She's equal to it; because I know her. It's too bad brother has given her so much freedom. I wouldn't have thought of saying such a thing of another, but it isn't a sin to say it of her. If not to-day then to-morrow she'll begin to raise trouble that will never come to an end. She'll hoodwink brother. If you only knew how she's insulted me. PROKÓFYEVNA. Is that so? ULYÁNA. May I die in my tracks if she didn't! She's changed brother so that now he fairly growls at me. "I won't have anything to do with you," says he. That's the sort she is! Just you wait, my dear! I'm not like some. PROKÓFYEVNA. That's enough for you! What's the good of your mixing in! She's the mistress in her house, and you are in yours. ULYÁNA. To the deuce with her! I've nothing to do with her. But it hurts me, Prokófyevna, that she upsets brother, and estranges him from his whole family. PROKÓFYEVNA. Well, that's your business; you'll settle accounts somehow. Are you going home now? ULYÁNA. Yes, my dear; it's supper-time. My boss is probably storming and pacing the floor by now. Come and see us! PROKÓFYEVNA. Good-by. _They kiss each other. PROKÓFYEVNA goes out through the gate._ SCENE II ULYÁNA and later AFÓNYA ULYÁNA. Who knows whether Prokófyevna was lying or not. You can't believe her; she's a rogue. I'd give a lot to find out for certain if she's now with the gentleman or not. Will it hurt to wait? If she stays long, my husband will make such a fuss that I won't forget it for a month of Sundays. You're lucky that I'm in a hurry, or I'd watch out for you. [_Goes out. She meets AFÓNYA_] Afónya, where are you going? AFÓNYA. Go away, leave me alone! Leave me alone! ULYÁNA. Is Tatyána at home? AFÓNYA. No, she's gone. ULYÁNA. Then she's here at the gentleman's; I just saw her. AFÓNYA. At the gentleman's? Heavens! Have people no sense of shame! ULYÁNA. I've got to run home; I'll tell my husband, then I'll call at your house. [_Going away_] Wait, brother, wait! I'll get even with you for your insults! [_Goes out_. AFÓNYA. Heavens! I haven't any strength! How is one to live in such a world? This is a punishment for our sins! Left her husband for a stranger! She was sitting in a corner starving; we took care of her, gave her fine clothes bought with hard-earned money! Brother denies himself, denies his family, and gives her cash to buy rags, and now she and a stranger are cursing us for the shelter we gave her. It makes me sick! Why don't I die! I'm shedding tears of blood. We've warmed a viper in our bosom. [_Leans against the fence_] I'll wait, I'll wait. I'll tell her everything, everything that's seething in my heart. BABÁYEV _and_ TATYÁNA _come out of the gate_; AFÓNYA _hides behind a corner_. SCENE III AFÓNYA, BABÁYEV, _and_ TATYÁNA BABÁYEV. What are you afraid of? There's not a soul on the street. Why are you in such a hurry? It isn't half an hour since you came. TATYÁNA. No, no! Somehow I feel uneasy. BABÁYEV. I don't understand why you are so afraid. Well, your husband will scold and that's all. TATYÁNA. I was late the time before; how terribly he acted; I thought he'd kill me. He makes me afraid, frightfully afraid! [_Silence_] Shall you return soon? BABÁYEV. In a week, in ten days at most. TATYÁNA. Oh, how has this come about! Oh, if we had what we wanted: you'd go to the country--and I'd go there too; you'd go to St. Petersburg--and I'd follow you. BABÁYEV. I asked you to come with me. TATYÁNA. It's all right for you. You're a free man, while I'm no better than a captive. That's my trouble. I've thought more than once how I could run away to you. BABÁYEV. That's good. TATYÁNA. Just think how unfortunate my life is: in order to have a little pleasure I have to deceive my husband. It's all deceit and deceit! But what's the use of deceiving? It disgusts me; it's not in my character. If my husband guessed that I didn't love him, then he'd kill me with scolding and reproaches. I very well understand that I can't be a real wife to him, and that I'm not wanted by his family; and they'd rather I were anywhere else; but who can I explain that to, who'd understand it! Just see how rough and stern they are, and I'm not used to sternness. What a life, when there's no freedom! BABÁYEV. Tánya, I'll tell you what to do! Tell him outright that you don't want to live with him. You and your sister rent a house, and I'll send you the money. TATYÁNA. That's impossible. Not to be thought of! Do you think he'd let me go? He doesn't care if I die--so long as I'm with him--before his eyes. It would be better for me to leave quietly. BABÁYEV. Very well, leave quietly. TATYÁNA. Really, I don't know. We're all brave when it's a matter of words, but when it comes to action, then you lose your reason, especially such as I. Do as you wish. I'll do as you advise me. If you love me, you won't want to cause my ruin. BABÁYEV. Of course not. TATYÁNA. They're right when they say that all women are insane; I married of my own accord--nobody forced me--so now I ought to live according to my vows; but I'm drawn to you, and want to escape from my home. It's all your fault, Valentin Pávlich; home has become disgusting to me because of you. If it weren't for you, I'd manage to live somehow with my husband; at least I shouldn't know this sorrow. BABÁYEV. A fine life! You have much to regret! TATYÁNA. But is my life agreeable now? Of course I ought not to blame you much, because I'm entirely to blame myself. You have nothing to worry about! Yours is a man's affair, and no one will condemn you; but we have to suffer for every single thing. But what's to be done! It's too late to argue who's in the right and who's to blame; but I guess this affair had to happen. But don't you deceive me; come back! BABÁYEV. Oh, stop; what do you mean! Certainly I'll come back. TATYÁNA. [_Kissing him_] Good-by! It's time for me to go! My, how I'm shivering! My legs fairly totter under me. BABÁYEV. Calm yourself a little. Come, I'll walk along the bank with you; you'll get home in time. [_They go out_. AFÓNYA. So this, brother Lev, is what you deserted us for! Just look, and enjoy it! You act like a wild beast to those who love you with their whole soul. I'm burning up like a candle, I'm wasting away because of love and pity for you, and yet I haven't once heard a kind word from you. You doted on your wife, and see what she's up to, the wretch! No, there's no truth in the world, none. [_Goes out_. TABLEAU II _Same room as in_ ACT III SCENE I LUKÉRYA _enters with a candle and places it on a table; later_ AFÓNYA _comes in_. LUKÉRYA. Why doesn't Tánya return! It's high time, She's insane! She's just glad that she got out of here; she doesn't realize that suddenly, when you least expect it, her husband may return. Here I am on pins and needles. When I hear any one at the door my heart almost stops. Every minute seems a year. Afónya torments me too. I wonder where he went. Isn't he spying on her? Of course I can find ten replies to every word he says; yet he may rouse suspicion. Ah, some one is coming! Is it possible that it's Lev! Heaven forbid! I do believe I'll die. [AFÓNYA _comes in, and, groaning, lies down on the stove-couch_] Where have you been? AFÓNYA. Never you mind. LUKÉRYA. Speak, it won't hurt your voice. AFÓNYA. I don't want to talk to you. LUKÉRYA. [_Caressingly_] Don't you feel well, Afónya? AFÓNYA. Oh, Heavens! don't touch me, don't touch! You can't fool me. LUKÉRYA. I don't in the least wish to fool you. AFÓNYA. You fooled brother, but you can't fool me. No, no! LUKÉRYA. I don't understand a bit what you're talking about. AFÓNYA. Oh, I'm exhausted! Go away: out of my sight. Don't torment me. LUKÉRYA. You feel worse because you don't appreciate kindness. AFÓNYA. I don't need it! I don't need anything. LUKÉRYA. Well, then just lie on your couch. Do you think I want anything from you? I only spoke out of sympathy. [_Silence_] What a senseless girl; how senseless! I'm all a-tremble. KRASNÓV comes in. SCENE II The same and KRASNÓV KRASNÓV. Well, here I am. What a trick I've played! The joke's on Tatyána Danílovna. "Expect me in an hour," I said, and here I am in half an hour, so she'd be surprised. I was invited to tea, but I didn't stay. "Do you think I want tea," I said, "when I have a young wife at home who's waiting for me!" But where is she? LUKÉRYA. I don't know. Somewhere around. Isn't she in the garden? KRASNÓV. Send her in right away, I want to give her a present for her kindness to-day. LUKÉRYA. Right away, right away. [_Goes out_] KRASNÓV. [_Paces up and dawn in silence; then speaks to himself_] Fifty-seven rubles, six and three, nine to Peter Ananyev. [_Pause_] Has she disappeared? [_Paces up and down in silence_] Afónya, do you know where my wife went? AFÓNYA. Don't know. Oh, I feel sick. KRASNÓV. What's she dallying around for? [_Goes to the door_] Tatyána Danílovna! Lukérya Danílovna! They don't even answer. What does that mean now? Afanásy, where's my wife? AFÓNYA. Are you lonesome without her? She'll come, don't be afraid. No matter where she's strolling, she'll come home. KRASNÓV. [_At the door_] Tatyána Danílovna! ULYÁNA _comes in_. SCENE III _The same and_ ULYÁNA KRASNÓV. Who's that? Is that you, Ulyana? ULYÁNA. Yes, brother. KRASNÓV. What do you want? ULYÁNA. Just to call on you, brother, as a relative should. KRASNÓV. I'm in no great need of your calls. ULYÁNA. My feelings, brother, are different from yours; I can't help remembering my kindred. Where's your bride? KRASNÓV. She seems to have gotten lost somewhere here. I keep calling her, but can't raise her. ULYÁNA. Maybe she's far away from here, so she can't hear your call KRASNÓV. What do you mean by "far"? I tell you she's at home. ULYÁNA. Who said that? Wasn't it her sister, Lukérya Danílovna? KRASNÓV. Yes, maybe it was she. ULYÁNA. And you believed her. Oh, you're simple, simple! KRASNÓV. Go away, sister! Keep out of trouble! ULYÁNA. Come to your senses; what are you shouting for? I saw with my own eyes how she went to the gentleman. KRASNÓV. So that's the kind of family I have! My luck sticks in their throats. You're a barbarian, you jealous woman. To kill you would be small penalty for your cursed tongue! [_Raises his arm to strike her_. AFÓNYA. [_Getting up from the couch_] Quieter, you; quieter! What are you making a row for? KRASNÓV. I'll hang you both on the same poplar! AFÓNYA. [_Shielding his sister_] Don't touch her, don't lay a finger on her! She's telling the truth, the absolute truth. KRASNÓV. You lie, you're jealous, both of you! It isn't an hour, I tell you; it isn't an hour since we sat here, kissing and embracing, looking into each other's eyes and couldn't get enough of it. ULYÁNA. Heavens, he's out of his head! You've lost your mind! Go and see for yourself if you don't believe us. KRASNÓV. [_At the door_] Lukérya Danílovna! ULYÁNA. Call, call; she ran over there, too. _Enter_ KÚRITSYN. SCENE IV _The same and_ KÚRITSYN KÚRITSYN. What are you yelling for, are you teaching your wife? That's good for her, so she won't run away from home. KRASNÓV. But where is she? Where is she? Spare me; you're tearing me to pieces. KÚRITSYN. She'll come back; she doesn't spend the night there. ULYÁNA. You'd better calm yourself, brother; sit down. KÚRITSYN. We'll all wait for her, the lady. KRASNÓV. She petted me, fondled me, pressed me close to her heart. TATYÁNA _enters quietly and looks around_. SCENE V _The same and_ TATYÁNA KRASNÓV. Where have you been? Have you had a good time? Speak, don't hide it! Why are you silent? Speak! You see: everybody has come to view my shame. ULYÁNA. Why don't you talk, you shameless creature! You think you can get out of it by silence? We saw how you went over there and came back. KÚRITSYN. Trample on her, brother, trample on her hard; she'll talk. KRASNÓV. Don't torment me! Tell me, what am I to think of you? What? Are these people lying? Then I'll turn 'em out, head over heels! Or maybe they're telling the truth? Deliver me from my sinful thoughts! Tell me, which of you is my enemy? Were you there? TATYÁNA. What's the use of lying, since you've all seen me. I was there. KRASNÓV. [_Beside himself_] There, good people, there--that's how it is! What shall I do now? What can I--pardon me, a sinner, for doing you wrong! How other men's wives behave, I don't know; but this is the way in our family. ULYÁNA. Now we'll watch your pride. How will you show yourself among people now, shameless woman? You've disgraced our brother, disgraced him! AFÓNYA. Viper, viper! KÚRITSYN. What's the use of looking at her! She ought to pay the penalty right off. _ARKHÍP comes in._ SCENE VI _The same and_ ARKHÍP ARKHÍP. What punishment has God sent us? Why so much noise? Is there a fire? You know I can't see. ULYÁNA. The sweet bride has been up to mischief! If I were in brother's place, I'd take her and crush her. KRASNÓV. Away, away! Don't, don't anybody lay a finger on her! I'm her husband, so I'm her judge. Now tell me, why did you do it? Why did you go astray? Were you drawn into the net of sin? Perhaps you didn't dream of such a thing of your own accord. Perhaps you didn't expect it? Or did you rush into sin of your own free will? How about you now? Do you repent or not? Or maybe you think that was the right thing to do? Speak! Why are you silent? Are you abashed before people, or are you happy? Are you ashamed, or are you glad of what you've done? Are you made of stone? Roll at every one's feet, crucify yourself! Or will you tell me outright that you did it to spite me! I want to know what to do with you--spare you, or kill you. Did you love me at least a little bit; is there any reason for my sparing you? Or did you cheat me all the time? Did I only dream of happy days? TATYÁNA. [_With tears_] I'm guilty, Lev Rodionych. I deceived you. I never loved you, and don't love you now. You'd better leave me, rather than have both of us suffer. Better that we part! KRASNÓV. How part? Where shall we go? No, you lie! Whom shall I punish for my shame? You say you don't love me, and never did, while I went around town and boasted that a beautiful lady loved me. How shall I take revenge for this insult? Go in the kitchen! You can't be a wife, so be a cook! You couldn't walk hand in hand with your husband, so fetch water for him. You have aged me in a day, and now I'll make sport of your beauty! Every day that the fair sun rises, you'll get nothing from me but slaps and curses all your life; maybe some time when I'm angry, I'll kill you like a dog. Some one give me a knife! TATYÁNA _runs out_. AFÓNYA. Brother! brother! She's going, she's going away. KRASNÓV. She won't escape me! AFÓNYA. She's going to the gentleman. I heard them planning to go away to the country. KRASNÓV. Who'll take her from me, if I won't give her up? Who in the whole world is strong enough to take her from me? If they take her they'll have to tear my arms off. AFÓNYA. [_Looking out of the door_] Brother, she's getting ready! She's leaving, brother! KRASNÓV. [_Pushing him aside_] Stand aside! A woman leaves her husband only for the grave, for nowhere else! [_Goes out. The cry of_ TATYÁNA _is heard_: "Let me go!" _He comes back_] Bind me! I've killed her. AFÓNYA. Serves her right. ULYÁNA. Ah, my dear! What will happen to you now? ARKHÍP. Where is he? Where is he? [AFÓNYA _leads him_] What have you done? Who gave you the right? Is she guilty only towards you? First of all, she is guilty before God; and you, a proud and willful man, have taken it upon yourself to judge? You couldn't wait for the merciful judgment of God; so now go to the judgment of man, yourself! Bind him! KÚRITSYN. He didn't expect it, he didn't foresee it, but he fell into sorrow! Sorrow walks not through the woods, but among men. IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR--WE'LL SETTLE IT OURSELVES A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS CHARACTERS SAMSÓN SÍLYCH BOLSHÓV[1], _a merchant_ [Footnote 1: Samsón Strengthson Bigman.] AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA, _his wife_ OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA (LÍPOCHKA), _their daughter_ LÁZAR ELIZÁRYCH PODKHALYÚZIN[2], _a clerk_ [Footnote 2: Sneaky.] USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA, _a professional match-maker_ SYSÓY PSÓICH RISPOLÓZHENSKY[3], _a lawyer_ [Footnote 3: Unfrocked.] FOMÍNISHNA, _housekeeper_ } } _in_ BOLSHÓV'S _house_ TÍSKA[4], boy } [Footnote 4: A nickname for Tikhon.] ACT I _Drawing-room in BOLSHÓV'S house_ SCENE I _LÍPOCHKA is sitting near the window with a book_ LÍPOCHKA. What a pleasant occupation these dances are! Very good indeed! What could be more delightful? You go to the assembly, or to somebody's wedding, you sit down, naturally, all beflowered like a doll or a magazine picture. Suddenly up runs a gentleman: "May I have the happiness, miss?" Well, you see, if he's a man of wit, or a military individual, you accept, drop your eyes a little, and answer: "If you please, with pleasure!" Ah! [_Warmly_] Most fas-ci-nat-ing! Simply beyond understanding! [_Sighs_] I dislike most of all dancing with students and government office clerks. But it's the real thing to dance with army men! Ah, charming! ravishing! Their mustaches, and epaulets, and uniforms, and on some of them even spurs with little bits of bells. Only it's killingly tiresome that they don't wear a sabre. Why do they take it off? It's strange, plague take it! The soldiers themselves don't understand how much more fascinatingly they'd shine! If they were to take a look at the spurs, the way they tinkle, especially if a uhlan or some colonel or other is showing off--wonderful! It's just splendid to look at them--lovely! And if he'd just fasten on a sabre, you'd simply never see anything more delightful, you'd just hear rolling thunder instead of the music. Now, what comparison can there be between a soldier and a civilian? A soldier! Why, you can see right off his cleverness and everything. But what does a civilian amount to? Just a dummy. [_Silence_] I wonder why it is that so many ladies sit down with their feet under their chairs. There's positively no difficulty in learning how! Although I was a little bashful before the teacher, I learned how to do it perfectly in twenty lessons. Why not learn how to dance? It's only a superstition not to. Here mamma sometimes gets angry because the teacher is always grabbing at my knees. All that comes from lack of education. What of it? He's a dancing-master and not somebody else. [_Reflecting_] I picture to myself: suddenly a soldier makes advances to me, suddenly a solemn betrothal, candles burn everywhere, the butlers enter, wearing white gloves; I, naturally, in a tulle or perhaps in a gauze gown; then suddenly they begin to play a waltz--but how confused I shall be before him! Ah, what a shame! Then where in the world shall I hide? What will he think? "Here," he'll say, "an uneducated little fool!" But, no, how can that be! Only, you see I haven't danced for a year and a half! I'll try it now at leisure. [_Waltzing badly_] One--two--three; one--two--three-- SCENE II LÍPOCHKA _and_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Entering_] Ah, ha, shameless creature! My heart told me so; before it's fairly daylight, before you've eaten God's bread, you start off dancing right away! LÍPOCHKA. Now, mamma, I've drunk my tea and eaten some curd-cakes. Look here, is this all right? One, two, three; one--two-- AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Following her_] What difference does it make if you have had something to eat? I suppose I'll have to keep watching what sinful pranks you're up to! I tell you, don't whirl around! LÍPOCHKA. Pooh! where's the sin in that! Everybody's doing it nowadays. One, two-- AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Better knock your forehead against the table, but don't fiddle around with your feet. [_She runs after her_] What's the matter with you? Where did you get the idea of not obeying? LÍPOCHKA. Who told you I didn't obey? Don't meddle; let me finish the way I want to! One, two, three-- AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Shall I have to run after you long, old woman as I am? Ouf! You've worn me out, you barbarian! Do you hear? Stop! I'll complain to your father! LÍPOCHKA. Right away, right away, mamma! This is the last time around! God created you expressly for complaining. Much I care for you! One--two-- AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What! you keep on dancing, and talk impudently into the bargain! Stop it this minute! It'll be so much the worse for you; I'll grab you by the skirt, and tear off the whole train. LÍPOCHKA. Well, tear it, and much good may it do you! You'll simply have to sew it up again, and that's all there is to it! [_She sits down_] Phew! phew! my, I'm soaked through! as if I'd been pulling a van! Ouf! Mamma, give me a handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Wait, I'll wipe it off myself. You've half killed yourself! And it's just as if somebody were making you do it. Since you don't respect your mother, you might at least respect these walls. Your father, my dear, has to make a great effort even to move his legs; but you skip about here like a jumping-jack! LÍPOCHKA. Go away with your advice! How can I act according to your notions? Do you want me to get sick? That would be all right if I were a doctor's wife. Ouf! What disgusting ideas you have! Bah! What a woman you are, mamma, drat it! Honestly, I sometimes blush for your stupidity! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What a darling child you are! Just consider how you're insulting your mother! Ah, you stupid chatterbox! Is it right to dishonor your parents with such words? Was it for this I brought you into the world, taught you, and guarded you as carefully as if you were a butterfly? LÍPOCHKA. You didn't teach me--strangers did; that'll do, if you please. You yourself, to tell the truth, had no bringing up. What of it? You bore a child--what was I then?--a child without understanding, I didn't understand the ways of society. But I grew up, I looked upon society manners, and I saw that I was far more educated than others. Why should I show too much indulgence for your foolishness? Why, indeed! Much reason for it, I must say! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Let up, let up, you shameless girl! You'll drive me out of patience; I'll go straight to your father, throw myself at his feet, and say: "Samsón, dear, there's no living because of our daughter!" LÍPOCHKA. Yes, there's no living for you! I imagine so. But do you give me any chance to live? Why did you send away my suitor? Could there have been a better match? Wasn't he a Coopid[1]? What did you find in him that was soft? [Footnote 1: An attempt to reproduce Lipochka's illiterate pronunciation of the Russian word.] AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. He was soft enough; just a grinning booby. He came swaggering around, swaggered, strutted, strutted. What a rare bird! LÍPOCHKA. Yes, much you know! Of course he's a born gentleman; he behaves in a delicate way. They always do like that in his circle--But how do you dare to censure such people, of whom you haven't any idea? He, I tell you, is no cheap merchant. [_She whispers aside_] My darling, my beauty! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Yes, a good darling! Do tell! Pity we didn't marry you to some circus clown. Shame on you; there's some kind of folly in you; you whisper right under your mother's nose, just to spite her. LÍPOCHKA. I've reason enough, because you don't desire my happiness. You and pa are only good for picking quarrels and tyrannizing! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. You can think what you please. The Lord is your judge! But nobody feels the anxiety for her child that the mother who bore her does! Here you're always posing and kicking up all kinds of nonsense, while your father and I worry day and night about how to find you a good man, and establish you quickly. LÍPOCHKA. Yes, easy for you to talk; but just let me ask, what good does that do me, if you please? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. As if you thought I wasn't sorry for you! But what can I do? Have a mite of patience, even if you have been waiting a few years. It's impossible to find a husband for you in a second; it's only cats that catch mice in a jiffy. LÍPOCHKA. What have I got to do with your cats! It's a husband I want. What's the use! I'm ashamed to meet my acquaintances; in all Moscow we weren't able to choose a husband; other girls kept having all the luck. Wouldn't it make anybody sick? All my friends were married long ago, and here I am like a kind of orphan! We found one man, and turned him down. Now, look here: find me a husband, and find him quick!... I tell you in advance, look me up a husband right off, or it'll be so much the worse for you: purposely, just to spite you, I'll secretly scare up an adorer; I'll run away with a hussar, and we'll get married on the quiet. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What! What! You lewd creature! Who drummed such nastiness into your head? Merciful Lord, I can't get my breath! Ah, you dirty hussy! Well, there's nothing to be done. It's evident. I'll have to call your father. LÍPOCHKA. All you ever say is "father, father!" You have a lot to say when he's around, but just try it when you're by yourself! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. So you think I'm a fool, do you? What kind of hussars do you know, you brazen-faced creature? Phoo! Diabolical idea! Perhaps you think I'm not able to make you mind? Tell me, you shameless-eyed girl, where did you get that spiteful look? What, you want to be sharper than your mother! It won't take me long, I tell you, to send you into the kitchen to boil the kettles. Shame, shame on you! Ah! Ah! My holy saints! I'll make you a hempen wedding-dress, and pull it on over your head directly. I'll make you live with the pigs, instead of your parents! LÍPOCHKA. How's that? Will I allow anybody to boss me about? The idea! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Shut up, shut up, you babbling Bessie! Give in to your mother! What obstinate daring! Just peep another word and I'll stop your mouth with a potato. A beautiful consolation the Lord has sent me in you! Impudent slut! You're a miserable tomboy and you haven't a womanly thought in your head! You're ready, I suppose, to jump on horseback and go off like a soldier! LÍPOCHKA. I suppose you'll ring in the police, presently! You'd do better to keep still, since you weren't properly brought up. I'm absolutely vile; but what are you, after all? Do you want to send me to the other world before my time? Do you want to kill me with your caprices? [_She weeps_] Already I'm about coughing my lungs out! [_Weeps._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Stands and looks at her_] Well, stop, stop! LÍPOCHKA _weeps louder and then sobs._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I tell you, that'll do! I'm talking to you; stop it! Well, it's my fault; only do stop--it's my fault! LÍPOCHKA _weeps._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Lipochka! Lipa! Come, come, do stop! [_Tearfully_] Now, don't get angry at me--[_She weeps_] A silly old woman--ignorant--[_They weep together_] Please forgive me--I'll buy you some earrings. LÍPOCHKA. [_Weeping_] I don't want your old earrings; I have a drawer full already. You buy me some bracelets with emeralds. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I will, I will, only please stop crying! LÍPOCHKA. [_Through her tears_] I won't stop crying till I get married. [_She weeps._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. You'll get married, my darling; you will! Now, give me a kiss! [_They kiss_] There, Christ be with you! Now let me wipe away the tears for you. [_She wipes the tears_] Ustinya Naúmovna wanted to come to-day; we're going to talk a bit. LÍPOCHKA. [_In a voice still rather trembly_] Oh, dear, I wish she'd hurry up! SCENE III _The same and_ FOMÍNISHNA FOMÍNISHNA. Just guess, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna, who's come to call on us! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I can't say. Do you think I'm a witch at guessing, Fomínishna? LÍPOCHKA. Why don't you ask me? Am I stupider than you or mamma? FOMÍNISHNA. The fact is, I don't know how to tell you. You're pretty strong on talk; but when it comes to action you aren't there! I asked you, and asked you, to give me just a handkerchief--nothing expensive: two heaps of stuff are lying around on your closet floor now without any care; but it didn't do any good; it's always give it to strangers, give it to strangers! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. There, now, Fomínishna, I'll never make this out till doomsday. LÍPOCHKA. Let her go; she had a drink of beer after breakfast, and so she's getting fuzzy in her head. FOMÍNISHNA. That's all right; what are you laughing at? How's it coming out, Agraféna Kondrátyevna? Sometimes the beginning is worse than the end. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. One can never find out anything from you! As soon as you begin to talk, we have to stop up our ears! Now, who was it who came here? LÍPOCHKA. A man or a woman? FOMÍNISHNA. You can never see anything but men! Where in the world did one ever see a man wearing a widow's bonnet? This is a widow's affair--so what should her name be? LÍPOCHKA. Naturally, a woman without a husband, a widow. FOMÍNISHNA. So I was right? And it comes out that it is a woman! LÍPOCHKA. What a senseless creature! Well, who is the woman? FOMÍNISHNA. There, there now, you're clever, but no guesser; it couldn't be anybody else but Ustinya Naúmovna. LÍPOCHKA. Ah, mamma, how lucky! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Where has she been all this time? Bring her in quickly, Fomínishna. FOMÍNISHNA. She'll appear herself in a second. She stopped in the yard, quarrelling with the porter; he didn't open the door quickly enough. SCENE IV _The same and_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. [_Entering_] Ouf, fa, fa! Why do you have such a steep staircase, my jewels? You climb, and climb, and much as ever you get there! LÍPOCHKA. Oh, here she is! How are you, Ustinya Naúmovna? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Don't get in a hurry! There's people older than you. I want to chatter with your mamma a bit first. [_Exchanges kisses with_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA] How are you, Agraféna Kondrátyevna? How did you feel when you got up? How did you pass the night? All alive, my precious? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Thank the Lord! I'm alive, able to chew; I've been joking with my daughter all the morning. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. All about dresses, I suppose. [_Exchanging kisses with_ LÍPOCHKA] Well, your turn has come. What's this! It seems as if you had grown stouter, my jewel! Lord bless you! What could be better than to blossom out in beauty! FOMÍNISHNA. Shame on you, temptress! You'll give us bad luck yet! LÍPOCHKA. Oh, what nonsense! It just looks that way to you, Ustinya Naúmovna. I keep getting punier; first it's stomachache, then palpitation of the heart--just like the beating of a pendulum. Now I have a sinking feeling, or feel kind of seasick, and things swim before my eyes. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. [_To_ FOMÍNISHNA] Come on, you dear soul, let's have a kiss now. To be sure, we've already exchanged greetings in the yard, my jewel, so we don't need to rub lips again. FOMÍNISHNA. Just as you wish. Of course I'm no lady of a household. I don't amount to much; all the same I have a soul in me, and not just vapor! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Sitting down_] Sit down, sit down, Ustinya Naúmovna! Why do you stand up as stiff as a bean-pole? Fomínishna, go tell them to heat up the samovar. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I've had my tea, I've had it, my jewel; may I perish on the spot if I haven't; and I've just dropped in for a moment. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What are you loafing about for, Fomínishna? Run off a little more nimbly, granny. LÍPOCHKA. Let me, mamma, I'll go quicker; look how clumsy she is! FOMÍNISHNA. Don't you meddle where you aren't asked! For my part, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna, this is what I think: wouldn't it be nicer to serve cordial and some herring? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Cordial's all right, and the samovar's all right. Or are you stingy with other people's stuff? Well, when it's ready, have it brought here. FOMÍNISHNA. Certainly! All right! [_She goes out_. SCENE V _The same, without_ FOMÍNISHNA AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, haven't you any news, Ustinya Naúmovna? This girl of mine is simply grieved to death. LÍPOCHKA. And really, Ustinya Naúmovna, you keep coming, and coming, and no good comes of it. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But one can't fix things up quickly with you, my jewels. Your daddy has his eye peeled for a rich fellow; he tells me he'll be satisfied with any bell-boy provided he has money and asks a small enough settlement. And your mamma also, Agraféna Kondrátyevna, is always wanting her own taste suited; you must be sure to give her a merchant, with a decoration, who keeps horses, and who crosses himself in the old way[1]. You also have your own notions. How's a person going to please you all? SCENE VI _The same and_ FOMÍNISHNA, _who enters and places vodka and relishes on the table_. LÍPOCHKA. I won't marry a merchant, not for anything. I won't! As if I was brought up for that, and learned French[1], and to play the piano, and to dance! No, no; get him wherever you want to, but get me an aristocrat. [Footnote 1: Evidently, Bolshóv and his family, like many other wealthy Moscow merchants, belonged to the sect of the Old Believers, one of whose dearest tenets is that the sign of the cross should be made with two fingers instead of with three.] AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Here, you talk with her. FOMÍNISHNA. What put aristocrats into your head? What's the special relish in them? They don't even grow beards like Christians; they don't go to the public baths, and don't make pasties on holidays. But, you see, even if you're married, you'll get sick of nothing but sauce and gravy. LÍPOCHKA. Fomínishna, you were born a peasant, and you'll turn up your toes a peasant. What's your merchant to me? What use would he be? Has he any ambition to rise in the world? What do I want of his mop? FOMÍNISHNA. Not a mop, but the hair that God gave him, miss, that's it. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. See what a rough old codger your dad is; he doesn't trim his beard; yet, somehow, you manage to kiss him. LÍPOCHKA. Dad is one thing, but my husband is another. But why do you insist, mamma? I have already said that I won't marry a merchant, and I won't! I'd rather die first; I'll cry to the end of my life; if tears give out, I'll swallow pepper. FOMÍNISHNA. Are you getting ready to bawl? Don't you think of it!--What fun do you get out of teasing her, Agraféna Kondrátyevna? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Who's teasing her? She's mighty touchy. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, well, if you've got your mind set on a nobleman, we'll find you one. What sort do you want; rather stout, or rather lean? LÍPOCHKA. Doesn't matter, it's all right if he's rather stout, so long as he's no shorty. Of course he'd better be tall than an insignificant little runt! And most of all, Ustinya Naúmovna, he mustn't be snub-nosed, and he absolutely must be dark-complexioned. It's understood, of course, that he must be dressed like the men in the magazines. [_She glances at the mirror_] Oh, Lord, my hair looks like a feather-duster to-day! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Now, my jewel, I have a husband for you of the very sort you describe: aristocratic, tall, and brown-complected. LÍPOCHKA. Oh, Ustinya Naúmovna! Not brown-complected, but dark-complexioned! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Yes, much I need, in my old age, to split my tongue talking your lingo. What I said, goes. He has peasants, and wears a norder about his neck. Now you go get dressed, and your mamma and I will talk this thing over. LÍPOCHKA. Oh, my dear, sweet Ustinya Naúmovna, come up to my room a bit later; I must talk with you. Let's go, Fomínishna. FOMÍNISHNA. Ha, what a fidgety child you are! [_They go out._ SCENE VII AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA _and_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Won't you have a sip of cordial before your tea, Ustinya Naúmovna? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Don't care if I do, my jewel. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Pouring_] With my compliments. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. You ought to drink first, my pearl. [_Drinks._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I'll look out for myself! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Ya! Phoo! Where d'you get this decoction? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. At the wine-shop. [_Drinks._ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Buy it in bulk, I suppose? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. By the gallon. What should you want to buy in small quantities for? Our expenses, you see, are heavy. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's the use of talking, my dear, what's the use! Now, I've been bustling about, bustling about for you, Agraféna Kondrátyevna; trudging, trudging over the pavement, and at last I've grubbed up a suitable man: you'll gasp for joy, my jewels, for a fact. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. At last you're talking sense! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. A man of birth and of standing; such a grandee as you never even dreamed of. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I see I'll have to ask Samsón Sílych for a couple of fivers for you. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. That's all right, my jewel, I don't mind! And he has peasants, wears a norder on his neck; and as for intellect, why, he's simply a bonanza. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Then, Ustinya Naúmovna, you ought to have informed him that our daughter hasn't got piles of money. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But he doesn't know where to put his own. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. That would be good, and jolly good; only, look here, Ustinya Naúmovna, and just consider it yourself, my friend: what am I going to do with a nobleman for a son-in-law? I shan't dare say a word to him; I'll be all at sea. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. It's a little scary at first, my jewel, but afterwards you'll get used to things, you'll manage somehow or other. But, here, we must talk a bit with Samsón Sílych; he may even know him, this man of ours. SCENE VIII _The same and_ RISPOLÓZHENSKY RISPOLÓZHENSKY. [_Entering_] I've come to you, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna. I was going to have a talk with Samsón Sílych, but he was busy, I saw, so I thought: now, I'll go to Agraféna Kondrátyevna. By the way, is that vodka, near you? I'll just take a thimbleful, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. [_Drinks._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. With my compliments, my dear sir. Please sit down, won't you? How are you getting along? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What a life I live! Well, I'm just loafing, Agraféna Kondrátyevna; you know yourself, my family's large, business is dull. But I don't grumble; it's a sin to grumble, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. That's the last thing in the world to do, my dear sir. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Whoever grumbles, I think, offends against God, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. This is the way it happened-- AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What are your front names, my dear sir? I keep forgetting. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Sysóy Psoich, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What does Psoich mean, my jewel? What lingo is that[1]? [Footnote 1: The name lends itself to the interpretation, "son of a dog (_pes_)."] RISPOLÓZHENSKY. I can't tell you positively: they called my father Psoy--well, naturally, that makes me Psoich. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But, Psoich, like that, Psoich! However, that's nothing; there are worse, my jewel. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, Sysóy Psoich, what was it you were going to tell us? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, it was like this, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna: it isn't as if it were a proverb, in a kind of fable, but a real occurrence. I'll just take a thimbleful, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. [_Drinks._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Help yourself, my dear sir, help yourself. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. [_Sits down_] There was an old man, a venerable old man--Here, I've forgotten where it was, my dear madam--only it was in some desert spot. He had twelve daughters, my dear madam; each younger than the other! He didn't have the strength to work himself; his wife, too, was very old, the children were still small; and one has to eat and drink. What they had was used up by the time they were old, and there was no one to give them food and drink. Where could they find refuge with their little children? Then he set to thinking this way, then that way.--No, my dear lady, that's where thinking won't do any good. "I'll go," he said, "to the crossroads; perhaps I can get something from charitable people." He sat all day. "God'll help you," they told him. Sits there another day "God'll help you!" Well, my dear lady, he began to murmur. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Holy saints! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. "Good Lord!" he said, "I'm no extortioner, I'm no usurer--it would be better," he said, "to lay hands on myself." AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Merciful heavens! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. And lo! my dear madam, there came a dream to him in the night---- SCENE IX The same and BOLSHÓV BOLSHÓV. Ha, you here, sir? What's this you're preaching here? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. [_Bows_] I hope you're well, Samsón Sílych. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why, my jewel! You seem to be growing thin. Or have you been crippled somehow? BOLSHÓV. [_Sitting down_] Must be I've caught cold, or perhaps my blood's in a bad way. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, Sysóy Psoich, and what happened to him next? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Some other time, Agraféna Kondrátyevna, some other time I'll finish telling; I'll run in some day about dusk and tell you about it fully. BOLSHÓV. What's the matter with you; trying to be sanctimonious? Ha, ha, ha! It's time you came to! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. There, now, you're beginning! You won't let us have a heart-to-heart talk together. BOLSHÓV. Heart-to-heart talk! Ha, ha, ha! But you just ask him how his case was lost from court; there's the story he'll tell you better. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. On the contrary, it was not lost! That's not true, Samsón Sílych! BOLSHÓV. Then what did they turn you out for? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. This is why, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna. I took one case home with me from the court; on the way my friend and I just stepped aside--mortal man is weak; well, you understand--if you'll permit me to say it, into the wine-shop, so to speak. I left it there, and when I was rather tipsy, I suppose, I forgot it. What of that? It might happen to anybody. Afterwards, my dear lady, they missed that case in court; we looked and looked, and I went home twice with the bailiff--still we couldn't find it. They wanted to bring me to trial, but suddenly I remembered: it must be, now, I forgot that thing and left it in the wine-shop. I went there with the bailiff, and there it was. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I declare! That may happen to a sober man as well as to one who drinks. What a pity! BOLSHÓV. How is it they didn't send you off to Kamchatka? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. To Kamchatka! But why, permit me to ask you, why should they send me off to Kamchatka? BOLSHÓV. Why? Because you're drunk and disorderly. Do they have to show you any indulgence? Why, you'll just kill yourself drinking. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. On the contrary, they spared me. You see, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna, they wanted to try me for that very thing--I went immediately to our general, and flopped at his feet! "Your Excellency!" I said. "Don't ruin me! I've a wife," I said, "and little children!" "Well," he said, "deuce take you; they won't strike a man when he's down: tender your resignation, so I shan't see you here." So he spared me. What now! God bless him! He doesn't forget me even now; sometimes I run in to see him on a holiday: "Well," says he, "how are you, Sysóy Psoich?" "I came, your Excellency, to wish you a happy holiday." So, I went to the Troitsa monastery not long ago, and brought him a consecrated wafer. I'll just take a thimbleful, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. [_Drinks._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. With my compliments, my dear sir. Ustinya Naúmovna, let's you and me go out; the samovar is ready, I suppose; I'll show you that we have something new for the wedding outfit. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I suppose, my jewel, you have heaps of stuff ready. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Why certainly. The new materials have come, and it seems as if we didn't have to pay money for them. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's the use of talking, my pearl! You have your own shop, and it's as if they grew in your garden. [_They go out._ SCENE X BOLSHÓV and RISPOLÓZHENSKY BOLSHÓV. Well, Sysóy Psoich, I suppose you've wasted a good deal of ink in your time on this pettifoggery? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. He, he! Samsón Sílych, cheap goods! But I came to inquire how your business is getting on. BOLSHÓV. You did! Much you need to know! Bah, you low-down people! You bloodsuckers! Just let you scent out something or other, and immediately you sneak round with your diabolical suggestions. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What kind of a suggestion could come from me, Samsón Sílych? What kind of a teacher should I be, when you yourself, perhaps, are ten times wiser than I am? I shall do what I'm asked to do. How can I help it? I'd be a hog if I didn't; because I, it may be said, am loaded with favors by you, and so are my kiddies. I'm too much of a fool to advise you; you know your own business yourself better than anybody else. BOLSHÓV. Know my own business! That's the trouble; men like me, merchants, blockheads, understand nothing; and this just serves the turn of such leeches as you. And now you'll besiege me on every side and haunt me to death. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. How can I help haunting you? If I didn't love you I wouldn't haunt you. Haven't I any feelings? Am I really a mere dumb brute? BOLSHÓV. I know that you love me--you all love us; only one can't get anything decent out of you. Here I'm worrying, worrying with this business so that I'm worn out, if you believe me, with this one anxiety. If I could only get it over with, and out of my head. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, Samsón Sílych, you aren't the first, nor the last; aren't others doing it? BOLSHÓV. How can they help it, brother? Others are doing it. But how do they do it; without shame, without conscience! They ride in carriages with easy springs; they live in three-storied houses. One of them will build a belvedere with pillars, in which he's ashamed to show his ugly phiz; and that's the end of him, and you can't get anything out of him. These carriages will roll away, Lord knows where; all his houses are mortgaged, and all the creditors will get out of it'll be three pairs of old boots. That's the whole story. And who is it that he'll fool? Just some poor beggars whom he'll send out into the world in nothing but their shirts. But my creditors are all rich men; what difference will it make to them? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Naturally. Why, Samsón Sílych, all that is in our hands. BOLSHÓV. I know that it's in our hands; but are you equal to handling this affair? You see, you lawyers are a rum lot. Oh, I know you! You're nimble enough in words, and then you go and mess things up. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. But come now, Samsón Sílych, if you please: do you think this is the first time for me! As though I didn't know that already! He, he, he! Yes, I've done such things before; and they've turned out fine. They'd have sent anybody else long ago for such jobs to the other side of nowhere. BOLSHÓV. Oho! What kind of a scheme will you get up? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Why, we'll see--according to circumstances. I'll just take a thimbleful, Samsón Sílych. [_Drinks_] Now, the first thing, Samsón Sílych, we must mortgage the house and shops; or sell them. That's the first thing. BOLSHÓV. Yes, that positively must be done right away. But on whom shall we shove the stuff? Shall it be my wife? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Illegal, Samsón Sílych! That's illegal! It is stated in the laws that such sales are not valid. It's an easy thing to do, but you'll have to see that there're no hitches afterward. If it's to be done, it must be done thoroughly, Samsón Sílych. BOLSHÓV. That's it: there must be no loose ends. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. If you make it over to an outsider, there's nothing they can cavil at. Let 'em try to make a row later, and try to dispute good legal papers. BOLSHÓV. But here's the trouble: when you make over your house to an outsider, maybe it'll stick to him, like a flea to a soldier. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, Samsón Sílych, you must look for a man who knows what conscience is. BOLSHÓV. But where are you going to find him nowadays? Everybody's watching his chance these days to grab you by the collar; and here you want conscience! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Here's my idea, Samsón Sílych, whether you want to listen to me or not: what sort of a fellow is your clerk? BOLSHÓV. Which one? Do you mean Lázar? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Yes; Lázar Elizárych. BOLSHÓV. All right, Lázar; make it over to him; he's a young man with understanding, and he has some capital. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What do you want, Samsón Sílych, a mortgage-deed or a purchase-deed? BOLSHÓV. Whichever you can get at the lowest interest rate'll suit me. But do the thing up brown and I'll give you such a fee, Sysóy Psoich, as'll fairly make your hair curl. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Set your mind at rest, Samsón Sílych, I know my own business. But have you talked to Lázar Elizárych about this thing or not? Samsón Sílych, I'll just take a thimbleful. [_Drinks_. BOLSHÓV. Not yet. We'll talk it over to-day. He's a capable lad; only wink at him, and he understands. And he'll do the business up so tight that you can't get in a finger. Well! we'll mortgage the house; and then what? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Then we'll write out a statement that such and such notes are due, and that we'll pay twenty-five kopeks on the ruble: well, then go see the creditors. If anybody is especially stubborn, you can add a bit, and if a man gets real angry, pay him the whole bill. You'll pay him on the condition that he writes that he accepted twenty-five kopeks--just for appearances, to show the others. "That's the way _he_ did," you see; and the others, seeing the document, will agree. BOLSHÓV. That's right, there's no harm in bargaining: if they don't take it at twenty-five kopeks, they'll take it at half a ruble; but if they won't take it at half a ruble, they'll grab for it with both hands at seventy kopeks. We'll profit, anyhow. There, you can say what you please, but I have a marriageable daughter; I want to pass her on, and get rid of her. And then, my boy, it'll be time for me to take a rest; I'll have an easy time lying on my back; and to the devil with all this trading! But here comes Lázar. SCENE XI _The same and_ PODKHALYÚZIN, _who enters_ BOLSHÓV. What do you say, Lázar? Just come from town? How are your affairs? PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, they're getting on so-so; thank God, sir! Good morning, Sysóy Psoich! [_Bows_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. How do you do, my dear Lázar Elizárych! [_Bows_. BOLSHÓV. If they're getting on, let 'em get. [_After a short silence_] But, look here, Lázar, when you make up the balance for me at your leisure, you might deduct the retail items sold to the gentry, and the rest of that sort of thing. You see, we're trading and trading, my boy, but there's not a kopek of profit in it. Maybe the clerks are going wrong and are carrying off stuff to their folks and mistresses. You ought to give 'em a word of advice. What's the use of fooling around without making any profits? Don't they know the tricks of the trade? It's high time, it seems to me. PODKHALYÚZIN. How in the world can they help knowing, Samsón Sílych? It seems as if I were always in town and always talking to them, sir. BOLSHÓV. But what do you say? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, the usual thing, sir. I try to have everything in order and as it should be. "Now, my boys," I say, "look sharp, now. Maybe there's a chance for a sale; some idiot of a purchaser may turn up, or a colored pattern may catch some young lady's eye, and click!" I say, "you add a ruble or two to the price per yard." BOLSHÓV. I suppose you know, brother, how the Germans in our shops swindle the gentlemen. Even if we're not Germans, but orthodox Christians, we, too, like to eat stuffed pasties. Ain't that so? Ha? RISPOLÓZHENSKY _laughs._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Why certainly, sir. "And you must measure," I say, "more naturally: pull and stretch ju-u-u-st enough, God save us, not to tear the cloth: you see," I say, "we don't have to wear it afterwards. Well, and if they look the other way, nobody's to blame if you should happen to measure one yard of cloth twice." BOLSHÓV. It's all one. I suppose the tailor'd steal it. Ha? He'd steal it, I suppose? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. He'd steal it, Samsón Sílych, certainly that rascal would steal it; I know these tailors. BOLSHÓV. That's it; the whole lot of them are rascals, and we get the thanks. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Quite right, Samsón Sílych, you're certainly speaking the truth. BOLSHÓV. Ah, Lázar, profits are rotten these days: it's not as it used to be. [_After a moment of silence_] Well, did you bring the paper? PODKHALYÚZIN. [_Taking it from his pocket and handing it over_] Be so good as to read it, sir. BOLSHÓV. Just give it here; we'll take a look. [_He puts on his spectacles and examines the paper_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Samsón Sílych, I'll just take a thimbleful. _He drinks, then puts on his spectacles, sits down beside_ BOLSHÓV, _and looks at the newspapers_. BOLSHÓV. [_Reads aloud_] "Crown announcements, and from various societies. One, two, three, four, five, and six, from the Foundlings' Hospital." That's not in our line: it's not for us to buy peasants. "Seven and eight from Moscow University, from the Government Regencies, from the Office of the Board of Charities." Well, we'll pass that up, too. "From the City Council of Six." Now, sir, maybe there's something here! [_He reads_] "The Moscow City Council of Six hereby announces: Would not some one care to take in his charge the collection of taxes as named below?" That's not our line, you have to give security. "The Office of the Widows' Home hereby invites--" Let it invite, we won't go. "From the Orphans' Court." I haven't any father or mother, myself. [_Examines farther_] Aha! Here something's slipped up! Listen here, Lázar! "Year so-and-so, twelfth day of September, according to the decision of the Commerce Court, the merchant Fedót Selivérstov Pleshkóv, of the first guild, was declared an insolvent debtor, in consequence of which--" What's the use of explaining? Everybody knows the consequences. There you are, Fedót Selivérstov! What a grandee he was, and he's gone to smash! But say, Lázar, doesn't he owe us something? PODKHALYÚZIN. He owes us a very little, sir. They took somewhere between six and eight barrels of sugar for home use. BOLSHÓV. A bad business, Lázar. Well, he'll pay me back in full, out of friendliness. PODKHALYÚZIN. It's doubtful, Sir. BOLSHÓV. We'll settle it somehow. [_Reads_] "Moscow merchant of the first guild, Antíp Sysóyev Enótov, declared an insolvent debtor--" Does _he_ owe us anything? PODKHALYÚZIN. For vegetable oil, sir; just before Lent they took about three kegs, sir. BOLSHÓV. Those blooming vegetarians that keep all the fasts! They want to please God at other people's expense. Brother, don't you trust their sedate ways! Those people cross themselves with one hand, and slip the other into your pocket. Here's the third; "Moscow merchant of the second guild, Efrém Lúkin Poluarshínnikov[1], declared an insolvent debtor." Well, what about him? [Footnote 1: Half a yard.] PODKHALYÚZIN. We have his note, sir. BOLSHÓV. Protested? PODKHALYÚZIN. Yes, sir. He himself's in hiding, sir. BOLSHÓV. Well! And the fourth there, Samopálov. Why! have they got a combination against us? PODKHALYÚZIN. Such an underhanded gang, sir. BOLSHÓV. [_Turning over the pages_] One couldn't get through reading them until to-morrow. Take it away! PODKHALYÚZIN. They only dirty the paper. What a moral lesson for the whole merchant corporation! [_Silence_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Good-by, Samsón Sílych, I'll run home now; I have some little matters to look after. BOLSHÓV. You might sit a little while longer. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No, confound it, Samsón Sílych, I haven't time. I'll come to you as early as possible to-morrow morning. BOLSHÓV. Well, as you choose! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Good-by! Good-by, Lázar Elizárych! [_He goes out_. SCENE XII BOLSHÓV _and_ PODKHALYÚZIN BOLSHÓV. Now consider, Lázar, what trading's like: just think about it. You think it's getting money for nothing? "Money, not much!" they tell you; "ain't seen any for a long time. Take my note," they say. But what are you going to get from some people on a note? Here I have about a hundred thousand rubles' worth of 'em lying around, and with protests. You don't do anything but add to the heap each year. If you want, I'll sell you the whole pile for half a ruble in silver. You'll never catch the men who signed 'em even with bloodhounds. Some have died off, some have run away; there's not even a single man to put in the pen. Suppose you do send one there, Lázar, that doesn't do you any good; some of 'em will hold on so that you can't smoke 'em out. "I'm all right here," they say, "you go hang!" Isn't that so, Lázar? PODKHALYÚZIN. Just so, that's the way it happens. BOLSHÓV. Always notes, notes! But what on earth is a note? Absolutely nothing but paper, if I may say so. And if you discount it, they do it at a rate that makes your belly ache, and you pay for it later with your own property. [_After a brief silence_] It's better not to have dealings with provincials: always on credit, always on credit; and if he ever does bring the money, it's in slick small change--you look, and there's neither head nor tail to the coins, and the denomination's rubbed off long ago. But do as you please here! You'd better not show your goods to the tradesman of this place; any one of 'em'll go into any warehouse and sniff and peck, and peck, and then clear out. It'd be all right if there were no goods, but what do you expect a man to trade in? I've got one apothecary shop, one dry goods, the third a grocery. No use, none of them pays. You needn't even go to the market; they cut the prices down worse than the devil knows what; but if you sell a horse-collar, you have to throw in trimmings and earnest money, and treat the fellows, and stand all sorts of losses through wrong weights. That's the way it goes! Don't you realize that? PODKHALYÚZIN. Seems I ought to realize it, sir. BOLSHÓV. There's business for you, and that's the way to do it. [_Silence_] Well, Lázar, what do you think? PODKHALYÚZIN. What should I think, sir? That's just as you please. My business is that of a subordinate. BOLSHÓV. What do you mean, subordinate? Just speak out freely. I'm asking you about the business. PODKHALYÚZIN. Again, Samsón Sílych, it's just as you please, sir. BOLSHÓV. You twaddle one thing: "As you please." But what do you think? PODKHALYÚZIN. That I can't say, sir. BOLSHÓV. [_After a brief silence_] Tell me, Lázar, on your conscience; do you love me? [_Silence_] Do you love me or not? Why are you silent? [_Silence_] I've given you food and drink, set you up in the world; haven't I? PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, Samsón Sílych! What's the use of talking about it, sir? Don't have any doubts about me! Only one word: I'm just such as you see me. BOLSHÓV. What do you mean by that? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, if you need anybody or anything whatsoever, you can count on me. I shan't spare myself. BOLSHÓV. Well, then, there's nothing more to be said. In my opinion, Lázar, now is the most proper time; we have a good deal of ready cash, and all the notes have fallen due. What's the use of waiting? You'll wait, if you please, until some merchant just like yourself, the dirty cur, will strip you bare, and then, you'll see, he'll make an agreement at ten kopeks on the ruble, and he'll wallow in his millions, and won't think you're worth spitting at. But you, an honorable tradesman, must just watch him, and suffer--keep on staring. Here's what I think, Lázar: to offer the creditors such a proposition as this--will they accept from me twenty-five kopeks on the ruble? What do you think? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, according to my notion, Samsón Sílych, if you're going to pay at the rate of twenty-five kopeks, it would be more decent not to pay at all. BOLSHÓV. Why, really, that's so. You won't scare anybody by a bluff; but it's better to settle the affair on the quiet. Then wait for the Lord to judge you at the Second Coming. Only it's a heap of trouble. I'm going to mortgage my house and shops to you. PODKHALYÚZIN. Impossible to do it without some bother, sir. You'll have to get rid of the notes for something, sir; have the merchandise transferred somewhere further off. We'll get busy, sir! BOLSHÓV. Just so. Although an old man, I'm going to get busy. But are you going to help? PODKHALYÚZIN. Good gracious, Samsón Sílych, I'll go through fire and water, sir. BOLSHÓV. What could be better! Why the devil should I scratch around for pennies. I'll make one swoop, and that's an end to it! Only God give us the nerve! Thanks, Lázar. You've treated me like a friend. [_He rises_] Now, get busy! [_He goes up to him and taps him on the shoulder_] If you get the thing done properly, you and I'll divide the profits. I'll reward you for the rest of your life. [_He goes to the door._ PODKHALYÚZIN. I don't need anything, Samsón Sílych, except your peace of mind, sir. I've lived with you since my earliest years, and I've received countless favors from you; it may be said, sir, you took me as a little brat, to sweep out your shops; consequently I simply must be grateful. ACT II _Office in the house of BOLSHÓV. Rear centre a door; on the left a staircase leading to the floor above._ SCENE I TISHKA _near the front of the stage, with a brush_ TISHKA. What a life, what a life! Sweep the floors before daylight! And is it my business to sweep floors? Things aren't the same here as with decent folks. Now if the other bosses have a boy, he lives with the boys; that is, he hangs around the shop. But with me it's now here, now there, tramp the pavement all day as if you were crazy. You'll soon feather your nest--I don't think! Decent people keep a porter for running around; but at our place he lies on the stove with the kittens, or he hangs around with the cook; but _you're_ in demand. At other people's it's easy-going; if you get into mischief now and then, they make allowances for your youth. But at our house--if it isn't he, then it's somebody else; either the old man or the old woman will give you a hiding; otherwise there's the clerk Lázar, or there's Fomínishna, or there's--any old rascal can lord it over you. What a cursed life it is! But if you want to tear yourself away from the house and go somewhere with friends to play three-card monte, or have a game of handball--don't think of such a thing! Now, really, there's something feels wrong in my head. [_He climbs upon a chair on his knees and looks in the mirror_] How do you do, Tikhon Savostyánovich! How are you getting along? Are you all top notch? Now, then, Tishka, just do a stunt. [_He makes a grimace_] That's what! [_Another_] Exactly like---- [_He bursts out laughing_. SCENE II TISHKA _and_ PODKHALYÚZIN, _who steals in and seizes him by the collar_. PODKHALYÚZIN. What are you doing there, you little imp? TISHKA. What? You know what! I was wiping off dust! PODKHALYÚZIN. Were you wiping it off with your tongue? As if you could find any dust on the mirror! I'll show you some dust! You're showing off! I'll just warm up the nape of your neck so you'll know it. TISHKA. Know what? Now what have I done? PODKHALYÚZIN. What have you done? What have you done? Say another word and you'll find out what! Just let out a peep! TISHKA. Yes, a peep! I'm going to tell the boss, and then you'll catch it! PODKHALYÚZIN. Going to tell the boss! What's your boss to me? Why, if it came to that--what's your boss to me!--Why, you're just a kid that has to be taught; what were you thinking of? If we didn't wallop you imps there'd be no good come of you. That's the regular way of doing things. I, myself, my boy, have come through fire, water, and copper pipes. TISHKA. I know you did. PODKHALYÚZIN. Shhh--you little devil! [_Threatening him_. TISHKA. Ha, just try it! I'll sure tell, honest to goodness I will. PODKHALYÚZIN. What are you going to tell, you devil's pepper-pot? TISHKA. What'll I say? Why, that you scold! PODKHALYÚZIN. Great impression that'll make! You're quite a gentleman! Come here, sir! Has Sysóy Psoich been here? TISHKA. He sure has. PODKHALYÚZIN. Talk sense, you little devil! Was he going to come again? TISHKA. He was that! PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, you can run along, now. TISHKA. Do you want any vodka? PODKHALYÚZIN. Yes, I do. I'll have to treat Sysóy Psoich. [_He gives money_] Buy a bottle, but you keep the change for gingerbread. But see that you hurry, so they don't miss you here! TISHKA. I'll be home before a short-haired girl can twist her braids. Off I go, hippity-hop. SCENE III PODKHALYÚZIN _alone_ PODKHALYÚZIN. What a misfortune! Here's where a misfortune has come upon us! What's to be done now? Well, it's a bad business. Now we can't avoid declaring ourselves bankrupt. Well, suppose the boss should have something left over; but where do I come in? What shall I do with myself? Sell junk in the second-hand market! I've worked, I've worked about twenty years, and then to be sent rambling! Now, how am I going to settle this matter? Perhaps with merchandise? Here, he said to sell the notes. [_He draws them out and reads them_] It must be that it's going to be possible to profit by it. [_He walks about the room_] They say a fellow ought to know what conscience is. Well, of course he ought to; but in what sense must he understand that? Everybody has conscience where a good man is concerned; but when the man himself is cheating others, then where does your conscience come in? Samsón Sílych is a very rich merchant, and has hatched up this whole business now just to kill time, so to speak. But I'm a poor man! If I should make a little extra profit in this business--then there can't be any sin in it; because he himself is acting dishonorably, and going against the law. And why should I pity him? The course is clear; well, don't slip up on it: he follows his politics, and you look out for your interest. I'd have seen the thing through with him, but I don't feel like it. Hm!--What day-dreams will come into a man's head! Of course, Olimpiáda Samsónovna is a cultivated young lady; and it must be said, there're none on earth like her; but of course that suitor won't take her now; he'll say, "Give me money!" But where are you going to get money? And now she can't marry a nobleman because she hasn't any money. Sooner or later they'll have to marry her to a merchant. [_He walks on in silence_] I'll raise the dough, and bow to Samsón Sílych. "Samsón Sílych," says I, "I'm at an age when I must think about the continuance of posterity; and I, now, Samsón Sílych, haven't grudged my sweat and blood for your tranquillity. To be sure, now, Olimpiáda Samsónovna is a cultivated young lady; but I, Samsón Sílych, am no common trash; you can see for yourself, if you please. I have capital, and I'm a good manager in that line." Why shouldn't he give her to me? Ain't I a man? I haven't been detected in any knavery; I'm respectful to my elders. But in addition to all that, as Samsón Sílych has mortgaged his house and shops to me, I can frighten him with the mortgage. Knowing as I do the disposition of Samsón Sílych to be what it is, that may very easily happen. This is the way with his sort: once they get an idea into their head, you simply can't drive it out. It's just as when, three years ago, he wanted to shave his beard. No matter how much Agraféna Kondrátyevna begged and wept, "No," he said, "afterwards I'll let it grow again; but for the time being I'll have my own way." And he took and shaved it. It's the same way with this business; if I make a hit with him, or the idea strikes him all right--then it's sweet wedding-bells to-morrow, and that's all, and don't you dare argue! I could jump from the tower of Ivan the Great for the joy of it. _Enter_ TISHKA _with the bottle._ SCENE IV PODKHALYÚZIN _and_ TISHKA TISHKA. [_Coming in with the bottle_] Here I am! I've come. PODKHALYÚZIN. Listen, Tishka, is Ustinya Naúmovna here? TISHKA. Up-stairs there. And the shyster's coming. PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, put the vodka on the table, and bring some relishes. TISHKA _puts down the vodka and brings relishes; then goes out._ SCENE V PODKHALYÚZIN _and_ RISPOLÓZHENSKY PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah, my respects to you, sir! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Mine to you, my dear Lázar Elizárych, mine to you! Fine. I think, now, perhaps there's something I can do. Is that vodka, near you? I'll just take a thimbleful, Lázar Elizárych. My hands have begun to shake mornings, especially the right one. When I go to write something, Lázar Elizárych, I have to hold it with my left. I swear I do. But take a sip of vodka, and it seems to do it good. [_Drinks._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Why do your hands shake? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. [_Sits down by the table_] From anxiety, Lázar Elizárych; from anxiety, my boy. PODKHALYÚZIN. Indeed, sir! But I suppose it's because you're plundering people overmuch. God is punishing you for your unrighteousness. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. He, he, he!--Lázar Elizárych! How could I plunder anybody? My business is of a small sort. I'm like a little bird, picking up small grains. PODKHALYÚZIN. You deal in small quantities, of course? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. You'd deal even in small quantities if you couldn't get anything else. Well, it wouldn't matter so much if I were alone; but, you see, I have a wife and four kiddies. They all want to eat, the little dears. One says, "Daddy, give me!" Another says, "Daddy, give me!" And I'm a man who feels strongly for his family. Here I entered one boy in the high school; he has to have a uniform, and then something else. And what's to become of the old shack?--Why, how much shoe-leather you wear out simply walking from Butírky to the Voskresénsky Gates. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's right, sir. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. And why do you make the trip? You write a little petition for one man, you register somebody else in the citizen class. Some days you'll not bring home half a ruble in silver. I vow, I'm not lying! Then what're you going to live on? Lázar Elizárych, I'll just take a thimbleful. [_Drinks_] "So," I think, "I'll just drop in on Lázar Elizárych; perhaps he'll spare me a little change." PODKHALYÚZIN. For what sort of knavery, sir? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What do you mean by knavery! Come, that's a sin, Lázar Elizárych! Don't I serve you? I'm your servant till the grave; command me what you want. And I fixed up the mortgage for you! PODKHALYÚZIN. See here, you've been paid! And it's not your business to keep harping on the same string! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Just so, Lázar Elizárych, I've been paid. Just so! Ah, Lázar Elizárych, poverty has crushed me! PODKHALYÚZIN. Poverty crushed you! Oh, that happens, sir. [_He approaches and sits down by the table_] Well, sir, I have a little extra money; I've no place to put it. [_Lays his pocketbook on the table_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What, you, Lázar Elizárych? Extra money? I'm afraid you're joking. PODKHALYÚZIN. All joking aside, sir. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, if you have a little extra money, why not help a poor man? God'll reward you for it. PODKHALYÚZIN. But d'you need much? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Give me just three rubles. PODKHALYÚZIN. Is that all, sir? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, give me five. PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, ask more! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, then, if you'll be so good, give me ten. PODKHALYÚZIN. Ten, sir! What, for nothing? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Indeed not! I'll work it off, Lázar Elizárych; we'll be quits sometime or other. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's all talk, sir. The snail keeps going, and sometime she'll get there! But here's the little business I want to put up to you now: did Samsón Sílych promise you much for fixing up this scheme? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. I'm ashamed to tell you, Lázar Elizárych! A thousand rubles and an old coon-skin overcoat. No one will accept less than I, by heavens; just go and inquire prices. PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, here's what, Sysóy Psoich; I'll give you two thousand for that identical business, sir. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Oh, Lázar Elizárych, my benefactor! I and my wife and children'll be your slaves! PODKHALYÚZIN. One hundred in silver, spot cash; but the rest later upon the completion of the whole business, sir! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Now, then, how can one help praying for people like you! Only a kind of ignorant swine could fail to feel that. I bow down to your feet, Lázar Elizárych! PODKHALYÚZIN. Really now, what for, sir? Only, Sysóy Psoich, don't run about like a chicken with its head cut off, but go in for accuracy--straight to the point, and walk the line. Do you understand, sir? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. How can I help understanding? Why, Lázar Elizárych, do you think I'm still a boy? It's time I understood! PODKHALYÚZIN. Yes, but what do you understand? Here's the way things are, sir. Just listen first. Samsón Sílych and I came to town, and we brought along the list as was proper. Then he went to the creditors: this one didn't agree, that one didn't agree; that's the way, and not a single one will take up the proposition. That's the way the affair stands. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What's that you say, Lázar Elizárych? Oh! Just think of it, what a gang. PODKHALYÚZIN. And how are we going to make a good thing out of this business now? Do you understand me, or not? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. That is, the insolvency, Lázar Elizárych? PODKHALYÚZIN. The insolvency will take care of itself; but I mean my own business affairs. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. He, he, he!--That is, the house and the shops--even--the house--he, he, he!---- PODKHALYÚZIN. What's the matter, sir? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No, sir; that's just my foolishness; I was just joking. PODKHALYÚZIN. Fine jokes, indeed! Don't you joke about that, sir. The house is nothing; I have such a dream in my head now about that subject, that I must talk it over with you at length. Just come to my room, sir. Tishka! SCENE VI _The same and_ TISHKA PODKHALYÚZIN. Put all this in order! Well, let's go, Sysóy Psoich! TISHKA _is about to carry away the vodka_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Wait, wait! Eh, my boy, what an idiot you are! If you see that a fellow wants to drink, just wait a bit. You just wait a bit. You're young yet, but you just be polite and condescending. Lázar Elizárych, I'll just take a thimbleful. PODKHALYÚZIN. Help yourself, only hurry up; I'm afraid _he'll_ come. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Right away, my dear Lázar Elizárych, right away! [_Drinks and smacks his lips_] But it would be better to take it with us. [_They go out_. TISHKA _arranges something or other; from above descend_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA _and_ FOMÍNISHNA. TISHKA _goes out_. FOMÍNISHNA. Now do fix it up for her, Ustinya Naúmovna! You see the girl is all worked up; and, indeed, it's time, my dear. Youth isn't a bottomless kettle, and they say it gets empty. I can say that from my own experience. I got married when I was thirteen; but in another month she'll have passed her nineteenth year. Why let her pine away for nothing? Others of her age have long since borne children. And so, my dear, why let her pine away? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I keep thinking about that myself, my jewel; but the thing isn't held up on my account; I have a whole pack of suitors, all right. But, confound it, she and her mother are mighty particular. FOMÍNISHNA. Why should they be particular? Well, the chief thing is that they should be fresh-complexioned people, not bald, and not smell bad; and then anything'll pass, so it's a man! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. [_Sitting down_] Sit down a minute, my jewel. I have worn myself out the livelong day; from early morning I've been tearing around like a wet hen. But, you see, I couldn't neglect anything; I'm an indispensable person everywhere. Naturally, my jewel, every person is a human being: a man needs a wife, a girl a husband; give it to them if you have to rob the cradle; then here and there there's a genuine wedding. And who fixes them up? Why, I do. Ustinya Naúmovna has to bear the burden for all of them. And why does she have to? Because that's the way things are; from the beginning of the world, that's the way the wheel was wound up. However, to tell the truth, they don't cheat me for my trouble: one gives me the material for a dress, another a fringed shawl, another makes up a cap for you, and here and there you'll get a gold piece, and here and there something better--just what the job deserves and they're able to pay. FOMÍNISHNA. What's the use of talking, my dear; what's the use of talking! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Sit down, Fomínishna; your legs are old and rickety. FOMÍNISHNA. Eh! Haven't time, my dear! You see, it's just awful; because _he_ doesn't come home we're all scared to death: he may come home drunk at any time. And then what a bad one, good Lord! Then what a row he'll kick up. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Naturally; a rich peasant is worse than the devil to talk to. FOMÍNISHNA. We've seen him do terrible things. One night last week he came home drunk. He tore around, and what a row! It was simply awful; he smashed the china--"Ooo!" he said, "I'll kill the whole crowd of you at once!" USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Vulgarity! FOMÍNISHNA. That's the truth, my dear. But I'll just run up-stairs, darling--Agraféna Kondrátyevna is alone in my room. When you're going home, come back to me; I'll tie up a bit of ham for you. [_She mounts the stairs_. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I'll follow, my jewel, I'll follow. PODKHALYÚZIN _enters_. SCENE VII USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA _and_ PODKHALYÚZIN PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah! Ustinya Naúmovna! It's been ages since I've seen you, ma'am. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. How are you, dear soul! How've you been? PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, able to be around, ma'am. [_He sits down_. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I'll capture a little mamzelle for you if you want me to. PODKHALYÚZIN. Thank you kindly--I don't need one yet. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. If you don't want one yourself, my jewel, I'll do a good turn for your friends. I suppose you have friends around town, a whole pack. PODKHALYÚZIN. I have quite a few, ma'am. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, if you have, thank the Lord! If you know of a marriageable man, whether he's a bachelor, unmarried, or a widower--drag him straight to me. PODKHALYÚZIN. Will you find him a wife? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I will. Why shouldn't I find him a wife? I'll do it in a jiffy. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's very fine, ma'am, But now I ask you, Ustinya Naúmovna, why do you come here to us so confoundedly often? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's that to you? Why shouldn't I come? I'm no thief, no sheep without a name. What do you mean by that question? PODKHALYÚZIN. But, really, aren't you wasting your time coming? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Wasting my time? Where did you get that idea, my jewel? Just see here, what sort of a husband I've found: an aristocrat, has peasants, and a fine young man. PODKHALYÚZIN. Why has the thing come to a halt, ma'am? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. It hasn't come to a halt! He wanted to come to-morrow to get acquainted. So we'll hitch him up, and it'll all be over. PODKHALYÚZIN. Hitch him up, try it--he'll give you the slip. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's the matter, are you in your right mind, my jewel? PODKHALYÚZIN. You'll see! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. May I die before to-night, but you're either drunk, my jewel, or you've wandered clean out of your head. PODKHALYÚZIN. Be so good as not to trouble yourself about that; you look out for yourself; but I know what I know. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, what do you know? PODKHALYÚZIN. No matter what I know, ma'am. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. If you know something, tell me what it is: I suppose your tongue won't fall off. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's the point of the thing--that I can't tell it. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why can't you? Why do you hesitate to tell me, my jewel? Go ahead, talk--it doesn't matter what it is. PODKHALYÚZIN. It's not a matter of conscience. But if I tell you, of course you'll go and blab! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Curst if I do! You may chop off my hand! PODKHALYÚZIN. That's it, ma'am; a promise is better than money. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Of course. Well, what do you know? PODKHALYÚZIN. Here's what, Ustinya Naúmovna: isn't it possible to throw over that suitor you've found, ma'am? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's the matter with you; are you gone daft? PODKHALYÚZIN. Gone daft nothing, ma'am! But if you want to have a heart-to-heart talk, honor bright, ma'am; then here's the sort of thing it is, ma'am: at my house there's a certain Russian merchant I know, who is very much in love with Olimpiáda Samsónovna, ma'am. "No matter what I have to give," says he, "so long as I get married," says he; "I shan't grudge any sum." USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why didn't you tell me about that before, my jewel? PODKHALYÚZIN. There was nothing to tell for the good reason that I only just now found out about it, ma'am. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But it's late now, my jewel! PODKHALYÚZIN. And what a suitor he is, Ustinya Naúmovna! He'll shower you with gold from head to foot, ma'am; he'll have a cloak made for you out of live sables. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But, my dear, it's impossible! I'd be tickled to death, but I've given my word. PODKHALYÚZIN. Just as you please, ma'am! But if you betroth her to the other fellow, you'll bring such bad luck upon yourself, that you'll not get clear afterwards! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But just consider yourself, how'll I have the nerve to show my face before Samsón Sílych? I gave it to him hot and heavy: that the fellow is rich, and handsome, and so much in love that he is half dead; and now what'll I say? You know yourself what a fellow Samsón Sílych is; you see he'll pull my cap over my ears before you know it. PODKHALYÚZIN. Pull your cap nothing, ma'am! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. And I've got the girl all worked up. Twice a day she sends to me and asks: "What's the matter with my suitor?" and, "What's he like?" PODKHALYÚZIN. But don't you run away from your own good fortune, Ustinya Naúmovna. Do you want two thousand rubles and a sable cloak for merely arranging this wedding, ma'am? But let our understanding about the match be private. I tell you, ma'am, that this suitor's such a sort as you've never seen; there's only one thing, ma'am: he's not of aristocratic origin. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But is she an aristocrat? Pity if she is, my jewel! That's the way things go these days: every peasant girl is trying to worm her way into the nobility.--Now, although this here Olimpiáda 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? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Ask anybody you please; every one knows that Samsón Sílych is the richest sort of merchant. PODKHALYÚZIN. Yes! Much you know! But what'll happen when, after you've engaged a man of standing, Samsón Sílych won't give any money? Afterwards the fellow'll come up and say, says he: "I'm no merchant, that you can cheat me out of the dowry!" Furthermore, like a man of standing he'll file a complaint at court, because a man of standing has his own way everywhere, ma'am; then Samsón Sílych and I'll be ruined, and there'll be no getting out of it for you. Here, you yourself know you can cheat anybody of our sort out of a dowry, that'll work; but just try to fool a man of standing, and you'll not get away with it afterwards. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. That's enough trying to scare me! You've muddled my head completely. PODKHALYÚZIN. Here, take these hundred rubles in silver as earnest-money, and give us your hand on it, ma'am. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. And you say, my jewel, two thousand rubles and a sable cloak? PODKHALYÚZIN. Exactly so, ma'am. Be at rest on that score!--And you'll put on that sable cloak, Ustinya Naúmovna, and you'll go out walking--why, anybody will think you're a general's wife. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Do you think so? Well, now, indeed! When I put on that sable cloak, I'll look my perkiest, with my hands by my sides; then your bearded friends will stare with their mouths wide open. They'll get to sighing so that you couldn't stop them with a fire engine; the women will all turn up their noses from jealousy. PODKHALYÚZIN. Just so, ma'am! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Give me the earnest-money! Here goes! PODKHALYÚZIN. But, Ustinya Naúmovna, you're doing this of your own free will; don't back out. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Back out, what for? Just look: two thousand rubles, and a sable cloak! PODKHALYÚZIN. I tell you, we'll make it out of live sables. There's nothing more to be said. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, good-by, my emerald! I'll run off now to the suitor. We'll see each other to-morrow, and then I'll report to you. PODKHALYÚZIN. Wait a minute! Where're you going! Just follow me--we'll just take a drink of vodka, ma'am. Tishka! Tishka! [_Enter_ TISHKA] You keep a lookout, and if you see the boss coming, run for me straight off. [_They go out._ SCENE VIII TISHKA _alone._ TISHKA. [_Sits down beside the table and takes some money out of his pocket_] Half a ruble in silver--that's what Lázar gave me to-day. And the other day, when I fell from the steeple, Agraféna Kondrátyevna gave me ten kopeks; I won twenty-five kopeks at heads and tails; and day before yesterday the boss forgot and left one whole ruble on the counter. Gee, here's money for you! [_He counts to himself. The voice of FOMÍNISHNA is heard behind the scene:_ "Tishka, oh, Tishka! How long have I got to call you?"] Now what's the matter there? ["Is Lázar at home?"]--He was, but he's sure gone now! ["Well, where has he sneaked to?"] How in the world should I know? He doesn't ask my leave. If he had, I'd know. FOMÍNISHNA _comes down the stairs._ FOMÍNISHNA. You see Samsón Sílych has come, and seems to be tipsy. TISHKA. Phew! We're goners! FOMÍNISHNA. Run for Lázar, Tishka; there's a dear; run quick! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Appearing at the head of the stairs_] What's this, Fomínishna dear, where's he bound for? FOMÍNISHNA. This way, I guess, my dear! Ah, I'll close the doors, good heavens, I'll close them; let him go up-stairs, but you stay here, my dear. _A knock at the door, and the voice of_ SAMSÓN SÍLYCH: "Hey! open up; who's there?" AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA _disappears_. FOMÍNISHNA. Come in, honey, come in and go to sleep; God bless you! BOLSHÓV. [_Behind the door_] What's the matter with you, you old cripple; have you lost your wits? FOMÍNISHNA. Ah, my dear boy! Ah, I'm a blind old granny. But, you see, I was fool enough, somehow, to think you'd come home tipsy. Forgive me, I've gotten deaf in my old age. SAMSÓN SÍLYCH _comes in_. SCENE IX FOMÍNISHNA _and_ BOLSHÓV BOLSHÓV. Has that shyster been cooking up any deviltry here? FOMÍNISHNA. They've cooked cabbage soup with corned beef, and roast goose. BOLSHÓV. Are you gone daft, you old fool? FOMÍNISHNA. No, dear! I gave the order to the cook myself! BOLSHÓV. Get out! [_He sits down_. FOMÍNISHNA _goes to the door_; PODKHALYÚZIN _and_ TISHKA _come in_. FOMÍNISHNA. [_Returning_] Ah, I'm a fool, a fool! Don't punish me for my bad memory. The cold roast sucking pig had entirely jumped out of my mind. SCENE X PODKHALYÚZIN, BOLSHÓV, _and_ TISHKA BOLSHÓV. Go to the pigs yourself! [FOMÍNISHNA _goes out. To_ TISHKA] What are you gaping at? Haven't you anything to do? PODKHALYÚZIN. [_To_ TISHKA] You've been spoken to, haven't you? TISHKA _goes out_. BOLSHÓV. Has the shyster been here? PODKHALYÚZIN. He has, sir. BOLSHÓV. Did you talk with him? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, Samsón Sílych? Does he have any feeling? Isn't his soul naturally nothing but ink, sir? He just thrums on one string--to declare yourself bankrupt. BOLSHÓV. If I must declare myself bankrupt, I'll do it, and there's an end to it. PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah, Samsón Sílych, what's that you're saying! BOLSHÓV. What! pay out money? Where did you get that notion? I will rather burn everything in the fire, before I'll give them a kopek. Transfer the merchandise, sell the notes, let 'em pilfer, let anybody steal who wants to; but I'm not going to pay a kopek. PODKHALYÚZIN. Pardon me, Samsón Sílych, we had the business all going fine; and now everything has to be thrown into confusion. BOLSHÓV. What affair was it of yours? It ain't yours. You just work hard--I'll not forget you. PODKHALYÚZIN. I'm not in need of anything after the kindness you have shown me, and you're quite wrong in having any such idea about me. I'm ready to give away my whole soul for you, and by no means to do anything tricky. You're getting on in years; Agraféna Kondrátyevna is a very gentle lady; Olimpiáda Samsónovna is an accomplished young lady, and of suitable years; and you've got to spend some thought on her. But now such are the circumstances; there's no knowing what may come of all this. BOLSHÓV. Well, what could come of it? I'm the only one responsible. PODKHALYÚZIN. Why talk about you! You, Samsón Sílych, have already had a long life; thank God, you're in a ripe old age; but Olimpiáda Samsónovna, of course, is a young lady whose like can't be found on earth. I'm speaking to you conscientiously, Samsón Sílych; that is, absolutely according to my feelings. If I'm exerting myself on your behalf now, and am putting in my whole strength, too, it may be said, grudging neither sweat nor blood--then it's mostly because I'm sorry for your family. BOLSHÓV. Come, really now? PODKHALYÚZIN. If you please, sir. Now, suppose all this ends well. Very good, sir. You'll have something left with which to establish Olimpiáda Samsónovna.--Well, of that there's nothing to say; let there be money, and suitors'll be found, sir. Well, but what a sin, Lord save us! if they object, and begin to hound you through the courts; and such a stigma falls upon the family, and if, furthermore, they should take away the property. Sir, the ladies'd be obliged to endure hunger and cold, and without any care, like shelterless birdies. But Lord save them from that! What would happen then? [_He weeps._ BOLSHÓV. What are you crying about? PODKHALYÚZIN. Of course, Samsón Sílych, I merely say that just for instance--talk at the right time, keep still at the wrong time; words don't hurt. But you see, the Old Nick is powerful--he shakes the hills. BOLSHÓV. What's to be done, my boy? Evidently such is the will of God, and you can't oppose it. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's just it, Samsón Sílych! But all the same, according to my foolish way of reasoning, you should settle Olimpiáda Samsónovna in good time upon a good man; and then she will be, at any rate, as if behind a stone wall, sir. But the chief thing is that the man should have a soul, so that he'll feel. As for that noble's courting Olimpiáda Samsónovna--why he's turned tail already. BOLSHÓV. Turned tail how? What gave you that notion? PODKHALYÚZIN. It isn't a notion, Samsón Sílych. You ask Ustinya Naúmovna. Must be some one who knows him heard something or other. BOLSHÓV. What of it! As my affairs are going now there's no need of such a person. PODKHALYÚZIN. Samsón Sílych, just take into consideration! I'm a stranger, and no relative of yours, but for the sake of your well-being I know no rest by day or by night, my very heart is all withered. But they're marrying to him the young lady who, it may be said, is an indescribable beauty; and they're giving money, sir; but he swaggers and carries it high! Well, is there any soul in him, after all that? BOLSHÓV. Well, if he don't want her he needn't have her, and we won't cry about it. PODKHALYÚZIN. No, Samsón Sílych, you just consider about that: has the man any soul? Here I am, a total stranger, yet I can't see all this without tears. Just understand that, Samsón Sílych! Nobody else would care enough about it to pine away because of another man's business, sir. But you see, even if you drive me out now, even if you beat me, still I won't leave you; because I cannot--I haven't that kind of a heart. BOLSHÓV. But how in the world could you think of leaving me? You see my only hope now is you. I'm old, and my affairs have gotten into a tight fix. Just wait! It may be we'll still swing some kind of a deal such as you're not expecting. PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, I can't do that, Samsón Sílych. Just understand this much: I'm absolutely not that kind of a man! To anybody else, Samsón Sílych, of course it's all the same; he doesn't care whether the grass grows; but I can't do that way, sir. Kindly see yourself, sir, whether I'm hustling or not. I'm simply wasting away now like some poor devil, on account of your business, sir; because I'm not that kind of a man, sir. I'm doing all this because I feel sorry for you, and not for you so much as for your family. You ought to realize that Agraféna Kondrátyevna is a very tender lady, Olimpiáda Samsónovna a young lady whose like can't be found on earth, sir---- BOLSHÓV. Not on earth? Look here, brother, aren't you hinting around a little? PODKHALYÚZIN. Hinting, sir? No, I didn't mean, sir!---- BOLSHÓV. Aha! Brother, you'd better speak more openly. Are you in love with Olimpiáda Samsónovna? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, Samsón Sílych, must be you want to joke me. BOLSHÓV. Joke, fiddlesticks! I'm asking you seriously. PODKHALYÚZIN. Good heavens, Samsón Sílych, could I dare think of such a thing, sir? BOLSHÓV. Why shouldn't you dare? Is she a princess or something like that? PODKHALYÚZIN. Maybe she's no princess; but as you've been my benefactor and taken the place of my own father--But no, Samsón Sílych, how is it possible, sir, how can I help feeling it! BOLSHÓV. Well, then, I suppose you don't love her? PODKHALYÚZIN. How can I help loving her, sir? Good gracious, it seems as if I loved her more than anything on earth. But no, Samsón Sílych, how is it possible, sir! BOLSHÓV. You ought to have said: "I love her, you see, more than anything on earth." PODKHALYÚZIN. How can I help loving her, sir? Please consider yourself: all day, I think, and all night, I think--Oh, dear me, of course Olimpiáda Samsónovna is a young lady whose like can't be found on earth--But no, that cannot be, sir. What chance have I, sir? BOLSHÓV. What cannot be, you poor soft-head? PODKHALYÚZIN. How can it be possible, Samsón Sílych? Knowing you, sir, as I do, like my own father, and Olimpiáda Samsónovna, sir; and again, knowing myself for what I'm worth--what chance have I with my calico snout, sir? BOLSHÓV. Calico nothing. Your snout'll do! So long as you have brains in your head--and you don't have to borrow any; because God has endowed you in that way. Well, Lázar, suppose I try to make a match between you and Olimpiáda Samsónovna, eh? That indescribable beauty, eh? PODKHALYÚZIN. Good gracious, would I dare? It may be that Olimpiáda Samsónovna won't look kindly on me, sir! BOLSHÓV. Nonsense! I don't have to dance to her piping in my old age! She'll marry the man I tell her to. She's my child: if I want, I can eat her with my mush, or churn her into butter! You just talk to me about it! PODKHALYÚZIN. I don't dare, Samsón Sílych, talk about it with you, sir! I don't want to appear a scoundrel to you. BOLSHÓV. Get along with you, you foolish youngster! If I didn't love you, would I talk with you like this? Do you understand that I can make you happy for life? I can simply make your life for you. PODKHALYÚZIN. And don't I love you, Samsón Sílych, more than my own father? Damn it all!--what a brute I am. BOLSHÓV. Well, but you love my daughter? PODKHALYÚZIN. I've wasted away entirely, sir. My whole soul has turned over long since, sir! BOLSHÓV. Well, if your soul has turned over, we'll set you up again. Johnny's the boy for our Jenny! PODKHALYÚZIN. Daddy, why do you favor me? I'm not worth it. I'm not worth it! My poor face would positively crack a mirror. BOLSHÓV. What of your face! Here, I transfer all the property to you; so that afterwards the creditors will be sorry that they didn't take twenty-five kopeks on the ruble. PODKHALYÚZIN. You can bet they'll be sorry, sir! BOLSHÓV. Well, you get off to town now, and after a while come back to the girl; we'll play a little joke on 'em. PODKHALYÚZIN. Very good, daddy, sir! [_They go out._ ACT III _Setting as in ACT I_ SCENE I _BOLSHÓV comes in and sits down in the armchair; for some time he looks into the corners and yawns._ BOLSHÓV. Here's the life; it's well said: vanity of vanities, and all is vanity. The devil knows, I myself can't make out what I want. If I were to take a snack of something, I'd spoil my dinner, and if I sit still I'll go crazy. Perhaps I might kill a little time drinking tea. [_Silence_] Here's all there is to it; a man lives, and lives, and all at once he dies and he turns to dust. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord! [_He yawns and looks into the corners._ SCENE II _AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA comes in with LÍPOCHKA, who is very much dressed up._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Get along, get along, my darling; don't catch yourself on the sides of the doorway. Just look, Samsón Sílych, my dear lord and master, and admire how I've rigged up our daughter! Phew! go away! What a peony-rose she is now! [_To her_] Ah, you little angel, you princess, you little cherub, you! [_To him_] Well, Samsón Sílych, isn't it all right? Only she ought to ride in a six-horse carriage. BOLSHÓV. She'll go in a two-horse carriage--she's no highflying proprietress. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. To be sure, she's no general's daughter, but, all the same, she's a beauty! Well, pet the child a little; what are you growling like a bear for? BOLSHÓV. Well, how do you want me to pet her? Shall I lick her hands, or bow down to her feet? Fine circus, I must say! I've seen something more elegant than that. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. But what have you seen? No matter what; but this is your daughter, your own child, you man of stone! BOLSHÓV. What if she is my daughter? Thank God she has shoes, dresses, and is well fed--what more does she want? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What more! Look here, Samsón Sílych, have you gone out of your head? Well fed! What if she is well fed! According to the Christian law we should feed everybody; people look after strangers, to say nothing of their own folks. Why, it's a sin to say that, when people can hear you. Anyhow, she's your own child! BOLSHÓV. I know she's my own child--but what more does she want? What are you telling me all these yarns for? You don't have to put her in a picture-frame! I know I'm her father. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Then, my dear, if you're her father, then don't act like a stepfather! It's high time, it seems to me, that you came to your senses. You'll soon have to part with her, and you don't grind out one kind word; you ought, for her good, to give her a bit of good advice. You haven't a single fatherly way about you! BOLSHÓV. No, and what a pity; must be God made me that way. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. God made you that way! What's the matter with you? It seems to me God made her, too, didn't he? She's not an animal, Lord forgive me for speaking so!--but ask her something! BOLSHÓV. What shall I ask her? A goose is no playmate for a pig; do what you please. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. We won't ask you when it comes to the point; meantime, say something. A man, a total stranger, is coming--no matter how much you try, a man is not a woman--he's coming for his first visit, when we've never seen him before. BOLSHÓV. I said, stop it! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What a father you are! And yet you call yourself one! Ah, my poor abandoned little girl, you're just like a little orphan with drooping head! He turns away from you, and won't recognize you! Sit down, Lipochka; sit down, little soul, my charming little darling! [_She makes her sit down._ LÍPOCHKA. Oh, stop it, mamma! You've mussed me all up! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. All right, then, I'll look at you from a distance. LÍPOCHKA. Look if you want to, only don't rave! Fudge, mamma, one can't dress up properly without your going off into a sentimental fit. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. So, so, my dear! But when I look at you, it seems such a pity. LÍPOCHKA. Why so? It had to come some time. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. All the same, it's a pity, you little fool. We've been raising you all these years, and you've grown up--but now for no reason at all we're giving you over to strangers, as if we were tired of you, and as if you bored us by your foolish childishness, and by your sweet behavior. Here, we'll pack you out of the house, like an enemy from the town; then we'll come to, and look around, and you'll be gone forever. Consider, good people, what it'll be like, living in some strange, far-away place, choking on another's bread, and wiping away your tears with your fist! Yes, good God, she's marrying beneath her; some blockhead will be butting in--a blockhead, the son of a blockhead! [_She weeps._ LÍPOCHKA. There you go, crying! Honestly, aren't you ashamed, mamma? What do you mean by blockhead? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. [_Weeping_] The words came out of themselves. I couldn't help it. BOLSHÓV. What made you start this bawling? If anybody asks you, you don't know yourself. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I don't know, my dear, I don't know; the fit just came over me. BOLSHÓV. That's it, just foolishness. Tears come cheap with you. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Yes, my dear, they do! They do! I know myself that they come cheap; but how can you help it? LÍPOCHKA. Fudge, mamma, how you act! Stop it! Now, he'll come any moment--what's the use? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I'll stop, child, I'll stop; I'll stop right off! SCENE III _The same, and USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. [_Entering_] How are you, my jewels! What are you gloomy and down in the dumps for? [_Kisses are exchanged._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. We'd about given you up. LÍPOCHKA. Well, Ustinya Naúmovna, will he come soon? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. It's my fault, I own up at once; it's my fault! But our affairs, my jewels, aren't in a very good way. LÍPOCHKA. How! What do you mean by that? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Now what new notion have you got? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why, my pearls, our suitor is wavering. BOLSHÓV. Ha, ha, ha! You're a great go-between! How are you going to make a match? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. He's like a balky horse, he won't whoa nor giddup. You can't get a sensible word out of him. LÍPOCHKA. But what's this, Ustinya Naúmovna? What do you mean, really? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Holy saints! How can it be! LÍPOCHKA. Have you just seen him? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I was at his house this morning. He came out just as he was, in his dressing-gown; but he treated me, be it said to his honor. He ordered coffee, and rum, and heaps of fancy crackers--simply piles of them. "Eat away!" says he, "Ustinya Naúmovna." I had come on business, you know, so it was necessary to find out something definite. So I said: "You wanted to go to-day and get acquainted." But on that subject he wouldn't say a sensible word to me. "Well," he said, "we'll think it over, and advise about it." And all he did was pull at the cords of his dressing-gown. LÍPOCHKA. Why does he just fold his arms and sentimentalize? Why, it's disgusting to see how long this lasts. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Really, now, why is he showing off? Aren't we as good as he is? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Plague take him; can't we find another fellow? BOLSHÓV. Don't you look for another, or the same thing will happen again. I'll find another for you myself. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Yes, much you will, unless you get down off the stove and hustle. You've actually forgotten, I think, that you have a daughter. BOLSHÓV. We'll see! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. We'll see what? We'll see nothing! Bah--don't talk to me, please; don't aggravate me. [_She sits down._ _BOLSHÓV bursts out laughing;_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA _walks off with_ LÍPOCHKA _to the other side of the stage_. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA _inspects the girl's dress._ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. My! how you're dolled up--that dress certainly makes you look better. You didn't make it yourself, did you? LÍPOCHKA. Horrible need I had of making it! Why, do you think we're beggars? What are dressmakers for? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Beggars, the idea! Who's saying anything so foolish to you? They can tell from your house-keeping that you didn't make it yourself. However, your dress is a fright. LÍPOCHKA. What's the matter with you? Have you lost your wits? Where are your eyes? What gave you that wild notion? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What are you getting on your high horse for? LÍPOCHKA. Nonsense! Think I'll stand such rubbish? What, am I an uncultivated hussy! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What are you taking on so for? Where did such a caprice come from? Am I finding fault with your dress? Why, isn't it a dress?--and anybody will say it's a dress. But it isn't becoming to you; it's absolutely not the right thing for your style of beauty--blot out my soul if I lie. For you a gold one would be little enough; let's have one embroidered with seed-pearls. Ah! there you smile, my jewel! You see, I know what I'm talking about! TISHKA. [_Entering_] Sysóy Psoich wants me to ask whether he, says he, can come in. He's out there with Lázar Elizárych. BOLSHÓV. March! Call him in here with Lázar. TISHKA _goes out_. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, now, the relish isn't ready for nothing: we'll take a snack. Now, Ustinya Naúmovna, I suppose you've been wanting a drop of vodka for a long time? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Just the thing--it's one o'clock, the admiral's lunch-time. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Now, Samsón Sílych, move out of that place; what are you sitting there like that for? BOLSHÓV. Wait a minute; they're coming up. There's time enough. LÍPOCHKA. Mamma, I'll go change my dress. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Run along, my dear, run along. BOLSHÓV. Wait a minute before changing--there's a suitor coming. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What sort of a suitor can that be? Quit your fooling. BOLSHÓV. Wait a bit, Lipa, there's a suitor coming. LÍPOCHKA. Who is it, daddy? Do I know him or not? BOLSHÓV. You'll see him in a minute; and then, perhaps, you'll recognize him. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What are you listening to him for? What sort of a clown is coming? He's just talking to hear himself talk. BOLSHÓV. I told you that he was coming; and I usually know what I'm talking about. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. If anybody were actually coming, then you'd be talking sense; but you keep saying he's coming, he's coming, but God knows who it is that's coming. It's always like that. LÍPOCHKA. Well, in that case I'll stay, mamma. [_She goes to the mirror and looks at herself. Then to her father_] Daddy! BOLSHÓV. What do you want? LÍPOCHKA. I'm ashamed to tell you, daddy! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Ashamed of what, you little fool? Speak out if you need anything. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Shame isn't smoke--it won't eat out your eyes. LÍPOCHKA. No, by heavens, I'm ashamed! BOLSHÓV. Well, hide your face if you're ashamed! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Do you want a new hat; is that it? LÍPOCHKA. There! you didn't guess it. No, not a hat. BOLSHÓV. Then what do you want? LÍPOCHKA. To marry a soldier! BOLSHÓV. Just listen to that! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Wake up, you shameless girl! Lord help you! LÍPOCHKA. Why--you see, others marry soldiers. BOLSHÓV. Well, let 'em marry 'em; you just sit by the sea and wait for a fair breeze. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. And don't you dare give me any of your lip! I won't give you my mother's blessing. SCENE IV _The same and_ LÁZAR, RISPOLÓZHENSKY, _and_ FOMÍNISHNA _in the doorway_. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. How do you do, my dear Samsón Sílych! How do you do, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna! Olimpiáda Samsónovna, how do you do! BOLSHÓV. How are you, old man, how are you! Do us the favor to sit down. You sit down, too, Lázar! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Won't you have a snack? I have a relish all ready for you. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Why shouldn't I, dear lady? I'd just like a thimbleful of something now. BOLSHÓV. Let's all go in together pretty soon; but now, meanwhile, we can have a little talk. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why not have a little talk? D'you know, my jewels, I heard--it must have been printed in the newspaper, whether it's true or not--that a second Bonaparte has been born, and it may be, my jewels---- BOLSHÓV. Bonaparte's all right, but we'll trust most of all in the mercy of God; it's not a question of that now. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What is it a question of, my pearl? BOLSHÓV. Why, about the fact that our years are approaching their decline; our health also is failing every minute, and the Creator alone can foresee what is ahead. So we have proposed, while we're still living, to give in marriage our only daughter; and in regard to her settlement we may hope also that she'll not bring into ill repute our resources and origin; above all, in other people's eyes. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Just hear how sweetly he tells that, the jewel! BOLSHÓV. And since now our daughter is here in person, and in view of the fact that we are convinced of the honorable conduct and the sufficient means of our future son-in-law, which for us is a matter of extreme concern, in consideration of God's blessing, we hereby designate him in the presence of these witnesses. Lipa, come here. LÍPOCHKA. What do you want, daddy? BOLSHÓV. Come here to me. I shan't eat you, never fear. Well, now, Lázar, toddle up! PODKHALYÚZIN. Been ready a long time, sir! BOLSHÓV. Now, Lipa, give me your hand. LÍPOCHKA. How! What nonsense is this? Where did you get this rubbish? BOLSHÓV. Look out that I don't have to force you! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Now you're catching it, young lady! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Lord! What on earth is this? LÍPOCHKA. I don't want to! I don't want to! I won't marry anything so disgusting! FOMÍNISHNA. The power of the cross be with us! PODKHALYÚZIN. Evidently, daddy, it's not for me to see happiness in this world! Evidently, sir, it can't be as you would wish! BOLSHÓV. [_Seizes_ LÍPOCHKA _violently by the arm; takes_ LÁZAR'S _hand_] Why can't it, if I want it to be? What am I your father for, if not to command you? Have I fed her for nothing? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What're you doing! What're you doing! Recollect yourself! BOLSHÓV. Stay on your own side of the fence! This is none of your business! Well, Lipa! Here's your future husband! I ask you to love and cherish him! Sit down side by side and talk nice; and then we'll have a fine dinner and set about the wedding. LÍPOCHKA. What! Do you think I want to sit down with that booby! What nonsense! BOLSHÓV. If you won't sit down, I'll sit you down, and put an end to your monkey-business! LÍPOCHKA. Who ever heard of educated young ladies being married off to their employees! BOLSHÓV. Better shut up! If I say so, you'll marry the porter. [_Silence_. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Say, now, Agraféna Kondrátyevna, if that isn't a pity! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I myself, the mother, am as much in the dark as a clothes-closet. And I can't understand what in the world has caused this! FOMÍNISHNA. Lord! I'm past sixty, and how many weddings I've seen; but I've never seen anything so shameful as this. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What do you mean, you murderers; do you want to dishonor the girl? BOLSHÓV. Yes, much I have to listen to your high-falutin' talk. I've decided to marry my daughter to a clerk, and I'll have my way, and don't you dare argue; I don't give a hang for anybody. Come now, we'll go take a snack; but just let them kid each other, and maybe they'll make it up somehow or other. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Let's go, Samsón Sílych, and you and I, for company, will just take a thimbleful. Yes, yes, Agraféna Kondrátyevna, that's the first duty, that children should obey their parents. We didn't start that custom, and we shan't see the last of it. _They all rise and go out except_ LÍPOCHKA, PODKHALYÚZIN, _and_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. LÍPOCHKA. Mamma, what does this mean? Does he want to make a cook of me? [_She weeps_. PODKHALYÚZIN. Mamma, ma'am! Such a son-in-law as will respect you and, naturally, make your old age happy, aside from me you won't find, ma'am. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. How are you going to do that, my dear? PODKHALYÚZIN. Mamma, ma'am! God has made me aspire so high, ma'am for this reason, ma'am, because the other fellow, mamma, will turn you down flat, ma'am; but I, till I land in my coffin [_weeps_], must have feeling, ma'am! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Ah, saints alive! But how can this be? BOLSHÓV. [_Through the door_] Wife, come here! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Coming, my dear, coming! PODKHALYÚZIN. Mamma, you remember the word I said just now! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA _goes out_. SCENE V LÍPOCHKA _and_ PODKHALYÚZIN _Silence_ PODKHALYÚZIN. Olimpiáda Samsónovna, ma'am! Olimpiáda Samsónovna! I suppose you abominate me? Say only one word, ma'am! Just let me kiss your little hand! LÍPOCHKA. You blockhead, you ignorant lout! PODKHALYÚZIN. But why, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, do you want to insult me, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. I'll tell you once, now and forever, that I won't marry you, and I won't! PODKHALYÚZIN. That's just as you please, ma'am! Love can't be forced. Only here's what I want to announce to you, ma'am---- LÍPOCHKA. I won't listen to you; go away from me! As if you were an educated gentleman! You see that I wouldn't marry you for anything in the world--you ought to break off yourself! PODKHALYÚZIN. Now, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, you were pleased to say "break off." Only, if I should break off, what would happen then, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. Why, the thing that would happen would be that I'd marry an aristocrat. PODKHALYÚZIN. An aristocrat, ma'am! But an aristocrat won't take you without a dowry! LÍPOCHKA. What do you mean, without dowry? What are you talking about? Just take a look and see what kind of a dowry I have; it fairly hits you in the face! PODKHALYÚZIN. Those dish-rags, ma'am? A nobleman won't take dish-rags. A nobleman wants it in cash, ma'am. LÍPOCHKA. What of it? Dad will give cash! PODKHALYÚZIN. All right, if he will, ma'am! But what if he hasn't any to give? You don't know about your papa's affairs, but I know 'em mighty well; your papa's a bankrupt, ma'am. LÍPOCHKA. What do you mean, bankrupt? And the house and shops? PODKHALYÚZIN. The house and shops--are mine, ma'am! LÍPOCHKA. Yours! Get out! Are you trying to make a fool of me? Look for a bigger goose than I am. PODKHALYÚZIN. But I have here some legal documents. [_He produces them._ LÍPOCHKA. So you bought them of dad? PODKHALYÚZIN. I did, ma'am! LÍPOCHKA. Where'd you get the money? PODKHALYÚZIN. Money! Glory to God, I have more money than any nobleman. LÍPOCHKA. What in the world are they doing to me? They've been bringing me up all these years, and then go bankrupt! [_Silence._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Now suppose, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, that you married a nobleman--what will that ever amount to, ma'am? Only the glory of being a lady, but not the least pleasure, ma'am. Please consider: ladies themselves often go to the market on foot, ma'am. And if they do drive out anywhere, then it's only the glory of having four horses; but the whole team ain't worth one merchant's horse. By heaven, it ain't, ma'am! And they don't dress so blamed superbly either, ma'am! But if, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, you should marry me, ma'am--here's the first word: you'll wear silk gowns even at home, and visiting, and to the theatre, ma'am--and we shan't dress you in anything but velvets. In respect to hats and cloaks--we won't care what's in style with the nobility, but we'll furnish you the finest ever! We'll get horses from the Orlov stud. [_Silence_] If you have doubts on the question of my looks, then that's just as you like, ma'am; I'll put on a dress coat, and trim my beard or cut it off, according to the fashion, ma'am; that's all one to me, ma'am. LÍPOCHKA. You all talk that way before the wedding; but afterwards you cheat us. PODKHALYÚZIN. May I die on the spot, Olimpiáda Samsónovna! Damnation blast me if I lie! Why should I, Olimpiáda Samsónovna? D'you think we'll live in a house like this? We'll buy one in the Karetny, ma'am; and how we'll decorate it! We'll have birds of paradise on the ceilings, sirens, various Coopids[1]--people'll pay good money just to look at it. [Footnote 1: These are not the only words that Podkhalyúzin mispronounces; _Olimpiáda_ is another.] LÍPOCHKA. They don't paint Coopids any more nowadays. PODKHALYÚZIN. Then we'll let 'em paint bókays. [_Silence_] If you'd only agree on your side, then I don't want anything more in life. [_Silence_] How unfortunate I am, anyhow, that I can't say nice compliments. LÍPOCHKA. Why don't you talk French, Lázar Elizárych? PODKHALYÚZIN. Because there was no reason why I should. [_Silence_] Make me happy, Olimpiáda Samsónovna; grant me that blessing, ma'am. [_Silence_] Just tell me to kneel to you. LÍPOCHKA. Well, do it! [PODKHALYÚZIN _kneels_] What a horrid waistcoat you have on! PODKHALYÚZIN. I'll give this one to Tishka, ma'am, and I'll get myself one on the Kuznetsky Bridge, only don't ruin me! [_Silence_] Well, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. Let me think. PODKHALYÚZIN. Think about what, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. How can I help thinking? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, you don't need to think! LÍPOCHKA. I'll tell you what, Lázar Elizárych! PODKHALYÚZIN. What're your orders, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. Carry me off on the quiet. PODKHALYÚZIN. But why on the quiet, ma'am, when your papa and mamma are so willing? LÍPOCHKA. That's quite the thing to do. Well, if you don't want to carry me off, why, let it go as it is. PODKHALYÚZIN. Olimpiáda Samsónovna, just let me kiss your little hand! [_He kisses it; then he jumps up and runs to the door_] Daddy, sir! LÍPOCHKA. Lázar Elizárych! Lázar Elizárych! Come here! PODKHALYÚZIN. What do you want, ma'am? LÍPOCHKA. Oh, if you knew, Lázar Elizárych, what my life here is like! Mamma says one thing one day, and another the next; papa, when he isn't drunk, has nothing to say; but when he's drunk he's apt to beat you at any moment. How's a cultivated young lady going to endure such a life? Now, if I could marry a nobleman, I'd go out of this house, and could forget about all that. But now everything will go on as before. PODKHALYÚZIN. No, ma'am, Olimpiáda Samsónovna; it won't be that way! Olimpiáda Samsónovna, as soon as we've celebrated the wedding, we'll move into our own house, ma'am. And then we won't let 'em boss us. No, here's an end to all that, ma'am! That'll do for them--they ran things in their day, now it's our turn. LÍPOCHKA. Just look here, Lázar Elizárych, we shall live by ourselves at our house, and they by themselves at their house. We'll do everything fashionably, and they, just as they please. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's the idea, ma'am. LÍPOCHKA. Well, call papa now. [_She rises and prinks before the mirror._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Papa! Papa! Sir! Mamma! SCENE VI _The same,_ BOLSHÓV, _and_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA PODKHALYÚZIN. [_Goes to meet_ SAMSÓN SÍLYCH _and throws his arms about him in an embrace_] Olimpiáda Samsónovna has agreed, sir! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. I'm coming, my dears, I'm coming! BOLSHÓV. Well, that's talking! Just the thing! I know what I'm doing; it's not for you to teach me. PODKHALYÚZIN. [To AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA] Mamma, ma'am! Let me kiss your hand! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Kiss away, my dear; they're both clean. Ah, you blessed child, has it been long since you decided? Ah? Good heavens! What's this? I absolutely didn't know how to decide this matter. Oh, my own little darling, you! LÍPOCHKA. Mamma, I positively didn't know that Lázar Elizárych was such a well-educated gentleman! But now I see at once that he's infinitely more respectful than the others. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, well, well, you little goose! As if your father would wish you any harm! Ah, mamma's little dove! What a little story, eh? Oh, my holy saints! What in the world is this? Fomínishna! Fomínishna! FOMÍNISHNA. Coming, coming, my dear, coming! [_She comes in._ BOLSHÓV. Stop, you gabbler! Now you two just sit down side by side, and we'll have a look at you. Fomínishna, bring up a little bottle of fizz. PODKHALYÚZIN _and_ LÍPOCHKA _sit down._ FOMÍNISHNA. Right away, my dear, right away! [_She goes out._] SCENE VII _The same,_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA, _and_ RISPOLÓZHENSKY AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Congratulate the bride and groom to be, Ustinya Naúmovna! God has brought us to a ripe old age; we have lived to see happiness! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What have I got to congratulate you with, my jewels? My mouth's too dry to sing your praises. BOLSHÓV. Well, now, we'll wet your whistle. SCENE VIII _The same_, FOMÍNISHNA, _and_ TISHKA, _who is bringing wine on a tray_. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Aha! here's a matter of a different sort. Well, God grant you live long, keep young, grow fat, and be rich! _[She drinks]_ It's bitter, my jewels! _[LÍPOCHKA and LÁZAR kiss]_ Ah! that sweetens it! BOLSHÓV. Just let me drink their health. _[He takes the glass_; LÍPOCHKA _and_ LÁZAR _stand up]_ Live as you think best--you're reasonable beings. But so that you won't find life a bore, the house and shops go to you, Lázar, in place of dowry, and I'll throw in some ready cash. PODKHALYÚZIN. Many thanks, daddy; I'm well satisfied with what you've done for me as it is. BOLSHÓV. Nothing to thank me for! They're my own goods--I made 'em myself. I give 'em to whomever I please. Pour me another! [TISHKA _pours another glass]_ But what's the good of talking! Kindness is no crime! Take everything, only feed me and the old woman, and pay off the creditors at ten kopeks on the ruble. PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, daddy, that's not worth talking about, sir! Don't I know what feeling is? It's a family affair--we'll settle it ourselves. BOLSHÓV. I tell you, take it all, and there's an end to it! And nobody can boss me! Only pay my creditors. Will you pay 'em? PODKHALYÚZIN. If you please, dad, that's my first duty, sir. BOLSHÓV. Only you look out--don't give 'em much. As it is, I suppose you'll be fool enough to pay the whole debt. PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, we'll settle it later, daddy, somehow. If you please, it's a family affair. BOLSHÓV. Come, all right! Don't you give 'em more than ten kopeks. That'll do for them. Well, kiss each other! _LÍPOCHKA and LÁZAR do so._ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Ah, my little doves! How in the world did it happen! I declare I've quite lost my head. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. "Whoever heard or saw such things? The elephant's learning to fly with wings; The hen laid a door-knob instead of an egg; And piggy is dancing a jig on a keg!" _She pours out wine and goes up to RISPOLÓZHENSKY; RISPOLÓZHENSKY bows and declines the wine._ BOLSHÓV. Drink to their happiness, Sysóy Psoich. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. I can't, Samsón Sílych--it turns my stomach! BOLSHÓV. Go along with you! Drink to their happiness. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. He's always showing off! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. It turns my stomach, Samsón Sílych! By heaven, it does! I'll just take a thimbleful of vodka. But my nature won't stand the other. I have such a weak constitution. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Bah! you long-necked goose! Nonsense--much your nature won't stand it! Give it here. I'll pour it down his collar if he won't drink it! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No fair, Ustinya Naúmovna! That ain't nice for a lady to do. Samsón Sílych, I can't, sir! Would I have refused it? He! he! he! What kind of a blockhead am I, that I should do anything so rude? I've seen high society, I know how to live. Now, I never refuse vodka; if you don't mind, I'll just take a thimbleful! But this I simply can't drink--it turns my stomach. Samsón Sílych, don't you allow all this disorderly conduct; it's easy to insult a man, but it ain't nice. BOLSHÓV. Give it to him hot and heavy, Ustinya Naúmovna, hot and heavy! RISPOLÓZHENSKY _runs away from her._ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. _[Placing the wine on the table]_ You shan't get away from me, you old son of a sea-cook! _[She pushes him into a corner and seizes him by the collar._ RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Police! _All burst out laughing._ ACT IV _A richly furnished chamber in the house of PODKHALYÚZIN_ SCENE I _OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA is sitting luxuriously near the window; she wears a silk waist, and a bonnet of the latest fashion. PODKHALYÚZIN, in a stylish frock coat, stands before the mirror. Behind him TISHKA is adjusting his master's clothes, and adding the finishing touches._ TISHKA. There now, it fits you to a T! PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, Tishka, do I look like a Frenchman? Ah! Step away and look at me! TISHKA. Like as two peas. PODKHALYÚZIN. Go along, you blockhead! Now you just look at me. _[He walks about the room]_ There now, Olimpiáda Samsónovna! And you wanted to marry an officer, ma'am! Ain't I a sport, though? I picked the smartest coat I could find and put it on. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. But you don't know how to dance, Lázar Elizárych. PODKHALYÚZIN. What of it--won't I learn, though, and the raggiest ever! In the winter we're going to attend the Merchants' Assemblies. You just watch us, ma'am! I'm going to dance the polka. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Now, Lázar Elizárych, you buy that carriage we saw at Arbatsky's. PODKHALYÚZIN. Of course, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, ma'am! Of course, by all means! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. They've brought me a new cloak; you and I ought to go Friday to Sokolniki. PODKHALYÚZIN. Of course, most certainly we'll go, ma'am; and we'll drive in the park on Sundays. You see our carriage is worth a thousand rubles, and the horses a thousand, and the harness mounted with silver--just let 'em look! Tishka! My pipe. _[TISHKA goes out. PODKHALYÚZIN sits down beside OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA]_ Just so, ma'am, Olimpiáda Samsónovna; you just let 'em watch us. _[Silence.]_ OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Well, why don't you kiss me, Lázar Elizárych? PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, sure! Permit me, ma'am! With great pleasure! If you please, your little hand, ma'am! _[He kisses it. Silence]_ Olimpiáda Samsónovna, say something to me in the French dialect, ma'am! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. What shall I say to you? PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, say anything--any little thing, ma'am. It's all the same to me, ma'am! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. _Kom voo zet zholi!_ PODKHALYÚZIN. What does that mean, ma'am? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. How nice you are! PODKHALYÚZIN. _[Jumping up from his chair]_ Aha! now here's a wife for you, ma'am! Hooray, Olimpiáda Samsónovna! You've treated me fine! Your little hand, please! _Enter_ TISHKA _with the pipe._ TISHKA. Ustinya Naúmovna has come. PODKHALYÚZIN. What the devil is she here for! TISHKA _goes out._ SCENE II _The same and_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. How are you managing to live, my jewels? PODKHALYÚZIN. Thanks to your prayers, Ustinya Naúmovna, thanks to your prayers. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. [_Kissing_ OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA] Why, I believe you've grown better looking, and have filled out a bit! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Bah, what nonsense you're chattering, Ustinya Naúmovna! Now, what struck you to come here? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What nonsense, my jewel! Here's what's up. Whether you like it or not, you can't help it.--If you like to slide down-hill you've got to pull up your sled.--Now, why have you forgotten me completely, my jewels? Or haven't you had a chance yet to look about you? I suppose you're all the time billing and cooing. PODKHALYÚZIN. We have that failing, Ustinya Naúmovna; we have it. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Come, come now: just see what a nice sweetheart I got for you. PODKHALYÚZIN. We're well satisfied, Ustinya Naúmovna; we're well satisfied. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. How could you be dissatisfied, my ruby? What's the matter with you! I suppose you're all the time bustling around over new clothes, now. Have you laid in a stock of stylish things yet? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Not much so far, and that mostly because the new stuffs have just come in. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Naturally, my pearl, you can't help it; let 'em be of poor goods, so long's they're blue! But what kind of dresses did you order most of, woollens or silks? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. All sorts--both woollens and silks; not long ago I had a crape made with gold trimmings. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. How much have you, all-in-all, my jewel? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Here, count: my wedding-dress of blond lace over a satin slip; and three velvets--that makes four; two gauze and a crape embroidered with gold--that's seven; three satin, and three grosgrain--that's thirteen; gros de Naples and gros d'Afrique, seven--that's twenty; three marceline, two mousseline de ligne, two Chine royale--how many's that?--three and four's seven, and twenty--twenty-seven; four crape Rachel--that's thirty-one. Then there are muslins, bouffe mousseline and calico, about twenty, and then waists and morning jackets--about nine or ten. And then I've just had one made of Persian stuff. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Lord help you, what heaps you've got! But you go and pick out for me the largest of the gros d'Afrique ones. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. I won't give you a gros d'Afrique. I have only three myself; besides, it wouldn't suit your figure: now, if you want to, you can take a crape Rachel. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What in time do I want with a tripe Rachel. Evidently there's nothing to be done with you; I'll be satisfied with a satin one, and let it go at that. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Well, and the satin, too--it's not quite the thing, cut ballroom style, very low--you understand? But I'll look up a crape Rachel jacket; we'll let out the tucks, and it'll fit you like the paper on the wall. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, bring on your tripe Rachel! You win, my ruby; go open the clothes closet. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Right away; wait just a minute. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I'll wait, my jewel, I'll wait. Besides, I have to have a little talk with your husband. [OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA _goes out_] What's this, my jewel, have you entirely forgotten about your promise? PODKHALYÚZIN. How could I forget, ma'am? I remember. [_He takes out his pocketbook and gives her a note._ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Why, what's this, my diamond? PODKHALYÚZIN. One hundred rubles, ma'am! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Only one hundred? Why, you promised me fifteen hundred! PODKHALYÚZIN. Wha--at, ma'am? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. You promised me fifteen hundred! PODKHALYÚZIN. Ain't that a bit steep? Won't you be living too high? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What's this, you barnyard cockerel; are you trying to joke with me, man? I'm a mighty cocky lady myself! PODKHALYÚZIN. But why should I give you money? I'd do it if there were any occasion for it. USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Whether for something or for nothing, give it here--you promised it yourself! PODKHALYÚZIN. What if I did promise! I promised to jump from the Tower of Ivan the Great, provided I married Olimpiáda Samsónovna; should I jump? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Do you think I won't have the law on you? Much I care that you're a merchant of the second guild; I'm in the fourteenth class myself, and even if that ain't much, I'm an official's wife all the same. PODKHALYÚZIN. You may be a general's wife--it's all the same to me; I won't have anything to do with you! And there's an end to it! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. You lie, it ain't! You promised me a sable cloak. PODKHALYÚZIN. What, ma'am? USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. A sable cloak! Have you grown deaf, maybe? PODKHALYÚZIN. Sable, ma'am! He, he, he! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Yes, sable! What are you laughing and stretching your mouth at? PODKHALYÚZIN. You haven't gone out for a stroll with your mug in a sable cloak[1] yet, have you? [Footnote 1: Russian fur cloaks, it may be useful to remember, have broad collars that can be turned up to protect the face.] OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA _brings in a dress and hands it to_ USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. SCENE III _The same and_ OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What in the world is the matter with you; do you want to rob me, maybe? PODKHALYÚZIN. Rob you, nothing! You just go to the devil, and be done with you! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Are you going to turn me out? And I, senseless idiot, agreed to work for you: I can see now your vulgar blood! PODKHALYÚZIN. What, ma'am! Speak, if you please! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. When it comes to that, I don't care to look at you! Not for any amount of money on earth will I agree to associate with you! I'll go twenty miles out of my way, but I won't go by you! I'll sooner shut my eyes and bump into a horse, than stand and look at your dirty den! Even if I want to spit, I'll never set foot in this street again! Break me in ten pieces if I lie! You can go to the infernal jim-jams if you ever see me here again! PODKHALYÚZIN. Easy now, aunty, easy! USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. I'll show you up, my jewels: you'll find out! I'll give you such a rep in Moscow that you won't dare show your face in public!--Oh! I'm a fool, a fool to have anything to do with such a person! And I, a lady of rank and position!--Fah, fah, fall! [_She goes out._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, the blue-blooded lady flew off the handle! Oh, Lord, what an official she is! There's a proverb that says: "The thunderbolt strikes, not from the clouds, but from the dung-heap." Good Lord! Just look at her; what a lady! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Bright idea of yours, Lázar Elizárych, ever to have anything to do with her! PODKHALYÚZIN. Really, a very absurd woman. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. [_Glancing out of the window_] I believe they've let daddy out of the pen; go see, Lázar Elizárych. PODKHALYÚZIN. Well, no, ma'am; they won't let daddy out of the pen soon, either; most likely they ordered him to the meeting of the creditors, and then he got leave to come home. Mamma, ma'am! Agraféna Kondrátyevna! Daddy's coming, ma'am! SCENE IV _The same,_ BOLSHÓV, _and_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Where is he? Where is he? My own children, my little doves! [_Kisses are exchanged._ PODKHALYÚZIN. Daddy, how do you do, our respects! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. My little dove, Samsón Sílych, my treasure! You've left me an orphan in my old age! BOLSHÓV. That'll do, wife; stop! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. What's the matter with you, ma? you're crying over him as if he were dead! God only knows what's happened. BOLSHÓV. That's just it, daughter; God only knows; but all the same your father's in jail. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Why, daddy, there are better people than you and me there, too. BOLSHÓV. There are, that's so! But how does it feel to be there? How'd you like to go through the street with a soldier? Oh, daughter! You see they've known me here in this city for forty years; for forty years they've all bowed to me down to their belts, but now the street brats point their fingers at me. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. You haven't any color at all, my darling! You look like a ghost. PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah, daddy, God is merciful! When the rough places are smoothed over it'll all be pleasant again. Well, daddy, what do the creditors say? BOLSHÓV. Here's what: they've agreed on the terms. "What's the use," they say, "of dragging it out? Maybe it'll do good, maybe it won't; but just give something in cash, and deuce take you!" PODKHALYÚZIN. Why not give 'em something, sir! By all means do, sir! But do they ask much, daddy? BOLSHÓV. They ask twenty-five kopeks. PODKHALYÚZIN. That's a good deal, daddy! BOLSHÓV. Well, man, I know myself that it's a good deal; but what's to be done? They won't take less. PODKHALYÚZIN. If they'd take ten kopeks, then it'd be all right sir. Seven and a half for satisfaction, and two and a half for the expenses of the meeting. BOLSHÓV. That's the way I talked; but they won't listen to it. PODKHALYÚZIN. They carry it blamed high! But won't they take eight kopeks in five years? BOLSHÓV. What's the use, Lázar, we'll have to give twenty-five; that's what we proposed at first. PODKHALYÚZIN. But how, daddy! You yourself used to say not to give more than ten kopeks, sir. Just consider yourself: at the rate of twenty-five kopeks, that's a lot of money. Daddy, wouldn't you like to take a snack of something, sir? Mamma! order them to bring some vodka, and have them start the samovar; and we, for company's sake, 'll just take a thimbleful, sir.--But twenty-five kopeks's a lot, sir! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Right away, my dear, right away! [She goes out. BOLSHÓV. But what are you talking to me for: of course, I know it's a good deal, but how can I help it? They'll put you in the pen for a year and a half; they'll have a soldier lead you through the streets every week, and if you don't watch out, they'll even transfer you to prison: so you'd be glad to give even half a ruble. You don't know where to hide yourself from mere shame. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA _enters with vodka_; TISHKA _brings in relishes, and goes out_. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. My own little dove! Eat, my dear, eat! I suppose they half starve you there! PODKHALYÚZIN. Eat, daddy! Don't be particular; we're offering you such as we have. BOLSHÓV. Thanks, Lázar, thanks! [_He drinks_] Take a drink yourself. PODKHALYÚZIN. Your health! [_He drinks_] Mamma, won't you have some, ma'am? Please do! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Holy saints, what am I to do now? Such is the will of God! O Lord, my God! Ah, my own little dove, you! PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah, mamma, God is merciful; we'll get out of it somehow. Not all at once, ma'am! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Lord grant we may! As it is, it makes me pine away simply looking at him. BOLSHÓV. Well, what about it, Lázar? PODKHALYÚZIN. Ten kopeks, if you please, I'll give, sir, as we said. BOLSHÓV. But where am I going to get fifteen more? I can't make 'em out of door-mats. PODKHALYÚZIN. Daddy, I can't raise 'em, sir! God sees that I can't, sir! BOLSHÓV. What's the matter, Lázar? What's the matter? What have you done with the money? PODKHALYÚZIN. Now you just consider: here I'm setting up in business--have fixed up a house. But do have something to eat, daddy! You can have some Madeira if you want it, sir! Mamma, pass daddy something. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Eat, Samsón Sílych, dear! Eat! I'll pour out a little punch for you, dear! BOLSHÓV. [_Drinks_] Rescue me, my children, rescue me! PODKHALYÚZIN. Here, daddy, you were pleased to ask what I had done with the money?--How can you ask, sir? Just consider yourself: I'm beginning to do business; of course, without capital it's impossible, sir; there's nothing to begin on. Here, I've bought a house; we've ordered everything that a good house ought to have, horses, and one thing and another. Just consider yourself! One has to think about the children. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Why, daddy, we can't strip ourselves bare! We're none of your common townspeople. PODKHALYÚZIN. Daddy, please consider: to-day, without capital, sir, without capital you can't do much business. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. I lived with you until I was twenty years old, daddy, and was a regular stay-at-home. What, would you have me give back the money to you, and go about again in calico-print clothes? BOLSHÓV. What are you saying? What are you saying? Recollect! You see I'm not asking any kindness of you, but my rights. Are you human beings? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Why, of course, daddy, we're human beings; we're not animals. BOLSHÓV. Lázar, you just recollect; you see, I've given away everything to you, fairly wiped my slate clean; here's what I've got left, you see! You see, I took you into my house when you were a little rascal, you heartless scoundrel! I gave you food and drink as if I were your own father, and set you up in the world. But did I ever see any sort of gratitude in you? Did I? Recollect, Lázar, how many times have I noticed that you were light-fingered! What of it? I didn't drive you away as if you were a beast, I didn't tell on you all over town. I made you my head clerk; I gave all my property away to you; and to you, Lázar, I gave even my daughter, with my own hand. If you hadn't received permission from me, you'd never have dared look at her. PODKHALYÚZIN. If you please, daddy, I feel all that very keenly, sir. BOLSHÓV. Yes, you do! You ought to give everything away as I did, and leave yourself nothing but your shirt, just to rescue your benefactor. But I don't ask that, I don't need to; you simply pay out for me what's expected now. PODKHALYÚZIN. And why shouldn't I pay, sir? Only they ask a price that's wholly unreasonable. BOLSHÓV. But am _I_ asking it? I begged out of every one of your kopeks I could; I begged, and bowed down to their feet; but what can I do, when they won't come down one little bit? OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. We have told you, daddy, that we can't pay more than ten kopeks--and there's no use saying any more about it. BOLSHÓV. And so, daughter, you say: "Go along now, you old devil, you, into the pen! Yes, into the pen! Off to prison with him, the old blockhead! And it serves him right!"--Don't chase after great wealth, be contented with what you have. But if you do chase after wealth, they'll take away the last you have, and strip you clean. And it'll come about that you'll run out onto the Stone Bridge, and throw yourself into the river Moscow. And they'll haul you out by your tongue, and put you in prison. [_All are silent_; BOLSHÓV _drinks_] But you just think a bit: what kind of a walk am I going to have to the pen now? How am I going to shut my eyes? Now the Ilyínka will seem to me a hundred miles long. Just think, how it will seem to walk along the Ilyínka! It's just as if the devils were dragging my sinful soul through torment; Lord, forgive me for saying so! And then past the Iver Chapel[1]: how am I going to look upon her, the Holy Mother?--You know, Lázar; Judas, you see, sold even Christ for money, just as we sell our conscience for money. And what happened to him because of it?--And then there are the government offices, the criminal tribunal!--You see, I did it with set purpose, with malice aforethought.--You see, they'll exile me to Siberia. O Lord!--If you won't give me the money for any other reason, give it as charity, for Christ's sake. [_He weeps_. [Footnote 1: In which there is a miracle-working image of the Virgin.] PODKHALYÚZIN. What's the matter, what's the matter, daddy? There, there, now! God is merciful! What's the matter with you? We'll fix it up somehow. It's all in our hands. BOLSHÓV. I need money, Lázar, money. There's nothing else to fix it with. Either money or Siberia. PODKHALYÚZIN. And I'll give you money, sir, if you'll only let up. As it is, I'll add five kopeks more. BOLSHÓV. What have we come to! Have you any Christian feeling in you? I need twenty-five kopeks, Lázar! PODKHALYÚZIN. No, daddy, that's a good deal, sir; by heaven, that's a good deal! BOLSHÓV. You nest of snakes! [_He falls with his head upon the table_. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Barbarian, you barbarian! Robber that you are! You shan't have my blessing! You'll dry up, money and all; you'll dry up, dying before your time! You robber! Robber that you are! PODKHALYÚZIN. That'll do, mamma; you're angering God. Why are you cursing me when you haven't looked into the business? You can see that daddy has got a bit tipsy, and you start to make a row. OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. It would be better for you, ma, to keep still! You seem to enjoy sending people to the third hell. I know: you'll catch it for this. It must be for that reason God didn't give you any more children. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Keep still yourself, shameless creature! You were enough of a punishment for God to send me! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. You think everybody's shameless and that you're the only good person. But you ought to take a good look at yourself: all you can do is fast one day extra every week, and not a day goes by that you don't bark at somebody. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Shame on you! Shame on you! Oh! Oh! Oh!--I'll curse you in all the churches! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Curse away if you want to! AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Yes, that's it! You'll die, and not rot! Yes! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Much I shall! BOLSHÓV. [_Rising_] Well, good-by, children! PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, daddy, sit still! We've got to settle this business somehow or other. BOLSHÓV. Settle what? I see plainly enough that the jig is up. You'll make a mistake if you don't do me up brown! Don't you pay anything for me; let 'em do what they please. Good-by, it's time I was going. PODKHALYÚZIN. Good-by, daddy! God is merciful---you'll get out of this somehow. BOLSHÓV. Good-by, wife. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Good-by, Samsón Sílych, dear! When'll they let us come to see you in jail? BOLSHÓV. Don't know. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Then I'll inquire, otherwise you'll die there without our seeing you. BOLSHÓV. Good-by, daughter! Good-by, Olimpiáda Samsónovna! Well, now you're going to be rich, and live like a princess. That means assemblies and balls--devil's own amusements! But don't you forget, Olimpiáda Samsónovna, that there are cells with iron bars, and poor prisoners are sitting in them. Don't forget us poor prisoners. [_He goes out with_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah! Olimpiáda Samsónovna, ma'am! How awkward, ma'am! I pity your father, by heaven I pity him, ma'am! Hadn't I better go myself and compound with his creditors? Don't you think I'd better, ma'am? Yet he himself will soften them better. Ah! Or shall I go? I'll go, ma'am! Tishka! OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. Do just as you please--it's your business. PODKHALYÚZIN. Tishka! [TISHKA _enters_] Give me my old coat, the worst one there is. [TISHKA _goes out_] As I am, they'd think I must be rich; and in that case, there'd be no coming to terms. SCENE V _The same_, RISPOLÓZHENSKY _and_ AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA RISPOLÓZHENSKY. My dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna, haven't you pickled your cucumbers yet? AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. No, my dear. Cucumbers now, indeed! What do I care about them! But have you pickled yours? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Certainly we have, my dear lady. Nowadays they're very dear; they say the frost got them. My dear Lázar Elizárych, how do you do? Is that vodka? I'll just take a thimbleful, Lázar Elizárych. AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA _goes out with_ OLIMPIÁDA SAMSÓNOVNA. PODKHALYÚZIN. Why is it you've favored us with a visit, may I inquire? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. He, he, he!--What a joker you are, Lázar Elizárych! Of course you know why. PODKHALYÚZIN. And what may that be, I should like to know, sir? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. For money, Lázar Elizárych, for money! Anybody else might come for something different, but I always come for money! PODKHALYÚZIN. You come mighty blamed often for money. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. How can I help it, Lázar Elizárych, when you give me only five rubles at a time? You see I have a family. PODKHALYÚZIN. You couldn't expect me to give you a hundred at a time! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. If you'd give it to me all at once, I shouldn't keep coming to you. PODKHALYÚZIN. You know about as much about business as a pig does about pineapples; and what's more, you take bribes. Why should I give you anything? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Why, indeed!--You yourself promised to! PODKHALYÚZIN. I myself promised! Well, I've given you money--you've made your profit, and that'll do; it's time to turn over a new leaf. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What do you mean by "time to turn over a new leaf"? You still owe me fifteen hundred rubles. PODKHALYÚZIN. Owe you! Owe you! As if you had some document! And what for? For your rascality! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What do you mean by "rascality"? For my toil, not for my rascality! PODKHALYÚZIN. Your toil! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, whatever it may be for, just give me the money, or a note for it. PODKHALYÚZIN. What, sir! A note! Not much, you come again when you're a little older. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Do you want to swindle me with my little children? PODKHALYÚZIN. Swindle, indeed! Here, take five rubles more, and go to the devil. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No, wait! You'll not get rid of me with that. TISHKA _enters_. PODKHALYÚZIN. What are you going to do to me? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. My tongue isn't bought up yet. PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, perhaps you want to lick me, do you? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No, not lick you, but to tell the whole thing to all respectable people. PODKHALYÚZIN. What are you going to talk about, you son of a sea-cook! And who's going to believe you? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Who's going to believe me? PODKHALYÚZIN. Yes! Who's going to believe you? Just take a look at yourself! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Who's going to believe me? Who's going to believe me? You'll see! Yes, you'll see! Holy saints, but what can I do? It's my death! He's swindling me, the robber, swindling me! No, you wait! You'll see! It's against the law to swindle! PODKHALYÚZIN. But what'll I see? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Here's what you'll see! You just wait, just wait, just wait! You think I won't have the law on you? You wait! PODKHALYÚZIN. Wait; yes, wait!--As it is, I've waited long enough. Quit your bluffing, you don't scare me. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. You think no one will believe me? Won't believe me? Well, let 'em insult me! I--here's what I'll do: Most honorable public! PODKHALYÚZIN. What're you doing? What're you doing? Wake up! TISHKA. Shame on you; you're just running around drunk! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Wait, wait!--Most honorable public! I have a wife, four children--look at these miserable boots!-- PODKHALYÚZIN. All lies, gentlemen! A most dishonorable man, gentlemen! That'll do for you, that'll do!--You'd better look out for yourself first, and see what you're up to! RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Lemme go! He plundered his father-in-law! And he's swindling me.--A wife, four children, worn-out boots! TISHKA. You can have 'em half-soled. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. What're you talking about? You're a swindler, too! TISHKA. Not at all, sir; never mind. PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh! But what are you moralizing about? RISPOLÓZHENSKY. No, you wait! I'll remember you! I'll send you to Siberia! PODKHALYÚZIN. Don't believe him, it's all lies, gentlemen! There, gentlemen, he's a most dishonorable man himself, gentlemen; he isn't worth your notice! Bah, my boy, what a lout you are! Well, I never knew you--and not for any blessings on earth would I have anything to do with you. RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Hold on there, hold on! Take that, you dog! Well, may you be strangled with my money, and go to the devil! [_He goes out_. PODKHALYÚZIN. How mad he got! [_To the public_] Don't you believe him, I mean him who was talking, gentlemen--that's all lies. None of that ever happened. He must have seen all that in a dream. But now we're just opening a little shop: favor us with your patronage. Send the baby to us, and we won't sell him a wormy apple! 
26663	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] FRUITS OF CULTURE A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS (1889) CHARACTERS LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH ZVEZDÍNTSEF. A retired Lieutenant of the Horse Guards. Owner of more than 60,000 acres of land in various provinces. A fresh-looking, bland, agreeable gentleman of 60. Believes in Spiritualism, and likes to astonish people with his wonderful stories. ANNA PÁVLOVNA ZVEZDÍNTSEVA. Wife of Leoníd. Stout; pretends to be young; quite taken up with the conventionalities of life; despises her husband, and blindly believes in her doctor. Very irritable. BETSY. Their daughter. A young woman of 20, fast, tries to be mannish, wears a pince-nez, flirts and giggles. Speaks very quickly and distinctly. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH ZVEZDÍNTSEF. Their son, aged 25; has studied law, but has no definite occupation. Member of the Cycling Club, Jockey Club, and of the Society for Promoting the Breeding of Hounds. Enjoys perfect health, and has imperturbable self-assurance. Speaks loud and abruptly. Is either perfectly serious--almost morose, or is noisily gay and laughs loud. Is nicknamed Vovo. ALEXÉY VLADÍMIRITCH KROUGOSVÉTLOF. A professor and scientist of about 50, with quiet and pleasantly self-possessed manners, and quiet, deliberate, harmonious speech. Likes to talk. Is mildly disdainful of those who do not agree with him. Smokes much. Is lean and active. THE DOCTOR. About 40. Healthy, fat, red-faced, loud-voiced, and rough; with a self-satisfied smile constantly on his lips. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. A girl of 20, from the Conservatoire, teacher of music. Wears a fringe, and is super-fashionably dressed. Obsequious, and gets easily confused. PETRÍSTCHEF. About 28; has taken his degree in philology, and is looking out for a position. Member of the same clubs as Vasíly Leoníditch, and also of the Society for the Organisation of Calico Balls.[1] Is bald-headed, quick in movement and speech, and very polite. [1] Economical balls at which the ladies are bound to appear in dresses made of cotton materials. THE BARONESS. A pompous lady of about 50, slow in her movements, speaks with monotonous intonation. THE PRINCESS. A society woman, a visitor. HER DAUGHTER. An affected young society woman, a visitor. THE COUNTESS. An ancient dame, with false hair and teeth. Moves with great difficulty. GROSSMAN. A dark, nervous, lively man of Jewish type. Speaks very loud. THE FAT LADY: MÁRYA VASÍLEVNA TOLBOÚHINA. A very distinguished, rich, and kindly woman, acquainted with all the notable people of the last and present generations. Very stout. Speaks hurriedly, trying to be heard above every one else. Smokes. BARON KLÍNGEN (nicknamed KOKO). A graduate of Petersburg University. Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Attaché to an Embassy. Is perfectly correct in his deportment, and therefore enjoys peace of mind and is quietly gay. TWO SILENT LADIES. SERGÉY IVÁNITCH SAHÁTOF. About 50, an ex-Assistant Minister of State. An elegant gentleman, of wide European culture, engaged in nothing and interested in everything. His carriage is dignified and at times even severe. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Personal attendant on Zvezdíntsef, aged about 60. A man of some education and fond of information. Uses his pince-nez and pocket-handkerchief too much, unfolding the latter very slowly. Takes an interest in politics. Is kindly and sensible. GREGORY. A footman, about 28, handsome, profligate, envious, and insolent. JACOB. Butler, about 40, a bustling, kindly man, to whom the interests of his family in the village are all-important. SIMON. The butler's assistant, about 20, a healthy, fresh, peasant lad, fair, beardless as yet; calm and smiling. THE COACHMAN. A man of about 35, a dandy. Has moustaches but no beard. Rude and decided. A DISCHARGED MAN-COOK. About 45, dishevelled, unshaved, bloated, yellow and trembling. Dressed in a ragged, light summer-overcoat and dirty trousers. Speaks hoarsely, ejecting the words abruptly. THE SERVANTS' COOK. A talkative, dissatisfied woman of 30. THE DOORKEEPER. A retired soldier. TÁNYA (TATYÁNA MÁRKOVNA). Lady's-maid, 19, energetic, strong, merry, with quickly-changing moods. At moments, when strongly excited, she shrieks with joy. FIRST PEASANT. About 60. Has served as village Elder. Imagines that he knows how to treat gentlefolk, and likes to hear himself talk. SECOND PEASANT. About 45, head of a family. A man of few words. Rough and truthful. The father of Simon. THIRD PEASANT. About 70. Wears shoes of plaited bast. Is nervous, restless, hurried, and tries to cover his confusion by much talking. FIRST FOOTMAN (in attendance on the Countess). An old man, with old-fashioned manners, and proud of his place. SECOND FOOTMAN. Of enormous size, strong, and rude. A PORTER FROM A FASHIONABLE DRESSMAKER'S SHOP. A fresh-faced man in dark-blue long coat. Speaks firmly, emphatically, and clearly. The action takes place in Moscow, in Zvezdíntsef's house. FRUITS OF CULTURE ACT I The entrance hall of a wealthy house in Moscow. There are three doors: the front door, the door of Leoníd Fyódoritch's study, and the door of Vasíly Leoníditch's room. A staircase leads up to the other rooms; behind it is another door leading to the servants' quarters. SCENE 1. GREGORY [looks at himself in the glass and arranges his hair, &c.] I _am_ sorry about those moustaches of mine! "Moustaches are not becoming to a footman," she says! And why? Why, so that any one might see you're a footman,--else my looks might put her darling son to shame. He's a likely one! There's not much fear of his coming anywhere near me, moustaches or no moustaches! [Smiling into the glass] And what a lot of 'em swarm round me. And yet I don't care for any of them as much as for that Tánya. And she only a lady's-maid! Ah well, she's nicer than any young lady. [Smiles] She is a duck! [Listening] Ah, here she comes. [Smiles] Yes, that's her, clattering with her little heels. Oh! Enter Tánya, carrying a cloak and boots. GREGORY. My respects to you, Tatyána Márkovna. TÁNYA. What are you always looking in the glass for? Do you think yourself so good-looking? GREGORY. Well, and are my looks not agreeable? TÁNYA. So, so; neither agreeable nor disagreeable, but just betwixt and between! Why are all those cloaks hanging there? GREGORY. I am just going to put them away, your ladyship! [Takes down a fur cloak and, wrapping it round her, embraces her] I say, Tánya, I'll tell you something ... TÁNYA. Oh, get away, do! What do you mean by it? [Pulls herself angrily away] Leave me alone, I tell you! GREGORY [looks cautiously around] Then give me a kiss! TÁNYA. Now, really, what are you bothering for? I'll give you such a kiss! [Raises her hand to strike]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [off the scene, rings and then shouts] Gregory! TÁNYA. There now, go! Vasíly Leoníditch is calling you. GREGORY. He'll wait! He's only just opened his eyes! I say, why don't you love me? TÁNYA. What sort of loving have you imagined now? I don't love anybody. GREGORY. That's a fib. You love Simon! You have found a nice one to love--a common, dirty-pawed peasant, a butler's assistant! TÁNYA. Never mind; such as he is, you are jealous of him! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [off the scene] Gregory! GREGORY. All in good time.... Jealous indeed! Of what? Why, you have only just begun to get licked into shape, and who are you tying yourself up with? Now, wouldn't it be altogether a different matter if you loved me?... I say, Tánya ... TÁNYA [angrily and severely] You'll get nothing from me, I tell you! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [off the scene] Gregory!! GREGORY. You're mighty particular, ain't you? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [off the scene, shouts persistently, monotonously, and with all his might] Gregory! Gregory! Gregory! [Tánya and Gregory laugh]. GREGORY. You should have seen the girls that have been sweet on me. [Bell rings]. TÁNYA. Well then, go to them, and leave me alone! GREGORY. You are a silly, now I think of it. I'm not Simon! TÁNYA. Simon means marriage, and not tomfoolery! Enter Porter, carrying a large cardboard box. PORTER. Good morning! GREGORY. Good morning! Where are you from? PORTER. From Bourdey's. I've brought a dress, and here's a note for the lady. TÁNYA [taking the note] Sit down, and I'll take it in. [Exit]. Vasíly Leoníditch looks out of the door in shirt-sleeves and slippers. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Gregory! GREGORY. Yes, sir. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Gregory! Don't you hear me call? GREGORY. I've only just come, sir. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Hot water, and a cup of tea. GREGORY. Yes, sir; Simon will bring them directly. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. And who is this? Ah, from Bourdier? PORTER. Yes, sir. Exeunt Vasíly Leoníditch and Gregory. Bell rings. Tánya runs in at the sound of the bell and opens the front door. TÁNYA [to Porter] Please wait a little. PORTER. I am waiting. Sahátof enters at front door. TÁNYA. I beg your pardon, but the footman has just gone away. This way, sir. Allow me, please. [Takes his fur cloak]. SAHÁTOF [adjusting his clothes] Is Leoníd Fyódoritch at home? Is he up? [Bell rings]. TÁNYA. Oh yes, sir. He's been up a long time. Doctor enters and looks round for the footman. Sees Sahátof and addresses him in an offhand manner. DOCTOR. Ah, my respects to you! SAHÁTOF [looks fixedly at him] The Doctor, I believe? DOCTOR. And I thought you were abroad! Dropped in to see Leoníd Fyódoritch? SAHÁTOF. Yes. And you? Is any one ill? DOCTOR [laughing] Not exactly ill, but, you know ... It's awful with these ladies! Sits up at cards till three every morning, and pulls her waist into the shape of a wine-glass. And the lady is flabby and fat, and carries the weight of a good many years on her back. SAHÁTOF. Is this the way you state your diagnosis to Anna Pávlovna? I should hardly think it quite pleases her! DOCTOR [laughing] Well, it's the truth. They do all these tricks--and then come derangements of the digestive organs, pressure on the liver, nerves, and all sorts of things, and one has to come and patch them up. It's just awful! [Laughs] And you? You are also a spiritualist it seems? SAHÁTOF. I? No, I am not also a spiritualist.... Good morning! [Is about to go, but is stopped by the Doctor]. DOCTOR. No! But I can't myself, you know, positively deny the possibility of it, when a man like Krougosvétlof is connected with it all. How can one? Is he not a professor,--a European celebrity? There must be something in it. I should like to see for myself, but I never have the time. I have other things to do. SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes! Good morning. [Exit, bowing slightly]. DOCTOR [to Tánya] Is Anna Pávlovna up? TÁNYA. She's in her bedroom, but please come up. Doctor goes upstairs. Theodore Ivánitch enters with a newspaper in his hand. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Porter] What is it you want? PORTER. I'm from Bourdey's. I brought a dress and a note, and was told to wait. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Ah, from Bourdey's! [To Tánya] Who came in just now? TÁNYA. It was Sergéy Ivánitch Sahátof and the Doctor. They stood talking here a bit. It was all about spiritalism. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [correcting her] Spirit_u_alism. TÁNYA. Yes, that's just what I said--spiritalism. Have you heard how well it went off last time, Theodore Ivánitch? [Laughs] There was knocks, and things flew about! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And how do _you_ know? TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth told me. Jacob runs in with a tumbler of tea on a tray. JACOB [to the Porter] Good morning! PORTER [disconsolately] Good morning! Jacob knocks at Vasíly Leoníditch's door. Gregory enters. GREGORY. Give it here. JACOB. You didn't bring back all yesterday's tumblers, nor the tray Vasíly Leoníditch had. And it's me that have to answer for them! GREGORY. The tray is full of cigars. JACOB. Well, put them somewhere else. It's me who's answerable for it. GREGORY. I'll bring it back! I'll bring it back! JACOB. Yes, so you say, but it is not where it ought to be. The other day, just as the tea had to be served, it was not to be found. GREGORY. I'll bring it back, I tell you. What a fuss! JACOB. It's easy for you to talk. Here am I serving tea for the third time, and now there's the lunch to get ready. One does nothing but rush about the livelong day. Is there any one in the house who has more to do than me? Yet they are never satisfied with me. GREGORY. Dear me? Who could wish for any one more satisfactory? You're such a fine fellow! TÁNYA. Nobody is good enough for you! You alone ... GREGORY [to Tánya] No one asked your opinion! [Exit]. JACOB. Ah well, I don't mind. Tatyána Márkovna, did the mistress say anything about yesterday? TÁNYA. About the lamp, you mean? JACOB. And how it managed to drop out of my hands, the Lord only knows! Just as I began rubbing it, and was going to take hold of it in another place, out it slips and goes all to pieces. It's just my luck! It's easy for that Gregory Miháylitch to talk--a single man like him! But when one has a family, one has to consider things: they have to be fed. I don't mind work.... So she didn't say anything? The Lord be thanked!... Oh, Theodore Ivánitch, have you one spoon or two? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. One. Only one! [Reads newspaper]. Exit Jacob. Bell rings. Enter Gregory (carrying a tray) and the Doorkeeper. DOORKEEPER [to Gregory] Tell the master some peasants have come from the village. GREGORY [pointing to Theodore Ivánitch] Tell the major-domo here, it's his business. I have no time. [Exit]. TÁNYA. Where are these peasants from? DOORKEEPER. From Koursk, I think. TÁNYA [shrieks with delight] It's them.... It's Simon's father come about the land! I'll go and meet them! [Runs off]. DOORKEEPER. Well, then, what shall I say to them? Shall they come in here? They say they've come about the land--the master knows, they say. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, they want to purchase some land. All right! But he has a visitor now, so you had better tell them to wait. DOORKEEPER. Where shall they wait? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Let them wait outside. I'll send for them when the time comes. [Exit Doorkeeper] Enter Tánya, followed by three Peasants. TÁNYA. To the right. In here! In here! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I did not want them brought in here! GREGORY. Forward minx! TÁNYA. Oh, Theodore Ivánitch, it won't matter, they'll stand in this corner. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They'll dirty the floor. TÁNYA. They've scraped their shoes, and I'll wipe the floor up afterwards. [To Peasants] Here, stand just here. Peasants come forward carrying presents tied in cotton handkerchiefs: cake, eggs, and embroidered towels. They look around for an icón before which to cross themselves; not finding one, they cross themselves looking at the staircase. GREGORY [to Theodore Ivánitch]. There now, Theodore Ivánitch, they say Pironnet's boots are an elegant shape. But those there are ever so much better. [Pointing to the third Peasant's bast shoes]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why will you always be ridiculing people? [Exit Gregory]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [rises and goes up to the Peasants] So you are from Koursk? And have come to arrange about buying some land? FIRST PEASANT. Just so. We might say, it is for the completion of the purchase of the land we have come. How could we announce ourselves to the master? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, yes, I know. You wait a bit and I'll go and inform him. [Exit]. The Peasants look around; they are embarrassed where to put their presents. FIRST PEASANT. There now, couldn't we have what d'you call it? Something to present these here things on? To do it in a genteel way, like,--a little dish or something. TÁNYA. All right, directly; put them down here for the present. [Puts bundles on settle]. FIRST PEASANT. There now,--that respectable gentleman that was here just now,--what might be his station? TÁNYA. He's the master's valet. FIRST PEASANT. I see. So he's also in service. And you, now, are you a servant too? TÁNYA. I am lady's-maid. Do you know, I also come from Démen! I know you, and you, but I don't know him. [Pointing to third Peasant]. THIRD PEASANT. Them two you know, but me you don't know? TÁNYA. You are Efím Antónitch. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it! TÁNYA. And you are Simon's father, Zachary Trifánitch. SECOND PEASANT. Right! THIRD PEASANT. And let me tell you, I'm Mítry Vlásitch Tchilíkin. Now do you know? TÁNYA. Now I shall know you too! SECOND PEASANT. And who may you be? TÁNYA. I am Aksínya's, the soldier's wife's, orphan. FIRST AND THIRD PEASANTS [with surprise] Never! SECOND PEASANT. The proverb says true: "Buy a penny pig, put it in the rye, And you'll have a wonderful fat porker by-and-by." FIRST PEASANT. That's just it! She's got the resemblance of a duchess! THIRD PEASANT. That be so truly. Oh Lord! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. [off the scene, rings, and then shouts] Gregory! Gregory! FIRST PEASANT. Now who's that, for example, disturbing himself in such a way, if I may say so? TÁNYA. That's the young master. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! Didn't I say we'd better wait outside until the time comes? [Silence]. SECOND PEASANT. Is it _you_, Simon wants to marry? TÁNYA. Why, has he been writing? [Hides her face in her apron]. SECOND PEASANT. It's evident he's written! But it's a bad business he's imagined here. I see the lad's got spoilt! TÁNYA [quickly] No, he's not at all spoilt! Shall I send him to you? SECOND PEASANT. Why send him? All in good time. Where's the hurry? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [desperately, behind scene] Gregory! Where the devil are you?... [Enters from his room in shirt-sleeves, adjusting his pince-nez]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Is every one dead? TÁNYA. He's not here, sir.... I'll send him to you at once. [Moves towards the back door]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. I could hear you talking, you know. How have these scarecrows sprung up here? Eh? What? TÁNYA. They're peasants from the Koursk village, sir. [Peasants bow]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. And who is this? Oh yes, from Bourdier. Vasíly Leoníditch pays no attention to the Peasants' bow. Tánya meets Gregory at the doorway and remains on the scene. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [to Gregory] I told you the other boots... I can't wear these! GREGORY. Well, the others are also there. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But where is _there_? GREGORY. Just in the same place! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. They're not! GREGORY. Well, come and see. [Exeunt Gregory and Vasíly Leoníditch]. THIRD PEASANT. Say now, might we not in the meantime just go and wait, say, in some lodging-house or somewhere? TÁNYA. No, no, wait a little. I'll go and bring you some plates to put the presents on. [Exit]. Enter Sahátof and Leoníd Fyódoritch, followed by Theodore Ivánitch. The Peasants take up the presents, and pose themselves. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [to Peasants] Presently, presently! Wait a bit! [Points to Porter] Who is this? PORTER. From Bourdey's. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, from Bourdier. SAHÁTOF [smiling] Well, I don't deny it: still you understand that, never having seen it, we, the uninitiated, have some difficulty in believing. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You say you find it difficult to believe! We do not ask for faith; all we demand of you is to investigate! How can I help believing in this ring? Yet this ring came from there! SAHÁTOF. From _there_? What do you mean? From where? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. From the other world. Yes! SAHÁTOF [smiling] That's very interesting--very interesting! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, supposing we admit that I'm a man carried away by an idea, as you think, and that I am deluding myself. Well, but what of Alexéy Vladímiritch Krougosvétlof--he is not just an ordinary man, but a distinguished professor, and yet he admits it to be a fact. And not he alone. What of Crookes? What of Wallace? SAHÁTOF. But I don't deny anything. I only say it is very interesting. It would be interesting to know how Krougosvétlof explains it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He has a theory of his own. Could you come to-night?--he is sure to be here. First we shall have Grossman--you know, the famous thought-reader? SAHÁTOF. Yes, I have heard of him but have never happened to meet him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Then you must come! We shall first have Grossman, then Kaptchítch, and our mediumistic séance.... [To Theodore Ivánitch] Has the man returned from Kaptchítch? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Not yet, sir. SAHÁTOF. Then how am I to know? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Never mind, come in any case! If Kaptchítch can't come we shall find our own medium. Márya Ignátievna is a medium--not such a good one as Kaptchítch, but still ... Tánya enters with plates for the presents, and stands listening. SAHÁTOF [smiling] Oh yes, yes. But here is one puzzling point:--how is it that the mediums are always of the, so-called, educated class, such as Kaptchítch and Márya Ignátievna? If there were such a special force, would it not be met with also among the common people--the peasants? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Oh yes, and it is! That is very common. Even here in our own house we have a peasant whom we discovered to be a medium. A few days ago we called him in--a sofa had to be moved, during a séance--and we forgot all about him. In all probability he fell asleep. And, fancy, after our séance was over and Kaptchítch had come to again, we suddenly noticed mediumistic phenomena in another part of the room, near the peasant: the table gave a jerk and moved! TÁNYA [aside] That was when I was getting out from under it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It is quite evident he also is a medium. Especially as he is very like Home in appearance. You remember Home--a fair-haired naïve sort of fellow? SAHÁTOF [shrugging his shoulders] Dear me, this is very interesting, you know. I think you should try him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. So we will! And he is not alone; there are thousands of mediums, only we do not know them. Why, only a short time ago a bedridden old woman moved a brick wall! SAHÁTOF. Moved a brick ... a brick wall? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes. She was lying in bed, and did not even know she was a medium. She just leant her arm against the wall, and the wall moved! SAHÁTOF. And did not cave in? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. And did not cave in. SAHÁTOF. Very strange! Well then, I'll come this evening. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Pray do. We shall have a séance in any case. [Sahátof puts on his outdoor things, Leoníd Fyódoritch sees him to the door]. PORTER [to Tánya] Do tell your mistress! Am I to spend the night here? TÁNYA. Wait a little; she's going to drive out with the young lady, so she'll soon be coming downstairs. [Exit]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [comes up to the Peasants, who bow and offer him their presents] That's not necessary! FIRST PEASANT [smiling] Oh, but this-here is our first duty, it is! It's also the Commune's orders that we should do it! SECOND PEASANT. That's always been the proper way. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it! 'Cause as we are much satisfied.... As our parents, let's say, served, let's say, your parents, so we would like the same with all our hearts ... and not just anyhow! [Bows]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But what is it about? What do you want? FIRST PEASANT. It's to your honour we've come ... Enter Petrístchef briskly, in fur-lined overcoat. PETRÍSTCHEF. Is Vasíly Leoníditch awake yet? [Seeing Leoníd Fyódoritch, bows, moving only his head]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You have come to see my son? PETRÍSTCHEF. I? Yes, just to see Vovo for a moment. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Step in, step in. Petrístchef takes off his overcoat and walks in briskly. Exit. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [to Peasants] Well, what is it you want? SECOND PEASANT. Please accept our presents! FIRST PEASANT [smiling] That's to say, the peasants' offerings. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it; what's the good? We wish you the same as if you were our own father! Say no more about it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. All right. Here, Theodore, take these. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Peasants] Give them here. [Takes the presents]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, what is the business? FIRST PEASANT. We've come to your honour ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I see you have; but what do you want? FIRST PEASANT. It's about making a move towards completing the sale of the land. It comes to this ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Do you mean to buy the land? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It comes to this ... I mean the buying of the property of the land. The Commune has given us, let's say, the power of atturning, to enter, let's say, as is lawful, through the Government bank, with a stamp for the lawful amount. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You mean that you want to buy the land through the land-bank. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Just as you offered it to us last year. It comes to this, then, the whole sum in full for the buying of the property of the land is 32,864 roubles. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That's all right, but how about paying up? FIRST PEASANT. As to the payment, the Commune offers just as it was said last year--to pay in 'stalments, and your receipt of the ready money by lawful regulations, 4000 roubles in full.[2] [2] The present value of the rouble is rather over two shillings and one penny. SECOND PEASANT. Take 4000 now, and wait for the rest of the money. THIRD PEASANT [unwrapping a parcel of money] And about this be quite easy. We should pawn our own selves rather than do such a thing just anyhow say, but in this way, let's say, as it ought to be done. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But did I not write and tell you that I should not agree to it unless you brought the whole sum? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It would be more agreeable, but it is not in our possibilities, I mean. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, the thing can't be done! FIRST PEASANT. The Commune, for example, relied its hopes on that, that you made the offer last year to sell it in easy 'stalments ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That was last year. I would have agreed to it then, but now I can't. SECOND PEASANT. But how's that? We've been depending on your promise--we've got the papers ready and have collected the money! THIRD PEASANT. Be merciful, master! We're short of land; we'll say nothing about cattle, but even a hen, let's say, we've no room to keep. [Bows] Don't wrong us, master! [Bows]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Of course it's quite true, that I agreed last year to let you have the land for payment by instalments, but now circumstances are such that it would be inconvenient. SECOND PEASANT. Without this land we cannot live! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Without land our lives must grow weaker and come to a decline. THIRD PEASANT [bowing] Master, we have so little land, let's not talk about the cattle, but even a chicken, let's say, we've no room for. Master, be merciful, accept the money, master! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [examining the document] I quite understand, and should like to help you. Wait a little; I will give you an answer in half-an-hour.... Theodore, say I am engaged and am not to be disturbed. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, sir. [Exit Leoníd Fyódoritch]. The Peasants look dejected. SECOND PEASANT. Here's a go! "Give me the whole sum," he says. And where are we to get it from? FIRST PEASANT. If he had not given us hopes, for example. As it is we felt quite insured it would be as was said last year. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! and I had begun unwrapping the money. [Begins wrapping up the bundle of bank-notes again] What are we to do now? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What is your business, then? FIRST PEASANT. Our business, respected sir, depends in this. Last year he made us the offer of our buying the land in 'stalments. The Commune entered upon these terms and gave us the powers of atturning, and now d'you see he makes the offering that we should pay the whole in full! And as it turns out, the business is no ways convenient for us. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What is the whole sum? FIRST PEASANT. The whole sum in readiness is 4000 roubles, you see. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what of that? Make an effort and collect more. FIRST PEASANT. Such as it is, it was collected with much effort. We have, so to say, in this sense, not got ammunition enough. SECOND PEASANT. You can't get blood out of a stone. THIRD PEASANT. We'd be glad with all our hearts, but we have swept even this together, as you might say, with a broom. Vasíly Leoníditch and Petrístchef appear in the doorway both smoking cigarettes. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. I have told you already I'll do my best, so of course I will do all that is possible! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. You must just understand that if you do not get it, the devil only knows what a mess we shall be in! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But I've already said I'll do my best, and so I will. Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. Nothing. I only say, get some at any cost. I will wait. Exit into Vasíly Leoníditch's room, closing door. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [waving his arm] It's a deuce of a go! [The Peasants bow]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [looking at Porter, to Theodore Ivánitch] Why don't you attend to this fellow from Bourdier? He hasn't come to take lodgings with us, has he? Just look, he is asleep! Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. The note he brought has been sent in, and he has been told to wait until Anna Pávlovna comes down. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [looks at Peasants and notices the money] And what is this? Money? For whom? Is it for us? [To Theodore Ivánitch] Who are they? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They are peasants from Koursk. They are buying land. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Has it been sold them? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, they have not yet come to any agreement. They are too stingy. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Eh? Well, we must try and persuade them. [To the Peasants] Here, I say, are you buying land? Eh? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. We have made an offering as how we should like to acquire the possession of the land. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then you should not be so stingy, you know. Just let me tell you how necessary land is to peasants! Eh, what? It's very necessary, isn't it? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. The land appears as the very first and foremost necessity to a peasant. That's just it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then why be so stingy? Just you think what land is! Why, one can sow wheat on it in rows! I tell you, you could get eighty bushels of wheat, at a rouble and a half a bushel--that would be 120 roubles. Eh, what? Or else mint! I tell you, you could collar 400 roubles off an acre by sowing mint! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. All sorts of producks one could put into action if one had the right understanding. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Mint! Decidedly mint! I have learnt about it, you know. It's all printed in books. I can show them you. Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it, all concerns are clearer to you through your books. That's learnedness, of course. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then pay up and don't be stingy. [To Theodore Ivánitch] Where's papa? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. He gave orders not to be disturbed just now. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Oh, I suppose he's consulting a spirit whether to sell the land or not? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I can't say. All I know is that he went away undecided about it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. What d'you think, Theodore Ivánitch, is he flush of cash? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I don't know. I hardly think so. But what does it matter to you? You drew a good sum not more than a week ago. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But didn't I pay for those dogs? And now, you know, there's our new Society, and Petrístchef has been chosen, and I had borrowed money from Petrístchef and must pay the subscription both for him and for myself. Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And what is this new Society? A Cycling Club? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. No. Just let me tell you. It is quite a new Society. It is a very serious Society, you know. And who do you think is President? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What's the object of this new Society? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. It is a "Society to Promote the Breeding of Pure-bred Russian Hounds." Eh, what? And I'll tell you, they're having the first meeting and a lunch, to-day. And I've no money. I'll go to him and have a try! [Exit through study door]. FIRST PEASANT [to Theodore Ivánitch] And who might he be, respected sir? THEODORE IVÁNITCH [smiles] The young master. THIRD PEASANT. The heir, so to say. Oh Lord! [puts away the money] I'd better hide it meanwhile. FIRST PEASANT. And we were told he was in military service, in the cav'rely, for example. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, as an only son he is exempt from military service. THIRD PEASANT. Left for to keep his parents, so to say! That's right! SECOND PEASANT [shaking his head] He's the right sort. He'll feed them finely! THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! Enter Vasíly Leoníditch followed by Leoníd Fyódoritch. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. That's always the way. It's really surprising! First I'm asked why I have no occupation, and now when I have found a field and am occupied, when a Society with serious and noble aims has been founded, I can't even have 300 roubles to go on with!... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I tell you I can't do it, and I can't! I haven't got it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Why, you have just sold some land. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. In the first place I have not sold it! And above all, do leave me in peace! Weren't you told I was engaged? [Exit, slamming door]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I told you this was not the right moment. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Well, I say! Here's a position to be in! I'll go and see mamma--that's my only hope. He's going crazy over his spiritualism and forgets everything else. [Goes upstairs]. Theodore Ivánitch takes newspaper and is just going to sit down, when Betsy and Márya Konstantínovna, followed by Gregory, come down the stairs. BETSY. Is the carriage ready? GREGORY. Just coming to the door. BETSY [to Márya Konstantínovna] Come along, come along, I know it is he. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Which he? BETSY. You know very well whom I mean--Petrístchef, of course. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But where is he? BETSY. Sitting in Vovo's room. You'll see! MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. And suppose it is not he? [The Peasants and Porter bow]. BETSY [to Porter] You brought a dress from Bourdier's? PORTER. Yes, Miss. May I go? BETSY. Well, I don't know. Ask my mother. PORTER. I don't know whose it is, Miss; I was ordered to bring it here and receive the money. BETSY. Well then, wait. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Is it still that costume for the charade? BETSY. Yes, a charming costume. But mamma won't take it or pay for it. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But why not? BETSY. You'd better ask mamma. She doesn't grudge Vovo 500 roubles for his dogs, but 100 is too much for a dress. I can't act dressed like a scarecrow. [Pointing to Peasants] And who are these? GREGORY. Peasants who have come to buy some land or other. BETSY. And I thought they were the beaters. Are you not beaters? FIRST PEASANT. No, no, lady. We have come to see Leoníd Fyódoritch about the signing into our possession of the title-deeds to some land. BETSY. Then how is it? Vovo was expecting some beaters who were to come to-day. Are you sure you are not the beaters? [The Peasants are silent] How stupid they are! [Goes to Vasíly Leoníditch's door] Vovo? [Laughs]. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But we met him just now upstairs! BETSY. Why need you remember that? Vovo, are you there? Petrístchef enters. PETRÍSTCHEF. Vovo is not here, but I am prepared to fulfil on his behalf anything that may be required. How do you do? How do you do, Márya Konstantínovna? [Shakes hands long and violently with Betsy, and then with Márya Konstantínovna]. SECOND PEASANT. See, it's as if he were pumping water! BETSY. You can't replace him,--still you're better than nobody. [Laughs] What are these affairs of yours with Vovo? PETRÍSTCHEF. What affairs? Our affairs are fie-nancial, that is, our business is fie! It's also nancial, and besides it is financial. BETSY. What does nancial mean? PETRÍSTCHEF. What a question! It means nothing, that's just the point. BETSY. No, no, you have missed fire. [Laughs]. PETRÍSTCHEF. One can't always hit the mark, you know. It's something like a lottery. Blanks and blanks again, and at last you win! [Theodore Ivánitch goes into the study]. BETSY. Well, this was blank then; but tell me, were you at the Mergásofs' last night? PETRÍSTCHEF. Not exactly at the _Mère_ Gásof's, but rather at the _Père_ Gásof's, or better still, at the _Fils_ Gásof's. BETSY. You can't do without puns. It's an illness. And were the Gypsies there?[3] [Laughs]. [3] The Gypsy choirs are very popular in Moscow. PETRÍSTCHEF [sings] "On their aprons silken threads, little birds with golden heads!" ... BETSY. Happy mortals! And we were yawning at Fofo's. PETRÍSTCHEF [continues to sing] "And she promised and she swore, She would ope' her ... her ... her ..." how does it go on, Márya Konstantínovna? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. "Closet door." PETRÍSTCHEF. How? What? How, Márya Konstantínovna? BETSY. _Cessez, vous devenez impossible!_[4] [4] BETSY. Cease! You are becoming quite unbearable! PETRÍSTCHEF. _J'ai cessé, j'ai bébé, j'ai dédé...._[5] [5] PETRÍSTCHEF. I have C said (_ceased_), B said, and D said. BETSY. I see the only way to rid ourselves of your wit is to make you sing! Let us go into Vovo's room, his guitar is there. Come, Márya Konstantínovna, come! [Exeunt Betsy, Márya Konstantínovna, and Petrístchef]. FIRST PEASANT. Who be they? GREGORY. One is our young lady, the other is a girl who teaches her music. FIRST PEASANT. Administrates learning, so to say. And ain't she smart? A reg'lar picture! SECOND PEASANT. Why don't they marry her? She is old enough, I should say. GREGORY. Do you think it's the same as among you peasants,--marry at fifteen? FIRST PEASANT. And that man, for example, is he also in the musitional line? GREGORY [mimicking him] "Musitional" indeed! You don't understand anything! FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. And stupidity, one might say, is our ignorance. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! [Gipsy songs and guitar accompaniment are heard from Vasíly Leoníditch's room]. Enter Simon, followed by Tánya, who watches the meeting between father and son. GREGORY [to Simon] What do you want? SIMON. I have been to Mr. Kaptchítch. GREGORY. Well, and what's the answer? SIMON. He sent word he couldn't possibly come to-night. GREGORY. All right, I'll let them know. [Exit]. SIMON [to his father] How d'you do, father! My respects to Daddy Efím and Daddy Mítry! How are all at home? SECOND PEASANT. Very well, Simon. FIRST PEASANT. How d'you do, lad? THIRD PEASANT. How d'you do, sonny? SIMON [smiles] Well, come along, father, and have some tea. SECOND PEASANT. Wait till we've finished our business. Don't you see we are not ready yet? SIMON. Well, I'll wait for you by the porch. [Wishes to go away]. TÁNYA [running after him] I say, why didn't you tell him anything? SIMON. How could I before all those people? Give me time, I'll tell him over our tea. [Exit]. Theodore Ivánitch enters and sits down by the window. FIRST PEASANT. Respected sir, how's our business proceeding? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Wait a bit, he'll be out presently, he's just finishing. TÁNYA [to Theodore Ivánitch] And how do you know, Theodore Ivánitch, he is finishing? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I know that when he has finished questioning, he reads the question and answer aloud. TÁNYA. Can one really talk with spirits by means of a saucer? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. It seems so. TÁNYA. But supposing they tell him to sign, will he sign? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Of course he will. TÁNYA. But they do not speak with words? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Oh, yes. By means of the alphabet. He notices at which letter the saucer stops. TÁNYA. Yes, but at a si-ance?... Enter Leoníd Fyódoritch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, friends, I can't do it! I should be very glad to, but it is quite impossible. If it were for ready money it would be a different matter. FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. What more could any one desire? But the people are so inpennycuous--it is quite impossible! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, I can't do it, I really can't. Here is your document; I can't sign it. THIRD PEASANT. Show some pity, master; be merciful! SECOND PEASANT. How can you act so? It is doing us a wrong. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Nothing wrong about it, friends. I offered it you in summer, but then you did not agree; and now I can't agree to it. THIRD PEASANT. Master, be merciful! How are we to get along? We have so little land. We'll say nothing about the cattle; a hen, let's say, there's no room to let a hen run about. Leoníd Fyódoritch goes up to the door and stops. Enter, descending the staircase, Anna Pávlovna and doctor, followed by Vasíly Leoníditch, who is in a merry and playful mood and is putting some bank-notes into his purse. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [tightly laced, and wearing a bonnet] Then I am to take it? DOCTOR. If the symptoms recur you must certainly take it, but above all, you must behave better. How can you expect thick syrup to pass through a thin little hair tube, especially when we squeeze the tube? It's impossible; and so it is with the biliary duct. It's simple enough. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. All right, all right! DOCTOR. Yes, "All right, all right," and you go on in the same old way. It won't do, madam--it won't do. Well, good-bye! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, not good-bye, only _au revoir_! For I still expect you to-night. I shall not be able to make up my mind without you. DOCTOR. All right, if I have time I'll pop in. [Exit]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [noticing the Peasants] What's this? What? What people are these? [Peasants bow]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. These are peasants from Koursk, come to see Leoníd Fyódoritch about the sale of some land. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I see they are peasants, but who let them in? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Leoníd Fyódoritch gave the order. He has just been speaking to them about the sale of the land. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What sale? There is no need to sell any. But above all, how can one let in people from the street into the house? One can't let people in from the street! One can't let people into the house who have spent the night heaven knows where!... [Getting more and more excited] I daresay every fold of their clothes is full of microbes--of scarlet-fever microbes, of smallpox microbes, of diphtheria microbes! Why, they are from Koursk Government, where there is an epidemic of diphtheria ... Doctor! Doctor! Call the doctor back! Leoníd Fyódoritch goes into his room and shuts the door. Gregory goes to recall the Doctor. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [smokes at the Peasants] Never mind, mamma; if you like I'll fumigate them so that all the microbes will go to pot! Eh, what? Anna Pávlovna remains severely silent, awaiting the Doctor's return. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [to Peasants] And do you fatten pigs? There's a first-rate business! FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. We do go in for the pig-fattening line now and then. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. This kind?... [Grunts like a pig]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Vovo, Vovo, leave off! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Isn't it like? Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. It's very resemblant. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Vovo, leave off, I tell you! SECOND PEASANT. What's it all about? THIRD PEASANT. I said, we'd better go to some lodging meanwhile! Enter Doctor and Gregory. DOCTOR. What's the matter? What's happened? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why, you're always saying I must not get excited. Now, how is it possible to keep calm? I do not see my own sister for two months, and am careful about any doubtful visitor--and here are people from Koursk, straight from Koursk, where there is an epidemic of diphtheria, right in my house! DOCTOR. These good fellows you mean, I suppose? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course. Straight from a diphtheric place! DOCTOR. Well, of course, if they come from an infected place it is rash; but still there is no reason to excite yourself so much about it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. But don't you yourself advise carefulness? DOCTOR. Of course, of course. Still, why excite yourself? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How can I help it? Now we shall have to have the house completely disinfected. DOCTOR. Oh no! Why completely? That would cost 300 roubles or more. I'll arrange it cheaply and well for you. Take, to a large bottle of water ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Boiled? DOCTOR. It's all the same. Boiled would be better. To one bottle of water take a tablespoon of salicylic acid, and have everything they have come in contact with washed with the solution. As to the fellows themselves, they must be off, of course. That's all. Then you're quite safe. And it would do no harm to sprinkle some of the same solution through a spray--two or three tumblers--you'll see how well it will act. No danger whatever! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Tánya! Where is Tánya? Enter Tánya. TÁNYA. Did you call, M'm? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You know that big bottle in my dressing-room? TÁNYA. Out of which we sprinkled the laundress yesterday? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, of course! What other bottle could I mean? Well then, take that bottle and first wash with soap the place where they have been standing, and then with ... TÁNYA. Yes, M'm; I know how. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And then take the spray ... However, I had better do that myself when I get back. DOCTOR. Well then, do so, and don't be afraid! Well, _au revoir_ till this evening. [Exit]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And they must be off! Not a trace of them must remain! Get out, get out! Go--what are you looking at? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. It's because of our stupidity, as we were instructed ... GREGORY [pushes the Peasants out] There, there; be off! SECOND PEASANT. Let me have my handkerchief back! [The handkerchief in which the presents were wrapped]. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord, oh Lord! didn't I say--some lodging-house meanwhile! Gregory pushes him out. Exeunt Peasants. PORTER [who has repeatedly tried to say something] Will there be any answer? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Ah, from Bourdier? [Excitedly] None! None! You can take it back. I told her I never ordered such a costume, and I will not allow my daughter to wear it! PORTER. I know nothing about it. I was sent ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Go, go, take it back! I will call myself about it! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [solemnly] Sir Messenger from Bourdier, depart! PORTER. I might have been told that long ago. I have sat here nearly five hours! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ambassador from Bourdier, begone! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Cease, please! Exit Porter. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Betsy! Where is she? I always have to wait for her. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [shouting at the top of his voice] Betsy! Petrístchef! Come quick, quick, quick! Eh? What? Enter Petrístchef, Betsy, and Márya Konstantínovna. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You always keep one waiting! BETSY. On the contrary, I was waiting for you! Petrístchef bows with his head only, then kisses Anna Pávlovna's hand. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How d'you do! [To Betsy] You always have an answer ready! BETSY. If you are upset, mamma, I had better not go. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Are we going or not? BETSY. Well, let us go; it can't be helped. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Did you see the man from Bourdier? BETSY. Yes, and I was very glad. I ordered the costume, and am going to wear it when it is paid for. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I am not going to pay for a costume that is indecent! BETSY. Why has it become indecent? First it was decent, and now you have a fit of prudery. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not prudery at all! If the bodice were completely altered, then it would do. BETSY. Mamma, that is quite impossible. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, get dressed. [They sit down. Gregory puts on their over-shoes for them]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Márya Konstantínovna, do you notice a vacuum in the hall? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. What is it? [Laughs in anticipation]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Bourdier's man has gone! Eh, what? Good, eh? [Laughs loudly]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, let us go. [Goes out of the door, but returns at once] Tánya! TÁNYA. Yes, M'm? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Don't let Frisk catch cold while I am away. If she wants to be let out, put on her little yellow cloak. She is not quite well to-day. TÁNYA. Yes, M'm. Exeunt Anna Pávlovna, Betsy, and Gregory. PETRÍSTCHEF. Well, have you got it? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Not without trouble, I can tell you! First I rushed at the gov'nor; he began to bellow and turned me out. Off to the mater--I got it out of her. It's here! [Slaps his breast pocket] If once I make up my mind, there's no getting away from me. I have a deadly grip! Eh, what? And d'you know, my wolf-hounds are coming to-day. Petrístchef and Vasíly Leoníditch put on their outdoor things and go out. Tánya follows. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [alone] Yes, nothing but unpleasantness. How is it they can't live in peace? But one must say the new generation are not--the thing. And as to the women's dominion!... Why, Leoníd Fyódoritch just now was going to put in a word, but seeing what a frenzy she was in--slammed the door behind him. He is a wonderfully kind-hearted man. Yes, wonderfully kind. What's this? Here's Tánya bringing them back again! TÁNYA. Come in, come in, grand-dads, never mind! Enter Tánya and the Peasants. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why have you brought them back? TÁNYA. Well, Theodore Ivánitch, we must do something about their business. I shall have to wash the place anyhow. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But the business will not come off, I see that already. FIRST PEASANT. How could we best put our affair into action, respected sir? Your reverence might take a little trouble over it, and we should give you full thankings from the Commune for your trouble. THIRD PEASANT. Do try, honey! We can't live! We have so little land. Talk of cattle--why, we have no room to keep a hen! [They bow]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I am sorry for you, friends, but I can't think of any way to help you. I understand your case very well, but he has refused. So what can one do? Besides, the lady is also against it. Well, give me your papers--I'll try and see what I can do, but I hardly hope to succeed. [Exit]. Tánya and the three Peasants sigh. TÁNYA. But tell me, grand-dads, what is it that is wanted? FIRST PEASANT. Why, only that he should put his signature to our document. TÁNYA. That the master should sign? Is that all? FIRST PEASANT. Yes, only lay his signature on the deed and take the money, and there would be an end of the matter. THIRD PEASANT. He only has to write and sign, as the peasants, let's say, desire, so, let's say, I also desire. That's the whole affair--if he'd only take it and sign it, it's all done. TÁNYA [considering] He need only sign the paper and it's done? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. The whole matter is in dependence on that, and nothing else. Let him sign, and we ask no more. TÁNYA. Just wait and see what Theodore Ivánitch will say. If he cannot persuade the master, I'll try something. FIRST PEASANT. Get round him, will you? TÁNYA. I'll try. THIRD PEASANT. Ay, the lass is going to bestir herself. Only get the thing settled, and the Commune will bind itself to keep you all your life. See there, now! FIRST PEASANT. If the affair can be put into action, truly we might put her in a gold frame. SECOND PEASANT. That goes without saying! TÁNYA. I can't promise for certain, but as the saying is: "An attempt is no sin, if you try ..." FIRST PEASANT. "You may win." That's just so. Enter Theodore Ivánitch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, friends, it's no go! He has not done it, and he won't do it. Here, take your document. You may go. FIRST PEASANT [gives Tánya the paper] Then it's on you we pin all our reliance, for example. TÁNYA. Yes, yes! You go into the street, and I'll run out to you in a minute and have a word with you. Exeunt Peasants. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, dear Theodore Ivánitch, ask the master to come out and speak to me for a moment. I have something to say to him. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What next? TÁNYA. I must, Theodore Ivánitch. Ask him, do; there's nothing wrong about it, on my sacred word. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But what do you want with him? TÁNYA. That's a little secret. I will tell you later on, only ask him. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [smiling] I can't think what you are up to! All right, I'll go and ask him. [Exit]. TÁNYA. I'll do it! Didn't he say himself that there is that power in Simon? And I know how to manage. No one found me out that time, and now I'll teach Simon what to do. If it doesn't succeed it's no great matter. After all it's not a sin. Enter Leoníd Fyódoritch followed by Theodore Ivánitch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [smiling] Is this the petitioner? Well, what is your business? TÁNYA. It's a little secret, Leoníd Fyódoritch; let me tell it you alone. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What is it? Theodore, leave us for a minute. Exit Theodore Ivánitch. TÁNYA. As I have grown up and lived in your house, Leoníd Fyódoritch, and as I am very grateful to you for everything, I shall open my heart to you as to a father. Simon, who is living in your house, wants to marry me. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. So that's it! TÁNYA. I open my heart to you as to a father! I have no one to advise me, being an orphan. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, and why not? He seems a nice lad. TÁNYA. Yes, that's true. He would be all right; there is only one thing I have my doubts about. It's something about him that I have noticed and can't make out ... perhaps it is something bad. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What is it? Does he drink? TÁNYA. God forbid! But since I know that there is such a thing as spiritalism ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, you know that? TÁNYA. Of course! I understand it very well. Some, of course, through ignorance, don't understand it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, what then? TÁNYA. I am very much afraid for Simon. It does happen to him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What happens to him? TÁNYA. Something of a kind like spiritalism. You ask any of the servants. As soon as he gets drowsy at the table, the table begins to tremble, and creak like that: _tuke, ... tuke_! All the servants have heard it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, it's the very thing I was saying to Sergéy Ivánitch this morning! Yes?... TÁNYA. Or else ... when was it?... Oh yes, last Wednesday. We sat down to dinner, and the spoon just jumps into his hand of itself! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, that is interesting! Jumps into his hand? When he was drowsing? TÁNYA. That I didn't notice. I think he was, though. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes?... TÁNYA. And that's what I'm afraid of, and what I wanted to ask you about. May not some harm come of it? To live one's life together, and him having such a thing in him! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [smiling] No, you need not be afraid, there is nothing bad in that. It only proves him to be a _medium_--simply a medium. I knew him to be a medium before this. TÁNYA. So that's what it is! And I was afraid! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, there's nothing to be afraid of. [Aside]. That's capital! Kaptchítch can't come, so we will test him to-night.... [To Tánya] No, my dear, don't be afraid, he will be a good husband and ... that is only a kind of special power, and every one has it, only in some it is weaker and in others stronger. TÁNYA. Thank you, sir. Now I shan't think any more about it; but I was so frightened.... What a thing it is, our want of education! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, no, don't be frightened... Theodore! Enter Theodore Ivánitch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I am going out now. Get everything ready for to-night's séance. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But Mr. Kaptchítch is not coming. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That does not matter. [Puts on overcoat] We shall have a trial séance with our own medium. [Exit. Theodore Ivánitch goes out with him]. TÁNYA [alone] He believes it! He believes it! [Shrieks and jumps with joy] He really believes it! Isn't it wonderful! [Shrieks] Now I'll do it, if only Simon has pluck for it! Theodore Ivánitch returns. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, have you told him your secret? TÁNYA. I'll tell you too, only later on.... But I have a favour to ask of you too, Theodore Ivánitch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes? What is it? TÁNYA [shyly] You have been a second father to me, and I will open my heart before you as before God. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Don't beat about the bush, but come straight to the point. TÁNYA. The point is ... well, the point is, that Simon wants to marry me. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Is that it? I thought I noticed ... TÁNYA. Well, why should I hide it? I am an orphan, and you know yourself how matters are in these town establishments. Every one comes bothering; there's that Gregory Miháylitch, for instance, he gives me no peace. And also that other one ... you know. They think I have no soul, and am only here for their amusement. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Good girl, that's right! Well, what then? TÁNYA. Well, Simon wrote to his father; and he, his father, sees me to-day, and says: "He's spoilt"--he means his son. Theodore Ivánitch [bows], take the place of a father to me, speak to the old man,--to Simon's father! I could take them into the kitchen, and you might come in and speak to the old man! THEODORE IVÁNITCH [smiling] Then I am to turn match-maker--am I? Well, I can do that. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, dearest, be a father to me, and I'll pray for you all my life long. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, all right, I'll come later on. Haven't I promised? [Takes up newspaper]. TÁNYA. You are a second father to me! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, all right. TÁNYA. Then I'll rely on you. [Exit]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [alone, shaking his head] A good affectionate girl. To think that so many like her perish! Get but once into trouble and she'll go from hand to hand until she sinks into the mire, and can never be found again! There was that dear little Nataly. She, too, was a good girl, reared and cared for by a mother. [Takes up paper] Well, let's see what tricks Ferdinand is up to in Bulgaria. Curtain. ACT II Evening of the same day. The scene represents the interior of the servants' kitchen. The Peasants have taken off their outer garments and sit drinking tea at the table, and perspiring. Theodore Ivánitch is smoking a cigar at the other side of the stage. The discharged Cook is lying on the brick oven, and is unseen during the early part of the scene. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. My advice is, don't hinder him! If it's his wish and hers, in Heaven's name let him do it. She is a good, honest girl. Never mind her being a bit dressy; she can't help that, living in town: she is a good girl all the same. SECOND PEASANT. Well, of course, if it is his wish, let him! _He'll_ have to live with her, not me. But she's certainly uncommon spruce. How's one to take her into one's hut? Why, she'll not let her mother-in-law so much as pat her on the head. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That does not depend on the spruceness, but on character. If her nature is good, she's sure to be docile and respectful. SECOND PEASANT. Ah, well, we'll have her if the lad's bent on having her. After all, it's a bad job to live with one as one don't care for. I'll consult my missus, and then may Heaven bless them! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then let's shake hands on it! SECOND PEASANT. Well, it seems it will have to come off. FIRST PEASANT. Eh, Zachary! fortune's a-smiling on you! You've come to accomplish a piece of business, and just see what a duchess of a daughter-in-law you've obtained. All that's left to be done is to have a drink on it, and then it will be all in order. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's not at all necessary. [An awkward silence]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I know something of your way of life too, you know. I am even thinking of purchasing a bit of land, building a cottage, and working on the land myself somewhere: maybe in your neighbourhood. SECOND PEASANT. A very good thing too. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. When one has got the money one can get all kinds of pleasure in the country. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it! Country life, let's say, is freer in every way, not like the town! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. There now, would you let me join your Commune if I settled among you? SECOND PEASANT. Why not? If you stand drink for the Elders, they'll accept you soon enough! FIRST PEASANT. And if you open a public-house, for example, or an inn, why, you'd have such a life you'd never need to die! You might live like a king, and no mistake. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, we'll see. I should certainly like to have a few quiet years in my old age. Though my life here is good enough, and I should be sorry to leave. Leoníd Fyódoritch is an exceedingly kind-hearted man. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. But how about our business? Is it possible that he is going to leave it without any termination? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. He'd do it willingly. SECOND PEASANT. It seems he's afraid of his wife. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. It's not that he's afraid, but they don't hit things off together. THIRD PEASANT. But you should try, father! How are we to live else? We've so little land ... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. We'll see what comes of Tánya's attempt. She's taken the business into her hands now! THIRD PEASANT [takes a sip of tea] Father, be merciful. We've so little land. A hen, let's say, we've no room for a hen, let alone the cattle. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. If the business depended on me.... [To Second Peasant] Well, friend, so we've done our bit of match-making! It's agreed then about Tánya? SECOND PEASANT. I've given my word, and I'll not go back on it without a good reason. If only our business succeeds! Enter Servants' Cook who looks up at the oven, makes a sign, and then begins to speak animatedly to Theodore Ivánitch. SERVANTS' COOK. Just now Simon was called upstairs from the front kitchen! The master and that other bald-headed one who calls up spirits with him, ordered him to sit down and take the place of Kaptchítch! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. You don't say so! SERVANTS' COOK. Yes, Jacob told Tánya. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Extraordinary! Enter Coachman. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What do you want? COACHMAN [to Theodore Ivánitch] You may just tell them I never agreed to live with a lot of dogs! Let any one who likes do it, but I will never agree to live among dogs! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What dogs? COACHMAN. Three dogs have been sent into our room by Vasíly Leoníditch! They've messed it all over. They're whining, and if one comes near them they bite--the devils! They'd tear you to pieces if you didn't mind. I've a good mind to take a club and smash their legs for them! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But when did they come? COACHMAN. Why, to-day, from the Dog Show; the devil knows what kind they are, but they're an expensive sort. Are we or the dogs to live in the coachmen's quarters? You just go and ask! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, that will never do. I'll go and ask about it. COACHMAN. They'd better be brought here to Loukérya. SERVANTS' COOK [angrily] People have to eat here, and you'd like to lock dogs in here! As it is ... COACHMAN. And I've got the liveries, and the sledge-covers and the harness there, and they expect things kept clean! Perhaps the porter's lodge might do. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I must ask Vasíly Leoníditch. COACHMAN [angrily] He'd better hang the brutes round his neck and lug them about with him! But no fear: he'd rather ride on horseback himself. It's he as spoilt Beauty without rhyme or reason. That was a horse!... Oh dear! what a life! [Exit, slamming door]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's not right! Certainly not right! [To Peasants] Well then, it's time we were saying good-bye, friends. PEASANTS. Good-bye! Exit Theodore Ivánitch. As soon as he is gone a sound of groaning is heard from the top of the oven. SECOND PEASANT. He's sleek, that one; looks like a general. SERVANTS' COOK. Rather! Why, he has a room all to himself; he gets his washing, his tea and sugar, and food from the master's table. DISCHARGED COOK [on the oven]. Why shouldn't the old beggar live well? He's lined his pockets all right! SECOND PEASANT. Who's that up there, on the oven? SERVANTS' COOK. Oh, it's only a man. Silence. FIRST PEASANT. Well, and you too, as I noticed a while since when you were supping, have capital food to eat. SERVANTS' COOK. We can't complain. She's not mean about the food. We have wheat bread every Sunday, and fish when a holiday happens to be a fast-day too, and those who like may eat meat. SECOND PEASANT. And does any one tuck into flesh on fast-days? SERVANTS' COOK. Oh, they nearly all do! Only the old coachman--not the one who was here just now but the old one--and Simon, and I and the housekeeper, fast--all the others eat meat. SECOND PEASANT. And the master himself? SERVANTS' COOK. Catch him! Why, I bet he's forgotten there is such a thing as fasting! THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! FIRST PEASANT. That's the gentlefolks' way: they have got it all out of their books. 'Cos of their intelex! THIRD PEASANT. Shouldn't wonder if they feed on wheat bread every day! SERVANTS' COOK. Wheat bread indeed! Much they think of wheat bread! You should see what food they eat. No end of different things! FIRST PEASANT. In course gentlefolks' food is of an airial kind. SERVANTS' COOK. Airial, of course, but all the same they're good at stuffing themselves, they are! FIRST PEASANT. Have healthy appekites, so to say. SERVANTS' COOK. 'Cos they always rinse it down! All with sweet wines, and spirits, and fizzy liquors. They have a different one to suit every kind of food. They eat and rinse it down, and eat and rinse it down, they do. FIRST PEASANT. And so the food's floated down in proportion, so to say. SERVANTS' COOK. Ah yes, they are good at stuffing! It's awful! You see, it's not just sitting down, eating, then saying grace and going away--they're always at it! SECOND PEASANT. Like pigs with their feet in the trough! [Peasants laugh]. SERVANTS' COOK. As soon as, by God's grace, they have opened their eyes, the samovár is brought in--tea, coffee, chocolate. Hardly is the second samovár emptied, a third has to be set. Then lunch, then dinner, then again coffee. They've hardly left off, then comes tea, and all sorts of tit-bits and sweetmeats--there's never an end to it! They even lie in bed and eat! THIRD PEASANT. There now; that's good! [Laughs]. FIRST AND SECOND PEASANTS. What are you about? THIRD PEASANT. If I could only live a single day like that! SECOND PEASANT. But when do they do their work? SERVANTS' COOK. Work indeed! What is their work? Cards and piano--that's all their work. The young lady used to sit down to the piano as soon as she opened her eyes, and off she'd go! And that other one who lives here, the teacher, stands and waits. "When will the piano be free?" When one has finished, off rattles the other, and sometimes they'd put two pianos near one another and four of 'em would bust out at once. Bust out in such a manner, you could hear 'em down here! THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! SERVANTS' COOK. Well, and that's all the work they do! Piano or cards! As soon as they have met together--cards, wine, smoking, and so on all night long. And as soon as they are up: eating again! Enter Simon. SIMON. Hope you're enjoying your tea! FIRST PEASANT. Come and join us. SIMON [comes up to the table] Thank you kindly. [First Peasant pours out a cup of tea for him]. SECOND PEASANT. Where have you been? SIMON. Upstairs. SECOND PEASANT. Well, and what was being done there? SIMON. Why, I couldn't make it out at all! I don't know how to explain it. SECOND PEASANT. But what was it? SIMON. I can't explain it. They have been trying some kind of strength in me. I can't make it out. Tánya says, "Do it, and we'll get the land for our peasants; he'll sell it them." SECOND PEASANT. But how is she going to manage it? SIMON. I can't make it out, and she won't say. She says, "Do as I tell you," and that's all. SECOND PEASANT. But what is it you have to do? SIMON. Nothing just now. They made me sit down, put out the lights and told me to sleep. And Tánya had hidden herself there. They didn't see her, but I did. SECOND PEASANT. Why? What for? SIMON. The Lord only knows--I can't make it out. FIRST PEASANT. Naturally it is for the distraction of time. SECOND PEASANT. Well, it's clear you and I can make nothing of it. You had better tell me whether you have taken all your wages yet. SIMON. No, I've not drawn any. I have twenty-eight roubles to the good, I think. SECOND PEASANT. That's all right! Well, if God grants that we get the land, I'll take you home, Simon. SIMON. With all my heart! SECOND PEASANT. You've got spoilt, I should say. You'll not want to plough? SIMON. Plough? Only give me the chance! Plough or mow,--I'm game. Those are things one doesn't forget. FIRST PEASANT. But it don't seem very desirous after town life, for example? Eh! SIMON. It's good enough for me. One can live in the country too. FIRST PEASANT. And Daddy Mítry here, is already on the look-out for your place; he's hankering after a life of luckshury! SIMON. Eh, Daddy Mítry, you'd soon get sick of it. It seems easy enough when one looks at it, but there's a lot of running about that takes it out of one. SERVANTS' COOK. You should see one of their balls, Daddy Mítry, then you would be surprised! THIRD PEASANT. Why, do they eat all the time? SERVANTS' COOK. My eye! You should have seen what we had here awhile ago. Theodore Ivánitch took me upstairs and I peeped in. The ladies--awful! Dressed up! Dressed up, bless my heart, and all bare down to here, and their arms bare. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! SECOND PEASANT. Faugh! How beastly! FIRST PEASANT. I take it the climate allows of that sort of thing! SERVANTS' COOK. Well, daddy, so I peeped in. Dear me, what it was like! All of 'em in their natural skins! Would you believe it: old women--our mistress, only think, she's a grandmother, and even she'd gone and bared her shoulders. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! SERVANTS' COOK. And what next? The music strikes up, and each man of 'em went up to his own, catches hold of her, and off they go twirling round and round! SECOND PEASANT. The old women too? SERVANTS' COOK. Yes, the old ones too. SIMON. No, the old ones sit still. SERVANTS' COOK. Get along,--I've seen it myself! SIMON. No they don't. DISCHARGED COOK [in a hoarse voice, looking down from the oven] That's the Polka-Mazurka. You fools don't understand what dancing is. The way they dance ... SERVANTS' COOK. Shut up, you dancer! And keep quiet--there's some one coming. Enter Gregory; old Cook hides hurriedly. GREGORY [to Servants' Cook] Bring some sour cabbage. SERVANTS' COOK. I am only just up from the cellar, and now I must go down again! Who is it for? GREGORY. For the young ladies. Be quick, and send it up with Simon. I can't wait! SERVANTS' COOK. There now, they tuck into sweetmeats till they are full up, and then they crave for sour cabbage! FIRST PEASANT. That's to make a clearance. SERVANTS' COOK. Of course, and as soon as there is room inside, they begin again! [Takes basin, and exit]. GREGORY [at Peasants] Look at them, how they've established themselves down here! Mind, if the mistress finds it out she'll give it you hot, like she did this morning! [Exit, laughing]. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it, she did raise a storm that time--awful! SECOND PEASANT. That time it looked as if the master was going to step in, but seeing that the missus was about to blow the very roof off the house, he slams the door. Have your own way, thinks he. THIRD PEASANT [waving his arm] It's the same everywhere. My old woman, let's say, she kicks up such a rumpus sometimes--it's just awful! Then I just get out of the hut. Let her go to Jericho! She'll give you one with the poker if you don't mind. Oh Lord! Jacob enters hurriedly with a prescription. JACOB. Here, Simon, you run to the chemist's and get these powders for the mistress! SIMON. But master told me not to go out. JACOB. You've plenty of time; your business won't begin till after their tea. Hope you are enjoying your tea! FIRST PEASANT. Thanks, come and join us. Exit Simon. JACOB. I haven't time. However, I'll just have one cup for company's sake. FIRST PEASANT. And we've just been having a conversation as to how your mistress carried on so haughty this morning. JACOB. Oh, she's a reg'lar fury! So hot-tempered, that she gets quite beside herself. Sometimes she even bursts out crying. FIRST PEASANT. Now, there's a thing I wanted to ask you about. What, for example, be these mikerots she was illuding to erewhile? "They've infested the house with mikerots, with mikerots," she says. What is one to make of these same mikerots? JACOB. Mikerogues, you mean! Well, it seems there is such a kind of bugs; all illnesses come from them, they say. So she says there are some of 'em on you. After you were gone, they washed and washed and sprinkled the place where you had stood. There's a kind of physic as kills these same bugs, they say. SECOND PEASANT. Then where have we got these bugs on us? JACOB [drinking his tea] Why, they say they're so small that one can't see 'em even through a glass. SECOND PEASANT. Then how does she know I've got 'em on me? Perhaps there's more of that muck on her than on me! JACOB. There now, you go and ask her! SECOND PEASANT. I believe it's humbug. JACOB. Of course it's bosh. The doctors must invent something, or else what are they paid for? There's one comes to us every day. Comes,--talks a bit,--and pockets ten roubles! SECOND PEASANT. Nonsense! JACOB. Why, there's one as takes a hundred! FIRST PEASANT. A hundred? Humbug! JACOB. A hundred. Humbug, you say? Why, if he has to go out of town, he'll not do it for less than a thousand! "Give a thousand," he says, "or else you may kick the bucket for what I care!" THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! SECOND PEASANT. Then does he know some charm? JACOB. I suppose he must. I served at a General's outside Moscow once: a cross, terrible proud old fellow he was--just awful. Well, this General's daughter fell ill. They send for that doctor at once. "A thousand roubles, then I'll come." Well, they agreed, and he came. Then they did something or other he didn't like, and he bawled out at the General and says, "Is this the way you show your respect for me? Then I'll not attend her!" And, oh my! The old General forgot all his pride, and starts wheedling him in every way not to chuck up the job! FIRST PEASANT. And he got the thousand? JACOB. Of course! SECOND PEASANT. That's easy got money. What wouldn't a peasant do with such a sum! THIRD PEASANT. And I think it's all bosh. That time my foot was festering I had it doctored ever so long. I spent nigh on five roubles on it,--then I gave up doctoring, and it got all right! Discharged Cook on the oven coughs. JACOB. Ah, the old crony is here again! FIRST PEASANT. Who might that man be? JACOB. He used to be our master's cook. He comes to see Loukérya. FIRST PEASANT. Kitchen-master, as one might say. Then, does he live here? JACOB. No, they won't allow that. He's here one day, there another. If he's got a copper he goes to a dosshouse; but when he has drunk all, he comes here. SECOND PEASANT. How did he come to this? JACOB. Simply grew weak. And what a man he used to be--like a gentleman! Went about with a gold watch; got forty roubles a month wages. And now look at him! He'd have starved to death long ago if it hadn't been for Loukérya. Enter Servants' Cook with the sour cabbage. JACOB [to Servants' Cook] I see you've got Paul Petróvitch here again? SERVANTS' COOK. And where's he to go to? Is he to go and freeze? THIRD PEASANT. What liquor does.... Liquor, let's say ... [Clicks his tongue sympathetically]. SECOND PEASANT. Of course. A firm man's firm as a rock; a weak man's weaker than water. DISCHARGED COOK [gets off the oven with trembling hands and legs] Loukérya, I say, give us a drop! SERVANTS' COOK. What are you up to? I'll give you such a drop!... DISCHARGED COOK. Have you no conscience? I'm dying! Brothers, a copper ... SERVANTS' COOK. Get back on the oven, I tell you! DISCHARGED COOK. Half a glass only, cook, for Heaven's sake! I say, do you understand? I ask you in the name of Heaven, now! SERVANTS' COOK. Come along, here's some tea for you. DISCHARGED COOK. Tea; what is tea? Weak, sloppy stuff. A little vódka--just one little drop ... Loukérya! THIRD PEASANT. Poor old soul, what agony it is! SECOND PEASANT. You'd better give him some. SERVANTS' COOK [gets out a bottle and fills a wine-glass] Here you are; you'll get no more. DISCHARGED COOK [clutches hold of it and drinks, trembling all over] Loukérya, Cook! I am drinking, and you must understand ... SERVANTS' COOK. Now then, stop your chatter! Get on to the oven, and let not a breath of you be heard! [The old Cook meekly begins to climb up, muttering something to himself]. SECOND PEASANT. What it is, when a man gives way to his weakness! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it--human weakness. THIRD PEASANT. That goes without saying. The Discharged Cook settles down, muttering all the time. Silence. SECOND PEASANT. I want to ask you something: that girl of Aksínya's as comes from our village and is living here. How is she? What is she like? How is she living--I mean, does she live honest? JACOB. She's a nice girl; one can say nothing but good of her. SERVANTS' COOK. I'll tell you straight, daddy; I know this here establishment out and out, and if you mean to have Tánya for your son's wife--be quick about it, before she comes to grief, or else she'll not escape! JACOB. Yes, that's true. A while ago we had a girl here, Nataly. She was a good girl too. And she was lost without rhyme or reason. No better than that chap! [Pointing to the old Cook]. SERVANTS' COOK. There's enough to dam a mill-pool, with the likes of us, as perish! 'Cos why, every one is tempted by the easy life and the good food. And see there,--as soon as one has tasted the good food she goes and slips. And once she's slipped, they don't want her, but get a fresh one in her place. So it was with dear little Nataly; she also slipped, and they turned her out. She had a child and fell ill, and died in the hospital last spring. And what a girl she used to be! THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! People are weak; they ought to be pitied. DISCHARGED COOK. Those devils pity? No fear! [He hangs his legs down from the oven] I have stood roasting myself by the kitchen range for thirty years, and now that I am not wanted, I may go and die like a dog.... Pity indeed!... FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It's the old circumstances. SECOND PEASANT. While they drank and they fed, you were "curly head." When they'd finished the prog, 'twas "Get out, mangy dog!" THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! DISCHARGED COOK. Much you know. What is "Sautey a la Bongmont"? What is "Bavassary"? Oh, the things I could make! Think of it! The Emperor tasted my work, and now the devils want me no longer. But I am not going to stand it! SERVANTS' COOK. Now then, stop that noise, mind.... Get up right into the corner, so that no one can see you, or else Theodore Ivánitch or some one may come in, and both you and me'll be turned out! [Silence]. JACOB. And do you know my part of the country? I'm from Voznesénsky. SECOND PEASANT. Not know it? Why, it's no more'n ten miles from our village; not _that_ across the ford! Do you cultivate any land there? JACOB. My brother does, and I send my wages. Though I live here, I am dying for a sight of home. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. SECOND PEASANT. Then Anísim is your brother? JACOB. Own brother. He lives at the farther end of the village. SECOND PEASANT. Of course, I know; his is the third house. Enter Tánya, running. TÁNYA. Jacob, what are you doing, amusing yourself here? She is calling you! JACOB. I'm coming; but what's up? TÁNYA. Frisk is barking; it's hungry. And she's scolding you. "How cruel he is," she says. "He's no feeling," she says. "It's long past Frisk's dinner-time, and he has not brought her food!" [Laughs]. JACOB [rises to go] Oh, she's cross? What's going to happen now, I wonder? SERVANTS' COOK. Here, take the cabbage with you. JACOB. All right, give it here. [Takes basin, and exit]. FIRST PEASANT. Who is going to dine now? TÁNYA. Why, the dog! It's her dog. [Sits down and takes up the tea-pot] Is there any more tea? I've brought some. [Puts fresh tea into the tea-pot.] FIRST PEASANT. Dinner for a dog? TÁNYA. Yes, of course! They prepare a special cutlet for her; it must not be too fat. And I do the washing--the dog's washing, I mean. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! TÁNYA. It's like that gentleman who had a funeral for his dog. SECOND PEASANT. What's that? TÁNYA. Why, some one told me he had a dog--I mean the gentleman had a dog. And it died. It was winter, and he went in his sledge to bury that dog. Well, he buried it, and on the way home he sits and cries--the gentleman does. Well, there was such a bitter frost that the coachman's nose keeps running, and he has to keep wiping it. Let me fill your cup! [Fills it] So he keeps wiping his nose, and the gentleman sees it, and says, "What are you crying about?" And the coachman, he says, "Why, sir, how can I help it; is there another dog like him?" [Laughs]. SECOND PEASANT. And I daresay he thinks to himself, "If your own self was to kick the bucket I'd not cry." [Laughs]. DISCHARGED COOK [from up on the oven] That is true; that's right! TÁNYA. Well, the gentleman, he gets home and goes straight to his lady: "What a good-hearted man our coachman is; he was crying all the way home about poor Dash. Have him called.... Here, drink this glass of vódka," he says, "and here's a rouble as a reward for you." That's just like her saying Jacob has no feelings for her dog! [The Peasants laugh]. FIRST PEASANT. That's the style! SECOND PEASANT. That was a go! THIRD PEASANT. Ay, lassie, but you've set us a-laughing! TÁNYA [pouring out more tea] Have some more! Yes, it only seems that our life is pleasant; but sometimes it is very disgusting,--clearing up all their messes! Faugh! It's better in the country. [Peasants turn their cups upside-down, as a polite sign that they have had enough. Tánya pours out more tea] Have some more, Efím Antónitch. I'll fill your cup, Mítry Vlásitch. THIRD PEASANT. All right, fill it, fill it. FIRST PEASANT. Well, dear, and what progression is our business making? TÁNYA. It's getting on ... [Illustration: FRUITS OF CULTURE. ACT II. FIRST PEASANT. Well, dear, and what progression is our business making? TÁNYA. It's getting on ...] FIRST PEASANT. Simon told us ... TÁNYA [quickly] Did he? SECOND PEASANT. But he could not make us understand. TÁNYA. I can't tell you now, but I'm doing my best--all I can! And I've got your paper here! [Shows the paper hidden under the bib of her apron] If only one thing succeeds.... [Shrieks] Oh, how nice it would be! SECOND PEASANT. Don't lose that paper, mind. It has cost money. TÁNYA. Never fear. You only want him to sign it? Is that all? THIRD PEASANT. Why, what else? Let's say he's signed it, and it's done! [Turns his cup upside-down] I've had enough. TÁNYA [aside] He'll sign it; you'll see he will... Have some more. [Pours out tea]. FIRST PEASANT. If only you get this business about the sale of the land settled, the Commune would pay your marriage expenses. [Refuses the tea]. TÁNYA [pouring out tea] Do have another cup. THIRD PEASANT. You get it done, and we'll arrange your marriage, and I myself, let's say, will dance at the wedding. Though I've never danced in all my born days, I'll dance then! TÁNYA [laughing] All right, I'll be in hopes of it. [Silence]. SECOND PEASANT [examines Tánya] That's all very well, but you're not fit for peasant work. TÁNYA. Who? I? Why, don't you think me strong enough? You should see me lacing up my mistress. There's many a peasant couldn't tug as hard. SECOND PEASANT. Where do you tug her to? TÁNYA. Well, there's a thing made with bone, like--something like a stiff jacket, only up to here! Well, and I pull the strings just as when you saddle a horse--when you ... what d'ye call it? You know, when you spit on your hands! SECOND PEASANT. Tighten the girths, you mean. TÁNYA. Yes, yes, that's it. And you know I mustn't shove against her with my knee. [Laughs]. SECOND PEASANT. Why do you pull her in? TÁNYA. For a reason! SECOND PEASANT. Why, is she doing penance? TÁNYA. No, it's for beauty's sake! FIRST PEASANT. That's to say, you pull in her paunch for appearance' sake. TÁNYA. Sometimes I lace her up so that her eyes are ready to start from her head, and she says, "Tighter," till my hands tingle. And you say I'm not strong! [Peasants laugh and shake their heads]. TÁNYA. But here, I've been jabbering. [Runs away, laughing]. THIRD PEASANT. Ah, the lassie has made us laugh! FIRST PEASANT. She's a tidy one! SECOND PEASANT. She's not bad. Enter Sahátof and Vasíly Leoníditch. Sahátof holds a teaspoon in his hand. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Not exactly a dinner, but a _déjeuner dinatoire_. And first-rate it was, I tell you. Ham of sucking-pig, delicious! Roulier feeds one splendidly! I've only just returned. [Sees Peasants] Ah, the peasants are here again! SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes, that's all very well, but we came here to hide this article. Where shall we hide it? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me a moment. [To Servants' Cook] Where are the dogs? SERVANTS' COOK. In the coachman's quarters. You can't keep dogs in the servants' kitchen! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ah, in the coachman's quarters? All right. SAHÁTOF. I am waiting. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me, please. Eh, what? Hide it? I'll tell you what. Let's put it into one of the peasants' pockets. That one. I say, where's your pocket? Eh, what? THIRD PEASANT. What for d'ye want my pocket? You're a good 'un! My pocket! There's money in my pocket! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Where's your bag, then? THIRD PEASANT. What for? SERVANTS' COOK. What d'you mean? That's the young master! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [laughs. To Sahátof] D'you know why he's so frightened? Shall I tell you? He's got a heap of money. Eh, what? SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes, I see. Well, you talk to them a bit, and I'll put it into that bag without being observed, so that they should not notice and could not point it out to him. Talk to them. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. All right! [To Peasants] Well then, old fellows, how about the land? Are you buying it? Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. We have made an offering, so to say, with our whole heart. But there,--the business don't come into action nohow. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. You should not be so stingy! Land is an important matter! I told you about planting mint. Or else tobacco would also do. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Every kind of producks. THIRD PEASANT. And you help us, master. Ask your father. Or else how are we to live? There's so little land. A fowl, let's say, there's not enough room for a fowl to run about. SAHÁTOF [having put the spoon into a bag belonging to the Third Peasant] _C'est fait._ Ready. Come along. [Exit]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. So don't be stingy! Eh? Well, good-bye. [Exit]. THIRD PEASANT. Didn't I say, come to some lodging-house? Well, supposing we'd had to give three-pence each, then at least we'd have been in peace. As to here, the Lord be merciful! "Give us the money," he says. What's that for? SECOND PEASANT. He's drunk, I daresay. Peasants turn their cups upside-down, rise, and cross themselves. FIRST PEASANT. And d'you mind what a saying he threw out? Sowing mint! One must know how to understand them, that one must! SECOND PEASANT. Sow mint indeed! He'd better bend his own back at that work, and then it's not mint he'll hanker after, no fear! Well, many thanks!... And now, good woman, would you tell us where we could lie down to sleep? SERVANTS' COOK. One of you can lie on the oven, and the others on these benches. THIRD PEASANT. Christ save you! [Prays, crossing himself]. FIRST PEASANT. If only by God's help we get our business settled! [Lies down] Then to-morrow, after dinner, we'd be off by the train, and on Tuesday we'd be home again. SECOND PEASANT. Are you going to put out the light? SERVANTS' COOK. Put it out? Oh no! They'll keep running down here, first for one thing then another.... You lie down, I'll lower it. SECOND PEASANT. How is one to live, having so little land? Why, this year, I have had to buy corn since Christmas. And the oat-straw is all used up. I'd like to get hold of ten acres, and then I could take Simon back. THIRD PEASANT. You're a man with a family. You'd get the land cultivated without trouble. If only the business comes off. SECOND PEASANT. We must pray to the Holy Virgin, maybe she'll help us out. [Silence, broken by sighs. Then footsteps and voices are heard outside. The door opens. Enter Grossman hurriedly, with his eyes bandaged, holding Sahátof's hand, and followed by the Professor and the Doctor, the Fat Lady and Leoníd Fyódoritch, Betsy and Petrístchef, Vasíly Leoníditch and Márya Konstantínovna, Anna Pávlovna and the Baroness, Theodore Ivánitch and Tánya]. Peasants jump up. Grossman comes forward stepping quickly, then stops. FAT LADY. You need not trouble yourselves; I have undertaken the task of observing, and am strictly fulfilling my duty! Mr. Sahátof, are you not leading him? SAHÁTOF. Of course not! FAT LADY. You must not lead him, but neither must you resist! [To Leoníd Fyódoritch] I know these experiments. I have tried them myself. Sometimes I used to feel a certain effluence, and as soon as I felt it ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. May I beg of you to keep perfect silence? FAT LADY. Oh, I understand so well! I have experienced it myself. As soon as my attention was diverted I could no longer ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Sh ...! Grossman goes about, searches near the First and Second Peasants, then approaches the Third, and stumbles over a bench. BARONESS. _Mais dites-moi, on le paye?_[6] ANNA PÁVLOVNA. _Je ne saurais vous dire._ [6] BARONESS. But tell me, please, is he paid for this? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I really do not know. BARONESS. _Mais c'est un monsieur?_[7] ANNA PÁVLOVNA. _Oh, oui!_ BARONESS. _Ça tient du miraculeux. N'est ce pas? Comment est-ce qu'il trouve?_ ANNA PÁVLOVNA. _Je ne saurais vous dire. Mon mari vous l'expliquera._ [Noticing Peasants, turns round, and sees the Servants' Cook] _Pardon_ ... what is this? [7] BARONESS. But he is a gentleman? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh yes! BARONESS. It is almost miraculous. Isn't it? How does he manage to find things? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I really can't tell you. My husband will explain it to you.... Excuse me.... Baroness goes up to the group. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Servants' Cook] Who let the peasants in? SERVANTS' COOK. Jacob brought them in. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Who gave Jacob the order? SERVANTS' COOK. I can't say. Theodore Ivánitch has seen them. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Leoníd! Leoníd Fyódoritch does not hear, being absorbed in the search, and says, Sh ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Theodore Ivánitch! What is the meaning of this? Did you not see me disinfecting the whole hall, and now the whole kitchen is infected, all the rye bread, the milk ... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I thought there would not be any danger if they came here. The men have come on business. They have far to go, and are from our village. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. That's the worst of it! They are from the Koursk village, where people are dying of diphtheria like flies! But the chief thing is, I ordered them out of the house!... Did I, or did I not? [Approaches the others that have gathered round the Peasants] Be careful! Don't touch them--they are all infected with diphtheria! [No one heeds her, and she steps aside in a dignified manner and stands quietly waiting]. PETRÍSTCHEF [sniffs loudly] I don't know if it is diphtheria, but there is some kind of infection in the air. Don't you notice it? BETSY. Stop your nonsense! Vovo, which bag is it in? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. That one, that one. He is getting near, very near! PETRÍSTCHEF. Is it spirits divine, or spirits of wine? BETSY. Now your cigarette comes in handy for once. Smoke closer, closer to me. Petrístchef leans over her and smokes at her. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. He's getting near, I tell you. Eh, what? GROSSMAN [searches excitedly round the Third Peasant] It is here; I feel it is! FAT LADY. Do you feel an effluence? [Grossman stoops and finds the spoon in the bag]. ALL. Bravo! [General enthusiasm]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ah! So that's where our spoon was. [To Peasants] Then that's the sort you are! THIRD PEASANT. What sort? I didn't take your spoon! What are you making out? I didn't take it, and my soul knows nothing about it. I didn't take it--there! Let him do what he likes. I knew he came here for no good. "Where's your bag?" says he. I didn't take it, the Lord is my witness! [Crosses himself] I didn't take it! The young people group round the Peasant, laughing. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [angrily to his son] Always playing the fool! [To the Third Peasant] Never mind, friend! We know you did not take it; it was only an experiment. GROSSMAN [removes bandage from his eyes, and pretends to be coming to] Can I have a little water? [All fuss round him]. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Let's go straight from here into the coachman's room. I've got a bitch there--_épâtante_![8] Eh, what? [8] Stunning! BETSY. What a horrid word. Couldn't you say dog? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. No. I can't say--Betsy is a man, _épâtant_. I should have to say young woman; it's a parallel case. Eh, what? Márya Konstantínovna, isn't it true? Good, eh? [Laughs loudly]. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Well, let us go. [Exeunt Márya Konstantínovna, Betsy, Petrístchef, and Vasíly Leoníditch]. FAT LADY [to Grossman] Well? how are you? Have you rested? [Grossman does not answer. To Sahátof] And you, Mr. Sahátof, did you feel the effluence? SAHÁTOF. I felt nothing. Yes, it was very fine--very fine. Quite a success! BARONESS. _Admirable! Ça ne le fait pas souffrir?_[9] LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. _Pas le moins du monde._ [9] BARONESS. Capital! Does it not cause him any pain? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Not the slightest. PROFESSOR [to Grossman] May I trouble you? [Hands him a thermometer] At the beginning of the experiment it was 37 decimal 2, degrees.[10] [To Doctor] That's right, I think? Would you mind feeling his pulse? Some loss is inevitable. [10] He uses a Centigrade thermometer. DOCTOR [to Grossman] Now then, sir, let's have your hand; we'll see, we'll see. [Takes out his watch, and feels Grossman's pulse]. FAT LADY [to Grossman] One moment! The condition you were in could not be called sleep? GROSSMAN [wearily] It was hypnosis. SAHÁTOF. In that case, are we to understand that you hypnotised yourself? GROSSMAN. And why not? An hypnotic state may ensue not only in consequence of association--the sound of the tom-tom, for instance, in Charcot's method--but by merely entering an hypnogenetic zone. SAHÁTOF. Granting that, it would still be desirable to define what hypnotism is, more exactly? PROFESSOR. Hypnotism is a phenomenon resulting from the transmutation of one energy into another. GROSSMAN. Charcot does not so define it. SAHÁTOF. A moment, just a moment! That is your definition, but Liébault told me himself ... DOCTOR [lets go of Grossman's pulse] Ah, that's all right; well now, the temperature? FAT LADY [interrupting] No, allow me! I agree with the Professor. And here's the very best proof. After my illness, when I lay insensible, a desire to speak came over me. In general I am of a silent disposition, but then I was overcome by this desire to speak, and I spoke and spoke, and I was told that I spoke in such a way that every one was astonished! [To Sahátof] But I think I interrupted you? SAHÁTOF [with dignity] Not at all. Pray continue. DOCTOR. Pulse 82, and the temperature has risen three-tenths of a degree. PROFESSOR. There you are! That's a proof! That's just as it should be. [Takes out pocket-book and writes] 82, yes? And 37 and 5. When the hypnotic state is induced, it invariably produces a heightened action of the heart. DOCTOR. I can, as a medical man, bear witness that your prognosis was justified by the event. PROFESSOR [to Sahátof] You were saying?... SAHÁTOF. I wished to say that Liébault told me himself that the hypnotic is only one particular psychical state, increasing susceptibility to suggestion. PROFESSOR. That is so, but still the law of equivalents is the chief thing. GROSSMAN. Moreover, Liébault is far from being an authority, while Charcot has studied the subject from all sides, and has proved that hypnotism produced by a blow, a trauma ... All talking together. { SAHÁTOF. Yes, but I don't reject Charcot's labour. I know him also, { I am only repeating what Liébault told me ... { { GROSSMAN [excitedly] There are 3000 patients in the Salpêtrière, and { I have gone through the whole course. { { PROFESSOR. Excuse me, gentlemen, but that is not the point. FAT LADY [interrupting] One moment, I will explain it to you in two words? When my husband was ill, all the doctors gave him up ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. However, we had better go upstairs again. Baroness, this way! Exeunt Grossman, Sahátof, Professor, Doctor, the Fat Lady, and Baroness, talking loudly and interrupting each other. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [catching hold of Leoníd Fyódoritch's arm] How often have I asked you not to interfere in household matters! You think of nothing but your nonsense, and the whole house is on my shoulders. You will infect us all! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What? How? I don't understand what you mean. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How? Why, people ill of diphtheria sleep in the kitchen, which is in constant communication with the whole house. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, but I ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What, I? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I know nothing about it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It's your duty to know, if you are the head of the family. Such things must not be done. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But I never thought ... I thought ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It is sickening to listen to you! [Leoníd Fyódoritch remains silent]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Theodore Ivánitch] Turn them out at once! They are to leave my kitchen immediately! It is terrible! No one listens to me; they do it out of spite.... I turn them out from there, and they bring them in here! And with my illness ... [Gets more and more excited, and at last begins to cry] Doctor! Doctor! Peter Petróvitch!... He's gone too!... [Exit, sobbing, followed by Leoníd Fyódoritch]. All stand silent for a long time. THIRD PEASANT. Botheration take them all! If one don't mind, the police will be after one here. And I have never been to law in all my born days. Let's go to some lodging-house, lads! THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Tánya] What are we to do? TÁNYA. Never mind, Theodore Ivánitch, let them sleep with the coachman. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How can we do that? The coachman was complaining as it is, that his place is full of dogs. TÁNYA. Well then, the porter's lodge. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And supposing it's found out? TÁNYA. It won't be found out! Don't trouble about that, Theodore Ivánitch. How can one turn them out now, at night? They'll not find anywhere to go to. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, do as you please. Only they must go away from here. [Exit]. Peasants take their bags. DISCHARGED COOK. Oh those damned fiends! It's all their fat! Fiends! SERVANTS' COOK. You be quiet there. Thank goodness they didn't see you! TÁNYA. Well then, daddy, come along to the porter's lodge. FIRST PEASANT. Well, but how about our business? How, for example, about the applience of his hand to the signature? May we be in hopes? TÁNYA. We'll see in an hour's time. SECOND PEASANT. You'll do the trick? TÁNYA [laughs] Yes, God willing! Curtain. ACT III Evening of the same day. The small drawing-room in Leoníd Fyódoritch's house, where the séances are always held. Leoníd Fyódoritch and the Professor. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, shall we risk a séance with our new medium? PROFESSOR. Yes, certainly. He is a powerful medium, there is no doubt about it. And it is especially desirable that the séance should take place to-day with the same people. Grossman will certainly respond to the influence of the mediumistic energy, and then the connection and identity of the different phenomena will be still more evident. You will see then that, if the medium is as strong as he was just now, Grossman will vibrate. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Then I will send for Simon and ask those who wish to attend to come in. PROFESSOR. Yes, all right! I will just jot down a few notes. [Takes out his note-book and writes]. Enter Sahátof. SAHÁTOF. They have just settled down to whist in Anna Pávlovna's drawing-room, and as I am not wanted there--and as I am interested in your séance--I have put in an appearance here. But will there be a séance? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, certainly! SAHÁTOF. In spite of the absence of Mr. Kaptchítch's mediumistic powers? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. _Vous avez la main heureuse._[11] Fancy, that very peasant whom I mentioned to you this morning, turns out to be an undoubted medium. [11] LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You bring good luck. SAHÁTOF. Dear me! Yes, that is peculiarly interesting! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, we tried a few preliminary experiments with him just after dinner. SAHÁTOF. So you've had time already to experiment, and to convince yourself ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, perfectly! And he turns out to be an exceptionally powerful medium. SAHÁTOF [incredulously] Dear me! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It turns out that it has long been noticed in the servants' hall. When he sits down to table, the spoon springs into his hand of its own accord! [To the Professor] Had you heard about it? PROFESSOR. No, I had not heard that detail. SAHÁTOF [to the Professor]. But still, you admit the possibility of such phenomena? PROFESSOR. What phenomena? SAHÁTOF. Well, spiritualistic, mediumistic, and supernatural phenomena in general. PROFESSOR. The question is, what do we consider supernatural? When, not a living man but a piece of stone attracted a nail to itself, how did the phenomena strike the first observers? As something natural? Or supernatural? SAHÁTOF. Well, of course; but phenomena such as the magnet attracting iron always repeat themselves. PROFESSOR. It is just the same in this case. The phenomenon repeats itself and we experiment with it. And not only that, but we apply to the phenomena we are investigating the laws common to other phenomena. These phenomena seem supernatural only because their causes are attributed to the medium himself. But that is where the mistake lies. The phenomena are not caused by the medium, but by psychic energy acting through a medium, and that is a very different thing. The whole matter lies in the law of equivalents. SAHÁTOF. Yes, certainly, but ... Enter Tánya, who hides behind the hangings. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Only remember that we cannot reckon on any results with certainty, with this medium any more than with Home or Kaptchítch. We may not succeed, but on the other hand we may even have perfect materialisation. SAHÁTOF. Materialisation even? What do you mean by materialisation? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, I mean that some one who is dead--say, your father or your grandfather--may appear, take you by the hand, or give you something; or else some one may suddenly rise into the air, as happened to Alexéy Vladímiritch last time. PROFESSOR. Of course, of course. But the chief thing is the explanation of the phenomena, and the application to them of general laws. Enter the Fat Lady. FAT LADY. Anna Pávlovna has allowed me to join you. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Very pleased. FAT LADY. Oh, how tired Grossman seems! He could scarcely hold his cup. Did you notice [to the Professor] how pale he turned at the moment he approached the hiding-place? I noticed it at once, and was the first to mention it to Anna Pávlovna. PROFESSOR. Undoubtedly,--loss of vital energy. FAT LADY. Yes, it's just as I say, one should not abuse that sort of thing. You know, a hypnotist once suggested to a friend of mine, Véra Kónshin (oh, you know her, of course)--well, he suggested that she should leave off smoking,--and her back began to ache! PROFESSOR [trying to have his say] The temperature and the pulse clearly indicate ... FAT LADY. One moment! Allow me! Well, I said to her: it's better to smoke than to suffer so with one's nerves. Of course, smoking is injurious; I should like to give it up myself, but, do what I will, I can't! Once I managed not to smoke for a fortnight, but could hold out no longer. PROFESSOR [again trying to speak] Clearly proves ... FAT LADY. Yes, no! Allow me, just one word! You say, "loss of strength." And I was also going to say that, when I travelled with post-horses ... the roads used to be dreadful in those days--you don't remember--but I have noticed that all our nervousness comes from railways! I, for instance, can't sleep while travelling; I cannot fall asleep to save my life! PROFESSOR [makes another attempt, which the Fat Lady baffles] The loss of strength ... SAHÁTOF [smiling] Yes; oh yes! Leoníd Fyódoritch rings. FAT LADY. I am awake one night, and another, and a third, and still I can't sleep! Enter Gregory. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Please tell Theodore to get everything ready for the séance, and send Simon here--Simon, the butler's assistant,--do you hear? GREGORY. Yes, sir. [Exit]. PROFESSOR [to Sahátof]. The observation of the temperature and the pulse have shown loss of vital energy. The same will happen in consequence of the mediumistic phenomena. The law of the conservation of energy ... FAT LADY. Oh yes, yes; I was just going to say that I am very glad that a simple peasant turns out to be a medium. That's very good. I always did say that the Slavophils ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Let's go into the drawing-room in the meantime. FAT LADY. Allow me, just one word! The Slavophils are right; but I always told my husband that one ought never to exaggerate anything! "The golden mean," you know. What is the use of maintaining that the common people are all perfect, when I have myself seen ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Won't you come into the drawing-room? FAT LADY. A boy--that high--who drank! I gave him a scolding at once. And he was grateful to me afterwards. They are children, and, as I always say, children need both love and severity! Exeunt all, all talking together. Tánya enters from behind the hangings. TÁNYA. Oh, if it would only succeed! [Begins fastening some threads]. Enter Betsy hurriedly. BETSY. Isn't papa here? [Looks inquiringly at Tánya] What are you doing here? TÁNYA. Oh, Miss Elizabeth, I have only just come; I only wished ... only came in ... [Embarrassed]. BETSY. But they are going to have a séance here directly. [Notices Tánya drawing in the threads, looks at her, and suddenly bursts out laughing] Tánya! Why, it's you who do it all? Now don't deny it. And last time it was you too? Yes, it was, it was! TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth, dearest! BETSY [delighted] Oh, that is a joke! Well, I never. But why do you do it? TÁNYA. Oh miss, dear miss, don't betray me! BETSY. Not for the world! I'm awfully glad. Only tell me how you manage it? TÁNYA. Well, I just hide, and then, when it's all dark, I come out and do it. That's how. BETSY [pointing to threads] And what is this for? You needn't tell me. I see; you draw ... TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth, darling! I will confess it, but only to you. I used to do it just for fun, but now I mean business. BETSY. What? How? What business? TÁNYA. Well, you see, those peasants that came this morning, you saw them. They want to buy some land, and your father won't sell it; well, and Theodore Ivánitch, he says it's the spirits as forbid him. So I have had a thought as ... BETSY. Oh, I see! Well, you are a clever girl! Do it, do it.... But how will you manage it? TÁNYA. Well, I thought, when they put out the lights, I'll at once begin knocking and shying things about, touching their heads with the threads, and at last I'll take the paper about the land and throw it on the table. I've got it here. BETSY. Well, and then? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see? They will be astonished. The peasants had the paper, and now it's here. I will teach ... BETSY. Why, of course! Simon is the medium to-day! TÁNYA. Well, I'll teach him ... [Laughs so that she can't continue] I'll tell him to squeeze with his hands any one he can get hold of! Of course, not your father--he'd never dare do that--but any one else; he'll squeeze till it's signed. BETSY [laughing] But that's not the way it is done. Mediums never do anything themselves. TÁNYA. Oh, never mind. It's all one; I daresay it'll turn out all right. Enter Theodore Ivánitch. Exit Betsy, making signs to Tánya. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why are you here? TÁNYA. It's you I want, Theodore Ivánitch, dear ... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what is it? TÁNYA. About that affair of mine as I spoke of. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [laughs] I've made the match; yes, I've made the match. The matter is settled; we have shaken hands on it, only not had a drink on it. TÁNYA [with a shriek] Never! So it's all right? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Don't I tell you so? He says, "I shall consult the missus, and then, God willing ..." TÁNYA. Is that what he said? [Shrieks] Dear Theodore Ivánitch, I'll pray for you all the days of my life! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right! All right! Now is not the time. I've been ordered to arrange the room for the séance. TÁNYA. Let me help you. How's it to be arranged? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How? Why, the table in the middle of the room--chairs--the guitar--the accordion. The lamp is not wanted, only candles. TÁNYA [helps Theodore Ivánitch to place the things] Is that right? The guitar here, and here the inkstand. [Places it] So? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Can it be true that they'll make Simon sit here? TÁNYA. I suppose so; they've done it once. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Wonderful! [Puts on his pince-nez] But is he clean? TÁNYA. How should I know? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then, I'll tell you what ... TÁNYA. Yes, Theodore Ivánitch? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Go and take a nail-brush and some Pears' soap; you may take mine ... and go and cut his claws and scrub his hands as clean as possible. TÁNYA. He can do it himself. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well then, tell him to. And tell him to put on a clean shirt as well. TÁNYA. All right, Theodore Ivánitch. [Exit]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [sits down in an easy-chair] They're educated and learned--Alexéy Vladímiritch now, he's a professor--and yet sometimes one can't help doubting very much. The people's rude superstitions are being abolished: hobgoblins, sorcerers, witches.... But if one considers it, is not this equally superstitious? How is it possible that the souls of the dead should come and talk, and play the guitar? No! Some one is fooling them, or they are fooling themselves. And as to this business with Simon--it's simply incomprehensible. [Looks at an album] Here's their spiritualistic album. How is it possible to photograph a spirit? But here is the likeness of a Turk and Leoníd Fyódoritch sitting by.... Extraordinary human weakness! Enter Leoníd Fyódoritch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Is it all ready? THEODORE IVÁNITCH [rising leisurely] Quite ready. [Smiles] Only I don't know about your new medium. I hope he won't disgrace you, Leoníd Fyódoritch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, I and Alexéy Vladímiritch have tested him. He is a wonderfully powerful medium! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, I don't know. But is he clean enough? I don't suppose you have thought of ordering him to wash his hands? It might be rather inconvenient. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. His hands? Oh yes! They're not clean, you think? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What can you expect? He's a peasant, and there will be ladies present, and Márya Vasílevna. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It will be all right. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And then I have something to report to you. Timothy, the coachman, complains that he can't keep things clean because of the dogs. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [arranging the things on the table absent-mindedly] What dogs? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. The three hounds that came for Vasíly Leoníditch to-day. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [vexed] Tell Anna Pávlovna! She can do as she likes about it. I have no time. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But you know her weakness ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. 'Tis just as she likes, let her do as she pleases. As for him,--one never gets anything but unpleasantness from him. Besides, I am busy. Enter Simon, smiling; he has a sleeveless peasant's coat on. SIMON. I was ordered to come. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, it's all right. Let me see your hands. That will do, that will do very well! Well then, my good fellow, you must do just as you did before,--sit down, and give way to your mood. But don't think at all. SIMON. Why should I think? The more one thinks, the worse it is. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Just so, just so, exactly! The less conscious one is, the greater is the power. Don't think, but give in to your mood. If you wish to sleep, sleep; if you wish to walk, walk. Do you understand? SIMON. How could one help understanding? It's simple enough. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But above all, don't be frightened. Because you might be surprised yourself. You must understand that just as we live here, so a whole world of invisible spirits live here also. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [improving on what Leoníd Fyódoritch has said] Invisible feelings, do you understand? SIMON [laughs] How can one help understanding! It's very plain as you put it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You may rise up in the air, or something of the kind, but don't be frightened. SIMON. Why should I be frightened? That won't matter at all. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, I'll go and call them all.... Is everything ready? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I think so. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But the slates? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They are downstairs. I'll bring them. [Exit]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. All right then. So don't be afraid, but be at your ease. SIMON. Had I not better take off my coat? One would be more easy like. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Your coat? Oh no. Don't take that off. [Exit]. SIMON. She tells me to do the same again, and she will again shy things about. How isn't she afraid? Enter Tánya in her stockings and in a dress of the colour of the wall-paper. Simon laughs. TÁNYA. Shsh!... They'll hear! There, stick these matches on your fingers as before. [Sticks them on] Well, do you remember everything? SIMON [bending his fingers in, one by one] First of all, wet the matches and wave my hands about, that's one. Then make my teeth chatter, like this ... that's two. But I've forgotten the third thing. TÁNYA. And it's the third as is the chief thing. Don't forget as soon as the paper falls on the table--I shall ring the little bell--then you do like this.... Spread your arms out far and catch hold of some one, whoever it is as sits nearest, and catch hold of him. And then squeeze! [Laughs] Whether it's a gentleman or a lady, it's all one; you just squeeze 'em, and don't let 'em go,--as if it were in your sleep, and chatter with your teeth, or else howl like this. [Howls sotto-voce] And when I begin to play on the guitar, then stretch yourself as if you were waking up, you know.... Will you remember everything? SIMON. Yes, I'll remember, but it is too funny. TÁNYA. But mind you don't laugh. Still, it won't matter much if you do laugh; they'd think it was in your sleep. Only take care you don't really fall asleep when they put out the lights. SIMON. No fear, I'll pinch my ears. TÁNYA. Well then Sim darling, only mind do as I tell you, and don't get frightened. He'll sign the paper, see if he don't! They're coming! Gets under the sofa. Enter Grossman and the Professor, Leoníd Fyódoritch and the Fat Lady, the Doctor, Sahátof and Anna Pávlovna. Simon stands near the door. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Please come in, all you doubters! Though we have a new and accidentally discovered medium, I expect very important phenomena to-night. SAHÁTOF. That's very, very interesting. FAT LADY [pointing to Simon] _Mais il est très bien!_[12] [12] FAT LADY. But he looks quite nice. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, as a butler's assistant, but hardly ... SAHÁTOF. Wives never have any faith in their husbands' work. You don't believe in anything of this kind? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course not. Kaptchítch, it is true, has something exceptional about him, but Heaven knows what all this is about! FAT LADY. No, Anna Pávlovna, permit me, you can't decide it in such a way. Before I was married, I once had a remarkable dream. Dreams, you know, are often such that you don't know where they begin and where they end; it was just such a dream that I ... Enter Vasíly Leoníditch and Petrístchef. FAT LADY. And much was revealed to me by that dream. Nowadays the young people [points to Petrístchef and Vasíly Leoníditch] deny everything. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But look here, you know--now I, for instance, never deny anything! Eh, what? Betsy and Márya Konstantínovna enter, and begin talking to Petrístchef. FAT LADY. And how can one deny the supernatural? They say it is unreasonable. But what if one's reason is stupid; what then? There now, on Garden Street, you know ... why, well, it appeared every evening! My husband's brother--what do you call him? Not _beau-frère_--what's the other name for it?--I never can remember the names of these different relationships--well, he went there three nights running, and still he saw nothing; so I said to him ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, who is going to stay here? FAT LADY. I! I! SAHÁTOF. I. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Doctor] Do you mean to say you are going to stay? DOCTOR. Yes; I must see, if only once, what it is that Alexéy Vladímiritch has discovered in it. How can we deny anything without proofs? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then I am to take it to-night for certain? DOCTOR. Take what?... Oh, the powder. Yes, it would perhaps be better. Yes, yes, take it.... However, I shall come upstairs again. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes please, do. [Loud] When it is over, _mesdames et messieurs_, I shall expect you to come to me upstairs to rest from your emotions, and then we will finish our rubber. FAT LADY. Oh, certainly. SAHÁTOF. Yes, thanks! Exit Anna Pávlovna. BETSY [to Petrístchef] You must stay, I tell you. I promise you something extraordinary. Will you bet? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But you don't believe in it? BETSY. To-day I do. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA [to Petrístchef] And do you believe? PETRÍSTCHEF. "I can't believe, I cannot trust a heart for falsehood framed." Still, if Elizabeth Leonídovna commands ... VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Let us stay, Márya Konstantínovna. Eh, what? I shall invent something _épâtant_. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. No, you mustn't make me laugh. You know I can't restrain myself. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH [loud] I remain! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [severely] But I beg those who remain not to joke about it. It is a serious matter. PETRÍSTCHEF. Do you hear? Well then, let's stay. Vovo, sit here, and don't be too shy. BETSY. Yes, it's all very well for you to laugh; but just wait till you see what will happen. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Oh, but supposing it's true? Won't it be a go! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF [trembles] Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Márya Konstantínovna, I'm afraid! My tootsies tremble. BETSY [laughing] Not so loud. All sit down. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Take your seats, take your seats. Simon, sit down! SIMON. Yes, sir. [Sits down on the edge of the chair]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Sit properly. PROFESSOR. Sit straight in the middle of the chair, and quite at your ease. [Arranges Simon on his chair]. Betsy, Márya Konstantínovna and Vasíly Leoníditch laugh. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [raising his voice] I beg those who are going to remain here not to behave frivolously, but to regard this matter seriously, or bad results might follow. Do you hear, Vovo! If you can't be quiet, go away! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Quite quiet! [Hides behind Fat Lady]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Alexéy Vladímiritch, will you mesmerise him? PROFESSOR. No; why should I do it when Antón Borísitch is here? He has had far more practice and has more power in that department than I.... Antón Borísitch! GROSSMAN. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not, strictly speaking, a spiritualist. I have only studied hypnotism. It is true I have studied hypnotism in all its known manifestations; but what is called spiritualism, is entirely unknown to me. When a subject is thrown into a trance, I may expect the hypnotic phenomena known to me: lethargy, abulia, anæsthesia, analgesia, catalepsy, and every kind of susceptibility to suggestion. Here it is not these but other phenomena we expect to observe. Therefore it would be well to know of what kind are the phenomena we expect to witness, and what is their scientific significance. SAHÁTOF. I thoroughly agree with Mr. Grossman. Such an explanation would be very interesting. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I think Alexéy Vladímiritch will not refuse to give us a short explanation. PROFESSOR. Why not? I can give an explanation if it is desired. [To the Doctor] Will you kindly note his temperature and pulse? My explanation must, of necessity, be cursory and brief. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, please; briefly, quite briefly. DOCTOR. All right. [Takes out thermometer] Now then, my lad ... [Places the thermometer]. SIMON. Yes, sir! PROFESSOR [rising and addressing the Fat Lady--then reseating himself] Ladies and gentlemen! The phenomenon we are investigating to-night is regarded, on the one hand, as something new; and, on the other, as something transcending the limits of natural conditions. Neither view is correct. This phenomenon is not new but is as old as the world; and it is not supernatural but is subject to the eternal laws that govern all that exists. This phenomenon has been usually defined as "intercourse with the spirit world." That definition is inexact. Under such a definition the spirit world is contrasted with the material world. But this is erroneous; there is no such contrast! Both worlds are so closely connected that it is impossible to draw a line of demarcation, separating the one from the other. We say, matter is composed of molecules ... PETRÍSTCHEF. Prosy matter! [Whispering and laughter]. PROFESSOR [pauses, then continues] Molecules are composed of atoms, but the atoms, having no extension, are in reality nothing but the points of application of forces. Strictly speaking, not of forces but of energy, that same energy which is as much a unity and just as indestructible as matter. But matter, though one, has many different aspects, and the same is true of energy. Till recently only four forms of energy, convertible into one another, have been known to us: energies known as the dynamic, the thermal, the electric, and the chemic. But these four aspects of energy are far from exhausting all the varieties of its manifestation. The forms in which energy may manifest itself are very diverse, and it is one of these new and as yet but little known phases of energy, that we are investigating to-night. I refer to mediumistic energy. Renewed whispering and laughter among the young people. PROFESSOR [stops and casts a severe look round] Mediumistic energy has been known to mankind for ages: prophecy, presentiments, visions and so on, are nothing but manifestations of mediumistic energy. The manifestations produced by it have, I say, been known to mankind for ages. But the energy itself has not been recognised as such till quite recently--not till that medium, the vibrations of which cause the manifestations of mediumistic energy, was recognised. In the same way that the phenomena of light were inexplicable until the existence of an imponderable substance--an ether--was recognised, so mediumistic phenomena seemed mysterious until the now fully established fact was recognised, that between the particles of ether there exists another still more rarified imponderable substance not subject to the law of the three dimensions ... Renewed laughter, whispers, and giggling. PROFESSOR [again looks round severely] And just as mathematical calculations have irrefutably proved the existence of imponderable ether which gives rise to the phenomena of light and electricity, so the successive investigations of the ingenious Hermann, of Schmidt, and of Joseph Schmatzhofen, have confirmed beyond a doubt the existence of a substance which fills the universe and may be called spiritual ether. FAT LADY. Ah, now I understand. I am so grateful ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, but Alexéy Vladímiritch, could you not ... condense it a little? PROFESSOR [not heeding the remark] And so, as I have just had the honour of mentioning to you, a succession of strictly scientific experiments have made plain to us the laws of mediumistic phenomena. These experiments have proved that, when certain individuals are plunged into a hypnotic state (a state differing from ordinary sleep only by the fact that man's physiological activity is not lowered by the hypnotic influence but, on the contrary, is always heightened--as we have recently witnessed) when, I say, any individual is plunged into such a state, this always produces certain perturbations in the spiritual ether--perturbations quite similar to those produced by plunging a solid body into liquid matter. These perturbations are what we call mediumistic phenomena ... Laughter, and whispers. SAHÁTOF. That is quite comprehensible and correct; but if, as you are kind enough to inform us, the plunging of the medium into a trance produces perturbations of the spiritual ether, allow me to ask why (as is usually supposed to be the case in spiritualistic séances) these perturbations result in an activity on the part of the souls of dead people? PROFESSOR. It is because the molecules of this spiritual ether are nothing but the souls of the living, the dead, and the unborn, and any vibration of the spiritual ether must inevitably cause a certain vibration of its atoms. These atoms are nothing but human souls, which enter into communication with one another by means of these movements. FAT LADY [to Sahátof] What is it that puzzles you? It is so simple.... Thank you so, so much! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I think everything has now been explained, and that we may commence. DOCTOR. The fellow is in a perfectly normal condition: temperature 37 decimal 2, pulse 74. PROFESSOR [takes out his pocket-book and notes this down] What I have just had the honour of explaining will be confirmed by the fact, which we shall presently have an opportunity of observing, that after the medium has been thrown into a trance his temperature and pulse will inevitably rise, just as occurs in cases of hypnotism. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes. But excuse me a moment. I should like to reply to Sergéy Ivánitch's question: How do we know we are in communication with the souls of the dead? We know it because the spirit that appears, plainly tells us--as simply as I am speaking to you--who he is, and why he has come, and whether all is well with him! At our last séance a Spaniard, Don Castillos, came to us, and he told us everything. He told us who he was, and when he died, and that he was suffering for having taken part in the Inquisition. He even told us what was happening to him at the very time that he was speaking to us, namely, that at the very time he was talking to us he had to be born again on earth, and, therefore, could not continue his conversation with us.... But you'll see for yourselves ... FAT LADY [interrupting] Oh, how interesting! Perhaps the Spaniard was born in one of our houses and is a baby now! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Quite possibly. PROFESSOR. I think it is time we began. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I was only going to say ... PROFESSOR. It is getting late. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Very well. Then we will commence. Antón Borísitch, be so good as to hypnotise the medium. GROSSMAN. What method would you like me to use? There are several methods. There is Braid's system, there is the Egyptian symbol, and there is Charcot's system. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [to the Professor] I think it is quite immaterial. PROFESSOR. Quite. GROSSMAN. Then I will make use of my own method, which I showed in Odessa. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. If you please! Grossman waves his arms above Simon. Simon closes his eyes and stretches himself. GROSSMAN [looking closely at him] He is falling asleep! He is asleep! A remarkably rapid occurrence of hypnosis. The subject has evidently already reached a state of anæsthesia. He is remarkable,--an unusually impressionable subject, and might be subjected to interesting experiments!... [Sits down, rises, sits down again] Now one might run a needle into his arm. If you like ... PROFESSOR [to Leoníd Fyódoritch] Do you notice how the medium's trance acts on Grossman? He is beginning to vibrate. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes ... can the lights be extinguished now? SAHÁTOF. But why is darkness necessary? PROFESSOR. Darkness? Because it is a condition of the manifestation of mediumistic energy, just as a given temperature is a condition necessary for certain manifestations of chemical or dynamic energy. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But not always. Manifestations have been observed by me, and by many others, both by candlelight and daylight. PROFESSOR [interrupting] May the lights be put out? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, certainly. [Puts out candles] Ladies and gentlemen! attention, if you please. Tánya gets from under the sofa and takes hold of a thread tied to a chandelier. PETRÍSTCHEF. I like that Spaniard! Just in the midst of a conversation--off he goes head downwards ... as the French say: _piquer une tête_.[13] [13] To take a header. BETSY. You just wait a bit, and see what will happen! PETRÍSTCHEF. I have only one fear, and that is that Vovo may be moved by the spirit to grunt like a pig! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Would you like me to? I will ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Gentlemen! Silence, if you please! Silence. Simon licks the matches on his fingers and rubs his knuckles with them. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A light! Do you see the light? SAHÁTOF. A light? Yes, yes, I see; but allow me ... FAT LADY. Where? Where? Oh dear, I did not see it! Ah, there it is. Oh!... PROFESSOR [whispers to Leoníd Fyódoritch, and points to Grossman, who is moving] Do you notice how he vibrates? It is the dual influence. [The light appears again]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [to the Professor] It must be he--you know! SAHÁTOF. Who? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A Greek, Nicholas. It is his light. Don't you think so, Alexéy Vladímiritch? SAHÁTOF. Who is this Greek, Nicholas? PROFESSOR. A certain Greek, who was a monk at Constantinople under Constantine and who has been visiting us lately. FAT LADY. Where is he? Where is he? I don't see him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is not yet visible ... Alexéy Vladímiritch, he is particularly well disposed towards you. You question him. PROFESSOR [in a peculiar voice] Nicholas! Is that you? Tánya raps twice on the wall. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [joyfully] It is he! It is he! FAT LADY. Oh dear! Oh! I shall go away! SAHÁTOF. Why do you suppose it is he? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, the two knocks. It is an affirmative answer; else all would have been silence. Silence. Suppressed giggling in the young people's corner. Tánya throws a lampshade, pencil and penwiper upon the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [whispers] Do you notice, gentlemen, here is a lamp-shade, and something else--a pencil!... Alexéy Vladímiritch, it is a pencil! PROFESSOR. All right, all right! I am watching both him and Grossman! Grossman rises and feels the things that have fallen on the table. SAHÁTOF. Excuse me, excuse me! I should like to see whether it is not the medium who is doing it all himself? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Do you think so? Well, sit by him and hold his hands. But you may be sure he is asleep. SAHÁTOF [approaches. Tánya lets a thread touch his head. He is frightened, and stoops]. Ye ... ye ... yes! Strange, very strange! [Takes hold of Simon's elbow. Simon howls]. PROFESSOR [to Leoníd Fyódoritch] Do you notice the effect of Grossman's presence? It is a new phenomenon--I must note it ... [Runs out to note it down, and returns again]. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes.... But we cannot leave Nicholas without an answer. We must begin ... GROSSMAN [rises, approaches Simon and raises and lowers his arm] It would be interesting to produce contraction! The subject is in profound hypnosis. PROFESSOR [to Leoníd Fyódoritch] Do you see? Do you see? GROSSMAN. If you like ... DOCTOR. Now then, my dear sir, leave the management to Alexéy Vladímiritch, the affair is turning out serious. PROFESSOR. Leave him alone, he [referring to Grossman] is talking in his sleep! FAT LADY. How glad I now am that I resolved to be present! It is frightening, but all the same I am glad, for I always said to my husband ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Silence, if you please. Tánya draws a thread over the Fat Lady's head. FAT LADY. Aie! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What? What is it? FAT LADY. He took hold of my hair! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [whispers] Never mind, don't be afraid, give him your hand. His hand will be cold, but I like it. FAT LADY [hides her hands] Not for the world! SAHÁTOF. Yes, it is strange, very strange! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is here and is seeking for intercourse. Who wishes to put a question to him? SAHÁTOF. I should like to put a question, if I may. PROFESSOR. Please do. SAHÁTOF. Do I believe or not? Tánya knocks twice. PROFESSOR. The answer is affirmative. SAHÁTOF. Allow me to ask again. Have I a ten rouble note in my pocket? Tánya knocks several times and passes a thread over Sahátof's head. SAHÁTOF. Ah! [Seizes the thread and breaks it]. PROFESSOR. I should ask those present not to ask indefinite or trivial questions. It is unpleasant to _him_! SAHÁTOF. No, but allow me! Here I have a thread in my hand! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A thread? Hold it fast; that happens often, and not only threads but sometimes even silk cords--very ancient ones! SAHÁTOF. No--but where did this thread come from? Tánya throws a cushion at him. SAHÁTOF. Wait a bit; wait! Something soft has hit me on the head. Light a candle--there is something ... PROFESSOR. We beg of you not to interrupt the manifestations. FAT LADY. For goodness' sake don't interrupt! I should also like to ask something. May I? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, if you like. FAT LADY. I should like to ask about my digestion. May I? I want to know what to take: aconite or belladonna? Silence, whispers among the young people; suddenly Vasíly Leoníditch begins to cry like a baby: "ou-a, ou-a!" [Laughter.] Holding their mouths and noses, the girls and Petrístchef run away bursting with laughter. FAT LADY. Ah, that must be the monk who's been born again! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [beside himself with anger, whispers] One gets nothing but tomfoolery from you! If you don't know how to behave decently, go away! Exit Vasíly Leoníditch. Darkness and silence. FAT LADY. Oh, what a pity! Now one can't ask any more! He is born! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Not at all. It is only Vovo's nonsense. But _he_ is here. Ask him. PROFESSOR. That often happens. These jokes and ridicule are quite usual occurrences. I expect _he_ is still here. But we may ask. Leoníd Fyódoritch, will you? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, you, if you please. This has upset me. So unpleasant! Such want of tact!... PROFESSOR. Very well.... Nicholas, are you here? Tánya raps twice and rings. Simon roars, spreads his arms out, seizes Sahátof and the Professor--squeezing them. PROFESSOR. What an unexpected phenomenon! The medium himself reacted upon! This never happened before! Leoníd Fyódoritch, will you watch? It is difficult for me to do so. He squeezes me so! Mind you observe Grossman! This needs the very greatest attention! Tánya throws the peasants' paper on the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Something has fallen upon the table. PROFESSOR. See what it is! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Paper! A folded paper! Tánya throws a travelling inkstand on the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. An inkstand! Tánya throws a pen. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A pen! Simon roars and squeezes. PROFESSOR [crushed] Wait a bit, wait: a totally new manifestation! The action proceeding not from the mediumistic energy produced, but from the medium himself! However, open the inkstand, and put the pen on the table, and _he_ will write! Tánya goes behind Leoníd Fyódoritch and strikes him on the head with the guitar. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He has struck me on the head! [Examining table] The pen is not writing yet and the paper remains folded. PROFESSOR. See what the paper is, and quickly; evidently the dual influence--his and Grossman's--has produced a perturbation! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [goes out and returns at once] Extraordinary! This paper is an agreement with some peasants that I refused to sign this morning and returned to the peasants. Probably _he_ wants me to sign it? PROFESSOR. Of course! Of course! But ask him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Nicholas, do you wish ... Tánya knocks twice. PROFESSOR. Do you hear? It is quite evident! Leoníd Fyódoritch takes the paper and pen and goes out. Tánya knocks, plays on the guitar and the accordion, and then creeps under the sofa. Leoníd Fyódoritch returns. Simon stretches himself and coughs. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is waking up. We can light the candles. PROFESSOR [hurriedly] Doctor, Doctor, please, his pulse and temperature! You will see that a rise of both will be apparent. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [lights the candles] Well, what do you gentlemen who were sceptical think of it now? DOCTOR [goes up to Simon and places thermometer] Now then my lad. Well, have you had a nap? There, put that in there, and give me your hand. [Looks at his watch]. SAHÁTOF [shrugging his shoulders] I must admit that all that has occurred cannot have been done by the medium. But the thread?... I should like the thread explained. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A thread! A thread! We have been witnessing manifestations more important than a thread. SAHÁTOF. I don't know. At all events, _je réserve mon opinion_. FAT LADY [to Sahátof] Oh no, how can you say: "_je réserve mon opinion?_" And the infant with the little wings? Didn't you see? At first I thought it was only an illusion, but afterwards it became clearer and clearer, like a live ... SAHÁTOF. I can only speak of what I have seen. I did not see that--nothing of the kind. FAT LADY. You don't mean to say so? Why, it was quite plainly visible! And to the left there was a monk clothed in black bending over it ... SAHÁTOF [moves away. Aside] What exaggeration! FAT LADY [addressing the Doctor] You must have seen it! It rose up from your side. Doctor goes on counting pulse without heeding her. FAT LADY [to Grossman] And that light, the light around it, especially around its little face! And the expression so mild and tender, something so heavenly! [Smiles tenderly herself]. GROSSMAN. I saw phosphorescent light, and objects changed their places, but I saw nothing more than that. FAT LADY. Don't tell me! You don't mean it! It is simply that you scientists of Charcot's school do not believe in a life beyond the grave! As for me, no one could now make me disbelieve in a future life--no one in the world! Grossman moves away from her. FAT LADY. No, no, whatever you may say, this is one of the happiest moments of my life! When I heard Sarasate play, and now.... Yes! [No one listens to her. She goes up to Simon] Now tell me, my friend, what did you feel? Was it very trying? SIMON [laughs] Yes, ma'm, just so. FAT LADY. Still not unendurable? SIMON. Just so, ma'm. [To Leoníd Fyódoritch] Am I to go? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, you may go. DOCTOR [to the Professor] The pulse is the same, but the temperature is lower. PROFESSOR. Lower! [Considers awhile, then suddenly divines the conclusion] It had to be so--it had to descend! The dual influence crossing had to produce some kind of reflex action. Yes, that's it! Exeunt, all talking at once. { LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I'm only sorry we had no complete { materialisation. But still.... Come, gentlemen, let us go to the { drawing-room? { { FAT LADY. What specially struck me was when he flapped his wings, { and one saw how he rose! { { GROSSMAN [to Sahátof] If we had kept to hypnotism, we might have { produced a thorough state of epilepsy. The success might have been { complete! { { SAHÁTOF. It is very interesting, but not entirely convincing. That { is all I can say. Enter Theodore Ivánitch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH [with paper in his hand] Ah, Theodore, what a remarkable séance we have had! It turns out that the peasants must have the land on their own terms. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Dear me! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, indeed. [Showing paper] Fancy, this paper that I returned to them, suddenly appeared on the table! I have signed it. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How did it get there? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, it did get there! [Exit, Theodore Ivánitch follows him out]. TÁNYA [gets from under the sofa and laughs] Oh dear, oh dear! Well, I did get a fright when he got hold of the thread! [Shrieks] Well, anyhow, it's all right--he has signed it! Enter Gregory. GREGORY. So it was you that was fooling them? TÁNYA. What business is it of yours? GREGORY. And do you think the missis will be pleased with you for it? No, you bet; you're caught now! I'll tell them what tricks you're up to, if you don't let me have my way! TÁNYA. And you'll not get your way, and you'll not do me any harm! Curtain. ACT IV The same scene as in Act I. The next day. Two liveried footmen, Theodore Ivánitch and Gregory. FIRST FOOTMAN [with grey whiskers] Yours is the third house to-day. Thank goodness that all the at-homes are in this direction. Yours used to be on Thursdays. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, we changed to Saturday so as to be on the same day as the Golóvkins and Grade von Grabes ... SECOND FOOTMAN. The Stcherbákofs do the thing well. There's refreshments for the footmen every time they've a ball. The two Princesses, mother and daughter, come down the stairs accompanied by Betsy. The old Princess looks in her note-book and at her watch, and sits down on the settle. Gregory puts on her overshoes. YOUNG PRINCESS. Now, do come. Because, if you refuse, and Dodo refuses, the whole thing will be spoilt. BETSY. I don't know. I must certainly go to the Shoúbins. And then there is the rehearsal. YOUNG PRINCESS. You'll have plenty of time. Do, please. _Ne nous fais pas faux bond._[14] Fédya and Koko will come. [14] Do not disappoint us. BETSY. _J'en ai par-dessus la tête de votre Koko._[15] [15] BETSY. I have more than enough of your Koko. YOUNG PRINCESS. I thought I should see him here. _Ordinairement il est d'une exactitude ..._[16] [16] YOUNG PRINCESS. ... He is usually so very punctual ... BETSY. He is sure to come. YOUNG PRINCESS. When I see you together, it always seems to me that he has either just proposed or is just going to propose. BETSY. Yes, I don't suppose it can be avoided. I shall have to go through with it. And it is so unpleasant! YOUNG PRINCESS. Poor Koko! He is head over ears in love. BETSY. _Cessez, les gens!_[17] [17] BETSY. Cease; mind the servants! Young Princess sits down, talking in whispers. Gregory puts on her overshoes. YOUNG PRINCESS. Well then, good-bye till this evening. BETSY. I'll try to come. OLD PRINCESS. Then tell your papa that I don't believe in anything of the kind, but will come to see his new medium. Only he must let me know when. Good afternoon, _ma toute belle_. [Kisses Betsy, and exit, followed by her daughter. Betsy goes upstairs]. GREGORY. I don't like putting on an old woman's overshoes for her; she can't stoop, can't see her shoe for her stomach, and keeps poking her foot in the wrong place. It's different with a young one; it's pleasant to take her foot in one's hand. SECOND FOOTMAN. Hear him! Making distinctions! FIRST FOOTMAN. It's not for us footmen to make such distinctions. GREGORY. Why shouldn't one make distinctions; are we not men? It's they think we don't understand! Just now they were deep in their talk, then they look at me, and at once it's "lay zhon!" SECOND FOOTMAN. And what's that? GREGORY. Oh, that means, "Don't talk, they understand!" It's the same at table. But I understand! You say, there's a difference? I say there is none. FIRST FOOTMAN. There is a great difference for those who understand. GREGORY. There is none at all. To-day I am a footman, and to-morrow I may be living no worse than they are. Has it never happened that they've married footmen? I'll go and have a smoke. [Exit]. SECOND FOOTMAN. That's a bold young man you've got. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. A worthless fellow, not fit for service. He used to be an office boy and has got spoilt. I advised them not to take him, but the mistress liked him. He looks well on the carriage when they drive out. FIRST FOOTMAN. I should like to send him to our Count; he'd put him in his place! Oh, he don't like those scatterbrains. "If you're a footman, be a footman and fulfil your calling." Such pride is not befitting. Petrístchef comes running downstairs, and takes out a cigarette. PETRÍSTCHEF [deep in thought] Let's see, my second is the same as my first. Echo, a-co, co-coa. [Enter Koko Klíngen, wearing his pince-nez] Ko-ko, co-coa. Cocoa tin, where do you spring from? KOKO KLÍNGEN. From the Stcherbákofs. You are always playing the fool ... PETRÍSTCHEF. No, listen to my charade. My first is the same as my second, my third may be cracked, my whole is like your pate. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I give it up. I've no time. PETRÍSTCHEF. Where else are you going? KOKO KLÍNGEN. Where? Of course to the Ívins, to practise for the concert. Then to the Shoúbins, and then to the rehearsal. You'll be there too, won't you? PETRÍSTCHEF. Most certainly. At the re-her-Sall and also at the re-her-Sarah. Why, at first I was a savage, and now I am both a savage and a general. KOKO KLÍNGEN. How did yesterday's séance go off? PETRÍSTCHEF. Screamingly funny! There was a peasant, and above all, it was all in the dark. Vovo cried like an infant, the Professor defined, and Márya Vasílevna refined. Such a lark! You ought to have been there. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I'm afraid, _mon cher_. You have a way of getting off with a jest, but I always feel that if I say a word, they'll construe it into a proposal. _Et ça ne m'arrange pas du tout, du tout. Mais du tout, du tout!_[18] [18] And that won't suit me at all, at all! Not at all, at all! PETRÍSTCHEF. Instead of a proposal, make a proposition, and receive a sentence! Well, I shall go in to Vovo's. If you'll call for me, we can go to the re-her-Sarah together. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I can't think how you can be friends with such a fool. He is so stupid,--a regular blockhead! PETRÍSTCHEF. And I am fond of him. I love Vovo, but ... "with a love so strange, ne'er towards him the path untrod shall be" ... [Exit into Vovo's room]. Betsy comes down with a Lady. Koko bows significantly to Betsy. BETSY [shaking Koko's hand without turning towards him. To Lady] You are acquainted? LADY. No. BETSY. Baron Klíngen.... Why were you not here last night? KOKO KLÍNGEN. I could not come, I was engaged. BETSY. What a pity, it was so interesting! [Laughs] You should have seen what manifestations we had! Well, how is our charade getting on? KOKO KLÍNGEN. Oh, the verses for _mon second_ are ready. Nick composed the verses, and I the music. BETSY. What are they? What are they? Do tell me! KOKO KLÍNGEN. Wait a minute; how does it go?... Oh, the knight sings: "Oh, _naught_ so beautiful as nature: The _Nautilus_ sails by. Oh, _naughty_ lass, oh, _naughty_ lass! Oh, _nought_, oh _nought_! Oh fie!" LADY. I see, my second is "nought," and what is my first? KOKO KLÍNGEN. My first is _Aero_, the name of a girl savage. BETSY. _Aero_, you see, is a savage who wished to devour the object of her love. [Laughs] She goes about lamenting, and sings-- "My appetite," KOKO KLÍNGEN [interrupts]-- "How can I fight," ... BETSY [chimes in]-- "Some one to chew I long. I seeking go ..." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "But even so ..." BETSY-- "No one to chew can find." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "A raft sails by," BETSY-- "It cometh nigh; Two generals upon it ..." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "Two generals are we: By fate's hard decree, To this island we flee." And then, the refrain-- "By fate's hard decree, To this island we flee." LADY. _Charmant!_ BETSY. But just think how silly! KOKO KLÍNGEN. Yes, that's the charm of it! LADY. And who is to be Aero? BETSY. I am. And I have had a costume made, but mamma says it's "not decent." And it is not a bit less decent than a ball dress. [To Theodore Ivánitch] Is Bourdier's man here? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, he is waiting in the kitchen. LADY. Well, and how will you represent Aeronaut? BETSY. Oh, you'll see. I don't want to spoil the pleasure for you. _Au revoir._ LADY. Good-bye! [They bow. Exit Lady]. BETSY [to Koko Klíngen] Come up to mamma. Betsy and Koko go upstairs. Jacob enters from servants' quarters, carrying a tray with teacups, cakes, &c., and goes panting across the stage. JACOB [to the Footmen] How d'you do? How d'you do? [Footmen bow]. JACOB [to Theodore Ivánitch] Couldn't you tell Gregory to help a bit! I'm ready to drop.... [Exit up the stairs]. FIRST FOOTMAN. That is a hard-working chap you've got there. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, a good fellow. But there now--he doesn't satisfy the mistress, she says his appearance is ungainly. And now they've gone and told tales about him for letting some peasants into the kitchen yesterday. It is a bad look-out: they may dismiss him. And he is a good fellow. SECOND FOOTMAN. What peasants were they? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Peasants that had come from our Koursk village to buy some land. It was night, and they were our fellow-countrymen, one of them the father of the butler's assistant. Well, so they were asked into the kitchen. It so happened that there was thought-reading going on. Something was hidden in the kitchen, and all the gentlefolk came down, and the mistress saw the peasants. There was such a row! "How is this," she says; "these people may be infected, and they are let into the kitchen!" ... She is terribly afraid of this infection. Enter Gregory. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Gregory, you go and help Jacob. I'll stay here. He can't manage alone. GREGORY. He's awkward, that's why he can't manage. [Exit]. FIRST FOOTMAN. And what is this new mania they have got? This infection!... So yours also is afraid of it? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. She fears it worse than fire! Our chief business, nowadays, is fumigating, washing, and sprinkling. FIRST FOOTMAN. I see. That's why there is such a stuffy smell here. [With animation] I don't know what we're coming to with these infection notions. It's just detestable! They seem to have forgotten the Lord. There's our master's sister, Princess Mosolóva, her daughter was dying and, will you believe it, neither father nor mother would come near her! So she died without their having taken leave of her. And the daughter cried, and called them to say good-bye--but they didn't go! The doctor had discovered some infection or other! And yet their own maid and a trained nurse were with her, and nothing happened to them; they're still alive! Enter Vasíly Leoníditch and Petrístchef from Vasíly Leoníditch's room, smoking cigarettes. PETRÍSTCHEF. Come along then, only I must take Koko--Cocoanut, with me. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Your Koko is a regular dolt; I can't bear him. A hare-brained fellow, a regular gad-about! Without any kind of occupation, eternally loafing around! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. Well, anyhow, wait a bit, I must say good-bye. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. All right. And I will go and look at my dogs in the coachman's room. I've got a dog there that's so savage, the coachman said, he nearly ate him. PETRÍSTCHEF. Who ate whom? Did the coachman really eat the dog? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. You are always at it! [Puts on outdoor things and goes out]. PETRÍSTCHEF [thoughtfully] Ma-kin-tosh, Co-co-tin.... Let's see. [Goes upstairs]. Jacob runs across the stage. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What's the matter? JACOB. There is no more thin bread and butter. I said ... [Exit]. SECOND FOOTMAN. And then our master's little son fell ill, and they sent him at once to an hotel with his nurse, and there he died without his mother. FIRST FOOTMAN. They don't seem to fear sin! _I_ think you cannot escape from God anywhere. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's what I think. Jacob runs upstairs with bread and butter. FIRST FOOTMAN. One should consider too, that if we are to be afraid of everybody like that, we'd better shut ourselves up within four walls, as in a prison, and stick there! Enter Tánya; she bows to the Footmen. TÁNYA. Good afternoon. Footmen bow. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, I have a word to say to you. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what? TÁNYA. The peasants have come again, Theodore Ivánitch ... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well? I gave the paper to Simon. TÁNYA. I have given them the paper. They were that grateful! I can't say how! Now they only ask you to take the money. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But where are they? TÁNYA. Here, by the porch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, I'll tell the master. TÁNYA. I have another request to you, dear Theodore Ivánitch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What now? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see, Theodore Ivánitch, I can't remain here any longer. Ask them to let me go. Enter Jacob, running. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Jacob] What d'you want? JACOB. Another samovár, and oranges. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Ask the housekeeper. Exit Jacob. THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Tánya] How is that? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see, my position is such ... JACOB [runs in] There are not enough oranges. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Serve up as many as you've got [Exit Jacob]. Now's not the time! Just see what a bustle we are in. TÁNYA. But you know yourself, Theodore Ivánitch, there is no end to this bustle; one might wait for ever--you know yourself--and my affair is for life.... Dear Theodore Ivánitch, you have done me a good turn, be a father to me now, choose the right moment and tell her, or else she'll get angry and won't let me have my passport.[19] [19] Employers have charge of the servants' passports, and in this way have a hold on them in case of misconduct. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Where's the hurry? TÁNYA. Why, Theodore Ivánitch, it's all settled now.... And I could go to my godmother's and get ready, and then after Easter we'd get married.[20] Do tell her, dear Theodore Ivánitch! [20] See footnote, p. 28. It is customary for peasants to marry just after Easter, but when spring has come and the field work begun, no marriages take place among them till autumn. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Go away--this is not the place. An elderly Gentleman comes downstairs, puts on overcoat, and goes out followed by the Second Footman. Exit Tánya. Enter Jacob. JACOB. Just fancy, Theodore Ivánitch, it's too bad! She wants to discharge me now! She says, "You break everything, and forget Frisk, and you let the peasants into the kitchen against my orders!" And you know very well that I knew nothing about it. Tatyána told me, "Take them into the kitchen"; how could I tell whose order it was? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Did the mistress speak to you? JACOB. She's just spoken. Do speak up for me, Theodore Ivánitch! You see, my people in the country are only just getting on their feet, and suppose I lose my place, when shall I get another? Theodore Ivánitch, do, please! Anna Pávlovna comes down with the old Countess, whom she is seeing off. The Countess has false teeth and hair. The First Footman helps the Countess into her outdoor things. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, most certainly, of course! I am so deeply touched. COUNTESS. If it were not for my illness, I should come oftener to see you. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You should really consult Peter Petróvitch. He is rough, but nobody can soothe one as he does. He is so clear, so simple. COUNTESS. Oh no, I shall keep to the one I am used to. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Pray, take care of yourself. COUNTESS. _Merci, mille fois merci._[21] [21] COUNTESS. Thank you (for your hospitality), a thousand thanks. Gregory, dishevelled and excited, jumps out from the servants' quarters. Simon appears behind him in the doorway. SIMON. You'd better leave her alone! GREGORY. You rascal! I'll teach you how to fight, you scamp, you! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What do you mean? Do you think you are in a public-house? GREGORY. This coarse peasant makes life impossible for me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [provoked] You've lost your senses. Don't you see? [To Countess] _Merci, mille fois merci. A mardi!_[22] [22] ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Thank you (for coming to see us), a thousand thanks. Till next Tuesday! Exeunt Countess and First Footman. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Gregory] What is the meaning of this? GREGORY. Though I do occupy the position of a footman, still I won't allow every peasant to hit me; I have my pride too. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why, what has happened? GREGORY. Why, this Simon of yours has got so brave, sitting with the gentlemen, that he wants to fight! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why? What for? GREGORY. Heaven only knows! ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Simon] What is the meaning of it? SIMON. Why does he bother her? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What has happened? SIMON [smiles] Well, you see, he is always catching hold of Tánya, the lady's-maid, and she won't have it. Well, so I just moved him aside a bit, just so, with my hand. GREGORY. A nice little bit! He's almost caved my ribs in, and has torn my dress-coat, and he says, "The same power as came over me yesterday comes on me again," and he begins to squeeze me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Simon] How dare you fight in my house? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. May I explain it to you, ma'am? I must tell you Simon is not indifferent to Tánya, and is engaged to her. And Gregory--one must admit the truth--does not behave properly, nor honestly, to her. Well, so I suppose Simon got angry with him. GREGORY. Not at all! It is all his spite, because I have discovered their trickery. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What trickery? GREGORY. Why, at the séance. All those things, last night,--it was not Simon but Tánya who did them! I saw her getting out from under the sofa with my own eyes. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What is that? From under the sofa? GREGORY. I give you my word of honour. And it was she who threw the paper on the table. If it had not been for her the paper would not have been signed, nor the land sold to the peasants. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And you saw it yourself? GREGORY. With my own eyes. Shall I call her? She'll not deny it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, call her. Exit Gregory. Noise behind the scenes. The voice of the Doorkeeper, "No, no, you cannot." Doorkeeper is seen at the front door, the three Peasants rush in past him, the Second Peasant first; the Third one stumbles, falls on his nose, and catches hold of it. DOORKEEPER. You must not go in! SECOND PEASANT. Where's the harm? We are not doing anything wrong. We only wish to pay the money! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it; as by laying on the signature the affair is come to a conclusion, we only wish to make payment with thanks. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Wait a bit with your thanks. It was all done by fraud! It is not settled yet. Not sold yet.... Leoníd.... Call Leoníd Fyódoritch. [Exit Doorkeeper]. Leoníd Fyódoritch enters, but, seeing his wife and the Peasants, wishes to retreat. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, no, come here, please! I told you the land must not be sold on credit, and everybody told you so, but you let yourself be deceived like the veriest blockhead. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. How? I don't understand who is deceiving? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You have grey hair, and you let yourself be deceived and laughed at like a silly boy. You grudge your son some three hundred roubles which his social position demands, and let yourself be tricked of thousands--like a fool! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Now come, Annette, try to be calm. FIRST PEASANT. We are only come about the acceptation of the sum, for example ... THIRD PEASANT [taking out the money] Let us finish the matter, for Christ's sake! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Wait, wait! Enter Tánya and Gregory. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [angrily] You were in the small drawing-room during the séance last night? Tánya looks round at Theodore Ivánitch, Leoníd Fyódoritch, and Simon, and sighs. GREGORY. It's no use beating about the bush; I saw you myself ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Tell me, were you there? I know all about it, so you'd better confess! I'll not do anything to you. I only want to expose him [pointing to Leoníd Fyódoritch] your master.... Did you throw the paper on the table? TÁNYA. I don't know how to answer. Only one thing,--let me go home. Enter Betsy unobserved. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Leoníd Fyódoritch] There, you see! You are being made a fool of. [Illustration: FRUITS OF CULTURE. ACT IV. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. There, you see! You are being made a fool of.] TÁNYA. Let me go home, Anna Pávlovna! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, my dear! You may have caused us a loss of thousands of roubles. Land has been sold that ought not to be sold! TÁNYA. Let me go, Anna Pávlovna! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No; you'll have to answer for it! Such tricks won't do. We'll have you up before the Justice of the Peace! BETSY [comes forward] Let her go, mamma. Or, if you wish to have her tried, you must have me tried too! She and I did it together. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, of course, if _you_ have a hand in anything, what can one expect but the very worst results! Enter the Professor. PROFESSOR. How do you do, Anna Pávlovna? How do you do, Miss Betsy? Leoníd Fyódoritch, I have brought you a report of the Thirteenth Congress of Spiritualists at Chicago. An amazing speech by Schmidt! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Oh, that is interesting! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I will tell you something much more interesting! It turns out that both you and my husband were fooled by this girl! Betsy takes it on herself, but that is only to annoy me. It was an illiterate peasant girl who fooled you, and you believed it all. There were no mediumistic phenomena last night; it was she [pointing to Tánya] who did it! PROFESSOR [taking off his overcoat] What do you mean? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I mean that it was she who, in the dark, played on the guitar and beat my husband on the head and performed all your idiotic tricks--and she has just confessed! PROFESSOR [smiling] What does that prove? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It proves that your mediumism is--tomfoolery; that's what it proves! PROFESSOR. Because this young girl wished to deceive, we are to conclude that mediumism is "tomfoolery," as you are pleased to express it? [Smiles] A curious conclusion! Very possibly this young girl may have wished to deceive: that often occurs. She may even have done something; but then, what she did--_she_ did. But the manifestations of mediumistic energy still remain manifestations of _mediumistic_ energy! It is even very probable that what this young girl did, evoked (and so to say solicited) the manifestation of mediumistic energy,--giving it a definite form. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Another lecture! PROFESSOR [sternly] You say, Anna Pávlovna, that this girl, and perhaps this dear young lady also, did something; but the light we all saw, and, in the first case the fall, and in the second the rise of temperature, and Grossman's excitement and vibration--were those things also done by this girl? And these are facts, Anna Pávlovna, facts! No! Anna Pávlovna, there are things which must be investigated and fully understood before they can be talked about, things too serious, too serious ... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. And the child that Márya Vasílevna distinctly saw? Why, I saw it too.... That could not have been done by this girl. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You think yourself wise, but you are--a fool. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, I'm going.... Alexéy Vladímiritch, will you come? [Exit into his study]. PROFESSOR [shrugging his shoulders, follows] Oh, how far, how far, we still lag behind Western Europe! Enter Jacob. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [following Leoníd Fyódoritch with her eyes] He has been tricked like a fool, and he sees nothing! [To Jacob] What do you want? JACOB. How many persons am I to lay the table for? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. For how many?... Theodore Ivánitch! Let him give up the silver plate to you. Be off, at once! It is all his fault! This man will bring me to my grave. Last night he nearly starved the dog that had done him no harm! And, as if that were not enough, he lets the infected peasants into the kitchen, and now they are here again! It is all his fault! Be off at once! Discharge him, discharge him! [To Simon] And you, horrid peasant, if you dare to have rows in my house again, I'll teach you! SECOND PEASANT. All right, if he is a horrid peasant there's no good keeping him; you'd better discharge him too, and there's an end of it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [while listening to him looks at Third Peasant] Only look! Why, he has a rash on his nose--a rash! He is ill; he is a hotbed of infection!! Did I not give orders, yesterday, that they were not to be allowed into the house, and here they are again? Drive them out! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then are we not to accept their money? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Their money? Oh yes, take their money; but they must be turned out at once, especially this one! He is quite rotten! THIRD PEASANT. That's not just, lady. God's my witness, it's not just! You'd better ask my old woman, let's say, whether I am rotten! I'm clear as crystal, let's say. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. He talks!... Off, off with him! It's all to spite me!... Oh, I can't bear it, I can't!... Send for the doctor! [Runs away, sobbing. Exit also Jacob and Gregory]. TÁNYA [to Betsy] Miss Elizabeth, darling, what am I to do now? BETSY. Never mind, you go with them and I'll arrange it all. [Exit]. FIRST PEASANT. Well, your reverence, how about the reception of the sum now? SECOND PEASANT. Let us settle up, and go. THIRD PEASANT [fumbling with the packet of bank-notes] Had I known, I'd not have come for the world. It's worse than a fever! THEODORE IVÁNITCH [to Doorkeeper] Show them into my room. There's a counting-board there. I'll receive their money. Now go. DOORKEEPER. Come along. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And it's Tánya you have to thank for it. But for her you'd not have had the land. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. As she made the proposal, so she put it into effect. THIRD PEASANT. She's made men of us. Else what were we? We had so little land, no room to let a hen out, let's say, not to mention the cattle. Good-bye, dear! When you get to the village, come to us and eat honey. SECOND PEASANT. Let me get home and I'll start brewing the beer for the wedding! You will come? TÁNYA. Yes, I'll come, I'll come! [Shrieks] Simon, this is fine, isn't it? [Exeunt Peasants]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, Tánya, when you have your house I'll come to visit you. Will you welcome me? TÁNYA. Dear Theodore Ivánitch, just the same as we would our own father! [Embraces and kisses him]. Curtain. END OF "FRUITS OF CULTURE." [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. ALEXÉY VLADÍMIROVITCH KROUGOSVÉTLOF. A professor and scientist of about ALEXÉY VLADÍMIRITCH KROUGOSVÉTLOF. A professor and scientist of about THE FAT LADY: MÁRYA VASÍLYEVNA TOLBOÚHINA. A very distinguished, rich, THE FAT LADY: MÁRYA VASÍLEVNA TOLBOÚHINA. A very distinguished, rich, PETRÍSTCHEF. Nothing. I only say, get some at any cost I will wait. PETRÍSTCHEF. Nothing. I only say, get some at any cost. I will wait. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then pay up and don't be stingy [To Theodore VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then pay up and don't be stingy. [To Theodore VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. What d'you think, Theodore Ivanítch, is he flush of VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. What d'you think, Theodore Ivánitch, is he flush of THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I don't know. I hardly think so, But what does it THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I don't know. I hardly think so. But what does it COACHMAN. They'd better be brought here to Loukérya COACHMAN. They'd better be brought here to Loukérya. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me a moment. [To Servants Cook] Where are the VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me a moment. [To Servants' Cook] Where are the do it out of spite. .. I turn them out from there, and they bring them do it out of spite.... I turn them out from there, and they bring them too!. . [Exit, sobbing, followed by Leoníd Fyódoritch]. too!... [Exit, sobbing, followed by Leoníd Fyódoritch]. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then, I'll tell you what . . THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then, I'll tell you what ... PETRÍSTCHEF [trembles] Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Márya Konstantínova, PETRÍSTCHEF [trembles] Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Márya Konstantínovna, LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, it did get there! [Exit Theodore Ivánitch LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, it did get there! [Exit, Theodore Ivánitch "A raft sails by,' "A raft sails by," ] 
37961	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) HE WHO GETS SLAPPED [Illustration: _Setting by Lee Simonson_ _Photograph by Francis Bruguierre_ A SCENE FROM THE THEATRE GUILD PRODUCTION] He Who Gets Slapped A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS BY LEONID ANDREYEV TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY GREGORY ZILBOORG [Illustration: colophon] NEW YORK BRENTANO'S Publishers COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY BRENTANO'S COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THE DIAL PUBLISHING COMPANY _All rights reserved_ _Printed in the United States of America_ The first regular production of HE in English was by The Theatre Guild on January 9, 1922, at the Garrick Theatre, New York. The original cast was as follows: _Tilly_ } { Philip Leigh _Polly_ } _Musical Clowns_ { Edgar Stehli _Briquet, Manager of the Circus_ Ernest Cossart _Mancini, Consuelo's Father_ Frank Reicher _Zinida, a Lion Tamer_ Helen Westley _Angelica_ } _Trapeze Performers_ { Martha Bryan Allen _Estelle_ } { Helen Sheridan _Francois_ Edwin R. Wolfe _HE_ Richard Bennett _Jackson, a Clown_ Henry Travers _Consuelo, the Equestrian Tango Queen_ Margalo Gillmore _Alfred Bezano, a Bareback Rider_ John Rutherford _Baron Regnard_ Louis Calvert _A Gentleman_ John Blair _Wardrobe Lady_ Kathryn Wilson _Usher_ Charles Cheltenham _Conductor_ Edwin R. Wolfe _Pierre_ Philip Loeb _A Sword Dancer_ Renee Wilde _Ballet Master_ Oliver Grymes { Vera Tompkins { Anne Tonnetti _Ballet Girls_ { Marguerite Wernimont { Frances Ryan _Actresses in Circus Pantomime_ { Adele St. Maur { Sara Enright _Thomas, a Strong Man_ Dante Voltaire _A Snake Charmer_ Joan Clement _A Contortionist_ Richard Coolidge _A Riding Master_ Kenneth Lawton _A Juggler_ Francis G. Sadtler _Acrobats_ { Sears Taylor { Luigi Belastro _Stage Manager_, Philip Loeb _Ass't Stage Manager_, Oliver Grymes _Produced under the direction of_ ROBERT MILTON _Settings and Costumes by_ LEE SIMONSON "Stage, screen, and amateur rights for the translation and the original play in all English-speaking countries are owned and controlled by The Theatre Guild, 65 West 35th St., New York City. No public readings or performances may be given without their written consent." INTRODUCTION Leonid Andreyev as a literary figure was born in the gloomy atmosphere of depression of the 'nineties. He thus appeared upon the literary stage at a period when the old and splendid generation of Turgenev and Dostoevsky had already passed away and when Chekhov had begun to demonstrate before the reader the gloom and colourlessness of Russia life. This was a period when the social forces of Russia were half destroyed by the reaction under Alexander III, and when the young generation was trying to rest and to get away from the strain of social hopes and despair. This period, briefly speaking, was a period of melancholy, of commonplace, every-day preoccupations, and of dull _terre à terre_ philosophy. It must be borne in mind that literature was the only outlet for the moral and intellectual forces of Russia. Political reaction, censorship, complete absence of civil liberties, and the cult of popular ignorance upon which Czardom based its power, all these made the written artistic word almost the sole expression of Russian social longings and idealistic expectations. It is therefore only natural that Russian literature in its general development is closely interwoven with the political and social conditions of Russia at the given moment. The 'nineties were a period of depression. After the assassination of Alexander II (1881) and the subsequent tightening of the chain of reaction, combined with a general _débâcle_ in progressive and radical circles, the Russian intellectual fell into a state of pessimism. His faith in an early liberation was shattered, his hope of recovery was broken. Chekhov is the most characteristic representative of that period; he himself called his heroes "the dull-grey people." Maxim Gorki and Leonid Andreyev appeared almost simultaneously at that time. The former brought the message of a rebel spirit which forecast a new moral upheaval, a new social protest; the latter appeared clad in the gloom of his time, which he strangely combined with a spirit of almost anarchistic revolt. From the point of view of historical completeness Leonid Andreyev is more representative of the epoch, demonstrating at once two contradictory elements of the Russia of the 'nineties: lack or even absence of faith interwoven with protest and mutiny. Andreyev is symbolic and romantic. Her Majesty Fate and His Excellency Accident, these are the two dark, unknown, at times brutal forces which dwelt ever before the mind's eye. His symbols are full of horror and at times unbending atrocity. Beginning with his short stories, In Fog, The Life of Basil of Thebes, through his dramas, The Life of Man, and Anathema, until his last writings, he saw human beings in the form of ghosts and ghosts in the form of human beings dominating every step, every breath of life. Still his gruesome symbolism, despite his genius for rendering his images in a clear-cut, almost crystalline manner, did not appeal to many of his contemporaries because the dark shroud in which Andreyev enveloped life was impenetrable and at times it was impossible to discern in that gloom the few values which Andreyev still found in life. Leo Tolstoy said once: "Leonid Andreyev tries to frighten me, but I am not afraid." Even in his splendid realistic dramas it is difficult for Andreyev to rid himself of the habit of symbolizing and dimming the few rays of light which try to filter through. There was nevertheless a little corner in Andreyev's artistic heart where there appeared some indefinite hope which never acquired a specific artistic form, but which was alluded to many times in his writings. In his short story, Thought, he makes fragmentary allusions to his half-hope, half-idea: "If the lot of the Man be to become a God, his throne will be the Book," says the hero. But the red laugh of the Russo-Japanese war, the abortive revolution of 1905, the general ignorance and darkness of the masses, the strain of the last war, the depreciation of human life as a value in itself, brought Leonid Andreyev to the last step of the pessimistic ladder which he was ever descending into the abyss of hopelessness. This state of mind is best illustrated by his last dramatic work, HE, the One Who Gets Slapped. Here we see a man of high education, of great intellectual achievement, who leaves life, willingly in appearance, but forcibly in fact. The relations of man to man, of group to group, according to Andreyev are such that the Man is forced to efface himself. Even Thought, or the Book, could not help the Man to become a God. He becomes a clown. He performs stunts, he gets slaps; the public laughs, being unaware that this laughter is a mockery at itself, at its culture, at its thought, at its achievement. The characters of the play, as the reader will see, are depicted with a bitter sarcasm and unfriendliness, for Andreyev seems to have lost his last faith in the Man. The good, the innocent and clean heart is bound to suffer and die. His Consuelo, Zinida, Bezano are only stray rays of light out of place in the world and even in the world-circus which is full of spiders, champagne, and human outcasts. Andreyev does not blame these outcasts. On the contrary, he feels sympathy, if for anybody, for just these clowns, jugglers, and bareback-riders; but life, this strange combination of fate, accident, and cowardly slander, is stronger, and they collapse under the burden of this combination. HE is perhaps the best work of Andreyev, at any rate his best dramatic work. It is more adapted to stage conditions than his previous plays and is not overcrowded with symbolic ghosts. Furthermore, HE is a remarkable summary of Andreyev's philosophy. GREGORY ZILBOORG HE WHO GETS SLAPPED CAST OF CHARACTERS CONSUELO--_a bareback rider in a circus_. _Billed as "The Bareback Tango Queen."_ MANCINI--_Consuelo's father_. HE--_a clown in Briquet's circus_. _Billed as "HE Who Gets Slapped."_ BRIQUET--_Manager of the circus_. ZINIDA--_a lion tamer, Briquet's wife_. ALFRED BEZANO--_a bareback rider_. A GENTLEMAN. BARON REGNARD. JACKSON--_a clown_. TILLY } POLLY }--_musical clowns_. THOMAS, ANGELICA, _and other actors and actresses of Briquet's circus_. _The action takes place in one of the large cities of France._ HE WHO GETS SLAPPED ACT I _A very large, rather dirty room, with whitewashed walls. To the left, in a niche, is a window, the only outside window in the room, opening on a court-yard. The light from it is so dim that even by day the electricity has to be turned on._ _At the very top of the centre-back wall is a row of small dusty windows. They open on the circus hall. At night, when the performance is going on, a bright light shines through. By day they are dark. In the same wall is a large white door, reached by two stone steps, and nailed fast._ _On the right, almost in the corner, is a high, wide, arched doorway which leads to the stables and the ring. By day it opens into pale darkness, at night into pale light._ _The room is used for many purposes. It is the office of Papa Briquet, manager of the circus; here he keeps his little desk. It is the cloak-room of some of the actors. It is also the room where the cast gathers between calls, during rehearsals or performances. Again, it is a check-room for used circus property, such as gilt armchairs, scenery for pantomimes, and other wares of the circus household. The walls are covered with circus announcements and glaring posters._ _The time is morning. In the circus hall a rehearsal is going on, and preparations are being made for the evening performance. As the curtain goes up, the cracking whip and the shouts of the riding-master are heard from the ring. The stage is empty for a few seconds, then enter Tilly and Polly, the musical clowns, practising a new march. Playing on tiny pipes, they step from the dark doorway to the window. Their music is agreeable to the ear, but small, mincing, artificially clown-like, like their mincing steps; they wear jackets and resemble each other; same smooth-shaven face, same height; Tilly, the younger, has a scarf around his neck; both have their derbies on the backs of their heads. Tilly glances through the window, then they turn about, still marching._ POLLY [_Interrupting the march_]: Stop, you're out again! Now, listen--[_He stands close to Tilly and plays into his face. Tilly absent-mindedly listens, scratching his nose._] There! Come on now! [_They resume their music and marching. As they reach the door they meet the manager and_ MANCINI; _the latter walks behind the manager, and is gnawing at the knob of his goldmounted cane_. COUNT MANCINI _is tall and slight. The seams of his clothes are worn and he keeps his coat buttoned tight. He assumes extremely graceful manners, takes affected poses, and has a special fondness for toying with his cane, with aristocratic stylishness. When he laughs, which happens often, his thin sharp face takes on a marked resemblance to a satyr. The manager_, "PAPA" BRIQUET, _is a stout quiet man of average height_. _His bearing is hesitant. The clowns make room for the gentlemen. The manager looks questioningly at the older man._] POLLY [_With an affected accent_]: Our moosic for the pantomime! The March of the Ants! BRIQUET Ha! Yes! [_The gentlemen walk in. The clowns resume their music_, POLLY _marching on, then turning, the younger following._] POLLY Papa Briquet, Jack is working very badly to-day. BRIQUET What's the matter with him? POLLY He has a sore throat. You'd better take a look at him. BRIQUET All right. Come on, Jack. Open your mouth! Wider--wider. [_Turns clown's face to the light near the window and examines him closely and seriously._] Just smear it with iodine. POLLY I told him so. I said it was nothing! Oh! Come on. [_They go away playing, marching, practising their funny mincing steps. The manager sits down._ MANCINI _strikes a pose by the wall, smiling ironically._] MANCINI So. You give them medical treatment, too! Look out, Papa Briquet, you have no licence. BRIQUET Just a little advice. They're all so afraid for their lives. MANCINI His throat is simply burnt with whiskey. These two fellows get drunk every night. I am amazed, Papa Briquet, to see you pay so little attention to their morals. [_He laughs._] BRIQUET You make me sick, Mancini. MANCINI Count Mancini is at your service! BRIQUET You make me sick, Count Mancini. You poke your nose into everything, you disturb the artists in their work. Some day you'll get a thrashing, and I warn you that I shan't interfere. MANCINI As a man of superior associations and education I cannot be expected to treat your actors as my equals! What more can you ask, Briquet? You see that I do you the honour of speaking with you quite familiarly, quite simply. BRIQUET Ha! ha! ha! [_Slightly threatening_] Really!-- MANCINI Never mind my joke. What if they did dare attack me--ever seen this, Briquet? [_He draws a stiletto out of his cane and advances it silently._] Useful little thing. By the way, you have no idea of the discovery I made yesterday in a suburb. Such a girl! [_Laughs._] Oh, well! all right, all right--I know you don't like that sort of sport. But look here, you must give me a hundred francs! BRIQUET Not a sou. MANCINI Then I'll take away Consuelo--that's all---- BRIQUET Your daily threat! MANCINI Yes, my threat! And you would do the same, if you were as shamefully hard up as I am. Now look here, you know as well as I do that I have to live up to my name somehow, keep up the family reputation. Just because the tide of ill-fortune which struck my ancestors compelled me to make my daughter, the Countess Veronica, a bareback rider--to keep us from starving--do you understand--you heartless idiot! BRIQUET You chase the girls too much! Some day you'll land in jail, Mancini! MANCINI In jail? Oh, no! Why, I have to uphold our _name_, the splendour of my family, [_laughs_] haven't I? The Mancinis are known all over Italy for their love of girls--just girls! Is it my fault if I must pay such crazy prices for what my ancestors got free of charge? You're nothing but an ass, a _parvenu_ ass. How can you understand Family Traditions? I don't drink--I stopped playing cards after that accident--no, you need not smile. Now if I give up the girls, what will be left of Mancini? Only a coat of arms, that's all---- In the name of family traditions, give me a hundred francs! BRIQUET I told you no, I won't. MANCINI You know that I leave half of the salary for Consuelo--but--perhaps you think I do not love my child--my only daughter, all that remains to me as a memory of her sainted mother--what cruelty! [_Pretends to cry, wipes his eyes with a small and dirty lace handkerchief, embroidered with a coronet._] BRIQUET Why don't you say, rather, that she is foolish enough to give you half her salary. You make me sick---- [_Enter Zinida, the lion tamer; burningly beautiful, her self-confident, commanding gestures at first glance give an impression of languor. She is_ BRIQUET'S _unmarried wife._] ZINIDA [_To_ MANCINI]: Good morning. MANCINI Madame Zinida! This barbarian, this brute may pierce me with his dagger, but I cannot control the expression of my love! [_Kneels facetiously before her_] Madame! Count Mancini has the honour of asking you to be his wife.... ZINIDA [_To_ BRIQUET]: Money? BRIQUET Yes. ZINIDA Don't give him any. [_Sits down wearily on a torn sofa, shuts her eyes. MANCINI gets up and wipes his knees._] MANCINI Duchess! Don't be cruel. I am no lion, no tiger, no savage beast which you are accustomed to tame. I am merely a poor domestic animal, who wants, miaow, miaow, a little green grass. ZINIDA [_Without opening her eyes_]: Jim tells me you have a teacher for Consuelo. What for? MANCINI The solicitude of a father, duchess, the solicitude and the tireless anxiety of a loving heart. The extreme misfortunes of our family, when I was a child, have left some flaws in her education. Friends, the daughter of Count Mancini, Countess Veronica, can barely read! Is that admissible? And you, Briquet, heartless brute, you still ask why I need money! ZINIDA Artful! BRIQUET What are you teaching her? MANCINI Everything. A student had been giving her lessons, but I threw him out yesterday. He had the nerve to fall in love with Consuelo and stood there miaowing at the door like a cat. Everything, Briquet, that you don't know--literature, mythology, orthography---- [_Two young actresses appear, with small fur coats thrown over their light dresses. They are tired and sit down in the corner._] MANCINI I do not wish my daughter---- ZINIDA Artful! BRIQUET You are stupid, Mancini. What do you do it for? [_In a didactic tone_] You are fearfully stupid, Mancini. Why does she need to learn? Since she is here she need never know anything about that life. Don't you understand? What is geography? If I were the government I would forbid artists to read books. Let them read the posters, that's enough. [_During_ BRIQUET'S _speech, the two clowns and another actor enter. They sit down wearily._] BRIQUET Right now, your Consuelo is an excellent artist, but just as soon as you teach her mythology, and she begins to read, she'll become a nuisance, she'll be corrupted, and then she'll go and poison herself. I know those books, I've read 'em myself. All they teach is corruption, and how to kill oneself. FIRST ACTRESS I love the novels that come out in the newspaper. BRIQUET That shows what a foolish girl you are. You'll be done for in no time. Believe me, my friends, we must forget entirely what is happening out there. How can we understand all that goes on there? MANCINI You are an enemy of enlightenment, you are an obscurantist, Briquet. BRIQUET And you are stupid. You are from out there. What has it taught you? [_The actors laugh._] If you'd been born in a circus as I was, you'd know something. Enlightenment is plain nonsense--nothing else. Ask Zinida. She knows everything they teach out there--geography, mythology---- Does it make her any happier? You tell them, dear. ZINIDA Leave me alone, Louis. MANCINI [_Angrily_]: Oh! Go to the devil! When I listen to your asinine philosophy, I'd like to skin you for more than a paltry hundred francs--for two hundred--for a thousand. Great God! What an ass of a manager! Yes, right before every one of them I want to say that you are a stingy old skinflint--that you pay starvation wages. I'll make you give Consuelo a raise of a hundred francs. Listen, all you honest vagabonds, tell me--who is it draws the crowd that fills the circus every night? You? a couple of musical donkeys? Tigers, lions? Nobody cares for those hungry cats! ZINIDA Leave the tigers alone. MANCINI Beg your pardon, Zinida. I did not mean to hurt your feelings--honestly. I really marvel at your furious audacity--at your grace--you are a heroine--I kiss your tiny hands. But what do they understand about heroism? [_An orchestra softly plays the Tango in the circus. He continues with enthusiasm._] Hear! hear! Now tell me, honest vagabonds, who but Consuelo and Bezano draws the crowds! That Tango on horseback--it is--it is---- Oh, the devil! Even his fatuousness the Pope could not withstand its lure. POLLY True! It's a great trick--wasn't the idea Bezano's? MANCINI Idea! Idea! The lad's in love, like a cat--that's the idea. What's the good of an idea without a woman! You wouldn't dance very far with your idea alone, eh, Papa Briquet? BRIQUET We have a contract. MANCINI Such base formalities. ZINIDA Give him ten francs and let him go. MANCINI Ten! Never! _Fifteen!_ Don't be stubborn, Papa. For the traditions of my house--twenty. I swear--on my honour--I can't do with less. [BRIQUET _hands him twenty francs. Nonchalantly_] _Merci._ Thanks. ZINIDA Why don't you take it from your baron? MANCINI [_Raising his eyebrows haughtily, quite indignant_]: From the Baron? Woman! who do you think I am that I should be beholden to a stranger? ZINIDA You're plotting something artful. I know you very little, but I guess you're an awful scoundrel. MANCINI [_Laughs_]: Such an insult from such beautiful lips. [_Enter an "artist," apparently an athlete._] ATHLETE Papa Briquet, there's a gentleman from beyond the grave asking for you. ACTRESS A ghost? ATHLETE No. He seems alive. Did you ever see a drunken ghost? BRIQUET If he's drunk, tell him I'm out, Thomas. Does he want to see me or the Count? ATHLETE No, you. Maybe he's not drunk, but just a ghost. MANCINI [_Draws himself together, puffs up_]: A society man? ATHLETE Yes. I'll tell him to come in. [_One hears the whip cracking in the ring. The Tango sounds very low and distant--then comes nearer--louder. Silence._] BRIQUET [_Touching_ ZINIDA'S _arm_]: Tired? ZINIDA [_Drawing back a little_]: No. POLLY Your red lion is nervous to-day, Zinida! ZINIDA You shouldn't tease him. POLLY I played a melody from Traviata for him. And he sang with me. Wouldn't that be a good trick to stage, Papa Briquet? [THOMAS _brings in the gentleman, points out the manager, and goes heavily away. The gentleman is not young, and he is ugly, but his rather strange face is bold and lively. He wears an expensive overcoat, with a fur collar, and holds his hat and gloves in his hand._] GENTLEMAN [_Bowing and smiling_]: Have I the pleasure of addressing the manager? BRIQUET Yes. Won't you sit down, please? Tilly, bring a chair. GENTLEMAN Oh! Don't trouble. [_Looks around._] These are your artists? Very glad---- MANCINI [_Straightening and bowing slightly_]: Count Mancini. GENTLEMAN [_Surprised_]: Count? BRIQUET [_Indignantly_]: Yes, Count. And whom have I the honour of---- GENTLEMAN I don't quite know myself--yet. As a rule you choose your own names, don't you? I have not chosen yet. Later you might advise me about it. I have an idea already, but I am afraid it sounds too much like literature--you know. BRIQUET Literature? GENTLEMAN Yes! Too sophisticated. [_They all look surprised._] I presume these two gentlemen are clowns? I am so glad. May I shake hands with them? [_Stands up and shakes hands with clowns, who make silly faces._] BRIQUET Excuse me--but what can I do for you? GENTLEMAN [_With the same pleasant, confident smile_]: Oh. You do something for me? No. I want to do something for you, Papa Briquet. BRIQUET _Papa_ Briquet? But you don't look like---- GENTLEMAN [_Reassuringly_]: It's all right. I shall become "like." These two gentlemen just made remarkable faces. Would you like to see me imitate them? Look! [_He makes the same silly faces as the clowns._] BRIQUET Yes! [_Involuntarily_] You are not drunk, sir? GENTLEMAN No. I don't drink as a rule. Do I look drunk? POLLY A little. GENTLEMAN No--I don't drink. It is a peculiarity of my talent. BRIQUET [_Familiarly_]: Where did you work before? Juggler? GENTLEMAN No. But I am glad you feel in me a comrade, Papa Briquet. Unfortunately I am not a juggler, and have worked nowhere--I am--just so. MANCINI But you look like a society man. GENTLEMAN Oh, you flatter me, Count. I am just so. BRIQUET Well, what do you want? You see I am obliged to tell you that everything is taken. GENTLEMAN That's immaterial. I want to be a clown, if you will allow me. [_Some of the actors smile_, BRIQUET _begins to grow angry_.] BRIQUET But what can you do? You're asking too much. What can you do? GENTLEMAN Why! Nothing! Isn't that funny! I can't do a thing. BRIQUET No, it's not funny. Any scoundrel knows that much. GENTLEMAN [_Rather helpless, but still smiling and looking around_]: We can invent something---- BRIQUET [_Ironically_]: From literature? [_The clown Jackson enters slowly without being noticed by the others. He stands behind the gentlemen._] GENTLEMAN Yes, one can find something literary, too. A nice little speech for instance on, let's say, a religious topic. Something like a debate among the clowns. BRIQUET A debate! The devil! This is no academy. GENTLEMAN [_Sadly_]: I am very sorry. Something else then. Perhaps a joke about the creation of the world and its rulers? BRIQUET What about the police? No, no--nothing like that! JACKSON [_Coming forward_]: The rulers of the world? You don't like them? I don't either. Shake. BRIQUET [_Introducing_]: Our chief clown, the famous Jackson. GENTLEMAN [_Enthusiastically_]: Great heavens--you! Allow me to shake hands with you heartily! You, with your genius, you have given me so much joy! JACKSON I'm glad indeed! BRIQUET [_Shrugs his shoulders; to Jackson_]: He wants to be a clown! Look him over, Jim. [_Jackson makes a motion at which the gentleman hurriedly removes his coat and throws it on a chair. He is ready for the examination. Jackson turns him round, looking him over critically._] JACKSON Clown? Hm! Turn round then. Clown? Yes? Now smile. Wider--broader--do you call that a smile? So--that's better. There is something, yes--but for full developments---- [_Sadly_]: Probably you can't even turn a somersault? GENTLEMAN [_Sighs_]: No. JACKSON How old are you? GENTLEMAN Thirty-nine. Too late? [_Jackson moves away with a whistle. There is a silence._] ZINIDA [_Softly_]: Take him. BRIQUET [_Indignant_]: What the hell shall I do with him if he doesn't know a thing? He's drunk! GENTLEMAN Honestly I am not. Thank you for your support, Madame. Are you not the famous Zinida, the lion tamer, whose regal beauty and audacity---- ZINIDA Yes. But I do not like flattery. GENTLEMAN It is not flattery. MANCINI You are evidently not accustomed to good society, my dear. Flattery? This gentleman expresses his admiration in sincere and beautiful words--and you--you are not educated, Zinida. As for myself---- [_Enter CONSUELO and BEZANO in circus costume._] CONSUELO You here, Daddy? MANCINI Yes, my child, you are not tired? [_Kisses her on the forehead._] My daughter, sir, Countess Veronica. Known on the stage as Consuelo, The Bareback Tango Queen. Did you ever see her? GENTLEMAN I have enjoyed her work. It is marvellous! MANCINI Yes! Of course. Everyone admits it. And how do you like the name, Consuelo? I took it from the novel of George Sand. It means "Consolation." GENTLEMAN What a wonderful knowledge of books! MANCINI A small thing. Despite your strange intention, I can see, sir, that you are a gentleman. My peer! Let me explain to you, that only the strange and fatal misfortunes of our ancient family--"_sic transit gloria mundi_," sir. CONSUELO It's a bore, Daddy---- Where's my handkerchief, Alfred? BEZANO Here it is. CONSUELO [_Showing the handkerchief to the gentleman_]: Genuine Venetian. Do you like it? GENTLEMAN [_Again bowing_]: My eyes are dazzled, how beautiful! Papa Briquet, the more I look around me the more I want to stay with you. [_Makes the face of a simpleton._] On the one hand a count, on the other---- JACKSON [_Nods approval_]: That's not bad. Look here, think a bit--find something. Everyone here thinks for himself. [_Silence. The gentleman stands with a finger on his forehead, thinking._] GENTLEMAN Find something--find something ... Eureka! POLLY That means _found_. Come! GENTLEMAN Eureka---- I shall be among you, he who gets slapped. [_General laughter. Even_ BRIQUET _smiles_.] GENTLEMAN [Looks at them smiling]: You see I made even you laugh--is that easy? [_All grow serious. Polly sighs._] TILLY No, it's not easy. Did you laugh, Polly? POLLY Sure, a lot. Did you? TILLY I did. [_Imitating an instrument, he plays with his lips a melody at once sad and gay._] JACKSON "He Who Gets Slapped," that's not bad. GENTLEMAN It's not, is it? I rather like it myself. It suits my talent. And comrades, I have even found a name--you'll call me "HE." Is that all right? JACKSON [_Thinking_]: "HE"--Not bad. CONSUELO [_In a singing, melodic voice_]: "HE" is so funny--"HE"--like a dog. Daddy, are there such dogs? [_Jackson suddenly gives a circus slap to the gentleman. HE steps back and grows pale._] GENTLEMAN What!--[_General laughter covers his exclamation._] JACKSON HE Who Gets Slapped. Or didn't you get it? POLLY [_Comically_]: He says he wants more---- [_The gentleman smiles, rubbing his cheek._] GENTLEMAN So sudden.--Without waiting.--How funny--you didn't hurt me, and yet my cheek burns. [_Again there is loud laughter. The clowns cackle like ducks, hens, cocks; they bark._ ZINIDA _says something to_ BRIQUET, _casts a glance toward_ BEZANO, _and goes out_. MANCINI _assumes a bored air and looks at his watch_. _The two actresses go out._] JACKSON Take him, Papa Briquet--he will push us. MANCINI [_Again looking at his watch_]: But bear in mind, that Papa Briquet is as close as Harpagon. If you expect to get good money here you are mistaken. [_HE laughs._] A slap? What's a slap? Worth only small change, a franc and a half a dozen. Better go back to society; you will make more money there. Why for one slap, just a light tap, you might say, my friend, Marquis Justi, was paid fifty thousand lire! BRIQUET Shut up, Mancini. Will you take care of him, Jackson. JACKSON I can. POLLY Do you like music? A Beethoven sonata played on a broom, for instance, or Mozart on a bottle? HE Alas! No. But I will be exceedingly grateful if you will teach me. A clown! My childhood's dream. When all my school friends were thrilled by Plutarch's heroes, or the light of science--I dreamed of clowns. Beethoven on a broom, Mozart on bottles! Just what I have sought all my life! Friends, I must have a costume! JACKSON I see you don't know much! A costume [_putting his finger on his forehead_] is a thing which calls for deep thought. Have you seen my Sun here? [_Strikes his posterior._] I looked for it two years. HE [_Enthusiastically_]: I shall think! MANCINI It is time for me to go. Consuelo, my child, you must get dressed. [_To HE._] We are lunching with Baron Regnard, a friend of mine, a banker. CONSUELO But I don't want to go, Daddy. Alfred says I must rehearse to-day. MANCINI [_Horrified, holding up his hands_]: Child, think of me, and what a situation you put me in! I promised the Baron, the Baron expects us. Why, it is impossible! Oh, I am in a cold sweat. CONSUELO Alfred says---- BEZANO [_Drily_]: She has to work. Are you rested? Then come on. MANCINI But--the devil take me if I know what to make of it. Hey, Bezano, bareback rider! Are you crazy? I gave you permission for Art's sake, to exercise my daughter's talent--and you---- CONSUELO Go along, Papa, and don't be so silly. We've got to work, haven't we? Have lunch along with your Baron. And Daddy, you forgot to take a clean handkerchief again, and I washed two for you yesterday. Where did you put them? MANCINI [_Ashamed, blushing_]: Why, my linen is washed by the laundress, and you, Consuelo, are still playing with toys. It is stupid! You're a chatter-box. You don't think. These gentlemen might imagine Heaven knows what. How stupid. I'm off. CONSUELO Do you want me to write him a little note? MANCINI [_Angrily_]: A little note? Your little notes would make a horse laugh! Good-bye. [_He goes out toying angrily with his cane. The clowns follow him respectfully, playing a funeral march. HE and_ JACKSON _laugh. The actors disappear one by one._] CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: Do I really write so badly? And I love so to write. Did you like my note, Alfred--or did you laugh, too? BEZANO [_Blushing_]: No, I did not. Come on, Consuelo. [_They go, and meet_ ZINIDA, _entering. Consuelo passes on._] ZINIDA Are you going back to work, BEZANO? BEZANO [_Politely_]: Yes. To-day is a very bad day. How are your lions, Zinida? I think the weather affects them. CONSUELO [_From the ring_]: Alfred! ZINIDA Yes. Some one is calling you. You'd better go. [_Alfred goes out. To_ BRIQUET] Are you finished? BRIQUET Right away. JACKSON Then good-bye till evening. Think about your costume, HE, and I shall look for some idea, too. Be here at ten to-morrow. Don't be late, or you'll get another slap. And I'll work with you. HE I shall not be late. [_He looks after_ JACKSON _who goes out._] Must be a nice man. All the people about you are so nice, Papa Briquet. I suppose that good-looking bareback rider is in love with Consuelo, isn't he? [_Laughs._] ZINIDA It's none of your business. For a newcomer you go poking your nose too far. How much does he want, Papa? BRIQUET Just a minute. See here HE. I don't want to make a contract with you. HE Just as you please. Do you know what? Don't let us talk about money. You are an honest fellow, Briquet; you will see what my work is worth to you, and then---- BRIQUET [_Pleased_]: Now that's very nice of you. Zinida, the man really doesn't know anything. ZINIDA Well, do as he suggests. Now we must write it down. Where's the book? BRIQUET Here. [_To HE_.] I don't like to write [_gives book to_ ZINIDA], but we have to put down the names of the actors, you know--it's police regulations. Then if anyone kills himself, or---- [_Again comes the sound of the Tango, and calls from the ring._] ZINIDA What is your name? HE [_Smiling_]: HE. I chose it, you know. Or don't you like it? BRIQUET We like it all right--but we have to have your real name. Have you a passport? HE [_Confused_]: A passport? No, I have none. Or, rather, yes. I have something of the kind, but I had no idea the rules were strictly enforced here. What do you need papers for? [ZINIDA _and_ BRIQUET _look at each other_. ZINIDA _pushes the book aside_.] ZINIDA Then we can't take you. We cannot quarrel with the police, just on your account. BRIQUET She is my wife. I hadn't told you. She's right. You might get hurt by a horse, or hurt yourself--or do something. We don't know you, you see. I personally don't care, but out there, it's different, you see. For me a corpse is just a corpse--and I don't ask anything about him. It's up to God or the Devil. But they--they're too curious. Well, I suppose it's necessary for order. I don't know---- Got a card? HE [_Rubs his head, thinking_]: What shall I do? I have my card, but [_smiles_] you understand that I don't want my name to be known. BRIQUET Some story, hey? HE Yes, something like that. Why can't you imagine that I have no name? Can't I lose it as I might lose my hat? Or let someone else take it by mistake? When a stray dog comes to you, you don't ask his name--you simply give him another. Let me be that dog. [_Laughing_] HE--the Dog! ZINIDA Why don't you tell us your name, just the two of us. Nobody else need know it. Unless you should break your neck---- HE [_Hesitates_]: Honestly? [ZINIDA _shrugs her shoulders_.] BRIQUET Where people are honest, their word is good. One sees you come from _out there_. HE All right. But please, don't be surprised. [_Gives_ ZINIDA _his card. She looks at it, then hands it to_ BRIQUET, _then both look at HE_.] BRIQUET If it is true, sir, that you are really what is written here---- HE For heaven's sake--for heaven's sake--this does not exist, but was lost long ago; it is just a check for an old hat. I pray you to forget it, as I have. I am HE Who Gets Slapped--nothing else. [_Silence._] BRIQUET I beg your pardon, sir, but I must ask you again, I must humbly ask you--are you not drunk, sir? There is something in your eye--something---- HE No, no. I am He, Who Gets Slapped. Since when do you speak to me like this, Papa Briquet? You offend me. ZINIDA After all, it's his business, Briquet. [_She hides the card._] Truly you are a strange man. [_Smiles._] And you have already noticed that Bezano is in love with the horse-girl? And that I love my Briquet, did you notice that, too? HE [_Also smiling_]: Oh, yes. You adore him. ZINIDA I adore him. Now go with him, Briquet, show him the ring and the stables--I have something to write. HE Yes, yes, please. I am so happy. At last you have taken me, haven't you? It is true--you're not joking. The circus, the tan-bark, the ring in which I shall run getting my slaps. Yes, yes, Briquet, let's go. Until I feel the sawdust under my feet, I shall not believe it. BRIQUET All right then. [_Kisses_ ZINIDA.] Come on. ZINIDA Just a minute--HE! Answer me a question. I have a man who takes care of the cages, a plain fellow whom nobody knows. He just cleans the cages you know; he walks in and out whenever he wants to, without even looking at the lions, as if he were perfectly at home. Why is that so? Nobody knows him, everybody knows me, everyone is afraid for me, while---- And he is such a silly man--you will see him. [_Laughs._] But don't you think of entering the cage yourself! My red one would give you such a slap! BRIQUET [_Displeased_]: There you are again, Zinida--stop it. ZINIDA [_Laughs_]: All right--go. Oh yes, Louis, send me Bezano. I have to settle an account with him. [HE _and the director go out_. ZINIDA _looks at the card once more, then hides it. She gets up and walks quickly up and down the room. She stops to listen to the Tango, which ends abruptly. Then she stands motionless, looking straight at the dark opening of the door through which_ BEZANO _comes_.] BEZANO [_Entering_]: You called me, Zinida? What do you want? Tell me quickly, I have no time---- [ZINIDA _looks at him silently_. BEZANO _flushes with anger, and knits his eyebrows. He turns to the door to go._] ZINIDA Bezano! BEZANO [_Stops, without looking up_]: What do you want? I have no time. ZINIDA Bezano! I keep hearing people say that you are in love with Consuelo. Is it true? BEZANO [_Shrugging his shoulders_]: We work well together. ZINIDA [_Takes a step forward_]: No---- Tell me, Alfred, do you love her? BEZANO [_Flushes like a boy, but looks straight into_ ZINIDA'S _eyes. Proudly_]: I do not love anybody. No, I love nobody. How can I? Consuelo? She is here to-day, gone to-morrow, if her father should take her away. And I? Who am I? An acrobat, the son of a Milanese shoemaker---- She! I cannot even talk about it. Like my horses I have no words. Who am I to love? ZINIDA Do you love me? A little? BEZANO No. I told you before. ZINIDA Still no? Not even a little? BEZANO [_After a silence_]: I am afraid of you. ZINIDA [_Wants to cry out, indignantly, but masters herself and lowers her eyes, as if in an effort to shut out their light; turns pale_]: Am I ... so terrifying a woman---- BEZANO You are beautiful, like a queen. You are almost as beautiful as Consuelo. But I don't like your eyes. Your eyes command me to love you--and I don't like to be commanded. I am afraid of you. ZINIDA Do I command, Bezano? No--only implore. BEZANO Then why not look at me straight? Now I have it. You know yourself that your eyes cannot implore. [_Laughs._] Your lions have spoiled you. ZINIDA My red lion loves me---- BEZANO Never! If he loves you, why is he so sad? ZINIDA Yesterday he was licking my hands like a dog. BEZANO And this morning he was looking for you to devour you. He thrusts out his muzzle and looks out, as if he sees only you. He is afraid of you, and he hates you. Or do you want me to lick your hands too, like a dog? ZINIDA No, Alfred, but I--I want to kiss _your_ hand. [_With passion_]: Give it to me! BEZANO [_Severely_]: I am ashamed to listen to you when you speak like that. ZINIDA [_Controlling herself_]: One should not torture another as you torture me. Alfred, I love you. No, I do not command. Look into my eyes---- _I love you._ [_Silence._] BEZANO [_Turns to go_]: Good-bye. ZINIDA Alfred---- [HE _appears in the doorway, and stops_.] BEZANO Please never tell me any more that you love me. I don't want it. Otherwise I will quit. You pronounce the word love as if you were cracking me with your whip. You know it is disgusting---- [_He turns brusquely and goes. Both notice HE_; BEZANO, _frowning, passes out quickly_. ZINIDA _returns to her place at the desk, with a proudly indifferent expression_.] HE [_Coming in_]: I beg your pardon, but I---- ZINIDA There you are again, poking your nose into everything, HE. Do you really want a slap? HE [_Laughing_]: No. I simply forgot my overcoat. I didn't hear anything. ZINIDA I don't care whether you did or not. HE May I take my coat? ZINIDA Take it if it's yours. Sit down, HE. HE I am sitting down. ZINIDA Now tell me HE, could you love me? HE [_Laughing_]: I? I and Love! Look at me, Zinida. Did you ever see a lover with such a face? ZINIDA One can succeed with such a face---- HE That's because I am happy--because I lost my hat--because I am drunk--or perhaps I am not drunk. But I feel as dizzy as a young girl at her first ball. It is so nice here--slap me, I want to play my part. Perhaps it will awaken love in my heart, too. Love--[_as if listening to his own heart with pretended terror_] do you know--I feel it! [_In the circus the Tango is played again_.] ZINIDA [_Listening too_]: For me? HE No. I don't know. For everyone. [_Listens to the music._] Yes, they are dancing--how beautiful Consuelo is--and how beautiful is the youth. He has the body of a Greek God; he looks as if he had been modeled by Praxiteles. Love! Love! [_Silence, music._.] ZINIDA Tell me, HE---- HE At your service, Queen! ZINIDA HE, what shall I do, to make my lions love me? CURTAIN ACT II _The same room, during the evening performance. Occasional music, laughter, shrieks, and applause are audible. Through the small windows, back centre, the light is shining._ _Consuelo and Baron Regnard occupy the stage; Consuelo wears her stage costume; she sits with her feet on the sofa, a small shawl covering her shoulders. Before her stands the Baron, a tall stout man in evening dress, a rose in his button-hole; grasping the ground with feet well apart, he gazes at her with convex spider-like eyes._ BARON Is it true that your father, the Count, has introduced you to a certain Marquis Justi, a very rich man? CONSUELO [_Surprised_]: No, he is only joking. I have often heard him speak of a Marquis Justi but I have never seen him---- BARON And do you know that your father is just a charlatan? CONSUELO Oh! Don't say that--Father is such a dear. BARON Did you like the jewels? CONSUELO Yes, very much. I was very sorry when Father told me I must return them. He said it would not be nice for me to keep them. I even cried a little about it. BARON Your father is only a beggar and a charlatan. CONSUELO Oh, no, don't scold him--he loves you so much. BARON Let me kiss your hand---- CONSUELO Oh, no, it isn't proper! One may kiss the hand only when one says how do you do or good-bye. But in the meantime you can't. BARON Everybody is in love with you, that is why you and your father make such a fuss about yourselves. Who is that new clown they call HE? I don't like him, he's too shrewd a beast.... Is he in love with you, too? I noticed the way he looked at you.... CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: Nothing of the kind. He is so funny! He got fifty-two slaps yesterday. We counted them. Think of it, fifty-two slaps! Father said, "if they had only been gold pieces." BARON And Bezano, Consuelo.... Do you like him? CONSUELO Yes, very much. He is so good-looking. He says that Bezano and I are the most beautiful couple in the world. HE calls him Adam, and me Eve. But that's improper, isn't it? HE is _so_ improper. BARON And does HE speak to you very often? CONSUELO Yes, often.... But I don't understand him. It seems as if he were drunk. BARON "Consuelo"!... It means in Spanish ... Consolation. Your father is an ass.... Consuelo, I love you. CONSUELO Talk it over with Father. BARON [_Angry_]: Your father is a swindler and a charlatan. He should be turned over to the police. Don't you understand that I _cannot_ marry you? CONSUELO But Father says you can.... BARON No, I cannot. And what if I shoot myself? Consuelo, silly girl, I love you unbearably ... unbearably, do you understand? I am probably mad ... and must be taken to a doctor, yanked about, beaten with sticks. Why do I love you so much, Consuelo? CONSUELO Then, you'd better marry. BARON I have had a hundred women, beauties, but I didn't see them. You are the first and I don't see any one else. Who strikes man with love, God or the Devil? The Devil struck me. Let me kiss your hand. CONSUELO No. [_She thinks a while and sighs._] BARON Do you think sometimes? What are you thinking about now Consuelo? CONSUELO [_With another sigh_]: I don't know why, I just felt sorry for Bezano. [_Sighs again._] He is so nice to me when he teaches me ... and he has such a tiny little room. BARON [_Indignant_]: You were there? CONSUELO No. He told me about it. [_Smiling_] Do you hear the noise in there? That's HE getting slapped. Poor thing ... although I know it doesn't hurt, it's only make-believe. The intermission is coming soon. [_The_ BARON _throws away his cigar, takes two quick steps forward, and falls on his knees before the girl_.] BARON Consuelo---- CONSUELO Please, don't. Get up. Please leave my hand alone. BARON Consuelo! CONSUELO [_Disgusted_]: Get up please, it's disgusting--you're so fat. [_The_ BARON _gets up. Voices are heard near the door and in the ring. It is the intermission. The clowns come first, talking cheerfully and excitedly. He leads them, in his clown's dress, with painted eyebrows and white nose; the others are applauding him. Voices of the actors calling: "Bravo! HE." Then come the actors and actresses, riding-masters, and the rest, all in costume. ZINIDA is not among them. PAPA BRIQUET comes a little later._] POLLY A hundred slaps! Bravo, HE! JACKSON Not bad, not bad at all. You'll make a career. TILLY He was the Professor to-day, and we were the students. Here goes another! [_Gives him a clown's slap. Laughter. All bid good evening to the BARON. He is politely rude to these vagabonds who bore him, and remains silent. They seem quite used to it. Enter MANCINI. He is the same, and with the same cane._] MANCINI [_Shaking hands_]: What a success, Baron--and think of it--how the crowd does love slaps. [_Whispering_] Your knees are dusty, Baron, brush them off. The floor is very dirty in here. [_Aloud_] Consuelo, dear child, how do you feel? [_Goes over to his daughter. Sound of laughing, chattering. The waiters from the buffet in the lobby bring in soda and wine. Consuelo's voice it heard._] CONSUELO And where is Bezano? HE [_Bows before the_ BARON, _affecting intimacy_]: _You_ do not recognize me, Baron? BARON Yes I do. You are the clown, HE. HE Yes I am HE Who Gets Slapped. May I presume to ask you, Baron, did you get your jewels back? BARON What! HE I was asked to return some jewels to you, and I take the liberty of---- [_The_ BARON _turns his back on him--HE laughs loudly_.] JACKSON Whiskey and soda! Believe me, ladies and gents, HE will surely make a career. I am an old clown, and I know the crowd. Why to-day, he even eclipsed _me_--and clouds have covered my Sun. [_Striking it._] They do not like puzzles, they want slaps! They are longing for them and dreaming about them in their homes. Your health, HE! Another whiskey and soda! HE got so many slaps to-day, there would be enough to go round the whole orchestra! TILLY I bet there wouldn't! [_To Jackson_] Shake! POLLY I bet there wouldn't--I'll go and count the old mugs. A VOICE The orchestra did not laugh---- JACKSON Because they were getting it, but the galleries did, because they were looking at the orchestra getting slapped. Your health, HE! HE Your's Jim! Tell me, why didn't you let me finish my speech--I was just getting a good start. JACKSON [_Seriously_]: My friend, because your speech was a sacrilege. Politics--all right. Manners--as much as you want. But Providence--leave it in peace. And believe me, friend, I shut your mouth in time. Didn't I, Papa Briquet? BRIQUET [_Coming nearer_]: Yes. It was too much like literature. This is not an academy. You forget yourself, HE. TILLY But to shut one's mouth--faugh.... BRIQUET [_In a didactic tone_]: Whenever one shuts one's mouth, it is always high time to shut it, unless one is drinking. Hey, whiskey and soda! VOICES Whiskey and soda for the Manager! MANCINI But this is obscurantism. Philosophizing again, Briquet? BRIQUET I am not satisfied with you to-day, HE. Why do you tease them? They don't like it. Your health! A good slap must be clean like a crystal--fft-fft! right side, left side, and done with it. They will like it; they will laugh, and love you. But in your slaps there is a certain bite, you understand, a certain smell---- HE But they laughed, nevertheless! BRIQUET But without pleasure, without pleasure, HE. You pay, and immediately draw a draft on their bank; it's not the right game--they won't like you. JACKSON That's what _I_ tell him. He had already begun to make them angry. BEZANO [_Entering_]: Consuelo, where are you? I have been looking for you--come on. [_Both go out. The_ BARON, _after hesitating a while, follows them_. MANCINI _accompanies him respectfully to the door_.] HE [_Sighs_]: You don't understand, my dear friends; you are simply old, and have forgotten the smell of the stage. JACKSON Aha! Who is old, my young man? HE Don't be angry, Jim. It's a play, don't you understand? I become happy when I enter the ring and hear the music. I wear a mask and I feel humorous. There is a mask on my face, and I play. I may say _anything_ like a drunkard. Do you understand? Yesterday when I, with this stupid face, was playing the great man, the philosopher [_he assumes a proud monumental pose, and repeats the gesture of the play--general laughter_] I was walking this way, and was telling how great, how wise, how incomparable I was--how God lived in me, how high I stood above the earth--how glory shone above my head [_his voice changes and he is speaking faster_] then you, Jim, you hit me for the first time. And I asked you, "What is it, they're applauding me?" Then, at the tenth slap, I said: "It seems to me that they sent for me from the Academy?" [_Acts, looking around him with an air of unconquerable pride and splendour. Laughter. Jackson gives him a real slap._] HE [_Holding his face_]: Why? JACKSON Because you're a fool, and play for nothing. Waiter, the check. (_Laughter. The bell calls them to the ring. The actors go out in haste, some running. The waiters collect their money._) BRIQUET [_In a sing-song_]: To the ring--to the ring-- MANCINI I want to tell you something, HE. You are not going yet? HE No. I'll take a rest. BRIQUET To the ring--to the ring-- [_The clowns as they go sing in shrill, squeaky voices. Little by little they all disappear, and loud music begins. HE seats himself on the sofa with his legs crossed, and yawns._] MANCINI HE, you have something none of my ancestors ever had--money. Let's have a nice bottle on you. Waiter, please--[_The waiter who was taking up dishes, brings a bottle of wine and glasses and goes out._] HE You're blue, Mancini. [_Stretches._] Well, at my age, a hundred slaps--it seems pretty hard. So you're blue. How are things getting on with your girl? MANCINI Tss! Bad! Complications--parents--[_shudders_] Agh-- HE Prison! MANCINI [_Laughing_]: Prison! Mustn't I uphold the glory of my name now, eh? HE, I'm joking--but there is Hell in my heart. You're the only one who understands me. But tell me how to explain this passion? It will turn my hair grey, it'll bring me to prison, to the grave. I am a tragic man. HE--[_Wipes his eyes with a dirty handkerchief._] Why don't I like things which are not forbidden? Why, at all moments, even at the very moment of ecstasy, must I be reminded of some law--it is stupid. HE, I am becoming an anarchist. Good God!--Count Mancini, an anarchist. That's the only thing I've missed. HE Isn't there a way of settling it somehow? MANCINI Is there a way of getting money, somehow? HE And the Baron? MANCINI Oh, yes! He's just waiting for it, the bloodsucker! He'll get what he's after. Some day, you'll see me give him Consuelo for ten thousand francs, perhaps for five! HE Cheap. MANCINI Did I say it was anything else? Do I want to do it? But these bourgeois are strangling me, they've got me by the throat. HE, one can easily see that you're a gentleman, and of good society, you understand me--I showed you the jewels which I sent back to him--damn honesty--I didn't even dare change the stones, put false ones-- HE Why? MANCINI It would have queered the game. Do you think he didn't weigh the diamonds when he got them back? HE He will not marry her. MANCINI Yes he will. You don't understand. [_Laughs._] The first half of his life, this man had only appetites--now love's got him. If he does not get Consuelo, he is lost, he is--like a withered narcissus. Plague take him with his automobiles. Did you see his car? HE I did.... Give Consuelo to the Jockey-- MANCINI To Bezano? [_Laughs._] What nonsense you do talk! Oh, I know. It's your joke about Adam and Eve. But please stop it. It's clever, but it compromises the child. She told me about it. HE Or give her to me. MANCINI Have you a billion? [_Laughs._] Ah, HE, I'm not in the proper mood to listen to your clownish jokes--They say there are terrible jails in this country, and no discriminations are being made between people of my kind, and plain scoundrels. Why do you look at me like that? You're making fun of me? HE No. MANCINI I'll never get accustomed to those faces. You're so disgustingly made up. HE He will not marry her. You can be as proud as you please, Mancini, but he'll not marry her. What _is_ Consuelo? She is not educated. When she is off her horse, any good housemaid from a decent house has nicer manners, and speaks better. [_Nonchalantly_] Don't _you_ think she's stupid? MANCINI No, she's not stupid. And you, HE, are a fool. What need has a woman of intelligence? Why, HE, you astonish me. Consuelo is an unpolished jewel, and only a real donkey does not notice her sparkle. Do you know what happened? I tried to begin to polish her-- HE Yes, you took a teacher. And what happened? MANCINI [_Nodding his head_]: I was frightened--it went too fast--I had to dismiss him. Another month or two, and _she_ would have kicked _me_ out. [_Laughs._] The clever old diamond merchants of Amsterdam keep their precious stones unpolished, and fool the thieves. My father taught me that. HE The sleep of a diamond. It is only sleeping, then. You are wise, Mancini. MANCINI Do you know what blood flows in the veins of an Italian woman? The blood of Hannibal and Corsini--of a Borgia--and of a dirty Lombardi peasant--and of a Moor. Oh! an Italian woman is not of a lower race, with only peasants and gypsies behind her. All possibilities, all forms are included in her, as in our marvelous sculpture. Do you understand that, you fool? Strike here--out springs a washerwoman, or a cheap street girl whom you want to throw out, because she is sloppy and has a screechy voice. Strike there--but carefully and gently, for there stands a queen, a goddess, the Venus of the Capitol, who sings like a Stradivarius and makes you cry, idiot! An Italian woman-- HE You're quite a poet, Mancini! But what will the Baron make of her? MANCINI What? What? Make of _her_? A baroness, you fool! What are you laughing at? I don't get you? But I am happy that this lovesick beast is neither a duke nor a prince--or she would be a princess and I--what would become of me? A year after the wedding they would not let me even into the kitchen [_laughing_] not even into the kitchen! I, Count Mancini, and she a--a simple-- HE [_Jumping up_]: What did you say? You are not her father, Mancini? MANCINI Tss--the devil--I am so nervous to-day! Heavens, who do you think I am? "Her father?" Of course [_tries to laugh_] how silly you are--haven't you noticed the family resemblance? Just look, the nose, the eyes--[_Suddenly sighs deeply._] Ah, HE! How unhappy I am! Think of it. Here I am, a gentleman, nearly beaten in my struggle to keep up the honour of my name, of an old house, while there in the parquet--there sits that beast, an elephant with the eyes of a spider ... and he looks at Consuelo ... and.... HE Yes, yes, he has the motionless stare of a spider--you're right! MANCINI Just what I say--a spider! But I must, I shall compel him to marry her. You'll see--[_Walking excitedly up and down, playing with his cane._] You'll see! All my life I've been getting ready for this battle. [_He continues to walk up and down. Silence. Outside, great stillness._] HE [_Listening_]: Why is it so quiet out there? What a strange silence. MANCINI [_Disgusted_]: I don't know. Out there it is quiet--but here [_touching his forehead with his cane_] here is storm, whirlwind. [_Bends over the clown._] HE, shall I tell you a strange thing--an unusual trick of nature? [_Laughs, and looks very important._] For three centuries the Counts Mancini have had no children! [_Laughs._] HE Then how were you born? MANCINI Sh! Silence! That is the secret of our sainted mothers! Ha-ha! We are too ancient a stock--too exquisitely refined to trouble ourselves with such things--matters in which a peasant is more competent than ourselves. [_Enter an usher._] What do you want? The manager is on the stage. THE USHER Yes, sir. Baron Regnard wished me to give you this letter. MANCINI The Baron? Is he there? THE USHER Baron Regnard has left. There is no answer. MANCINI [_Opening the envelope, his hand shaking_]: The devil--the devil! [_The usher is going._] HE Just a minute. Why is there no music? This silence.... THE USHER It is the act with Madame Zinida and her lions. [_He goes._ MANCINI _is reading the_ BARON'S _note for the second time._] HE What's the matter, Mancini? You shine like Jackson's sun. MANCINI What's the matter, did you ask? What's the matter? What's the matter? [_Balancing his cane, he takes steps like a ballet-dancer._] HE Mancini! [MANCINI _rolls his eyes, makes faces, dances_.] Speak, you beast! MANCINI [_Holds out his hand_]: Give me ten francs! Quick--ten francs--here, come on. [_Puts it automatically into his vest pocket._] Listen, HE! If in a month I don't have a car of my own, you may give me one of your slaps! HE What! He's going to marry? He's decided? MANCINI What do you mean by "decided?" [_Laughs._] When a man has the rope about his neck, you don't ask him about his health! Baron--[_Stops suddenly, startled._ BRIQUET _is staggering in like a drunken man, his hand over his eyes_.] HE [_Goes to him, touches his shoulder gently_]: What is the matter, Papa Briquet? Tell me! BRIQUET [_Groaning_]: Oh, oh, I can't ... I can't ... Ah---- HE Something has happened? You are ill? Please speak. BRIQUET I can't look at it! [_Takes his hands from his eyes, opens them wide._] Why does she do it? Ah, ah, why does she do it? She must be taken away; she is insane. I couldn't look at it. [_Shivers._] They will tear her to pieces. HE--her lions--they will tear her-- MANCINI Go on, Briquet. She is always like that. You act like a child. You ought to be ashamed. BRIQUET No---- To-day she is mad! And what is the matter with the crowd? They are all like dead people--they're not even breathing. I couldn't stand it. Listen--what's that? [_All listen. There is the same silence._] MANCINI [_Disturbed_]: I'll go and see. BRIQUET [_Yelling_]: No! Don't! You can't look--damned profession! Don't go. You will scorch her--every pair of eyes that looks at her--at her lions--no, no. It is impossible--it is a sacrilege. I ran away.... HE, they will tear her---- HE [_Tries to be cheerful_]: Keep cool, Papa Briquet--I had no idea you were such a coward. You ought to be ashamed. Have a drink. Mancini, give him some wine. BRIQUET I don't want any. Heavens, if it were only over---- [_All listen._] I have seen many things in my life, but this.... Oh, she is crazy. [_All still listen. Suddenly the silence breaks, like a huge stone wall crashing. There is a thunder of applause, mixed with shouts, music, wild screams--half bestial, half human. The men give way, relieved. Briquet sinks to a seat._] MANCINI [_Nervous_]: You see--you see--you old fool! BRIQUET [_Sobs and laughs_]: I am not going to allow it any more! HE Here she is! [_Zinida walks in, alone. She looks like a drunken bacchante, or like a mad woman. Her hair falls over her shoulders dishevelled, one shoulder is uncovered. She walks unseeing, though her eyes glow. She is like the living statue of a mad Victory. Behind her comes an actor, very pale, then two clowns, and a little later Consuelo and Bezano. All look at Zinida fearfully, as if they were afraid of a touch of her hand, or her great eyes._] BRIQUET [_Shouting_]: You are crazy--you're a mad woman! ZINIDA I? No. Did you see? Did you see? Well? [_She stands smiling, with the expression of a mad Victory._] TILLY [_Plaintively_]: Cut it out, Zinida. Go to the devil! ZINIDA You saw, too! And!... what---- BRIQUET Come home--come home. [_To the others_] You can do what you like here. Zinida, come home. POLLY You can't go, Papa. There's still your number. ZINIDA [_Her eyes meet those of Bezano_]: Ah! Bezano. [_Laughs long and happily_.] Bezano! Alfred! Did you see? My lions _do_ love me! [_Bezano, without answering, leaves the stage. Zinida seems to wither and grow dim, as a light being extinguished. Her smile fades, her eyes and face grow pale. Briquet anxiously bends over her._] BRIQUET [_In a slow voice_]: A chair! [_Zinida sits. Her head drops on her shoulder, her arms fall, she begins to shiver and tremble. Some one calls, "Cognac"--an actor runs to get it._] BRIQUET [_Helpless_]: What is the matter, Zinida darling? MANCINI [_Running about_]: She must quiet down. Get out, get out--vagabonds! I'll fix everything, Papa Briquet. The wrap--where's the wrap? She's cold. [_A clown hands it to him; they cover her._] TILLY [_Timidly_]: Wouldn't you like some moosic? MANCINI [_Giving her some cognac_]: Drink, Duchess, drink! Drink it all--that's it. [ZINIDA _drinks it like water, evidently not noticing the taste. She shivers. The clowns disappear one by one._ CONSUELO, _with a sudden flexible movement, falls on her knees before_ ZINIDA _and kisses her hands, warming them between her own_.] CONSUELO Dear, dear, you are cold! Poor little hands, dear good one, beloved one---- ZINIDA [_Pushes her away, gently_]: Ho--home. It will soon be over. It's nothing ... I am ver--very ... home.... You stay here, Briquet--you must. I'm all right. CONSUELO You are cold? Here is my shawl. ZINIDA No--let me.... [CONSUELO _gets up, and moves aside._] BRIQUET And it's all because of your books, Zinida--your mythology. Now tell me, why do you want those beasts to love you? Beasts! Do you understand, HE? You too, you're from that world. She'll listen more to you. Explain it to her. Whom can those beasts love? Those hairy monsters, with diabolic eyes? HE [_Genially_]: I believe--only their equals. You are right, Papa Briquet--there must be the same race. BRIQUET Of course, and this is all nonsense--literature. Explain it to her, HE. HE [_Takes on a meditative air_]: Yes, you are right, Briquet. BRIQUET You see, dear, silly woman--everybody agrees.... MANCINI Oh! Briquet, you make me sick; you are an absolute despot, an Asiatic. ZINIDA [_With the shadow of a smile, gives her hand to be kissed_]: Calm yourself, Louis. It is over--I am going home. [_She stands up, shaking, still chilled._] BRIQUET But how? alone, dear? MANCINI What! fool! Did you imagine that Count Mancini would leave a woman when she needed help? I shall take her home--let your brutal heart be at rest--I shall take her home. Thomas, run for an automobile. Don't push me Briquet, you are as awkward as a unicorn ... that's the way, that's the way---- [_They are holding her, guiding her slowly toward the door_]. CONSUELO, _her chin resting in her hand, is following them with her eyes. Unconsciously she assumes a somewhat affected pose._] MANCINI I'll come back for you, child---- [_Only_ HE _and_ CONSUELO _are left on the stage. In the ring, music, shrieks, and laughter begin again._] HE Consuelo---- CONSUELO Is that you, HE, dear? HE Where did you learn that pose? I have seen it only in marble. You look like Psyche. CONSUELO I don't know, HE. [_She sighs and sits on the sofa, keeping in her pose the same artificiality and beauty._] It's all so sad here, to-day. HE, are you sorry for ZINIDA? HE What did she do? CONSUELO I didn't see. I had closed my eyes, and didn't open them. Alfred says she is a wicked woman, but that isn't true. She has such nice eyes, and what tiny cold hands--as if she were dead. What does she do it for? Alfred says she should be audacious, beautiful, but quiet, otherwise what she does is only disgusting. It isn't true, is it, HE? HE She loves Alfred. CONSUELO Alfred? My Bezano? [_Shrugging her shoulders, and surprised_] How does she love him? The same as everyone loves? HE Yes--as everyone loves--or still more. CONSUELO Bezano? Bezano? No--it's nonsense. [_Pause; silence._] What a beautiful costume you have, HE. You invented it yourself? HE Jim helped me. CONSUELO Jim is so nice! All clowns are nice. HE I am wicked. CONSUELO [_Laughs_]: You? You are the nicest of all. Oh, goodness! Three acts more! This is the second on now. Alfred and I are in the third. Are you coming to see me? HE I always do. How beautiful you are, Consuelo. CONSUELO Like Eve? [_Smiles._] HE Yes, Consuelo. And if the Baron asks you to be his wife, will you accept? CONSUELO Certainly, HE. That's all Father and I are waiting for. Father told me yesterday that the Baron will not hesitate very long. Of course I do not love him. But I will be his honest, faithful wife. Father wants to teach me to play the piano. HE Are those your own words--"his honest, faithful wife"? CONSUELO Certainly they are mine. Whose could they be? He loves me so much, the poor thing. Dear HE, what does "love" mean? Everybody speaks of love--love--Zinida, too! Poor Zinida! What a boring evening this has been! HE, did you paint the laughter on your face yourself? HE My own self, dear little Consuelo---- CONSUELO How do you do it, all of you? I tried once, but couldn't do a thing. Why are there no women clowns? Why are you so silent, HE? You, too, are sad, to-night. HE No, I am happy to-night. Give me your hand, Consuelo, I want to see what it says. CONSUELO Do you know how? What a talented man you are! Read it, but don't _lie_, like a gypsy. [_He goes down on one knee and takes her hand. Both bend over it._] Am I lucky? HE Yes, lucky. But wait a minute--this line here--funny. Ah, Consuelo, what does it say, here! [_Acting_] I tremble, my eyes do not dare to read the strange, fatal signs. Consuelo-- CONSUELO The stars are talking. HE Yes, the stars are talking. Their voices are distant and terrible; their rays are pale, and their shadows slip by, like the ghosts of dead virgins--their spell is upon thee, Consuelo, beautiful Consuelo. Thou standest at the door of Eternity. CONSUELO I don't understand. Does it mean that I will live long? HE This line--how far it goes. Strange! Thou wilt live eternally, Consuelo. CONSUELO You see, HE, you did tell me a lie, just like a gypsy! HE But it is written--here, silly--and here. Now think of what the stars are saying. Here you have eternal life, love, and glory; and here, listen to what Jupiter says. He says: "Goddess, thou must not belong to any one born on earth," and if you marry the Baron--you'll perish, you'll die, Consuelo. [_Consuelo laughs._] CONSUELO Will he eat me? HE No. But you will die before he has time to eat you. CONSUELO And what will become of Father? Is there nothing about him here? [_Laughing, she softly sings the melody of the waltz, which is playing in the distance._] HE Don't laugh, Consuelo, at the voice of the stars. They are far away, their rays are light and pale, and we can barely see their sleeping shadows, but their sorcery is stern and dark. You stand at the gates of eternity. Your die is cast; you are _doomed_--and your Alfred, whom you love in your heart, even though your mind is not aware of it, your Alfred cannot save you. He, too, is a stranger on this earth. He is submerged in a deep sleep. He, too, is a little god who has lost himself, and Consuelo, never, never will he find his way to Heaven again. Forget Bezano---- CONSUELO I don't understand a word. Do the gods really exist? My teacher told me about them. But I thought it was all tales! [_Laughs._] And my Bezano is a god? HE Forget Bezano! Consuelo, do you know who can save you? The only one who can save you? I. CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: You, HE? HE Yes, but don't laugh! Look. Here is the letter H. It is I, HE. CONSUELO HE Who Gets Slapped? Is that written here, too? HE That, too. The stars know everything. But look here, what more is written about him. Consuelo, welcome him. HE is an old god in disguise, who came down to earth only to love you, foolish little Consuelo. CONSUELO [_Laughing and singing_]: Some god! HE Don't mock! The gods don't like such, empty laughter from beautiful lips. The gods grow lonely and die, when they are not recognized. Oh, Consuelo! Oh, great joy and love! Do recognize this god, and accept him. Think a moment, one day a god suddenly went crazy! CONSUELO Gods go crazy, too? HE Yes, when they are half man, then they often go mad. Suddenly he saw his own sublimity, and shuddered with horror, with infinite solitude, with super-human anguish. It is terrible, when anguish touches the divine soul! CONSUELO I don't like it. What language are you speaking? I don't understand---- HE I speak the language of thy awakening. Consuelo, recognize and accept thy god, who was thrown down from the summit like a stone. Accept the god who fell to the earth in order to live, to play, and to be infinitely drunk with joy. Evoë Goddess! CONSUELO [_Tortured_]: HE---- I cannot understand. Let my hand alone. HE [_Stands up_]: Sleep. Then wake again, Consuelo! And when thou wakest--remember that hour when, covered with snow-white sea-foam, thou didst emerge from the sky-blue waters. Remember heaven, and the slow eastern wind, and the whisper of the foam at thy marble feet. CONSUELO [_Her eyes are closed_]: I believe--wait--I remember. Remind me further---- [HE _is bowed over_ CONSUELO, _with lifted arms; he speaks slowly, but in a commanding voice, as if conjuring_.] HE You see the waves playing. Remember the song of the sirens, their sorrowless song of joy. Their white bodies, shining blue through the blue waters. Or can you hear the sun, singing? Like the strings of a divine harp, spread the golden rays---- Do you not see the hand of God, which gives harmony, light, and love to the world? Do not the mountains, in the blue cloud of incense, sing their hymn of glory? Remember, O Consuelo, remember the prayer of the mountains, the prayer of the sea. [_Silence._] HE [_Commandingly_]: Remember--Consuelo! CONSUELO [_Opening her eyes_]: No! HE, I was feeling so happy, and suddenly I forgot it all. Yet something of it all is still in my heart. Help me again, HE, remind me. It hurts, I hear so many voices. They all sing "Consuelo--Consuelo." What comes after? [_Silence; pause._] What comes after? It hurts. Remind me, HE. [_Silence--in the ring, the music suddenly bursts forth in a tempestuous circus gallop. Silence._] HE, [_opens her eyes and smiles_] that's Alfred galloping. Do you recognize his music? HE [_With rage_]: Leave the boy alone! [_Suddenly falls on his knees before_ CONSUELO.] _I love you, Consuelo_, revelation of my heart, light of my nights, I love you, Consuelo. [_Looks at her in ecstasy and tears--and gets a slap; starting back._] What's this? CONSUELO A slap! You forget who you are. [_Stands up, with anger in her eyes._] You are HE Who Gets Slapped! Did you forget it? Some god! With such a face--slapped face! Was it with slaps they threw you down from heaven, god? HE Wait! Don't stand up! I--did not finish the play! CONSUELO [_Sits_]: Then you were playing? HE Wait! One minute. CONSUELO You lied to me. Why did you play so that I believed you? HE I am HE Who Gets Slapped! CONSUELO You are not angry because I struck you? I did not want to really, but you were so--disgusting. And now you are so funny again. You have great talent, HE--or are you drunk? HE Strike me again. CONSUELO No. HE I need it for my play. Strike! CONSUELO [_Laughs, and touches his cheek with her fingertips_]: Here, then! HE Didn't you understand that you are a queen, and I a fool who is in love with his queen? Don't you know, Consuelo, that every queen has a fool, and he is always in love with her, and they always beat him for it. HE Who Gets Slapped. CONSUELO No. I didn't know. HE Yes, every queen. Beauty has her fool. Wisdom, too. Oh, how many fools she has! Her court is overcrowded with enamoured fools, and the sound of slaps does not cease, even through the night. But I never received such a sweet slap as the one given by my little queen. [_Someone appears at the door._ HE _notices it, and continues to play, making many faces_.] Clown HE can have no rival! Who is there who could stand such a deluge of slaps, such a hail-storm of slaps, and not get soaked? [_Feigns to cry aloud._] "Have pity on me. I am but a poor fool!" [_Enter two men: an actor, dressed as a bareback rider, and a gentleman from the audience. He is spare, dressed in black, very respectable. He carries his hat in his hand._] CONSUELO [_Laughing, embarrassed_]: HE, there is someone here. Stop! HE [_Gets up_]: Who is it? Who dares to intrude in the castle of my queen? [_HE stops, suddenly. Consuelo, laughing, jumps up and runs away, after a quick glance at the gentleman._] CONSUELO You cheered me up, HE. Good-bye. [_At the door_] You shall get a note to-morrow. THE BAREBACK RIDER [_Laughing_]: A jolly fellow, sir. You wanted to see him? There he is. HE, the gentleman wants to see you. HE [_In a depressed voice_]: What can I do for you? [_The actor bows, and goes away, smiling. Both men take a step toward each other._] GENTLEMAN Is this you? HE Yes! It is I. And you? [_Silence._] GENTLEMAN Must I believe my eyes? Is this _you_, Mr.---- HE [_In a rage_]: My name here is HE. I have no other name, do you hear? HE Who Gets Slapped. And if you want to stay here, don't forget it. GENTLEMAN You are so familiar. As far as I can remember---- HE We are all familiar, here. [_Contemptuously_] Besides, that's all you deserve, anywhere. GENTLEMAN [_Humbly_]: You have not forgiven me, HE? [_Silence._] HE Are you here with my wife? Is she, too, in the circus? GENTLEMAN [_Quickly_]: Oh, no! I am alone. She stayed there! HE You've left her already? GENTLEMAN [_Humbly_]: No--we have--a son. After your sudden and mysterious disappearance--when you left that strange and insulting letter---- HE [_Laughs_]: Insulting? You are still able to feel insults? What are you doing here? Were you looking for me, or is it an accident? GENTLEMAN I have been looking for you, for half a year--through many countries. And suddenly, to-day--by accident, indeed--I had no acquaintances here, and I went to the circus. We must talk things over ... HE, I implore you. [_Silence._] HE Here is a shadow I cannot lose! To talk things over! Do you really think we still have something to talk over? All right. Leave your address with the porter, and I will let you know when you can see me. Now get out. [_Proudly._] I am busy. [_The gentleman bows and leaves. HE does not return his bow, but stands with outstretched hand, in the pose of a great man, who shows a boring visitor the door._] CURTAIN ACT III _The same room. Morning, before the rehearsal. HE is striding thoughtfully up and down the room. He wears a broad, parti-coloured coat, and a prismatic tie. His derby is on the back of his head, and his face is clean-shaven like that of an actor. His eyebrows are drawn, lips pressed together energetically, his whole appearance severe and sombre. After the entrance of the gentleman he changes. His face becomes clown-like, mobile--a living mask._ _The gentleman comes in. He is dressed in black, and has an extremely well-bred appearance. His thin face is yellowish, like an invalid's. When he is upset, his colourless, dull eyes often twitch. HE does not notice him._ GENTLEMAN Good morning, sir. HE [_Turning around and looking at him absent-mindedly_]: Ah! It's you. GENTLEMAN I am not late? You look as if you did not expect me. I hope I am not disturbing you? You fixed this time yourself however, and I took the liberty---- HE No manners, please. What do you want? Tell me quickly, I have no time. GENTLEMAN [_Looking around with distaste_]: I expected you would invite me to some other place ... to your home. HE I have no other home. This is my home. GENTLEMAN But people may disturb us here. HE So much the worse for you. Talk faster! [_Silence._] GENTLEMAN Will you allow me to sit down? HE Sit down. Look out! That chair is broken. [_The gentleman, afraid, pushes away the chair and looks helplessly around. Everything here seems to him dangerous and strange. He chooses an apparently solid little gilded divan, and sits down; puts his silk hat aside, slowly takes off his gloves, which stick to his fingers. HE observes him indifferently._] GENTLEMAN In this suit, and with this face, you make a still stranger impression. Yesterday it seemed to me that it was all a dream; to-day ... _you_ ... HE You have forgotten my name again? My name is HE. GENTLEMAN You are determined to continue talking to me like this? HE Decidedly! But you are squandering your time like a millionaire. Hurry up! GENTLEMAN I really don't know.... Everything here strikes me so.... These posters, horses, animals, which I passed when I was looking for you.... And finally, _you_, a clown in a circus! [_With a slight, deprecating smile._] Could I expect it? It is true, when everybody there decided that you were dead, I was the only man who did not agree with them. I felt that you were still alive. But to find you among such surroundings--I can't understand it. HE You said you have a son, now. Doesn't he look like me? GENTLEMAN I don't understand? HE Don't you know that widows or divorced women often have children by the new husband, which resemble the old one? This misfortune did not befall you? [_Laughs._] And your book, too, is a big success, I hear. GENTLEMAN You want to insult me again? HE [_Laughing_]: What a restless, touchy faker you are! Please sit still; be quiet. It is the custom here to speak this way. Why were you trying to find me? GENTLEMAN My conscience.... HE You have no conscience. Or were you afraid that you hadn't robbed me of _everything_ I possessed, and you came for the rest? But what more could you take from me now? My fool's cap with its bells? You wouldn't take it. It's too big for your bald head! Crawl back, you book-worm! GENTLEMAN You cannot forgive the fact that your wife.... HE To the devil with my wife! [_The gentleman is startled and raises his eyebrows. HE laughs._] GENTLEMAN I don't know.... But such language! I confess I find difficulty in expressing my thoughts in such an atmosphere, but if you are so ... indifferent to your wife, who, I shall allow myself to emphasize the fact, loved you and thought you were a saint---- [_HE laughs._] Then _what_ brought you to such a ... step? Or is it that you cannot forgive me my success? A success, it is true, not entirely deserved. And now you want to take vengeance, with your humbleness, on those who misunderstood you. But you always were so indifferent to glory. Or your indifference was only hypocrisy. And when I, a more lucky rival ... HE [_With a burst of laughter_]: Rival! You--a rival! GENTLEMAN [Growing Pale]: But my book! HE You are talking to me about _your_ book? To me? [_The gentleman is very pale. HE looks at him with curiosity and mockery._] GENTLEMAN [_Raising his eyes_]: I am a very unhappy man. HE Why? GENTLEMAN I am a very unhappy man. You must forgive me. I am deeply, irreparably, and infinitely unhappy. HE But why? Explain it to me. [_Starts walking up and down._] You say yourself that your book is a tremendous success, you are famous, you have glory; there is not a yellow newspaper in which _you_ and _your_ thoughts are not mentioned. Who knows _me_? Who cares about my heavy abstractions, from which it was difficult for them to derive a single thought? You--you are the great vulgarizer! You have made my thoughts comprehensible even to horses! With the art of a great vulgarizer, a tailor of ideas, you dressed my Apollo in a barber's jacket, you handed my Venus a yellow ticket, and to my bright hero you gave the ears of an ass. And then your career is made, as Jackson says. And wherever I go, the whole street looks at me with thousands of faces, in which--what mockery--I recognize the traits of my own children. Oh! How ugly your son must be, if he resembles me! Why then are you unhappy, you poor devil? [_The gentleman bows his head, plucking at his gloves._] The police haven't caught you, as yet. What am I talking about? Is it possible to catch you? You always keep within the limits of the law. You have been torturing yourself up to now because you are not married to my wife. A notary public is always present at your thefts. What is the use of this self-torture, my friend? Get married. I died. You are not satisfied with having taken only my wife? Let my glory remain in your possession. It is yours. Accept my ideas. Assume all the rights, my most lawful heir! I died! And when I was dying [_making a stupidly pious face_] I forgave thee! [_Bursts out laughing. The gentleman raises his head, and bending forward, looks straight into HE's eyes._] GENTLEMAN And my pride? HE Have you any pride? [_The gentleman straightens up, and nods his head silently._] Yes! But please stand off a little. I don't like to look at you. Think of it. There was a time when I loved you a little, even thought you a little gifted! You--my empty shadow. GENTLEMAN [_Nodding his head_]: I am your shadow. [_HE keeps on walking, and looks over his shoulder at the gentleman, with a smile._] HE Oh, you are marvellous! What a comedy! What a touching comedy! Listen. Tell me frankly if you can; do you hate me very much? GENTLEMAN Yes! With all the hate there is in the world! Sit down here. HE You order me? GENTLEMAN Sit down here. Thank you. [_Bows._] I am respected and I am famous, yes? I have a wife and a son, yes. [_Laughs slowly._] My wife still loves you: our favourite discussion is about your genius. She supposes you are a genius. We, I and she, love you even when we are in bed. Tss! It is I who must make faces. My son--yes, he'll resemble you. And when, in order to have a little rest, I go to my desk, to my ink-pot, my books--there, too, I find you. Always you! Everywhere you! And I am never alone--never myself and alone. And when at night--you, sir, should understand this--when at night I go to my lonely thoughts, to my sleepless contemplations, even then I find your image in my head, in my unfortunate brain, your damned and hateful image! [_Silence. The gentleman's eyes twitch._] HE [_Speaking slowly_]: What a comedy. How marvellously everything is turned about in this world: the robbed proves to be a robber, and the robber is complaining of theft, and cursing! [_Laughs._] Listen, I was mistaken. You are not my shadow. You are the crowd. If you live by my creations, you hate me; if you breathe my breath, you are choking with anger. And choking with anger, hating me, you still walk slowly on the trail of my ideas. But you are advancing backward, advancing backward, comrade! Oh, what a marvellous comedy! [_Walking and smiling._] Tell me, would you be relieved if I really had died? GENTLEMAN Yes! I think so. Death augments distance and dulls the memory. Death reconciles. But you do not look like a man who---- HE Yes, yes! Death, _certainly_! GENTLEMAN Sit down here. HE Your obedient servant. Yes? GENTLEMAN Certainly, I do not dare to ask you--[_makes a grimace_] to ask you to die, but tell me: you'll never come back there? No, don't laugh. If you want me to, I'll kiss your hand. Don't grimace! I would have done so if you had died. HE [_Slowly_]: Get out, vermin! [_Enter Tilly and Polly as in the first act, playing. For a long time they do not see the two men._] HE Jack! TILLY Ah! Good morning, HE. We are rehearsing. You know it is very hard. Jack has just about as much music in his head as my pig. HE [_Introducing, nonchalantly_]: My friend.... For the benefit performance? [_The clowns bow to the gentleman, making idiotic faces._] POLLY Yes. What are you preparing? You are cunning, HE! Consuelo told me what you are preparing for the benefit performance. She leaves us soon, you know? HE Is that so? TILLY Zinida told us. Do you think she would get a benefit performance otherwise? She is a nice girl. POLLY [_Taking his small flute-pipe_]: Here! Don't walk as if you were an elephant. Don't forget you are an ant! Come on! [_They go off, playing._] GENTLEMAN [_Smiling_]: These are your new comrades? How strange they are! HE Everything here is strange. GENTLEMAN This suit of yours. Black used to be very becoming to you. This one hurts the eyes. HE [_Looking himself over_]: Why? It looks very nice. The rehearsal has begun. You must go away. You are disturbing us. GENTLEMAN You did not answer my question. [_Slow strains of the Tango from a small orchestra in the ring._] HE [_Listening absent-mindedly to the music_]: What question? GENTLEMAN [_Who does not hear the music_]: I pray you to tell me: will you ever come back? HE [_Listening to the music_]: Never, never, never! GENTLEMAN [_Getting up_]: Thank you. I am going. HE Never, never, never! Yes, run along. And don't come back. There you were still bearable and useful for something, but here you are superfluous. GENTLEMAN But if something should happen to you ... you are a healthy man, but in this environment, these people ... how will I know? They don't know your name here? HE My name here is unknown, but _you will know_. Anything else? GENTLEMAN I can be at peace? On your word of honour? Of course I mean, comparatively, at peace? HE Yes, you may be comparatively at peace. Never! [_They walk to the door, the gentleman stops._] GENTLEMAN May I come to the circus? You will allow me? HE Certainly. You are the audience! [_Laughs._] But I shan't give you my card for a pass. But why do you want to come? Or do you like the circus so much, and since when? GENTLEMAN I want to look at you some more, and to understand, perhaps. Such a transformation! Knowing you as I do, I cannot admit that you are here without any _idea_. But what idea? [_Looks short-sightedly at HE. HE grimaces and thumbs his nose._] GENTLEMAN What is that? HE _My idea!_ Good-bye, Prince! My regards to your respected wife, your Highness' wonderful son! [_Enter_ MANCINI.] MANCINI You positively live in the circus, HE. Whenever I come, you are here. You are a fanatic in your work, sir. HE [_Introducing_]: Prince Poniatovsky, Count Mancini. MANCINI [_Drawing himself up_]: Very, very glad. And you too, Prince, you know my queer fellow? What a nice face he has, hasn't he? [_He touches HE'S shoulder patronizingly, with the tip of his cane._] GENTLEMAN [_Awkwardly_]: Yes, I have the pleasure ... certainly. Good-bye, Count. MANCINI Good-day, Prince. HE [_Accompanying him_]: Look out, your Highness, for the dark passages: the steps are so rotten. Unfortunately I cannot usher you out to the street. GENTLEMAN [_In a low voice_]: You will not give me your hand when we say good-bye? We are parting for ever. HE Unnecessary, Prince. I shall still hope to meet you in the Kingdom of Heaven. I trust you will be there, too? GENTLEMAN [_With disgust_]: How you did succeed! You have so much of the clown in you! HE I am HE Who is Getting Slapped. Good-bye, Prince. [_They take another step._] GENTLEMAN [_Looking HE in the eyes; in a very low voice_]: Tell me, you are not mad? HE [_Just at low, his eyes wide open_]: I am afraid, I am afraid you are right, Prince. [_Still low_] Ass! Never in your life did you use such a precise expression. I am mad! [_Playing the clown again, he shows him to the stair, with a big, affected gesture, a sweep of the hand and arm from his head to the floor, the fingers moving, to represent the steps._] HE [_Laughing_]: He is down! _Au revoir_, Prince. [_The gentleman goes out. HE comes skipping back, and takes a pose._] Mancini! Let us dance the Tango! Mancini, I adore you! MANCINI [_Sitting back comfortably and playing with his cane_]: Don't forget yourself, HE. But you're hiding something, my boy. I always said you used to belong to society. It is so easy to talk to you. And who is this Prince? A genuine one? HE Genuine. A first-rater. Like you! MANCINI A sympathetic face. Although at first I thought he was an undertaker who came for an order. Ah, HE! When shall I finally depart from these dirty walls, from Papa Briquet, stupid posters, and brutal jockeys! HE Very soon, Mancini. MANCINI Yes, soon. I am simply exhausted in these surroundings, HE! I begin to feel myself a horse. You are from society, still you don't yet know what high society means. To be at last decently dressed, to attend receptions, to display the splendour of wit; from time to time to have a game of baccarat [_laughing_] without tricks or cheating---- HE And when evening comes, go to a suburb, where you are considered an honest father, who loves his children and---- MANCINI And get hold of something, eh? [_Laughs._] I shall wear a silk mask and two butlers shall follow me, thus protecting me from the dirty crowd. Ah, HE! The blood of my ancestors boils in me. Look at this stiletto. What do you think? Do you think that it was ever stained with blood? HE You frighten me, Count! MANCINI [_Laughing, and putting the stiletto back into its sheath_]: Fool! HE And what about the girl? MANCINI Tss! I give those bourgeois absolute satisfaction, and they glorify my name. [_Laughs._] The splendour of my name is beginning to shine with a force unknown. By the way, do you know what automobile firms are the best? Money is no object. [_Laughs._] Ah! Papa Briquet! [_Enter Briquet in his overcoat and silk hat. They shake hands._] BRIQUET So, Mancini, you have obtained a benefit performance for your daughter, Consuelo! I only want to tell you, that if it were not for Zinida.... MANCINI Listen, Briquet. Decidedly you are a donkey. What are you complaining of? The Baron has bought all the parquet seats for Consuelo's benefit performance. Isn't that enough for you, you miser? BRIQUET I love your daughter, Mancini, and I am sorry to let her go. What more does she need here? She has an honest job, wonderful comrades, and the atmosphere--? MANCINI Not _she_, but _I_ need something. You understand? [_Laughs._] I asked you to increase her salary, Harpagon! and now, Mr. Manager, wouldn't you like to change me a thousand franc note? BRIQUET [_With a sigh_]: Give it to me. MANCINI [_Nonchalantly_]: To-morrow. I left it at home. [_All three laugh._] Laugh, laugh! To-day we are going with the Baron to his villa in the country; people say a very nice villa. HE What for? MANCINI You know, HE, the crazes of these billionaires. He wants to show Consuelo some winter roses, and me his wine cellars. He will come for us here. What is the matter, my little Consuelo? [_Enter_ CONSUELO, _almost crying_.] CONSUELO I can't father! Tell him! What right has he to yell at me? He almost hit me with his whip! MANCINI [_Straightening up_]: Briquet! I beg of you, as the Manager, what is this--a stable? To hit my daughter with a whip! I'll show this cub ... a mere jockey.... No, the devil knows what it is, devil knows, I swear.... CONSUELO Father.... BRIQUET I will tell him. CONSUELO Please don't. Alfred didn't hit me. It's a silly thing, what I told you. What an idea! He is so sorry himself.... BRIQUET I shall tell him anyhow that---- CONSUELO Don't you dare. You mustn't tell him anything. He didn't do a thing. MANCINI [_Still excited_]: He must beg her pardon, the brat. CONSUELO He's already asked me to forgive him. How silly you all are! I simply cannot work to-day and I got nervous. What nonsense! The silly boy asked me to forgive him, but I didn't want to. HE, dear, good morning! I didn't notice you. How becoming your tie is! Where are you going, Briquet? To Alfred? BRIQUET No, I am going home, dear child. Zinida asked me to give you her love. She will not be here to-day, either. [_He goes out._] CONSUELO Zinida is so nice, so good. Father, why is it that everybody seems so nice to me? Probably because I am going away soon. HE, did you hear the march that Tilly and Polly will play? [_Laughs._] Such a cheerful one. HE Yes. I heard it. Your benefit performance will be remarkable. CONSUELO I think so, too. Father I am hungry. Have them bring me a sandwich. HE I'll run for it, my Queen. CONSUELO Please do, HE. [_Loudly_] But not cheese. I don't like it. [MANCINI _and_ CONSUELO _are alone_. MANCINI, _lying back comfortably in an armchair, scrutinizes his daughter with a searching eye_.] MANCINI I find something particular in you to-day, my child. I don't know whether it is something better or worse. You cried? CONSUELO Yes, a little. Oh, I am so hungry. MANCINI But you had your breakfast? CONSUELO No, I didn't. That's why I am so hungry. You again forgot to leave me some money this morning, and without money.... MANCINI Oh, the devil ... what a memory I have. [_Laughs._] But we shall have a very nice meal to-day. Don't eat very many sandwiches.... Yes, positively I like you. You must cry more often, my child; it washes off your superfluous simplicity. You become more of a woman. CONSUELO Am I so simple, Father? MANCINI Very.... Too much. I like it in others, but not in you. Besides, the Baron.... CONSUELO Nonsense. I am not simple. But you know, Bezano scolded me so much, that even you would have cried. The devil knows.... MANCINI Tsss.... Never say "the devil knows." It isn't decent. CONSUELO I say it only when I am with you. MANCINI You must not say it when you are with me, either. I know it without you. [_Laughs._] CONSUELO Ha! Listen, Father! It's a new number of Alfred's. He makes such a jump! Jim says he's bound to break his neck. Poor fish.... MANCINI [_Indifferently_]: Or his leg, or his back; they all have to break something. [_Laughs._] They are breakable toys. CONSUELO [_Listening to the music_]: I'll be lonesome without them, Father! The Baron promised to make a ring for me to gallop over as much as I want. He's not lying? MANCINI A ring? [_Laughs._] No, it's not a lie. By the way, child, when speaking of Barons, you must say, "he does not tell the truth," and not, "he lies." CONSUELO It's just the same. It's nice to be wealthy, Father; you can do what you want, then. MANCINI [_With enthusiasm_]: Everything you want. Everything, my child. Ah! Our fate is being decided to-day. Pray our clement God, Consuelo. The Baron is hanging on a thread. CONSUELO [_Indifferently_]: Yes? MANCINI [_Making the gesture with his fingers_]: On a very thin, silk thread. I am almost sure that he will make his proposal to-day. [_Laughs._] Winter roses, and the web of a spider amongst the roses, in order that my dear little fly.... He is such a spider. CONSUELO [_Indifferently_]: Yes, a terrible spider. Father, oughtn't I to let him kiss my hand yet? MANCINI By no means. You don't know yet, darling, what these men are. CONSUELO Alfred never kisses. MANCINI Alfred! Your Alfred is a cub, and he mustn't dare. But with men of that sort, you must be extremely careful, my child. To-day he would kiss your little finger, to-morrow your hand, and after to-morrow you would be on his lap. CONSUELO Foui! Father, what are you talking about? You should be ashamed! MANCINI But I know.... CONSUELO Don't you dare! I don't want to hear such dirty things. I shall give the Baron such a slap! A better one than HE--let him only try. MANCINI [_With a deprecating gesture_]: All men are like that, child. CONSUELO It isn't true. Alfred is not. Ah! But where is HE? He said he'd run, and he hasn't come back. MANCINI The buffet here is closed, and he has to get the sandwiches somewhere else. Consuelo, as your father, I want to warn you about HE. Don't trust him. He knows something. [_Twirls his finger close to his forehead._] His game is not fair. CONSUELO You say it about everybody. I know HE; he is such a nice man, and he loves me so much. MANCINI Believe me, there is something in it. CONSUELO Father, you make me sick with your advice. Ah! HE, thank you. [_HE, breathing somewhat heavily, enters and gives her the sandwiches._] HE Eat, Consuelo. CONSUELO A hot one.... But you were running, HE? I am so grateful. [_Eats._] HE, do you love me? HE I do, my Queen. I am your court fool. CONSUELO [_Eating_]: And when I leave, will you find another queen? HE [_Making a ceremonious bow_]: I shall follow after you, my incomparable one. I shall carry the train of your dress and wipe away my tears with it. [_Pretends to cry._] MANCINI Idiot! [_Laughs._] How sorry I am, HE, that those wonderful times have passed, when, in the court of the Counts Mancini, there were scores of motley fools who were given gold and kicks.... Now, Mancini is compelled to go to this dirty circus in order to see a good fool; and still, whose fool is he? Mine? No. He belongs to everybody who pays a franc. We shall very soon be unable to breathe because of Democracy. Democracy, too, needs fools! Think of it, HE; what an unexampled impertinence. HE We are the servants of those who pay. But how can we help it, Count? MANCINI But is that not sad? Imagine: we are in my castle. I, near the fireplace with my glass of wine, you, at my feet chatting your nonsense, jingling your little bells--diverting me. Sometimes you pinch me too with your jokes: it is allowed by the traditions and necessary for the circulation of the blood. After a while--I am sick of you, I want another one.... Then I give you a kick and.... Ah, HE, how wonderful it would be! HE It would be marvellous, Mancini! MANCINI Yes. Certainly! You would be getting gold coins, those wonderfully little yellow things.... Well, when I become rich, I shall take you. That's settled. CONSUELO Take him, Father.... HE And when the count, tired of my chattering, will give me a kick with his Highness's foot, then I shall lie down at the little feet of my queen, and shall.... CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: Wait for another kick? I'm finished. Father, give me your handkerchief, I want to wipe my hands. You have another one in your pocket. Oh, my goodness, I must work some more! MANCINI [_Uneasy_]: But don't forget, my child! CONSUELO No, to-day I won't forget! Go on! MANCINI [_Looking at his watch_]: Yes, it is time.... He asked me to come over when you were ready. You must change your dress before I come back. [_Laughing._] _Signori, miei complimenti._ [_He goes out, playing with his cane._ CONSUELO _sits on the corner of the divan, and covers herself with her shawl_.] CONSUELO Hello, HE! Come and lie down at my feet, and tell me something cheerful.... You know, when you paint the laughter on your face, you are very good looking, but now, too, you are very, very nice. Come on, HE, why don't you lie down? HE Consuelo! Are you going to marry the Baron? CONSUELO [_Indifferently_]: It seems so. The Baron is hanging by a thread! HE, there is one little sandwich left. Eat it. HE Thank you, my queen. [_Eats._] And do you remember my prediction? CONSUELO What prediction? How quickly you swallow! Does it taste good? HE Very good. That if you marry the Baron, you.... CONSUELO Oh, that's what you're talking about.... But you were making fun. HE Nobody can tell, my Queen. Sometimes one makes fun, and suddenly it turns out to be true; the stars never talk in vain. If sometimes it is difficult for a human being to open his mouth and to say a word, how difficult it must be for a star. Think of it. CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: I should say. Such a mouth! [_Makes a tiny mouth._] HE No, my dear little girl, were I in your place, I would think it over. And suppose suddenly you should die? Don't marry the Baron, Consuelo! CONSUELO [_Thinking_]: And what is--death? HE I do not know, my Queen. Nobody knows. Like love! Nobody knows. But your little hands will become cold, and your dear little eyes will be closed. You will be away from here. And the music will play without you, and without you the crazy Bezano will be galloping, and Tilly and Polly will be playing on their pipes without you: tilly-polly, tilly-polly ... tilly-tilly, polly-polly.... CONSUELO Please don't, HE darling---- I am so sad, anyway ... tilly-tilly, polly-polly ... [_Silence. HE looks at_ CONSUELO.] HE You were crying, my little Consuelo? CONSUELO Yes, a little. Alfred made me nervous. But tell me, is it my fault that I can't do anything to-day? I tried to, but I couldn't. HE Why? CONSUELO Ah, I don't know. There is something here. [_Presses her hand against her heart._] I don't know. HE, I must be sick. What is sickness? Does it hurt very much? HE It is not sickness. It is the charm of the far off stars, Consuelo. It is the voice of your fate, my little Queen. CONSUELO Don't talk nonsense, please. What should the stars care about me? I am so small. Nonsense, HE! Tell me rather another tale which you know: about the blue sea and those gods, you know ... who are so beautiful. Did they all die? HE They are all alive, but they hide themselves, my goddess. CONSUELO In the woods or mountains? Can one come across them? Ah, imagine HE ... I come across a god, and he suddenly takes a look at me! I'd run away. [_Laughs._] This morning when I went without breakfast, I became so sad, so disgusted, and I thought: if a god should come, and give me something to eat! And as I thought it, I suddenly heard, honestly it's true, I heard: "Consuelo, somebody's calling you." [_Angrily._] Don't you dare laugh! HE Am I laughing? CONSUELO Honestly, it's true. Ah, HE, but he didn't come. He only called me and disappeared, and how can you find him? It hurt me so much, and hurts even now. Why did you remind me of my childhood? I'd forgotten it entirely. There was the sea ... and something ... many, many [_closes her eyes, smiling._] HE Remember, Consuelo. CONSUELO No. [_Opening her eyes_] I forget everything about it. [_Looks around the room._] HE, do you see what a poster they made for my benefit performance? It's Father's idea. The Baron liked it. [_HE laughs. Silence._] HE [_Slowly_] Consuelo, my Queen! Don't go to the Baron to-day. CONSUELO Why? [_After a silence._] How fresh you are, HE. HE [_Lowering his head, slowly_]: I don't want it. CONSUELO [_Getting up_]: What? You don't want it? HE [_Bowing his head still lower_]: I do not want you to marry the Baron [_Imploring._] I ... I shall not allow it ... I beg you! CONSUELO Whom, then, would you ask me to marry? You, perhaps, you fool? [_With a rancorous laugh_] Are you crazy, my darling? "I shall not allow." HE! HE will not allow me! But it is unbearable! What business is it of yours? [_Walking up and down the room, looks over her shoulder at HE, with anger._] Some fool clown, whom they can kick out of here any minute. You make me sick with your stupid tales. Or you like slaps so much. Fool, you couldn't invent anything better than a slap! HE [_Without lifting his head_]: Forgive me, my Queen. CONSUELO He is glad when they laugh at him. Some god! No, I shan't forgive. I know you. [_Makes same gesture as_ MANCINI.] You have something there! Laughs ... so nicely ... plays, plays, and then suddenly--hop! _Obey him!_ No, darling, I am not that kind! Carry my train, that is your business--fool! HE I shall carry your train, my Queen. Forgive me. Give me back the image of my beautiful, piteous goddess. CONSUELO [_Quieting down_]: You're playing again? HE I am. CONSUELO [_Laughing_]: You see! [_Sits down._] Foolish HE. HE I see everything, my Queen. I see how beautiful you are, and how low under your feet your poor court fool is lying. Somewhere in the abyss his little bells are ringing. He kneels before you and prays; forgive and pity him, my divine one. He was too impudent; he played so cheerfully that he went too far and lost his tiny little mind, the last bit of understanding he had saved up. Forgive me! CONSUELO All right. I forgive you. [_Laughs._] And now will you allow me to marry the Baron? HE [_Also laughing_]: And nevertheless I will not allow it. But what does a queen care about the permission of her enamoured fool? CONSUELO Get up. You are forgiven. And do you know why? You think because of your words? You are a cunning beast, HE! No, because of the _sandwiches_. That's why. You were so lovely, you panted so when you brought them. Poor darling HE. From to-morrow you may be at my feet again. And as soon as I whistle, "tuwhooo"---- HE I shall instantly lie down at thy feet, Consuelo. It is settled! But all my little bells fell off to-day and---- [_Bezano appears, confused._] CONSUELO Alfred! You came for me? BEZANO Yes. Will you work some more, Consuelo? CONSUELO Certainly. As much as you want. But I thought, Alfred, you were mad at me? I shan't dawdle any more. BEZANO No. You didn't dawdle. Don't be offended, because I yelled so much. You know when one has to teach, and---- CONSUELO My goodness, do you think I don't understand? You are too nice, unbearably nice, to like teaching such a fool as me. Do you think I don't understand? Come on! BEZANO Come on! Hello, HE! I haven't seen you yet to-day. How are you? HE How are you, Bezano? Wait, wait a minute--stay here a minute, both of you--that way. Yes! [CONSUELO _and_ BEZANO _stand side by side, the jockey scowling_, CONSUELO _laughing and flushing_.] CONSUELO Like Adam and Eve? How foolish you are! Terribly. [_She runs away._] I shall only change my slippers, Alfred. HE Consuelo! And how about Father and the Baron? They will come soon, to take you with them. CONSUELO Let them come. They can wait. Not very important people. [_Runs away._ BEZANO _hesitatingly follows her_.] HE Stay here for a while, Bezano. Sit down. BEZANO What more do you want? I have no time for your nonsense. HE You can remain standing if you want. Bezano--you love her? [_Silence._] BEZANO I shall allow nobody to interfere with my affairs. You allow yourself too many liberties, HE. I don't know you. You came from the street, and why should I trust you? HE But you know the Baron? Listen. It is painful for me to pronounce these words: she loves you. Save her from the spider! Or are you blind, and don't see the web, which is woven in every dark corner. Get out of the vicious circle in which you are turning around, like a blind man. Take her away, steal her, do what you want ... kill her even, and take her to the heavens or to the devil! But don't give her to this man! He is a defiler of love. And if you are timid, if you are afraid to lift your hand against her--kill the Baron! Kill! BEZANO [_With a smile_]: And who will kill the others, to come? HE She loves you. BEZANO Did she tell you that herself? HE What a petty, what a stupid, what a human pride! But _you_ are a little god! A god, youth! Why don't you want to believe me? Or does the street, from which I have come, bother you? But look, look yourself. Look in my eyes, do such eyes lie? Yes, my face is ugly, I make faces and grimaces, I am surrounded by laughter, but don't you see the god behind all this, a god, like you? Look, look at me! [BEZANO _bursts out laughing_.] What are you laughing at, youth? BEZANO You look now as you did that evening in the ring. You remember? When you were a great man, and they sent for you from the Academy, and suddenly--Hup! HE Who Gets Slapped! HE [_Laughing the same way_]: Yes, yes, you are right, Bezano. There is a resemblance. [_With a strained expression, taking a pose_] "It seems to me they sent for me from the Academy!" BEZANO [_Displeased_]: But I don't like this play. You can present your face for slaps if you want to, but don't dare to expose mine. [_Turns to go._] HE Bezano! BEZANO [_Turning round_]: And never let me hear any more about Consuelo, and don't dare to tell me again that I am a god! It is disgusting. [BEZANO _goes out angrily, striking his boot with his whip. HE is alone. Wrathfully, with a tortured expression, he makes a step towards the jockey, then stops, with soundless laughter, his head thrown backwards. The_ BARON _and_ MANCINI _find him in this position, when they enter_.] MANCINI [_Laughing_]: What a cheerful chap you are, HE! You laugh when you are alone. [_HE laughs aloud._] Stop it fool! How can you stand it? HE [_Bowing low, with a large gesture_]: How do you do, Baron? My humblest respects to you, Count. I beg your pardon, Count, but you found the clown at work. These are, so to speak, Baron, his every-day pleasures. MANCINI [_Lifting his eyebrows_]: Tsss. But you are a clever man, HE. I shall ask Papa Briquet to give you a benefit performance. Shall I, HE? HE Please do me the favour, Count. MANCINI Don't overdo. Be more simple, HE. [_Laughs._] But how many slaps will you get at your benefit performance, when even on weekdays they ring you like a gong! A funny profession, isn't it, Baron? BARON Very strange. But where is the Countess? MANCINI Yes, yes. I shall go for her at once. Dear child, she is so absorbed in her benefit performance and her work. They call this jumping _work_, Baron. BARON I can wait a little. [_Sits down, with his silk hat on his head._] MANCINI But why? I shall hurry her up. I shall be back at once. And you, HE, be a nice host, and entertain our dear guest. You will not be bored in his company, Baron. [_He goes out. HE strides about the stage, smiling and glancing from time to time at the_ BARON. _The latter sits with his legs spread apart and his chin on the top of his cane. The silk hat remains on his head. He is silent._] HE In what way would you like me to entertain you, Baron? BARON In no way! I don't like clowns. HE Nor I Barons. [_Silence. HE puts on his derby hat, takes a chair with a large gesture, and puts it down heavily, in front of the_ BARON. _HE sits astride it, imitating the pose of the_ BARON, _and looks him in the eyes. Silence._] HE Can you be silent very long? BARON Very long. HE [_Taps on the floor with his foot_]: And can you wait very long? BARON Very long. HE Until you get it? BARON Until I get it. And you? HE I too. [_Both look at each other, silently, their heads close together. From the ring one hears the strains of the Tango._] CURTAIN ACT IV _Music in the ring. More disorder in the room than usual. All kinds of actors' costumes hanging on pegs and lying in the corners. On the table a bouquet of fiery-red roses, put there by some careless hand. At the entrance, near the arch, three bareback riders are smoking and chattering; they are all minor actors. All part their hair the same way; two wear small moustaches; the third one is clean-shaven with a face like a bull-dog._ THE CLEAN-SHAVEN ONE Go on, Henry! Ten thousand francs! It's too much even for the Baron. THE SECOND How much are roses now? THE SHAVEN I don't know. In winter they are certainly more expensive, but still Henry talks nonsense. Ten thousand! THE SECOND The Baron has his own hothouse. They don't cost him anything. HENRY [_Throwing away hit cigar, which has burned the tips of his fingers_]: No, Grab, you're silly. There's a whole car-load full! One can smell the roses a mile away. They're to cover the entire arena. THE SHAVEN Only the ring. HENRY It's all the same. In order to cover the ring, you must have thousands and thousands of roses. You'll see what it looks like, when they've covered everything like a carpet. He ordered them to make it like a carpet! Do you see, Grab? THE SECOND What a Baron's craze! Isn't it time yet? HENRY No, we have time enough. I rather like it: a fiery-red tango on a fiery-red cover of winter roses! THE SHAVEN Consuelo will be galloping on roses. And Bezano? THE SECOND And Bezano on thorns. [_Smiles._] THE SHAVEN That youngster has no self-respect. I'd have refused. HENRY But it is his job. He's got to do it. [_Laughs._] Talk to him about self-respect. He's as angry and proud as a little Satan. THE SECOND No, you may say what you like, it's an excellent benefit performance. It's a joy to look at the crowd. They're so excited. HENRY Tss! [_All throw away their cigars and cigarettes, like school boys who are caught, and make way for_ ZINIDA, _who enters with_ HE.] ZINIDA What are you doing here, gentlemen? Your place is at the entrance. HENRY [_With a respectful smile_]: We are here just for a minute, Madame Zinida. We are going. What a successful evening! And what a glory for Papa Briquet! ZINIDA Yes. Go, and please don't leave your places. [_They go._ ZINIDA _pulls a drawer out of the desk, and puts in some papers. She is in her lion tamer's costume._] HE, what were you doing near my lions? You frightened me. HE Why, Duchess, I merely wanted to hear what the beasts were saying about the benefit performance. They are pacing in their cages, and growling. ZINIDA The music makes them nervous. Sit down, HE. An excellent evening, and I am so glad that Consuelo is leaving us. Have you heard about the Baron's roses. HE Everybody is talking about them. The Hymeneal roses! ZINIDA Here are some, too. [_Pushes away the bouquet._] You find them everywhere. Yes, I am glad. She is superfluous here, and disturbs our work. It is a misfortune for a cast to have in it such a beautiful and such an ... accessible girl. HE But it is an honest marriage, Duchess, is it not? ZINIDA I don't care what it is. HE Spiders, too need an improvement in their breed! Can't you imagine, Zinida, what charming little spiders this couple will create! They will have the face of their mother, Consuelo, and the stomach of their father, the Baron, and thus could be an ornament for any circus-ring. ZINIDA You are malicious to-day, HE. You are morose. HE I laugh. ZINIDA You do, but without joy. Why are you without make-up? HE I am in the third act. I have time. And how does Bezano feel about this evening. Is he glad? ZINIDA I didn't talk to Bezano. You know what I think, my friend? You, too, are superfluous here. [_Silence._] HE How do you want me to take that, Zinida? ZINIDA Just as I said. In fact, Consuelo sold herself for nothing. What is the Baron worth, with his poor millions? People say that you are clever, too clever perhaps; tell me then, for how much could one buy me? HE [_Looking as if he were pricing her_]: Only for a crown. ZINIDA A baron's crown? HE No, a royal one. ZINIDA You are far from being stupid. And you guessed that Consuelo is not Mancini's daughter? HE [_Startled_]: What! And she knows it? ZINIDA Hardly. Why should she know it? Yes, she is a girl from Corsica whose parents are unknown. He preferred to use her for business rather than.... But according to the law, she is his daughter, Countess Veronica Mancini. HE It is nice, to have everything done according to law, isn't it, Zinida? But it is curious there is more blue blood in her than in this Mancini. One would say that it was she who found him on the street, and made him a count and her father. Count Mancini! [_Laughs._] ZINIDA Yes, you are gloomy, HE. I changed my mind, you'd better stay. HE Will I not be superfluous? ZINIDA When she is gone, you will not. Oh! You don't know yet, how nice it is to be with us. What a rest for the body and mind. I understand you. I am clever, too. Like you, I brought with me from out there my inclination for chains, and for a long time I chained myself to whatever I could, in order to feel firm. HE Bezano? ZINIDA Bezano and others; there were many, there will be many more. My red lion, with whom I am desperately in love, is still more terrible than Bezano. But it is all nonsense; old habits, which we are sorry to let go, like old servants who steal things. Leave Consuelo alone. She has her own way. HE Automobiles and diamonds? ZINIDA When did you see a beauty clad in simple cotton? If this one does not buy her, another will. They buy off everything that is beautiful. Yes, I know. For the first ten years she will be a sad beauty, who will attract the eyes of the poor man on the side-walk: afterward she will begin to paint a little around her eyes and smile, and then will take---- HE Her _chauffeur_ or butler as a lover? You're not guessing badly, Zinida! ZINIDA Am I not right? I don't want to intrude on your confidence, but to-day I am sorry for you, HE. What can you do against Fate? Don't be offended, my friend, by the words of a woman. I like you; you are not beautiful, nor young, nor rich, and your place is---- HE On the side-walk, from which one looks at the beauties. [_Laughs._] And if I don't want to? ZINIDA What does it matter, your "want" or "don't want"? I am sorry for you, my poor friend, but if you are a strong man, and I think you are, then there is only one way for you. To forget. HE You think that that's being strong? And you are saying this, you, Queen Zinida, who want to awaken the feeling of love, even in the heart of a lion? For one second of an illusory possession, you are ready to pay with your life, and still you advise me to forget! Give me your strong hand, my beautiful lady; see how much strength there is in this pressure, and don't pity me. [_Enter_ BRIQUET _and_ MANCINI. _The latter it reserved, and self-consciously imposing. He has a new suit, but the same cane, and the same noiseless smile of a satyr._] ZINIDA [_Whispering_]: Will you stay? HE Yes. I shan't go away. MANCINI How are you, my dear? But you are dazzling, my dear! I swear you are marvellous! Your lion would be an ass, if he did not kiss your hand, as I do.... [_Kisses her hand._] ZINIDA May I congratulate you, Count? MANCINI Yes, merci. [_To_ HE]: How are you, my dear? HE Good evening, Count! BRIQUET Zinida, the Count wants to pay immediately for the breach of contract with Consuelo ... the Countess's contract. Don't you remember, Mother, how much it is? ZINIDA I'll look it up, Papa. MANCINI Yes, please. Consuelo will not return here any more. We leave to-morrow. [ZINIDA _and_ BRIQUET _search among the papers_. HE _takes_ MANCINI _roughly by the elbow, and draws him aside._] HE [_In a low voice_]: How are your girls, Mancini? MANCINI What girls? What is this, stupidity or blackmail? Look out, sir, be careful, the policeman is not far. HE You are much too severe, Mancini. I assumed, that since we are _tête-á-tête_.... MANCINI But tell me, what kind of _tête-á-tête_ is possible, between a clown and me? [_Laughs._] You are stupid, HE. You should say what you want, and not ask questions! BRIQUET Three thousand francs, Count. MANCINI Is that all? For Consuelo? All right. I'll tell the Baron. ZINIDA You took---- BRIQUET Don't, Mother, don't. ZINIDA Count, you drew in advance, I have it written down, eighty francs and twenty centimes. Will you pay this money, too? MANCINI Certainly, certainly. You will get three thousand and one hundred. [_Laughing_] Twenty centimes! I never thought I could be so accurate. [_Seriously_] Yes, my friends. My daughter Consuelo--the Countess--and the Baron, expressed their desire to bid farewell to the whole cast. HE The Baron, too? MANCINI Yes, Auguste, too. They want to do it during the intermission. Therefore, I ask you to gather here ... the more decent ones ... but please don't make it too crowded! HE, will you, sir, be kind enough to run into the buffet and tell them to bring right away a basket of champagne, bottles and glasses--you understand? HE Yes, Count. MANCINI Wait a minute, what's the hurry--what is this, a new costume? You are all burning like the devils in hell! HE You do me too much honour, Count, I am not a devil. I am merely a poor sinner who the devils are frying a little. [_He goes out, bowing like a clown._] MANCINI A gifted chap, but too cunning. BRIQUET It's the Tango colour, in honour of your daughter, Count. He needs it for a new stunt, which he doesn't want to tell in advance. Don't you want to sit down, Count? MANCINI Auguste is waiting for me, but ... it's all right. [_Takes a seat._] Nevertheless I am sorry to leave you, my friend. High society, certainly, prerogatives of the title, castles of exalted noblemen, but where could I find such freedom, and ... such simplicity.... And besides, these announcements, these burning posters, which take your breath in the morning, they had something which summoned, which encouraged.... _There_, my friends, I shall become old. BRIQUET But pleasures of a higher kind, Count. Why are you silent, Zinida? ZINIDA I'm listening. MANCINI By the way, my dear, how do you like my suit? You have wonderful taste. [_Spreads out his lace tie and lace cuffs._] ZINIDA I like it. You look like a nobleman of the courts of long ago. MANCINI Yes? But don't you think it is too conspicuous? Who wears lace and satin now? This dirty democracy will soon make us dress ourselves in sack cloth. [_With a sigh_] Auguste told me that this jabot was out of place. ZINIDA The Baron is too severe. MANCINI Yes, but it seems to me he is right. I am a little infected with your fancy. [HE _returns. Two waiters follow him, carrying a basket of champagne and glasses. They prepare everything on the table._] MANCINI Ah! _merci_, HE. But, please, none of this bourgeoise exploding of corks; be slower and more modest. Send the bill to Baron Regnard. Then, we will be here, Briquet. I must go. ZINIDA [_Looks at her watch_]: Yes, the act is going to end soon. MANCINI Heavens! [_Disappears in a hurry._] BRIQUET The devil take him! ZINIDA [_Pointing to the waiter_]: Not so loud, Louis! BRIQUET No! The devil take him! And why couldn't you help me, Mother? You left me alone to talk to him. High Society! High pleasures! Swindler! [HE _and_ ZINIDA _laugh. The waiters smile._] BRIQUET [_To the waiters_]: What are you laughing about? You can go. We will help ourselves. Whiskey and soda, Jean! [_In a low and angry voice_] Champagne! [_Enter_ JACKSON, _in his clown's costume._] JACKSON A whiskey and soda for me, too! At least I hear some laughter here. Those idiots have simply forgotten how to laugh. My sun was rising and setting and crawling all over the ring---- and not a smile! Look at my bottom, shines like a mirror! [_Turns around quickly._] Beg your pardon, Zinida. And you don't look badly to-night, HE. Look out for your cheeks. I hate beauties. BRIQUET A benefit performance crowd! JACKSON [_Looking in a hand mirror, correcting his make-up_]: In the orchestra there are some Barons and Egyptian mummies. I got a belly-ache from fright. I am an honest clown. I can't stand it when they look at me as if I had stolen a handkerchief. HE, please give them a good many slaps to-night. HE Be quiet, Jim. I shall avenge you. [_HE goes out._] ZINIDA And how is Bezano? JACKSON [_Grumbling_]: Bezano! A crazy success. But he is crazy, he will break his neck to-morrow. Why does he run such a risk? Or perhaps he has wings, like a god? Devil take it. It's disgusting to look at him. It's not work any more. BRIQUET You are right, Jim! It is not work any more. To your health, old comrade, Jackson. JACKSON To yours, Louis. BRIQUET It is not work any more, since these Barons came here! Do you hear? They are laughing. But I am indignant, I am indignant, Jim! What do they want here, these Barons? Let them steal hens in other hen roosts, and leave us in peace. Ah! Had I been Secretary of the Interior, I should have made an iron fence between us and those people. JACKSON I am very sorry myself for our dear little Consuelo. I don't know why, but it seems to me that we all look to-day more like swindlers than honest artists. Don't you think so, Zinida? ZINIDA Everybody does what he wants. It's Consuelo's business and her father's. BRIQUET No, Mother, that's not true! Not everybody does what he wants, but it turns out this way ... devil knows why. _[Enter_ ANGELICA _and_ THOMAS, _an athlete._] ANGELICA Is this where we're going to have champagne? BRIQUET And you're glad already? THOMAS There it is! Oh, oh, what a lot! ANGELICA The Count told me to come here. I met him. BRIQUET [_Angrily_]: All right, if he said so, but there is no reason to enjoy it. Look out, Angelica, you will have a bad end. I see you through and through. How does she work, Thomas? THOMAS Very well. ANGELICA [_In a low voice_]: How angry Papa Briquet is to-night. [Enter HE, TILLY, POLLY, _and other actors, all in their costumes._] TILLY Do you really want champagne? POLLY I don't want it at all. Do you, Tilly? TILLY And I don't want it. HE, did you see how the Count walks? [_Walks, imitating_ MANCINI. _Laughter._] POLLY Let me be the Baron. Take my arm. Look out, ass, you stepped on my beloved family tree! ANGELICA It'll soon be finished. Consuelo is galloping now. It is her waltz. What a success she is having! [_All listen to the waltz._ TILLY _and_ POLLY _are singing it softly._] ANGELICA She is so beautiful! Are those her flowers? [_They listen. Suddenly, a crash as if a broken wall were tumbling down: applause, shouting, screaming; much motion on the stage. The actors are pouring champagne. New ones come in, talking and laughing. When they notice the director and the champagne, they become quiet and modest._] VOICES They're coming! What a success! I should say, since all the orchestra seats.... And what will it be when they see the Tango? Don't be envious, Alphonse. BRIQUET Silence! Not so much noise, please! Zinida, look here, don't be so quiet! High society! [_Enter_ CONSUELO, _on the arm of the_ BARON _who is stiff and erect. She is happy._ MANCINI, _serious and happy. Behind them, riders, actors, actresses. The_ BARON _has in his button-hole a fiery-red rose. All applaud and cry: "Bravo, bravo!"_] CONSUELO Friends ... my dears ... Father, I can't ... [_Throws herself into_ MANCINI'S _arms, and hides her face on his shoulders._ MANCINI _looks with a smile over her head at the_ BARON. BARON _smiles slightly, but remains earnest and motionless. A new burst of applause._] BRIQUET Enough, children! Enough! MANCINI Calm yourself, calm yourself, my child. How they all love you! [_Taking a step forward_] Ladies and gentlemen, Baron Regnard did me the honour yesterday, to ask for the hand of my daughter, the Countess Veronica, whom you knew under the name of Consuelo. Please take your glasses. CONSUELO No, I am still Consuelo, to-night, and I shall always be Consuelo! Zinida, dear! [_Falls on the neck of_ ZINIDA. _Fresh applause._] BRIQUET Stop it! Silence! Take your glasses. What are you standing here for? If you came, then take the glasses. TILLY [_Trembling_]: They are frightened. You take yours first, Papa, and we will follow. [_They take the glasses._ CONSUELO _is near the_ BARON, _holding the sleeve of his dress coat with her left hand. In her right hand, she has a glass of champagne, which spills over._] BARON You are spilling your wine, Consuelo. CONSUELO Ah! It is nothing! I am frightened, too. Are you, Father? MANCINI Silly child. [_An awkward silence._] BRIQUET [_With a step forward_]: Countess! As the director of the circus, who was happy enough ... to witness ... many times ... your successes.... CONSUELO I do not _like_ this, Papa Briquet! I am Consuelo. What do you want to do with me? I shall cry. I don't want this "Countess." Give me a kiss, Briquet! BRIQUET Ah, Consuelo! Books have killed you. [_Kisses her with tears. Laughter, applause. The clowns cluck like hens, bark, and express their emotions in many other ways. The motley crowd of clowns, which is ready for the pantomime, becomes more and more lively. The_ BARON _is motionless, there is a wide space around him; the people touch glasses with him in a hurry, and go off to one side. With_ CONSUELO _they clink willingly and cheerfully. She kisses the women._] JACKSON Silence! Consuelo, from to-day on, I extinguish my sun. Let the dark night come after you leave us. You were a nice comrade and worker, we all loved you and will love the traces of your little feet on the sand. Nothing remains to us! CONSUELO You are so good, so good, Jim. So good that there is no one better. And your sun is better than all the other suns. I laughed so much at it. Alfred, dear, why don't you come? I was looking for you. BEZANO My congratulations, Countess. CONSUELO Alfred, I am Consuelo! BEZANO When you are on horseback; but here--I congratulate you, Countess. [_He passes, only slightly touching_ CONSUELO'S _glass_. CONSUELO _still holds it_. MANCINI _looks at the_ BARON _with a smile_. _The latter is motionless._] BRIQUET Nonsense, Bezano. You are making Consuelo unhappy. She is a good comrade. CONSUELO No, it's all right. ANGELICA You'll dance the Tango with her to-night, so how is she a countess? TILLY May I clink glasses with you, Consuelo? You know Polly has died of grief already, and I am going to die. I have such a weak stomach. [_Laughter_; BARON _shows slight displeasure_. _General motion._] MANCINI Enough, enough! The intermission is over. CONSUELO Already? It's so nice here. BRIQUET I shall prolong it. They can wait. Tell them, Thomas. MANCINI Auguste, the musicians of the orchestra, too, ask permission to congratulate you and Consuelo. Do you ...? BARON Certainly, certainly. [_Enter crowd of musicians. The conductor, an old Italian, lifts his glass solemnly and without looking at the_ BARON.] THE CONDUCTOR Consuelo! They call you Countess here, but for me you were and are _Consuelo_. CONSUELO Certainly! THE CONDUCTOR Consuelo! My violins and bassoons, my trumpets and drums, all are drinking your health. Be happy, dear child, as you were happy here. And we shall conserve for ever in our hearts the fair memory of our light-winged fairy, who guided our bows so long. I have finished! Give my love to our beautiful Italy, Consuelo. [_Applause, compliments. The musicians one after another clink glasses and go out into the corridor._ CONSUELO _is almost crying_.] MANCINI Don't be so sensitive, my child, it is indecent. Had I known that you would respond this way to this comedy--Auguste, look how touched this little heart is! BARON Calm yourself, Consuelo. CONSUELO It is all right. Ah, Father, listen! [_The musicians are playing the Tango in the corridor. Exclamations._] MANCINI You see. It is for you. CONSUELO They are so nice. My Tango! I want to dance. Who is going to dance with me? [_Looks around, seeking_ BEZANO, _who turns away sadly_.] Who, then? VOICES Baron! Let the Baron dance! Baron! BARON All right. [_Takes_ CONSUELO'S _arm, and stands in the centre of a circle which is formed_.] I do not know how to dance the Tango, but I shall hold tight. Dance, Consuelo. [_He stands with legs spread, heavily and awkwardly, like an iron-moulded man, holding_ CONSUELO'S _arm firmly and seriously_.] MANCINI [_Applauding_]: Bravo! Bravo! [CONSUELO _makes a few restless movements, and pulls her arm away_.] CONSUELO No, I can't this way. How stupid! Let me go! [_She goes to_ ZINIDA _and embraces her, as if hiding herself_. _The music still plays. The_ BARON _goes off quietly to the side_. _There is an unfriendly silence among the cast. They shrug their shoulders._] MANCINI [_Alone_]: Bravo! Bravo! It is charming, it is exquisite! JACKSON Not entirely, Count. [TILLY _and_ POLLY _imitate the_ BARON _and_ CONSUELO _without moving from their places_.] TILLY [_Shrieking_]: Let me go! POLLY No, I'll not. Dance! [_The music stops abruptly. General, too loud laughter; the clowns bark and roar. Papa_ BRIQUET _gesticulates, in order to re-establish silence_. _The_ BARON _is apparently as indifferent as before_.] MANCINI Really these vagabonds are becoming too impertinent. [_Shrugging his shoulders_] It smells of the stable. You cannot help it, Auguste! BARON Don't be upset, Count. HE [_Holding his glass, approaches the_ BARON]: Baron. Will you permit me to make a toast? BARON Make it. HE To your dance! [_Slight laughter in the crowd._] BARON I don't dance! HE Then another one, Baron. Let us drink to those who know how to wait longer, until they get it. BARON I do not accept any toasts which I do not understand. Say it more simply. [_Voice of a woman: "Bravo, HE!_" _Slight laughter._ MANCINI _says something hastily to_ BRIQUET; _the latter spreads his arms in gesture of helplessness_. JACKSON _takes HE by the arm_.] JACKSON Beat it, HE! The Baron doesn't like jokes. HE But I want to drink with the Baron. What can be simpler? Simpler? Baron, let us drink to the very small distance which will always remain 'twixt the cup and the lip! [_Spills his wine, and laughs._] [_The_ BARON _turns his back on him, indifferently_. _The music plays in the ring. The bell rings._] BRIQUET [_Relieved_]: There! To the ring, ladies and gentlemen, to the ring, to the ring! [_The actresses run out. The crowd becomes smaller; laughter and voices._] MANCINI [_Much excited, whispers to the_ BARON]: "Auguste, Auguste----" BRIQUET [_To_ ZINIDA]: Thank heaven they're beginning. Ah, Mother, I asked you ... but you want a scandal by all means, and you always---- ZINIDA Let me alone, Louis. [_HE approaches Consuelo, who is alone._] CONSUELO HE, deary, how are you? I thought you didn't want even to come near me. [_In a low voice_] Did you notice Bezano? HE I was waiting for my turn, Queen. It was so difficult to get through the crowd to approach you. CONSUELO Through the crowd? [_With a sad smile_] I am quite alone. What do you want, Father? MANCINI Child! Auguste.... CONSUELO [_Pulling away her hand_]: Let me alone! I'll soon be---- Come here, HE. What did you say to him? They all laughed. I couldn't understand. What? HE I joked, Consuelo. CONSUELO Please don't, HE, don't make him angry; he is so terrible. Did you see how he pressed my arm? I wanted to scream. [_With tears in her eyes_] He hurt me! HE It's not too late yet. Refuse him. CONSUELO It is too late, HE. Don't talk about it. HE Do you want it? I will take you away from here. CONSUELO Where to? [_Laughs._] Ah, my dear little silly boy, where could you take me to. All right, be quiet. How pale you are! You too, love me? Don't HE, please don't! Why do they all love me? HE You are so beautiful! CONSUELO No, no. It's not true. They must not love me. I was still a little cheerful, but when they began to speak ... so nicely ... and about Italy ... and to bid farewell, as if I were dying, I thought I should begin to cry. Don't talk, don't talk, but drink to ... my happiness. [_With a sad smile_] To my happiness, HE. What are you doing? HE I am throwing away the glass from which you drank with the others. I shall give you another one. Wait a minute. [_Goes to pour champagne._ CONSUELO _walks about thoughtfully_. _Almost all are gone. Only the principal figures are left._] MANCINI [_Coming to her_]: But it is really becoming indecent, Veronica. Auguste is so nice, he is waiting for you, and you talk here with this clown. Some stupid secrets. They're looking at you--it is becoming noticeable. It is high time, Veronica, to get rid of these habits. CONSUELO [_Loudly_]: Let me alone, Father! I want to do so, and will do so. They are all my friends. Do you hear? Let me alone! BARON Don't, Count. Please, Consuelo, talk to whomever you please and as much as you want. Would you like a cigar, Count? Dear Briquet, please order them to prolong the intermission a little more. BRIQUET With pleasure, Baron. The orchestra crowd can be a little angry. [_Goes, and returns shortly._ _HE gives a glass to_ CONSUELO.] HE Here is your glass. To your happiness, to your freedom, Consuelo! CONSUELO And where is yours? We must touch our glasses. HE You leave half. CONSUELO Must I drink so much? HE, deary, I shall become drunk. I still have to ride. HE No, you will not be drunk. Dear little girl, did you forget that I am your magician? Be quiet and drink. I charmed the wine. My witchery is in it. Drink, goddess. CONSUELO [_Lingeringly_]: What kind eyes you have. But why are you so pale? HE Because I love you. Look at my kind eyes and drink; give yourself up to my charms, goddess! You shall fall asleep, and wake again, as before. Do you remember? And you shall see your country, your sky.... CONSUELO [_Bringing the glass to her lips_]: I shall see all this; is that true? HE [_Growing paler_]: Yes! Awake, goddess, and remember the time when, covered with snow-white sea-foam, thou didst emerge from the sky blue waters. Remember heaven, and the low eastern wind, and the whisper of the foam at thy marble feet.... CONSUELO [_Drinking_]: There! Look! Just a half! Take it. But what is the matter with you? Are you laughing or crying? HE I am laughing and crying. MANCINI [_Pushing HE away, slightly_]: Enough, Countess, my patience is exhausted. If Auguste is good enough to allow it, then I, your Father--Your arm, Countess! Will you step aside, sir? CONSUELO I am tired. MANCINI You are not too tired to chatter and drink wine with a clown, and when your duty calls you--Briquet! Tell them to ring the bell. It is time. CONSUELO I am tired, Father. ZINIDA Count, it is cruel. Don't you see how pale she has become? BARON What is the matter with you, dear little Consuelo? CONSUELO Nothing. ZINIDA She simply needs a rest, Baron. She hasn't sat down yet ... and so much excitement.... Sit down here, dear child. Cover yourself and rest a little. Men are so cruel! CONSUELO I still have to work. [_Closing her eyes._] And the roses, are they ready? ZINIDA Ready, dear, ready. You will have such an extraordinary carpet. You will gallop as if on air. Rest. POLLY Do you want some moosic? We will play you a song; do you want it? CONSUELO [_Smiling, eyes closed_]: Yes, I do. [_The clowns play a soft and naïve song: tilly-polly, tilly-polly. General silence._ _HE sits in the corner with his face turned away._ JACKSON _watches him out of the corner of his eye, and drinks wine, lazily_. _The_ BARON, _in his usual pose, wide and heavily spread legs, looks at the pale face of_ CONSUELO, _with his bulging motionless eyes_.] CONSUELO [_With a sudden cry_]: Ah! Pain! ZINIDA What is it, Consuelo? MANCINI My child! Are you sick! Calm yourself. BARON [_Growing pale_]: Wait a moment.... She was too much excited.... Consuelo! CONSUELO [_Gets up, looking before her with wide-open eyes, as if she were listening to something within herself_]: Ah! I feel pain. Here at the heart. Father, what is it? I am afraid. What is it? My feet too ... I can't stand.... [_Falls on divan, her eyes wide open._] MANCINI [_Running about_]: Bring a doctor! Heavens, it is terrible! Auguste, Baron.... It never happened to her. It is nerves, nerves.... Calm yourself, calm, child---- BRIQUET Bring a doctor! [_Somebody runs for a doctor._] JACKSON [_In a voice full of fear_]: HE, what is the matter with you? HE It is death, Consuelo, my little Queen. I killed you. You are dying. [_He cries, loudly and bitterly._ CONSUELO _with a scream, closes her eyes, and becomes silent and quiet_. _All are in terrible agitation. The_ BARON _is motionless, and sees only_ CONSUELO.] MANCINI [_Furious_]: You are lying, rascal! Damned clown! What did you give her? You poisoned her! Murderer! Bring a doctor! HE A doctor will not help. You are dying, my little Queen. Consuelo! Consuelo! [BEZANO _rushes in, cries_: "BRIQUET!" _becomes silent and looks with horror at_ CONSUELO. _Somebody else comes in._ BRIQUET _is making gestures for someone to close the door_.] CONSUELO [_In a dull and distant voice_]: You are joking, HE? Don't frighten me. I am so frightened. Is that death? I don't want it. Ah, HE, my darling HE, tell me that you are joking, I am afraid, my dear, golden HE! [_HE pushes away the_ BARON, _with a commanding gesture, and stands in his place near_ CONSUELO. _The_ BARON _stands as before, seeing only_ CONSUELO.] HE Yes, I am joking. Don't you hear how I laugh, Consuelo? They all laugh at you here, my silly child. Don't laugh, Jim. She is tired, and wants to sleep. How can you laugh, Jim! Sleep my dear, sleep my heart, sleep my love. CONSUELO Yes, I have no more pain. Why did you joke that way, and frighten me? Now I laugh at myself. You told me, didn't you, that I ... should ... live ... eternally? HE Yes, Consuelo! You shall live eternally. Sleep. Be calm. [_Lifts up his arms, as if straining with all his forces to lift her soul higher._] How easy it is now! How much light, how many lights are burning about you.... The light is blinding you. CONSUELO Yes, light.... Is that the ring? HE No, it is the sea and the sun ... what a sun! Don't you feel that you are the foam, white sea-foam, and you are flying to the sun? You feel light, you have no body, you are flying higher, my love! CONSUELO I am flying. I am the sea-foam, and this is the sun, it shines ... so strong.... I feel well. [_She dies. Silence. HE stays a moment with lifted arms, then takes a long look, lets his arms fall, and shakingly goes off to one side. He stands still for a moment, then sits down, drops hit head on his hands, and struggles lonesomely with the torpidity of coming death._] BRIQUET [_Slowly_]: She has fallen asleep, Mother? ZINIDA [_Dropping the dead hand_]: I am afraid not.... Step aside, Louis. Baron, it is better for you to step aside. Baron! Do you hear me? [_Weeps._] She is dead, Louis. [_The clowns and_ BRIQUET _are crying_. MANCINI _is overwhelmed_. _The_ BARON _and HE are motionless, each in his place_.] JACKSON [_Drawing out a large prismatic clown's handkerchief to wipe away his tears_]: Faded, like a flower. Sleep, little Consuelo! The only thing that remains of you is the trace of your little feet on the sand. [_Cries._] Ah, what did you do, what did you do, HE!... It would have been better if you had never come to us. [_There it music in the ring._] BRIQUET [_Gesticulating_]: The music! Stop the music! They are crazy there. What a misfortune! [_Someone runs off._ ZINIDA _approaches the crying_ BEZANO _and strokes his bowed, pomaded head_. _When he notices her, he catches her hand and presses it to his eyes._ _The_ BARON _takes the rose from his button-hole, tears off the petals, and drops it, grinding it with his foot_. _A few pale faces peer through the door, the same masquerade crowd._] ZINIDA [_Over the head of_ BEZANO]: Louis, we must call the police. MANCINI [_Awakening from his stupor, screams_]: The police! Call the police! It's a murder! I am Count Mancini, I am Count Mancini! They will cut off your head, murderer, damned clown, thief! I myself will kill you, rascal! Ah, you! [_HE lifts his heavy head with difficulty._] HE They will cut off my head? And what more.... Your Excellency? BARON Sir! Listen, sir! I am going for the police. Stop it, sir. [_He suddenly takes a step forward, and looking HE in the eyes, speaks in a hoarse voice, with a cough, holding one hand at his throat._] I am the witness. I saw. I am a witness. I saw how he put poison ... I---- [_He leaves the room, suddenly, with the same straight, heavy steps. All move away from him, frightened. HE drops his head again. From time to time a tremor shakes his body._] JACKSON [_Clasping his hands_]: Then it is all true? Poisoned! What a vile man you are, HE. Is this the way to play? Now wait for the last slap of the executioner! [_Makes the gesture around his neck, of the guillotine. Tilly and Polly repeat the gesture._] ZINIDA Leave his soul alone, Jim. He was a man, and he loved. Happy Consuelo! [_A shot is heard in the corridor._ THOMAS, _frightened, runs in and points to his head_.] THOMAS Baron ... Baron ... his head.... He shot himself?... BRIQUET [_Throwing his arms up_]: God! What is it? The Baron? What a calamity for our circus. MANCINI The Baron? The Baron? No. What are you standing here for? Ah! BRIQUET Calm down, Count. Who would have believed it? Such a respectable ... gentleman! HE [_Lifting his head with difficulty; he sees only dimly with his dulled eyes_]: What more? What happened? THOMAS The Baron shot himself. Honestly. Straight here! He's lying out yonder. HE [_Thinking it over_]: Baron? [_Laughs._] Then the Baron burst? JACKSON Stop it! It's shameless. A man died and you.... What's the matter with you, HE? HE [_Stands up, lifted to his feet by the last gleam of consciousness and life, speaks strongly and indignantly_]: You loved her so much, Baron? So much? My Consuelo? And you want to be ahead of me even _there_? No! I am coming. We shall prove then whose she is to be for ever.... [_He catches at his throat, falls on his back. People run to him. General agitation._] CURTAIN 
49606	----	(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) ANATHEMA _A Tragedy in Seven Scenes_ BY LEONID ANDREYEV AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY HERMAN BERNSTEIN New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1910 "_I myself shall bring them bread and milk.... Children are so tender.... They need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough, they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. Then they sing...._"--DAVID LUIZER. _To_ NATHAN STRAUS WHO SO GENEROUSLY SAVED THE LIVES OF THOUSANDS OF CHILDREN THE TRANSLATION OF THIS WORK IS HEARTILY DEDICATED BY HERMAN BERNSTEIN CHARACTERS GUARDIAN OF THE ENTRANCES ANATHEMA DAVID LEIZER SARAH, _his wife_ NAUM} _their children_ ROSA} IVAN BEZKRAINY} SONKA ZITRON } _tradespeople_ PURIKES DANCING-MASTER YOUNG MAN PALE MAN ORGAN-GRINDER WANDERER ABRAHAM KHESSIN WEEPING WOMAN WOMAN WITH CHILD IN HER ARMS DRUNKARD SONKA'S LITTLE GIRL LEIBKE _Musicians, Blind People, Crowd_ ANATHEMA PROLOGUE. _The scene represents a wild, deserted place, the slope of a mountain rising to infinite heights. In the rear of the stage, halfway up the mountain, huge iron gates, tightly closed, indicate the boundary of the world as we conceive it. Beyond the iron gates, which oppress the earth with their enormous weight, in silence and in mystery, dwells the Beginning of every being, the Supreme Wisdom of the universe._ _At the foot of the Gates stands Someone guarding the entrances, leaning upon a long sword, perfectly motionless. Garbed in wide clothes, which are like stone in the motionlessness of their folds and creases, He hides His face beneath a dark cover, and is Himself the greatest of mysteries. Standing on the boundary separating two worlds, he is dual in his make-up;--in appearance a man, in reality a spirit. An arbitrator between two worlds, He is like unto a huge shield, which gathers all bolts,--all looks, all entreaties, all expectations, reproaches, and curses. The bearer of two elements, He wraps his speech in silence, which is like the silence of the iron gates, and sometimes in human words._ _Amidst the rocks, looking around on all sides strangely and shyly, appears Anathema, someone accursed. Clinging to the grey rocks, himself grey, cautious and flexible, like a serpent seeking a hole, he goes stealthily and quietly to the Guardian of the Entrances, desiring to strike him with an unexpected blow. But he is frightened by his own audacity and, jumping to his feet, laughs defiantly and maliciously. Then he sits down on a rock, with an air of freedom and independence, and throws small cobblestones at the feet of the Guardian of the Entrances;--cunning, he conceals his fear beneath the mask of raillery and slight audacity. In the faint, grey, almost colorless light, the head of the accursed one seems enormous; especially large is his high forehead, which is furrowed by wrinkles of fruitless reflections and unsolvable eternal problems. Anathema's thin beard is perfectly grey; his hair, once jet black, is also greyish, rising on his head in disordered tufts. Restless in his movements, he is vainly trying to conceal his alarm and his purposeless haste, which are forever devouring him. Endeavoring to emulate the proud stillness of the Guardian of the Entrances, he grows quiet for an instant in the pose of proud majesty, but the very next moment, in painful quest after the eternally elusive, he wriggles in mute spasms, like a worm under foot. And in his questions he is rapid and impetuous like a whirlwind, drawing strength and fury in his mad whirl...._ * * * * * ANATHEMA. You are still here on guard? And I thought you were away,--even a chained dog has his moments of rest or sleep, even though the whole world be his kennel and Eternity his master! Is Eternity afraid of thieves? But do not be angry. I have come to you as a good friend and I implore humbly: Open the heavy Gates for an instant and allow me to have a glimpse of Eternity. You dare not? But perhaps the mighty gates have cracked from age, and the unfortunate, honest Anathema could peep into the narrow cleft, without disturbing any one,--show me it with a sign. Softly, on my belly, will I crawl over, I will glance at it and crawl back,--and He will not know. But I shall know and become a God, become a God, a God! I have so long wanted to become a God--and would I be a poor God? Look! _He assumes a haughty pose, but immediately bursts into laughter. Then he sits down calmly on a flat rock and, folding his legs under him, takes out dice. He mutters something to himself, yet loud enough to be heard by the Guardian of the Entrances._ If you don't want to you need not do it,--I shall not fight with you. Have I come here for that purpose? I simply roamed about the world and came here by mere accident--I have nothing to do, so I roam about. And now I am going to throw dice. If He were not so serious, I would have invited Him, too,--but He is too proud, too proud, and He does not understand the pleasure of the game. Six, eight, twenty--correct! It's always correct when the Devil plays, even when he plays honestly.... David Leizer ... David Leizer ... _Turning to the Guardian of the Entrances, he speaks freely._ Do you know David Leizer? You surely do not know him. He is a sick and foolish old Jew, whom no one knows, and even your Master has forgotten about him. So says David Leizer, and I cannot help believing him--he is a foolish, but honest man. He is the man I have won just now with my dice--you saw it: six, eight, twenty.... One day I met David Leizer by the seashore, when he was questioning what the waves were complaining of; and I liked him. He is a foolish, but honest man, and if he should be well tarred and lighted, he would make a brilliant torch for my feast. _Chatting with feigned ease, he steps over softly to the rock nearest the Guardian._ No one knows David Leizer, but I shall make him famous, I shall make him mighty and great--it is very possible that I shall even make him immortal! You do not believe me? No one believes the wise Anathema, even when he speaks the truth--and who loves the truth more than Anathema does? Perhaps you? You silent dog, you who have stolen the truth from the world, you who have barred the entrances with iron!... _He rushes furiously toward the Guardian of the Entrances, but retreats from the stern, motionless Guardian, with a shriek of horror and pain. And he speaks plaintively, falling with his grey chest upon the grey rock._ Oh, the Devil's hair is grey! Weep, you who have grown fond of Anathema! Wail and grieve, you who are striving toward Truth, who are honoring wisdom--Anathema's hair is grey! Who will help the son of Dawn? He is alone in the universe. Wherefore, O Great One, have you frightened the fearless Anathema--he did not intend to strike you, he only wanted to approach you. May I come over to you? Tell me. _The Guardian of the Entrances is silent, but to Anathema it seems that he hears something in the silence. Outstretching his serpentine neck, he shouts passionately_. Louder! Louder! Are you silent, or did you speak? I do not understand. The accursed one has a sensitive ear and discerns the shades of certain words in your silence; he feels a vague movement of thoughts in your motionlessness,--but he does not understand. Did you speak or are you silent? Did you say: "Come," or did it only sound so to me? THE GUARDIAN. Come. ANATHEMA. You said it, but I dare not come up to you. GUARDIAN. Come. ANATHEMA. I am afraid. _He advances toward the Guardian irresolutely, in zigzag movements; lies down on his belly and crawls, wailing with longing and fear._ Oh, I the prince of darkness, wise and powerful, and yet you see--I am crawling on my belly like a dog. And I am doing it because I love you, I want to kiss the hem of your cloak. But why does my old heart ache so much? Tell me, Omniscient. GUARDIAN. The accursed one has no heart. ANATHEMA. _Advancing._ Yes, yes. The accursed has no heart, his chest is mute and motionless like the grey rock which does not breathe. Oh, if Anathema had a heart, you would have destroyed him long ago by his sufferings, even as you destroy the foolish man. But Anathema has a mind that is searching for the Truth, unprotected against your blows--spare it.... Here I am at your feet, reveal your face to me. Only for an instant, as brief as the flash of lightning,--reveal your face to me. _He cringes servilely at the feet of the Guardian, not daring, however, to touch his cloak. He is vainly endeavoring to lower his eyes, which are quick and searching, sharp, flashing like coals beneath grey ashes. The Guardian is silent and Anathema continues his fruitless and persistent entreaties._ Do you not want to do it? Then call the name of Him who is beyond the Gates. Call it in a soft voice, and no one will hear it; only I will know it, the wise Anathema, longing for Truth. Is it not true that it consists of seven letters? Or of six? Or of one? Tell me. Only one letter--and you will save the accursed one from eternal tortures, and the earth, which I am tearing with my nails, will bless you. You may say it softly, softly, you may only breathe it, and I shall understand it, and I shall bless you.... Tell me. _The Guardian is silent, and Anathema, after some hesitation, full of fury, crawls away slowly, growing holder with every step._ It is not true that I love you.... It is not true that I wanted to kiss the hem of your cloak.... I feel sorry for you, if you believed me.... I simply have nothing to do, so I roam about in the world.... I have nothing to do, so I question the passers-by about this and that,--about things I know myself.... I know everything! _He rises, shakes himself like a dog that has just come out of the water, and choosing the highest rock, stands up there in a haughty, actorlike pose._ I know everything. With my wisdom I have penetrated the meaning of all things, the laws of numbers are known to me, and the book of Fates is open to me. At one glance I embrace life, I am the axis in the circle of time, which whirls rapidly. I am great, I am mighty, I am immortal, and man is in my power. Who will dare struggle with the Devil? The strong, I kill, and the weak I force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance, a mad dance, a devilish dance. I have poisoned all the sources of life, on all its roads I have built ambuscades.... Do you hear the voice of those who curse? The voice of those who are exhausted under the burden of evil? Of those who dare in vain? Of those who long endlessly and terribly? GUARDIAN. I do. ANATHEMA. _Laughing._ The name! Call the name! Illumine the way for the Devil and for man. All in the world want goodness, but know not where to find it; all in the world want fife, but meet only death. The name! Call the name of goodness, call the name of eternal life. I am waiting! GUARDIAN. There is no name for that which you ask, Anathema. There is no number by which to count, no measure by which to measure, no scales by which to weigh that which you ask, Anathema. Every one who has said the word, Love, has lied. Every one who has said the word, Wisdom,--has lied. And even he who has uttered the word, God,--has lied with the greatest and most terrible lie. For there is no number, no measure, no scale, no name for that which you ask, Anathema. ANATHEMA. Where shall I go? Tell me. GUARDIAN. Where you are going. ANATHEMA. What shall I do? Tell me. GUARDIAN. What you are doing. ANATHEMA. You speak through silence--can I understand the language of your silence? Tell me. GUARDIAN. No. Never. My face is open, but you see it not. My speech is loud, but you hear it not. My commands are clear, but you know them not, Anathema. And you shall never see, and you shall never hear, and you shall never know, Anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, eternally alive in measures and in weights, but as yet unborn to life. ANATHEMA. _Tormented._ Never? GUARDIAN. Never. _Anathema leaps down from the rocks, and tosses about madly, devoured by grief. Clinging to the rocks, he embraces them tenderly and then pushes them away angrily; he moans bitterly. He turns his face to West and East, to North and South of the earth, flourishing his arms, as if calling the earth to wrath and vengeance. But the grey rocks are silent, West and East are silent, North and South are silent, and in stern motionlessness, heavily leaning on his sword, stands the Guardian of the Entrances._ ANATHEMA. Rise, O Earth! Rise, O Earth, and gird your sword, O man. There will be no peace between you and Heaven; the earth is becoming the abode of darkness and death, and the Prince of Darkness ascends to his throne upon it--from now on and forever. I am going to you, David. I will hurl your sad life towards the proud heaven like a stone from a sling--and the foundations of the high heavens will tremble. My slave, David! With your lips I will proclaim the truth about the fate of man. _He turns to the Guardian of the Entrances._ And you!... _He becomes silent, bashfully, confused by the Silence. He stretches himself lazily, as from tediousness, and mutters in a voice loud enough to be heard by the Guardian of the Entrances._ But am I not roaming about, because I have nothing to do? I have been here, and now I shall go there. Are there not plenty of roads for the gay Anathema, who is fond of healthy laughter and a carefree jest? Six.... That means that I bring to David a fortune which he does not expect.... Eight.... That means that David Leizer is healing the sick and reviving the dead. Twenty.... Correct! That means ... That means that David and I come to express our gratitude. David Leizer, the great, the powerful, the immortal David Leizer and I.... I am going. _Anathema departs._ _Silence. The rocks are silent; the mute Gates, pressing the earth with their enormous weight, are silent; the Guardian, petrified, is silent._ _Silence. But did not Anathema's footsteps awaken an alarming, resounding echo? One, two--some heavy steps are heard coming. It is like one footstep, but many people are coming; they are silent, but the silence is already quivering. A momentary confusion of sounds, of helplessness and tremulous outbursts, and suddenly the silence breaks out in high yellow flames of fire: somewhere below, in the invisible distance, on earth, long trumpets, carried by hands uplifted high, are blaring in rebellious, brasslike tones,--their defiant cry of revolt is turned both to earth and to Heaven._ _One, two,--now it is clear that a crowd is moving; its monstrous voice, its blended and separate sobs, its noisy and stormy speech is heard; and below, in the labyrinth from broken and dark passages, the first distinct sound rings out: "Da-a-vid!" It grows more distinct, rises higher, and now it soars overhead_-_on the wings of this brass fanfare, above the heavy stamping of the marching feet._ _"Da-a-vid! Da-a-a-vid! Da-a-a-vid!"_ _The sounds blend harmoniously. They become the song of millions of people. The trumpets are blaring, exhausted; they call hoarsely with their brass voices--_ _Does the Guardian of the Entrances hear them? The grey rocks are covered with moans; passionate sobs rise to His feet, but the Guardian is motionless, the Guardian is speechless, and the iron Gates are mute._ _The abyss crashes._ _With one blow, as if splitting the earth, a brass roar and shout breaks forth,--and out of the fragments, like a spring from a rock that is split by lightning, a soft, harmonious, bright melody comes forth._ _Then it dies out._ _Silence. Immobility. Expectation, expectation, expectation._ CURTAIN ACT ONE _The south of Russia. A hot summer midday. A wide road near the end of a large, thickly populated city. Starting from the left corner of the stage, the road crosses it diagonally, turning in the rear of the stage to the right. Two high stone posts, of ancient construction, dilapidated and slightly bent, indicate the boundary of the city. On the side of the city line, at the right post, there is a deserted, once yellow sentry-box, the plaster fallen of in spots and the windows tightly boarded and nailed up. On the sides of the road there are several small shops made of cheap wood, separated from one another by narrow passages--in the desperate and ineffectual struggle for existence the little shops seem to be clambering stupidly upon one another. The people are dealing in all sorts of merchandise: candies, sunflower seeds, cheap sausages, herrings; each shop has a small, dirty counter, through which a pipe with two faucets stands out prominently--one of them for soda-water, at a penny a glass,--the other for seltzer. One of the little shops belongs to David Leizer; the others--to the Greek Purikes, to the young Jewess Sonka Zitron, and to the Russian, Ivan Bezkrainy, who, in addition to his business, mends shoes and rubbers; he is the only one who has "real noblemen's" cider for sale._ _The sun is burning mercilessly and the few small trees, with their leaves curled up from the heat, are pining for rain; the dusty road is deserted. Beyond the posts, where the road is turning toward the right, there is a high precipice--the dust-covered tops of trees are seen here and there in the descending distance. And embracing the entire horizon, the sea has stretched itself in a smoky blue strip, sleeping peacefully in the heat and glare of the sun._ _Sarah, David Leizer's wife, an old Jewess, exhausted by life, is seated in front of her little shop. She is mending some rags and is chatting languidly with the other shopkeepers._ SARAH. No one is buying anything. No one is drinking any soda-water; no one is buying any sunflower seeds or any fine candies which melt in the mouth. PURIKES. _Like an echo._ No one is buying anything. SARAH. One might think that all the people have died so as not to buy anything. One might think that we remained alone with our stores in the whole world--we alone in the whole world. PURIKES. _Like an echo._ We alone. BEZKRAINY. The sun has burnt all the customers--only the shopkeepers remained. _Silence. The soft sobbing of Sonka is heard._ BEZKRAINY. Sonka, yesterday you bought a chicken. Did you kill or rob anybody that you can afford to buy chickens? And if you are so rich and you hide your money, why do you deal here and hinder us from making a living? PURIKES. _Like an echo._ And hinder us from making a living? BEZKRAINY. Sonka, I am asking you,--is it true that you bought a chicken yesterday? Don't lie, I know it from trustworthy people. _Sonka maintains silence, weeping._ SARAH. When a Jew buys a chicken, it is because either the Jew is sick or the chicken is sick. Sonka Zitron's son is dying; yesterday he commenced to die and to-day he will end it--the boy is tenacious and he is dying slowly. BEZKRAINY. Why did she come here if her son is dying? SARAH. Because it is necessary to trade. PURIKES. It is necessary to trade. _Sonka is weeping._ SARAH. Yesterday we ate nothing, we waited for to-day; and to-day we will eat nothing, waiting that to-morrow will bring us customers and happiness. Happiness! Who knows what is happiness? All people are equal before God, and yet one sells two cents' worth, while another sells thirty cents' worth. And one always two cents' worth, while the other always thirty cents' worth, and no one knows why happiness is given to a person. BEZKRAINY. I used to sell thirty cents' worth, and now I sell only two cents' worth. At that time I had no "noblemen's" cider, and now I have it, and yet I sell only two cents' worth now. Luck is changeable! PURIKES. Luck is changeable. SARAH. Yesterday my son Naum came and asked me: "Mother, where is father?" So I said to him: "What for do you want to know where father is? David Leizer, your father, is a sick, unfortunate man, who is going to die soon; and he goes to the seashore to commune in solitude with God about his fate. Don't disturb your father, he is going to die soon--you had better tell me what you want to say." And Naum answered: "I will tell you, mother,--I am beginning to die!" That is what Naum answered. When David Leizer, my old husband, came home, I said to him: "You are still steadfast in your uprightness! Blaspheme God and die! For your son Naum is already beginning to die." _Sonka is weeping more loudly._ PURIKES. _Suddenly looks around, frightened._ But what--But what if people should stop buying things altogether? SARAH. _Frightened._ What do you mean? PURIKES. _With ever growing fear._ What if people should suddenly stop buying things altogether? What are we to do then? BEZKRAINY. _With alarm._ How is it possible that people should stop buying things altogether? That's impossible! SARAH. That's impossible. PURIKES. It is possible. Suddenly everybody may stop buying things. _All are seized with horror; even Sonka stops weeping, and pale-faced, she surveys the deserted road with her frightened, dark eyes. The sun is burning mercilessly. Anathema appears in the distance, at the turn of the road._ SARAH. A customer! PURIKES. A customer! SONKA. A customer! A customer! _She cries again. Anathema comes nearer to them. Notwithstanding the heat, he wears a black coat of fine cloth, a black silk hat, black gloves; only his necktie is white, lending a solemn air to his costume. He is tall, and, though grey-haired, straight and stately. The face of the accursed one is of a swarthy-grey color; his features are stern and of peculiar beauty. When Anathema takes off his hat, his enormous forehead is revealed, furrowed by wrinkles. His head is unusually large and his greyish black hair is dishevelled. Anathema's neck is wiry and strong, but it is rather thin and long, and in his nervous contortions he carries his head like a heavy weight, giving it the appearance of strange inquisitiveness, restlessness and malignity._ SARAH. Do you want perhaps a glass of soda-water, sir? It is as hot as in Hell, and if you don't drink, you may die of a sunstroke. BEZKRAINY. Real noblemen's cider! PURIKES. Violet soda! My God, violet soda! SARAH. Soda, seltzer! BEZKRAINY. Don't drink her soda-water. From her water rats are dying and roaches stand up on their hind legs. SARAH. Ivan, aren't you ashamed to take away a customer? I am not saying anything about your noblemen's cider, which is fit only for mad dogs to drink. PURIKES. _Joyously._ A customer! A customer! Please don't buy anything from me, you needn't buy anything from me,--all I want is to look at you. Sonka, do you see? A buyer! SONKA. I don't see anything. I can't see. _Anathema lifts his hatband bows to all kindly._ ANATHEMA. Thank you. I will drink a glass of soda-water with pleasure, and perhaps even a glass of your noblemen's cider. But I should like to know where David Leizer's business place is. SARAH. _Surprised._ It is here. Do you want David? I am his wife, Sarah. ANATHEMA. Yes, madam Leizer, I want to see David, David Leizer. SARAH. _Suspiciously._ You have come with bad news: David has no friends that wear clothes of such fine cloth as you wear. If that is so, you had better go away. David is not here, and I will not tell you where he is. ANATHEMA. _Heartily._ Oh, no, madam, don't be uneasy; I am not bringing you any bad news. But how pleasant it is to see such love.--Do you love your husband very much, madam Leizer? He must be a very strong and healthy man, earning much money. SARAH. _Frowning._ No, he is sick and old and unable to work. But he has not sinned against God or man in any way, and even his enemies dare not say anything bad about him. Here is some seltzer, sir, it is better than soda. And if you are not afraid of the heat, I would ask you to sit down and wait a while; David will soon be here. ANATHEMA. _Sitting down._ Yes, I have heard many good things about your husband, but I did not know that he was so feeble and old. Have you any children, madam Leizer? SARAH. We had six, but the first four died.... ANATHEMA. _Nods his head compassionately._ SARAH. Yes, we lived miserably, sir. And we have only two left. Our son Naum.... BEZKRAINY. A good-for-nothing, who makes believe that he is sick and saunters about the city all day long. SARAH. Stop, Ivan, aren't you ashamed to slander honest people? Naum is going around because he has to get credit. Then, sir, we have a daughter, and her name is Rosa. But unfortunately she is too beautiful, too beautiful, sir. Happiness what is happiness? One person dies of smallpox, while another person needs smallpox, but it would not come, and the face is as pure as a flower leaf. ANATHEMA. _Feigning amazement._ Why are you so sorry about it? Beauty is a gift from God, which He has bestowed upon man, whom he has thus elevated and brought nearer to Himself. SARAH. Who knows? It may be a gift from God, and it may be a gift from somebody else of whom I would not speak. But there is one thing I do not know; why has a man beautiful eyes, if he must hide them? Why has he a white face, if he must cover it with soot and filth? Beauty is a too dangerous treasure, for it is easier to hide money from a robber, than beauty from a wicked man. (_Suspiciously._) Did you come perhaps to see Rosa? Then you better go away,--Rosa is not here, and I will not tell you where she is. PURIKES. A buyer. Sarah, look, a buyer is here. SARAH. Yes, yes, Purikes. But he will not buy that which he has come for, and he will not find that which he is seeking. _Anathema smiles good-naturedly and listens attentively to the conversation; every time some one begins to speak, he stretches his neck and turns his head to the speaker, holding it slightly bent on one side. He makes grimaces like an actor, expressing now amazement, now sorrow or indignation. He laughs, inappropriately, thereby frightening and surprising the people._ BEZKRAINY. Sarah, you are making a mistake in valuing your goods too highly and not selling when people are ready to buy. Every article loses its value if you keep it too long. SARAH _Tearfully._ What a wicked man you are, Ivan. I gave you credit for ten copecks, and you are forever slandering us. BEZKRAINY. Don't pay any attention to me, Sarah,--I am wicked because I am hungry. You, sir, in that black coat, go away: Sarah is an honest woman and she will not sell her daughter to you, even if you offered her a million. SARAH. _Hotly._ That's right, Ivan, thank you. But who told you, sir, that our Rosa is beautiful? It is not true--don't laugh, it isn't true, she is as ugly as deadly sin. She is as filthy as a dog that has just crawled out of the coal-hole of a ship; her face is furrowed by smallpox and it looks like a field where people dig lime and sand; there is on her right eye a cataract as large as on an old horse. Look at her hair--it is like faded wool, half torn away by birds; and when she walks, she stoops,--I swear to you, she stoops when she walks! If you take her, everybody will laugh at you, everybody will spit at you, the street urchins will give you no rest.... ANATHEMA. _Surprised._ But, madam Leizer, I have heard-- SARAH. _Sorrowfully._ You have heard nothing! I swear to you, you have heard nothing. ANATHEMA. But you yourself-- SARAH. _Imploringly._ Have I said anything? My God, women are so talkative, sir; and they love their children so dearly that they always consider them beautiful. Rosa--beautiful! (_Laughs._) Just think of it, Purikes,--Rosa is beautiful! _She laughs. Rosa comes over from the direction of the city. Her hair is disheveled, almost covering her black, flashing eyes; her face is smeared with something black, and she is dressed wretchedly. She walks with a youthful and stately gait, but on noticing the strange man, she stoops like an old woman._ SARAH. Here, here is Rosa; look, sir! My God, how ugly she is. David cries every time he sees her. ROSA. _Offended, straightens herself._ There are uglier women than I am. SARAH. _Persuasively._ What are you saying, Rosa? There is no uglier girl than you in the whole world. (_Whispers entreatingly._) Hide your beauty, Rosa. A robber has come, Rosa,--hide your beauty! At night I will wash your face myself, I will comb your braids myself, and you will be as beautiful as a heavenly angel, and we will all pray to you. A robber has come, Rosa. (_Aloud._) Did they throw stones at you again? ROSA. _Hoarsely._ Yes, they did. SARAH. And the dogs attacked you, too? ROSA. Yes, they did.-- SARAH. So you see, sir? Even the dogs! ANATHEMA. _In a friendly tone._ Yes, it seems that I have made a mistake. To my regret, your daughter is really not pretty and it is painful to look at her. SARAH. Of course, there are uglier girls than she is, but--Go, Rosochka, go over there, take your work--What is there for a poor and ugly girl to do but work? Go, my poor Rosochka, go. _Rosa takes some rags to mend and disappears behind the counter. Silence._ ANATHEMA. Is it long since you have this store, madam Leizer? SARAH. _Calmed down._ Thirty years already, ever since David became sick. A misfortune happened to him when he served in the army,--he was trampled by horses and they crushed his chest. ANATHEMA. Was David a soldier? BEZKRAINY. _Interposing._ David had an older brother, and he was a scoundrel, and his name was Moses. SARAH. _With a sigh._ And his name was Moses. BEZKRAINY. And when the time came for Moses to serve in the army, he ran off on an Italian steamer. And David was taken in his place. SARAH. _With a sigh._ David was taken. ANATHEMA. What injustice! BEZKRAINY. Have you ever met justice in the world? ANATHEMA. Of course I have. You are no doubt an unfortunate man, and everything appears to you in dark colors. But you will see, you will soon see, that justice does exist. (_Freely._) The devil take it, I have nothing to do, so I always roam about the world, and I have not seen anything so plentiful as justice. How shall I say it, madam Leizer? There is more justice on earth than fleas on a good dog. SARAH. _Smiling._ But what if it is just as hard to catch justice as to catch fleas.... BEZKRAINY. And what if it bites just as the fleas do? _All laugh. From the side of the city appears an organ-grinder, exhausted, half-blinded from dust and perspiration. He wants to pass by, but suddenly he pauses in despair, and begins to play a terrible tune._ SARAH. Pass on, please, pass on. We need no music. ORGAN-GRINDER. _Playing._ Neither do I need it. SARAH. We have nothing to give you. Pass on. ORGAN-GRINDER. _Playing._ Then I will die to the strains of music. ANATHEMA. _Generously._ Please, madam Leizer, give him something to eat and water--I will pay for everything. SARAH. What a kind-hearted man you are. Go, musician, eat and drink. But for the water I will not take anything from you--let the water be mine. _The organ-grinder sits down and eats ravenously._ ANATHEMA. _Friendly._ Is it long you have been roaming over the world, musician? ORGAN-GRINDER. _Morosely,_ I used to have a monkey before--music and a monkey. The monkey was eaten up by the fleas, and my music box started to screech, and I am looking for a tree on which to hang myself. That is all. _A little girl runs in. She looks curiously at the organ-grinder, then turns to Sonka._ LITTLE GIRL. Sonka, Ruzya died. SONKA. Already? LITTLE GIRL. Yes, he died. May I take some seeds? SONKA. _Closing her store._ You may. Sarah, if a customer comes, tell him that I will attend to business to-morrow again, otherwise he may think that my store is closed for good. Have you heard it? Ruzya died. SARAH. Already? LITTLE GIRL. Yes, he died. Is the musician going to play? _Anathema whispers to Sarah and puts something into her hand._ SARAH. Sonka, here is a rouble for you; you see, a rouble? BEZKRAINY. There is luck! Yesterday a chicken, to-day a rouble. Take it, Sonka. _All look greedily upon the rouble. Sonka and the little girl go out._ SARAH. You are very rich, sir. ANATHEMA. _With self-satisfaction._ Yes. I have a large practice--I am a lawyer. SARAH. _Quickly._ David has no debts. ANATHEMA. Oh, I haven't come for that at all, madam Leizer. When you know me better, you will see that I bring, but do not take, that I make gifts, but do not take them back. SARAH. _With fear._ Do you come from God? ANATHEMA. It would be too much honor for me and for you, madam Leizer, if I came from God. No, I have come of my own accord. _Naum comes over, looks at the customer with amazement, and sits down, exhausted, upon a rock. Naum is a tall, thin young man, with a narrow chest and a large, pale nose. He looks around on all sides._ NAUM. Where is Rosa? SARAH. _In a whisper._ Not so loud,--she is there. (_Aloud._) Well, hew was it, Naum? Did you get any credit? NAUM. _Slowly._ No, mother, I did not get any credit. I am beginning to die, mother,--everybody feels hot, while I am very cold; and I am perspiring, but my perspiration is cold. I met Sonka--Ruzya died already. SARAH. You will live yet, Naum, you will live yet. NAUM. _Slowly._ Yes, I will live yet. Why isn't father coming? It is time for him to be here. SARAH. Clean a herring, Rosa. This gentleman is waiting for David a long time already, and David isn't here. NAUM. What does he want? SARAH. I don't know, Naum. Since he came, I suppose it was necessary. _Silence._ NAUM. Mother, I am not going for credit any more. I will go with father to the sea. The time has come when I must go and ask God about my fate. SARAH. Do not ask Him, Naum, do not ask. NAUM. I will ask Him. SARAH. _Entreatingly._ Don't do it, Naum, don't ask. ANATHEMA. Why not, madam Leizer? Do you fear that God will give him a bad answer? You should have more faith, madam Leizer. If David heard you, he would not approve your words. ORGAN-GRINDER. _Raising his head._ Is it you, young man, who wants to speak to God? NAUM. Yes, it is I. Every man can speak with God. ORGAN-GRINDER. Do you think so? Then ask for a new organ. Tell Him that this one is screeching. ANATHEMA. _Compassionately._ He might add that the monkey was eaten up by the fleas--that he needs a new monkey. _He laughs. All look at him in perplexity; the organ-grinder rises and takes up his organ silently._ SARAH. What do you want to do, musician? ORGAN-GRINDER. I want to play. SARAH. What for? We don't need any music. ORGAN-GRINDER. I must thank you for your kindness. _He plays something weird: the organ screeches, breaks off, wheezes. Anathema, with eyes lifted dreamily to the sky, keeps time with his hand, and whistles._ SARAH. My God, how badly it sounds. ANATHEMA. This, madam Leizer (_whistles_),--this is called the world harmony. _The conversation dies away for some time: only the screeching of the organ and the whistling of Anathema are heard. The sun is still shining mercilessly._ ANATHEMA. I have nothing to do, so I wander over the world. _He is carried away by the playing of the organ. Suddenly the organ breaks off with a screech, which rings in the ears for a long time, and Anathema remains as petrified with uplifted hand._ ANATHEMA. _Perplexedly._ Does it always end like this? ORGAN-GRINDER. Sometimes even worse. Good-by. ANATHEMA. _Feeling his vest pocket._ No, no, you mustn't go away like that.... You have afforded us genuine pleasure, and I do not want you to hang yourself. Here is some change for you, and live on. SARAH. _Pleasantly surprised._ Who could ever think, by looking at your face, that you are such a cheerful and kind-hearted man? ANATHEMA. _Flattered._ Oh, do not embarrass me with your praise, madam Leizer. Why shouldn't I help a poor man who would otherwise hang himself! The life of man is a precious thing, madam Leizer,--and I always carry change with me.... But isn't that venerable man I see there David Leizer? _He looks in the direction where the road turns to the right._ SARAH. _Also looking at the road._ Yes, that is David. _All wait silently. On the dust-covered road appears David Leizer, walking slowly. He is tall, bony, with long, grey locks and a grey beard; on his head he wears a high, black cap; in his hand a staff with which he seems to measure the road. He looks down from under his heavy eyebrows; and thus, without lifting his eyes, he advances slowly and seriously to the people, and stops, leaning upon the staff with both hands._ SARAH. _Rising respectfully._ Where were you, David? DAVID. _Not lifting his eyes._ I was by the sea. SARAH. What did you do there, David? DAVID. I looked at the waves, Sarah, and asked them whence they came and whither they were going. I was thinking of life, Sarah--whence it came and whither it is going.... SARAH. What did the waves tell you, David? DAVID. They did not tell me anything, Sarah.... They come and go away again, and the man by the sea is waiting in vain for an answer from the sea. SARAH. With whom did you speak, David? DAVID. I spoke with God, Sarah. I asked Him about the fate of David Leizer, the poor Jew who is going to die soon. SARAH. _With emotion._ And what did God tell you? _David is silent, his eyes lowered._ SARAH. Our son Naum also wants to go with you to the sea and ask about his fate. DAVID. _Lifting his eyes._ Is Naum going to die soon? NAUM. Yes, father,--I have already commenced to die. ANATHEMA. But, pardon me, gentlemen.... Why should you speak of death, since I have brought you life and happiness? DAVID. _Turning his head to him._ Do you come from God? Sarah, who is he who dares to speak like this? SARAH. I don't know. He has been waiting for you a long time. ANATHEMA. _Bustling about joyously._ Oh, ladies and gentlemen, smile. Attention for one minute and I will make you all laugh. Attention, gentlemen. Attention! _All look with tense attention at Anathema's mouth._ ANATHEMA. _Taking out a paper, solemnly._ Are you not David Leizer, the son of Abraham Leizer? LEIZER. _Frightened._ Well, yes, I am. But there may be another David Leizer. I don't know--ask the people. ANATHEMA. _Interrupting him with a gesture._ Didn't you have a brother, Moses Leizer, who fled to America thirty-five years ago on the Italian steamship _Fortuna?_ ALL. Yes, he did. DAVID. But I did not know that he was in America. ANATHEMA. David Leizer, your brother Moses died! _Silence._ DAVID. I have long forgiven him. ANATHEMA. And before he died he bequeathed all his fortune, amounting to two million dollars (_to the people surrounding him_), which means four million roubles,--to you, David Leizer. _A deep sigh goes through the crowd and all seem as petrified._ ANATHEMA. _Outstretching the paper._ Here is the document, you see--the seal. DAVID. _Pushing the paper aside._ No, don't! Don't do that! You were not sent by God. God would not make sport of man in this way. ANATHEMA. _Heartily._ This is not a jest. Upon my honor, it is the truth,--four millions. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you and to shake your honest hand warmly. (_Takes David Leizer's hand and shakes it._) Well, madam Leizer, what have I brought you? And what will you say now? Is your daughter Rosa beautiful now or is she ugly? Aha! Are you going to die so soon, Naum? Aha! (_Tearfully_.) That's what I have brought you, people, and now permit me to step aside--and not to disturb you-- _Lifts a handkerchief to his eyes and steps aside, apparently agitated._ SARAH. _Wildly._ Rosa! ROSA. _Also wildly._ What is it, mamma? SARAH. Wash your face! Wash your face, Rosa! My God, quicker, quicker,--wash your face! _As though insane, she drags Rosa, washes her, splashing the water with trembling hands. Naum clings to his father's arm, hanging on to it, as though he is about to lose consciousness._ DAVID. Take back your paper! (_Firmly._) Take back your paper! SARAH. Have you lost your mind, David? Don't listen to him. Wash yourself, Rosochka, wash yourself! Let all the people see your beauty! NAUM. _Seizing the paper._ It is ours, father. Father,--this is how God has answered you. Look at mother, look at Rosa--look at me: I was already commencing to die. PURIKES. _Shouts._ Ai, Ai, look out, they'll tear the paper. Ai, Ai, take away the paper from them, quick! _Naum cries, Rosa, radiantly beautiful, her hair wet, but no longer covering her eyes, comes over to her father, laughing._ ROSA. It is I, father! It is I! It is--I! SARAH. _Wildly._ Where were you, Rosa? ROSA. I wasn't--I've just been born, mamma! SARAH. See, David, see--a human being has just been born! Oh, look at her, every one of you! Oh, open the doors of your vision, throw open the gates of your eyes--look at her, every one of you! _Suddenly David realizes the meaning of what has happened. He throws his cap from his head, tears his clothing, which seems to suffocate him, and pushing everybody aside, rushes to Anathema._ DAVID. _Sternly._ Why have you brought this? ANATHEMA. _Meekly._ But, pardon me, Mr. Leizer, I am only a lawyer. I am sincerely glad. DAVID. Why have you brought this? _He pushes Anathema aside, and reeling, goes to the road. Suddenly he stops, turns around and shouts, flourishing his hands._ DAVID. I Drive him away--that is the Devil. Do you think he brought me four million roubles? No, he brought me four million insults. Four million mockeries he hurled upon the head of David ... Four oceans of bitter tears have I shed over life, my sighs were four winds of the earth, my four children were devoured by hunger and diseases--and now, when I must die, he brings me four millions. Will they return to me my youth which I passed in privation, oppressed with grief, wrapped with sorrows, crowned with anguish? Will they repay me for one day of my starvation, one tear that fell upon a rock, one insult hurled at my face? Four million curses--that's what your four million roubles are--oh, Hannah, oh, Benjamin, and Raphael, and my little Moishe,--you, my little birdies, who died of hunger upon the naked branches of winter--what will you say if your father should touch this money? No, I don't need any money. I am telling you--I, an old Jew, dying of hunger. I don't need any money. I don't see God in this. But I shall go to Him, I shall tell Him: What are you doing with David?--I am going. _Goes away, brandishing his hands._ SARAH. _Crying._ David, come back, come back. PURIKES. _In despair._ The paper, pick up the paper. ANATHEMA. _Turns around._ Calm yourself, madam Leizer, he will come back. It is always thus at first. I have wandered a great deal over the world and I know it. The blood rushes to the head, the feet begin to quiver, and man curses. That's nonsense! ROSA. What a crooked mirror, mother! NAUM. _Cries._ Mamma, where is father going? I want to live. ANATHEMA. Throw away that piece of glass, Rosa. Mankind will reflect your beauty, the world will reflect your beauty--you will see yourself in the world.... Ah, you are still here, musician. Play something for us, please. Such a holiday must not pass without music! ORGAN-GRINDER. Shall I play the same? ANATHEMA. The same. _The organ wails and wheezes. Anathema whistles furiously, waving his hands, as though blessing everybody with the music and the whistling._ CURTAIN. ACT TWO. _David Leizer lives richly. At the urgent request of his wife and his children he has hired a rich villa, by the sea-shore, engaged numerous servants, bought horses and carriages. Anathema, under the pretext that he had grown tired of his law practice, remained with David as his private secretary. Rosa is taking lessons in languages and deportment. Naum, who has grown very sick, near to death, is learning how to dance. The money has not yet arrived from America, but to David Leizer, the millionaire, a large credit has been extended._ _The stage represents a rich parlor, white marble here and there, with large Italian windows and a door leading to a veranda. It is midday. Beyond the open windows, semi-tropical plants are visible, and the deep blue sea in the distance; through one of the windows, a view of the city is seen._ _David Leizer is seated by the table, greatly depressed. A short distance away, on a divan, Sarah is seated, dressed richly, but without taste; she watches Naum learning how to dance. Naum is very pale, he coughs and almost falls from weakness, especially when, according to the rules of the dance, he must stand on one foot; but he is studying diligently! He is dressed rather richly, but his bright-colored vest and necktie spoil the elegance of his appearance. Near Naum, the dancing-master, with a fiddle and how, is hustling about, balancing himself, rising up and down. He is a man of unusual refinement and grace; he wears a white vest, patent-leather slippers, and a smoking jacket. And Anathema, standing at the veranda door, looks upon all this with an air of sadness and reproach._ DANCING-MASTER. One--two--three; one--two--three. SARAH. Look, David, see how successful our Naum is in his dancing. I could not hop like that for anything? poor boy! DAVID. I see. DANCING-MASTER. Monsieur Naum is very talented. Please, one-two--three; one--two--three. Pardon me, pardon me, this isn't exactly right. You must make the step more precise, neatly rounding the motion of the right foot. This way--this way. _Shows him how to do it._ Madam Leizer, dancing is quite like mathematics, a circle is necessary. SARAH. Do you hear, David? DAVID. I hear. DANCING-MASTER. Please, monsieur Naum. One--two--three. _Plays on his violin._ NAUM. _Out of breath._ One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. _He turns around, and then, suddenly, almost falls down. He stops. His face is exhausted, deathly pale; he is seized with a fit of coughing. Then he resumes dancing._ NAUM, One, two, three. DANCING-MASTER. That's the way, that's the way, monsieur Naum. Please, more neatly! More neatly, please! One, two, three. _He plays. Anathema walks over to Sarah cautiously and says in a low voice, yet loud enough to be heard by David:_ ANATHEMA. Madam Leizer, does it not seem to you that Naum is rather tired? This dancing-master knows no mercy. DAVID. _Turning around._ Yes, it is enough. Sarah, you are willing to torture the boy. SARAH. _Confusedly._ What have I to do with it, David? Don't I see that he is tired, but he wants to dance? Naum, Naum! DAVID. Enough, Naum! Take a rest. NAUM. _Out of breath._ I want to dance. _Stops and stamps his foot hysterically._ Why am I not allowed to dance? Or do you all want me to die soon? SARAH. You will live yet, Naum. You will live yet. NAUM. _Almost crying._ Why don't they allow me to dance? I want to dance. I have looked for credit long enough, I want to amuse myself. Am I an old man to be in bed and cough there? Cough! Cough! _He coughs and cries simultaneously. Anathema whispers something to the dancing-master, who expresses compassion, nods his head, and prepares to go._ DANCING-MASTER. Until to-morrow, monsieur Naum. I am afraid that our lesson was a little too long. NAUM. To-morrow--don't fail to come to-morrow. Do you hear? I want to dance. _The dancing-master goes out, bowing. Naum follows him._ NAUM. To-morrow, without fail. Do you hear? Without fail. _They go out._ ANATHEMA. What are you thinking of, David? Allow me to be not only your private secretary--although I am proud of this honor--but also your friend. Since the time when you received the money you are oppressed by a dark sorrow, and it pains me to look at you. DAVID. What is there that I should rejoice over, Nullius? SARAH. And Rosa? Do not sin against God, David! Do not our eyes rest upon her beauty and youth? Before even the silent moon dared not look at her, one star dared not whisper about her to any other star,--while now she is riding about in a carriage, and everybody looks at her, and horsemen gallop after her. Just think of it, Nullius, horsemen gallop after her! DAVID. And Naum? SARAH. What about Naum? He has long been ill, you know it, and death upon a soft bed is not worse than death upon the pavement. And perhaps he will live yet, he will live yet (_cries._) David, Abraham Khessin and Sonka's girl are waiting for you in the yard. DAVID. _Morosely._ What do they want, money? Sarah, give them a few pennies and let them go. SARAH. In the end they will draw out all the money we have, Nullius. I have given to Khessin twice already. He is like sand,--no matter how much water you pour into it, it is always dry and greedy. DAVID. Nonsense! we have too much money, Sarah. But it pains me to look at the people, Nullius. Since the time when you brought us this fortune-- ANATHEMA. Which you earned by your sufferings, Leizer. DAVID. Since that time, the people have changed so much for the worse. You like to have the people bow to you very low, Nullius? I do not like it--human beings are not dogs that they should crawl on their bellies. And you like to have the people tell you, Nullius, that you are the wisest, the most magnanimous, the best of all living beings--whereas you are only an ordinary old Jew, like many another Jew. I do not like it, Nullius,--for the sons of the God of truth and mercy it is unbecoming to lie, even while dying of the cruelties of truth. ANATHEMA. _Thoughtfully._ Riches are a terrible power, Leizer. No one asks you where your money came from; they see your might and they worship it. DAVID. Might? And Naum? And I, Nullius? Can I buy for all the money even a single day of health and life? ANATHEMA. You look considerably fresher now. DAVID. _Smiling gloomily._ Yes? Should I, perhaps, also engage a dancing-master? What do you advise me, Nullius? SARAH. Don't forget Rosa, father. Is it not a great sin against God to hide the beauty of the face? It is given as a joy and a pleasure to the eyes; God Himself reveals His beauty in a beautiful face, and did we not lift our hands against God Himself when we stained our Rosa's face with coal and soot, when we made her terrible and sorrowful to look upon? DAVID. Beauty is withering. Everything is dying, Sarah. SARAH. But the lily also withers, and the narcissus dies, the petals of the yellow rose fall apart--would you, David, trample all flowers under foot and heap abuse upon the yellow rose? Do not doubt, David,--the God of righteousness has given you riches--will you who were so firm in misfortune that you did not blaspheme God even once--will you grow weak in your happiness? ANATHEMA. You are perfectly right, madam Leizer. Rosa has so many suitors that all she needs is to choose. DAVID. _Rising angrily._ I will not give Rosa to any of them. SARAH. Why not, David? DAVID. I will not give Rosa to any of them. They are like dogs that want to eat out of the golden bowl--I will drive the dogs away. _Enter Rosa. She is dressed richly, but simply. She is somewhat pale and fatigued, but very beautiful. She tries to speak and to move gracefully, but at times she forgets herself and becomes rude and vociferous. She feds tormented by this. Rosa is accompanied by two horsemen. The older man is very pale and he frowns angrily. Naum clings to Rosa, as though seeking protection in her youth, strength, and beauty, and he walks faintly after her._ DAVID. _In a rather loud voice._ Sarah, here are the suitors. SARAH. _Waving her hand._ Oh, be silent, David. ROSA. _Kissing her mother carelessly._ How tired I am, mamma. Good afternoon, father. SARAH. Take care of yourself, Rosochka; you mustn't study so much. _To the older of the two cavaliers._ Please tell her that she mustn't work so hard--what does she need to work for now? YOUNG RIDER. _In a low voice._ People should pray before your daughter, madam Leizer. Soon a temple will be erected in her honor. OLDER RIDER. _Smiling._ And near the temple, a cemetery. Madam Leizer, there are always cemeteries near the temples. ROSA. Good-by. I am tired. If you are disengaged, come in to-morrow morning--I may go out with you again. OLDER RIDER. _Shrugging his shoulders._ Disengaged? Oh, yes, of course, we are entirely free. _Harshly._ Good-by. YOUNG RIDER. _With a sigh._ Good-by. _They go out._ SARAH. _Uneasily._ Rosochka, I think you have offended him. Why did you do it? ROSA. That doesn't matter, mamma. ANATHEMA. _To David._ These are not suitors, David. _David laughs morosely. Anathema runs over to Rosa and offers her his arm. He leads her, half-dancing, merrily whistling the same tune that the organ had played._ ANATHEMA. Oh, Rosa, were it not for my age (_whistles_) and not for my illness (_whistles_), I would be the first to ask your hand. ROSA. _Laughing haughtily._ Better illness than death. DAVID. You are a very gay man, Nullius. ANATHEMA. _Whistling._ The absence of wealth and, then, a clear conscience, David, a clear conscience. I have nothing to do, so I walk arm in arm with Rosa. You spoke of death, Rosa? ROSA. Yes. ANATHEMA. _Stopping._ You are indeed beautiful, Rosa. _Thoughtfully._ And what if.... If.... But no; duty above all. Listen to me, Rosa: don't give yourself away to any one less than a prince, even though the prince of darkness. NAUM. Rosochka, why did you go away from me? I feel cold when you do not hold my hand. Hold my hand, Rosochka. ROSA. _Hesitating._ But I must go to change my dress, Naum. NAUM. I will accompany you as far as your room. You know, I danced again to-day and danced very well. I am not so short of breath now any longer. _With a feeling of adoration and slight envy._ How beautiful you are, Rosochka! SARAH. Wait, Rosochka, I will comb your hair myself. Will you allow me? ROSA. You do it very badly, mamma; you kiss it more than you comb it--my hair gets entangled from your kisses. DAVID. Is that how you answer your mother, Rosa? ROSA. _Stopping._ Why do you despise my beauty, father? DAVID. Before, I used to love your beauty, Rosa. SARAH. _With indignation._ What did you say, David? DAVID. Yes, Sarah. I love the pearl when it is on the bottom of the sea; but after it is taken out of the sea, it becomes blood--and then I do not like pearls, Sarah. ROSA. Why do you despise my beauty, father? Do you know what another girl in my place would have done? She would have lost her mind and would have whirled about on earth like a dog that swallowed a pin. But what am I doing? I am studying, father. I am studying by day and night, father. _In great agitation._ I don't know anything. I don't know how to speak, I don't even know how to walk--I stoop, I stoop as I walk. SARAH. That isn't true, Rosa. ROSA. _Agitated._ Here I have forgotten myself for a while, and I am shouting, I am croaking hoarsely, like a crow that has caught cold. I want to be beautiful--that's what I was born for. You laugh? It is in vain. Do you know that your daughter will be a duchess, a princess? I want to add a scepter to my crown! ANATHEMA. Oho! _All three go out. David jumps from his seat angrily and paces the room quickly._ DAVID. What a comedy, Nullius! Yesterday she begged Heaven for a herring, and to-day a crown is not enough for her. To-morrow she will take the throne away from Satan and will sit upon it, Nullius, and she will sit firmly! What a comedy! _Anathema has changed the expression of his face; he is stern and morose._ ANATHEMA. No, David Leizer, it is a tragedy. DAVID. 'Tis a comedy, Nullius, a comedy. Don't you hear the laughter of Satan in all this? _Pointing at the door._ You saw a corpse dancing--I see it every morning. ANATHEMA. Is Naum so dangerously ill? DAVID. Dangerously ill? Three physicians, three serious gentlemen, examined him yesterday and told me quietly that in a month from now Naum will die, that he is already more than half a corpse. And every morning I see in this white marble parlor a corpse jumping to the tune of music--is it not a dream, Nullius? Is it not the laughter of Satan? ANATHEMA. And what did they say about your health, David? DAVID. I did not ask them. I don't want them to tell me. You may also jump to the tune of music, David. How would you like it, Nullius: two corpses dancing in a white marble hall? _He laughs bitterly._ ANATHEMA. You frighten me, my friend. What is going on within your soul? DAVID. Do not touch my soul, Nullius--there is horror in it! _Clasps his head._ Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do? I am alone in the whole world. ANATHEMA. What ails you, David? Calm yourself. DAVID. _Stopping before Anathema, horror-stricken._ Death, Nullius, death! You have brought us death. Was I not mute before the face of Death? Did I not wait for it as for a friend? But here you have brought us riches--and I want to dance. I want to dance, yet death clutches at my heart; I want to eat, for hunger has entered my very bones,--but my old stomach refuses to accept any food; I want to laugh, but my face is sobbing, my eyes are weeping, and my soul is crying with mortal fear. Hunger has crept into my bones, and poison is already in my blood--there is no salvation for me; Death has overtaken me. ANATHEMA. _Significantly._ The poor are waiting for you, David. DAVID. What matters it? ANATHEMA. The poor are waiting for you, David. DAVID. The poor are always waiting. ANATHEMA. _Sternly._ Now I see that you are really lost, David. God has forsaken you. _David stops and looks at him, surprised and angry. Anathema, with head thrown back haughtily, meets his look calmly and sternly. Silence._ DAVID. You say this to me, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Yes, I say this to you, David Leizer. Beware, David Leizer, you are in Satan's hands. DAVID. _Terrified._ Nullius, my friend, you frighten me. What have I done to deserve your anger and these cruel, terrible words of yours? You have always treated me and my children so kindly.... Your hair is just as grey as mine, in your face I have long observed a hidden grief, and--I respect you, Nullius! Why are you silent? A terrible fire is burning in your eyes.--Who are you, Nullius? But you are silent.--No, no, do not lower your eyes, I am even more terrified when they are lowered, for then upon your brow appear fiery letters of some vague--of some terrible--fatal truth. ANATHEMA. _Tenderly._ David! DAVID. _Joyously._ You have started to speak, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Be silent and listen to me. From madness I will bring you back to wisdom, from death to life. DAVID. I am silent and I am listening. ANATHEMA. Your madness consists of this, David Leizer,--you have sought for God all your life, and when God came to you, you said: "I do not know You." Your death consists of this, David Leizer,--blinded by misfortunes, like a horse that is turning around in the darkness, you failed to notice the people and you remained in their midst alone, with your illness and your riches. There in the yard Life is waiting for you--and you, blind man, you close the door against it. Dance, David, dance,-- Death has lifted the bow and is waiting for you. Be more graceful, David Leizer, more graceful; round out your steps more neatly! DAVID. What do you want of me? ANATHEMA. Return to God that which God has given to you. DAVID. _Darkly._ Has God given me anything? ANATHEMA. Every rouble in your pocket is a knife which you thrust into the heart of the hungry. Distribute your fortune to the poor, give bread to the hungry, and you will conquer Death. DAVID. No one gave a crust of bread to David when he was hungry. By satisfying their hunger, will I still the hunger that is in my bones? ANATHEMA. In them your own hunger will be stilled. DAVID. Shall I get back my health and my strength? ANATHEMA. In them you will be strong. DAVID. Shall I drive out death, already in my blood, which is as thin as water, which is already in my veins, that have become hard like dried-up cords? Shall I recover life? ANATHEMA. By their life you will prolong your life. Now you have but one heart, David,--but then you will have a million hearts. DAVID. But I shall die! ANATHEMA. No, you will be immortal! _David retreats in horror._ DAVID. Your lips have uttered a terrible word. Who are you that you dare promise immortality? Are not life and death in the hand of God? ANATHEMA. God said: Reestablish life through life. DAVID. But people are wicked and vicious, and the hungry one is nearer to God than the well-fed. ANATHEMA. Remember Hannah and Benjamin.... DAVID. Be silent! ANATHEMA. Remember Raphael and little Moishe.... DAVID. _Grief-stricken._ Be silent, be silent! ANATHEMA. Remember your little birds who died upon the cold branches of winter-- _David cries Utterly._ ANATHEMA. When the lark sings in the blue sky, will you say to it: "Be silent, little bird, God does not need your song"--And will you not give a kernel to it when it is hungry? And will you not cover it upon your breast when it is cold, that it may feel warm and save its voice for Spring? Who are you, then, unfortunate man, who has no pity on birds and who turns children out into the storm? Remember how your little Moishe died. Remember, David, and say: "The people are vicious, wicked, and unworthy of my kindness!" _David bends his knees as under a heavy weight and lifts his hands, as though warding off from his head a blow from the sky. He speaks hoarsely._ DAVID. Adenoi! Adenoi! _Anathema, with arms folded on his breast, looks at him in silence._ DAVID. Mercy! Mercy! ANATHEMA. _Quickly._ David, the poor are waiting for you. They will go away soon. DAVID. No, no! ANATHEMA. The poor are always waiting, but they grow tired of waiting and they go away. DAVID. They will not go away from me. Oh, Nullius, Nullius!... Oh, wise Nullius! Oh, foolish Nullius! Is it possible that you did not understand that I have long been waiting for the poor and that their voice is in my ears and in my heart? When wheels are riding along a dust-covered road, on which rain had just fallen, they think as they turn and leave a trace: Here we are making a road. But the road was there before, Nullius, the road was there before! _Gayly._ Call the poor over to me. ANATHEMA. Consider, David, whom you are calling. _Darkly._ Do not deceive me, David. DAVID I have never deceived any one, Nullius. _Resolutely and majestically._ You spoke and I was silent, and I listened; now be silent and listen to me: I have given my soul not to man but to God, and His power is over me. And I command you: Call my wife Sarah over here, and my children Naum and Rosa, and all the people in my household, whoever they may be. ANATHEMA. _Obediently._ I shall call them. DAVID. And call the poor who are waiting for me in the yard. And when you go out on the street, see whether there are any poor people waiting for me, and if you see them, call them also. For my lips are burning with their thirst, their hunger torments my body with insatiable hunger, and I am hastening to announce to the people my last, unchangeable will. Go! ANATHEMA. _Obediently._ Your will is upon me. _Anathema goes to the door. Silence._ DAVID. The spirit of God has come over me. Adenoi. Adenoi.... Who was the terrible one that spoke through the voice of old Nullius, when he spoke about my little children who died? Only an arrow out of the bow of the Omniscient strikes the very heart with such good aim. My little birds.... Verily, You have saved me upon the edge of the abyss, and You have torn my spirit away from the clutches of the Devil. He who looks straight at the sun may grow blind, but with the lapse of time the light may come back to the revived eyes; but he who looks into darkness grows blind forever. My little birds.... _Suddenly he laughs softly and joyously, and he whispers._ I myself shall bring them bread and milk, I shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain that they should not see me--children are so tender and easily frightened and they are afraid of unfamiliar people; and I have such a terrible beard. (_Laughs._) I shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain and will watch how the children are eating. They need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough; they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. Then they sing--But how strange! does not the night pass away when the sun comes? do not the waves, at the end of the storm, lie down calmly and quietly like lambs resting in the pasture? Whence came the alarm, the slight confusion, and the fear? Shades of unknown woes are passing over my soul and soaring noiselessly over my thoughts. Ah, if I remained poor, if I remained unknown, under the shade of the fence where the refuse is cast away! You have lifted me to the peak of the mountain and You show my old, sorrowful face to the world. But such is Your will. You will command--and the lamb will become a lion; You will command--and the furious lion will stretch out her powerful breasts to her little ones; You will command--and David Leizer, who has grown white in shade, will fearlessly rise to the sun. Adenoi! Adenoi! _Sarah, Naum, and Rosa enter, alarmed._ SARAH. David, what is it you have called us for? And why was your Nullius so strict when he told us of your command? We have not sinned against you, and if we have sinned, investigate it, but do not look at us so sternly. ROSA. May I sit down? DAVID. Be silent and wait. All those whom I have called are not here yet. Be seated, Rosa, if you are tired, but when the time comes, rise. You, too, may sit down, Naum. _The servants enter irresolutely; a lackey, resembling an English Minister; a chamber-maid; a cook; a gardener; a dish-washer, and others. They move about in confusion. Soon about fifteen or twenty poor people enter, in groups. Among them are: Abraham Khessin, an old man; Sonka's girl; Joseph Kritsky, Sarah Lepke, and several other Jews and Jewesses. But there are also Greeks, and Little Russians, and Russians and other paupers whose nationality has been lost in rags and filth; two drunkards. Purikes, Ivan Bezkrainy, and the Organ-grinder, with the same outworn instrument, are also here. But Anathema is still away._ DAVID. Please, please. Come in more boldly, don't stop at the threshold,--others are coming behind you. But it would be well if you wiped your feet first; this rich house is not mine, and I must return it as clean as when I took it. KHESSIN. We have not yet learned how to walk on rugs, and we have not yet any patent leather shoes, as your son Naum has. How do you do, David Leizer? Peace be upon your house. DAVID. Peace unto you, too, Abraham. But why do you call me David Leizer, when you used to call me simply David before? KHESSIN. You are now such a mighty man, David Leizer. Yes, I used to call you merely David before, but here I was waiting for you in the yard, and the longer I waited, the longer your name grew, Mr. David Leizer. DAVID. You are right, Abraham: when the sun sets, the shadows become longer, and when a man becomes smaller, his name grows longer. But wait another while, Abraham. LACKEY. _To drunkard._ You better move away from me. DRUNKARD. Keep quiet, fool! You are a servant here, while we are the guests. LACKEY. Ruffian! You aren't in a car here, that you spit on the floor. DRUNKARD. Mr. Leizer, a certain man, who looked like an old devil, caught me by the collar and said: "David Leizer, who received an inheritance, is calling you." I asked him, "What for?" So he answered: "David wants to make you his heir," and he began to laugh. And now that I came here, your servant is chasing me away. DAVID. _Smiling._ Nullius is a gay man and he never misses an opportunity for jesting. But you are my guest, and I ask you to wait. SARAH. _After some hesitancy._ Well, how is your business getting along, Ivan? You have fewer competitors now. BEZKRAINY. It's bad, Sarah; we have no customers. PURIKES. _Like an echo._ No customers. SARAH. _Compassionately._ Ai--Ai--Ai! It's bad, if there are no customers. ROSA. Don't speak, mamma. Do you want, perhaps, to smear my face again with soot? _Pushing several paupers into the door, Anathema enters, apparently fatigued._ ANATHEMA. Well, David, meanwhile receive these. Your millions frighten the poor, and nobody wanted to follow me, thinking that some deception is hidden here. DRUNKARD. This is the man who caught me by the collar. ANATHEMA. Ah, is that you? How do you do? How do you do? DAVID. Thank you, Nullius. Now take ink and paper and sit down near me, by the table; bring me my old counting-board.... As everything I am about to say is very important, I ask you to write it correctly and to make no errors--we shall give an account of every word before God. I ask you all to rise and listen attentively, striving to understand the great words which I am about to utter. _Sternly._ Rise, Rosa. SARAH. God, have mercy on us! What are you going to do, David? DAVID. Be silent, Sarah. You will come with me. ANATHEMA. Ready. _All listen, standing._ DAVID. _Solemnly._ Upon the death of my brother, Moses Leizer, I received an inheritance (_on the counting-board_) of two million dollars. ANATHEMA. _Nervously, lifting four fingers._ Which means four million roubles. DAVID. _Sternly._ Do not interrupt me, Nullius. Yes, it does mean four million roubles. And now, submitting to the voice of my conscience and the command of God, and also in memory of my children, Hannah, Benjamin, Raphael, and Moses, who died of hunger and disease in their childhood.... _He lowers his head and weeps bitterly. Sarah also cries bitterly._ SARAH. Oh, my little Moishe! David, David, our little Moishe is dead. DAVID. _Wiping his eyes with a large red handkerchief._ Be silent, Sarah. What was I going to say to them, Nullius?... Well, write, Nullius, write. I know. _Firmly._ I have resolved, in accordance with the command of God, who is Truth and Mercy, to distribute all my possessions to the poor. Am I speaking properly, Nullius? ANATHEMA. I hear God in your words. _At first no one believes David; but soon joyous doubts and unexpected fear come over them. As though in sleep the people repeat: "Four millions, four millions!" and they hide their faces with their hands. The Organ-grinder comes forward._ ORGAN-GRINDER. _Morosely._ Will you buy me a new organ, David? ANATHEMA. Hush, musician! Back! ORGAN-GRINDER. _Retreating._ I want also a new monkey. DAVID. Let your hearts rejoice, O unfortunate people, and with a smile on your lips answer the mercy of Heaven. Go from here to the city, like heralds of happiness,--go through all its streets and squares, and shout everywhere: "David Leizer, the old Jew, who is to die soon, received an inheritance and now distributes it among the poor." And if you will see a man weeping, and a child whose face is bloodless and whose eyes are dim, and a woman whose breasts are shrunken like those of an old goat,--tell them also: "Go, David is calling you." Do I speak properly, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Yes, yes. But have you called all those who should be called? DAVID. And if you should see an intoxicated man slumbering amidst his vomitings, wake him and tell him: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see a thief thrashed in the market-place by those he had robbed, call him also, with words of kindness, yet firm enough to be regarded as a command: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see people who in their misery have become irritated and furious and who are beating one another with sticks and bits of brick, announce to them also in words of peace: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see a bashful man, who while walking in the wide street lowers his eyes before the eyes of others, but who stares greedily when no one looks at him, tell him also in a low voice, without offending his pride: "Are you not looking for David? Go, he has long been waiting for you." And if in the evening, when the Devil sows the seeds of night over the earth, you should see a woman, hideously painted, just as the heathen paint the bodies of their dead, and who stares boldly, for she has lost all shame, and who lifts her shoulders, for fear of a blow, tell her also: "Go, David is calling you." Do I speak properly, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Yes, David. But have you called all who should be called? DAVID. And whatever form of aversion or fear poverty may assume, and in whatever colors misery may paint itself, and by whatever words suffering may fence itself around, rouse with a loud call those who are fatigued, in words of life return life to those who are dying! Do not trust the silence and the darkness if they obstruct your way like a wall: Shout more loudly into the silence and the darkness, for there dwells unspeakable horror. ANATHEMA. That's right, David, that's right! I see how your spirit climbs to the peak of the mountain and how you knock loudly at the iron gates of eternity: Open! I love you, David, I kiss your hand, David,--like a dog I am ready to crawl before you and to obey your commandments. Call, David, call! Rise, O earth! North and South, East and West, I command you, by the will of David, my master, answer the call of him who calls you, and stop at his feet like four oceans of tears. Call, David, call! DAVID. _Lifting his hands._ North and South.... ANATHEMA. East and West.... DAVID. David is calling you all. ANATHEMA. David is calling you all. _Confusion, tears, laughter,--for all believe him now. Anathema kisses David's hand, springing about delightedly. He drags the Organ-grinder by the collar to the center._ ANATHEMA. Look, David, here's a musician! _Laughs and shakes the Organ-grinder._ So you don't want your old music, eh? You need a new monkey, eh? Perhaps you will ask for a powder that destroys the fleas? Ask; we shall give you everything. DAVID. Be quiet, Nullius, be quiet. We must work. You are an expert at counting, Nullius, are you not? ANATHEMA. I? Oh, Rabbi David! I am myself Numbers, I am myself--Measures and Weights. DAVID. Be seated, then; write and count. But there is one more thing, my dear children: I am an old Jew, who can divide a piece of garlic into ten portions. I know not only the need of man, but I saw also how a roach was starving--yes,--I saw also how small children died of hunger.... _Lowers his head and heaves a deep sigh._ Therefore do not deceive me, and remember that there is a number and a measure for everything. And where ten copecks are needed, do not ask for twenty, and where one measure of grain is needed, do not ask for two, for what is superfluous for one is always essential to another. Like brothers having one mother whose breasts are full but are quickly exhausted, do not abuse one another, and do not offend the generous but careful mother.... You may begin. Nullius, is everything ready? ANATHEMA. You may begin. I am waiting, David. DAVID. Stand in line, then, I beg you. I have not received the money yet; it is still in America, but I shall write down exactly how much each one of you is to get according to his need. SARAH. David, David, what are you doing with us? Look at Rosa, look at poor Naum. _Naum is dumfounded--he wants to say something, but is unable; he clutches the air with outstretched fingers. A little distance away from him, alone in her youth, strength, and beauty, amidst all these poor people, with emaciated faces and flat breasts, stands Rosa, who looks at her father defiantly._ ROSA. Are we less your children than these who have been picked up in the street? And are we not brother and sister to those who died? DAVID. Rosa is right, mother,--everybody will get the proper share. ROSA. Yes? But do you know, father, what is the proper share for everybody? _She laughs bitterly and wants to go away._ DAVID. _Gently and sadly._ Stay here, Rosa! ROSA. I have nothing to do here. I have heard you call everybody.... Oh, you called very loudly! ... But did you call the beautiful? I have nothing to do here. _Goes out._ SARAH. _Rising irresolutely._ Rosochka!... DAVID. _As gently as before, with a smile._ Stay here, mother. Where will you go? You will come with me. _Naum makes a few steps after Rosa, then he returns and sits down near Sarah._ DAVID. Ready, Nullius? Come over, then, honorable man, you who stand first in the line. KHESSIN. _Advancing._ Here I am, David. DAVID. What is your name? KHESSIN. My name is Abraham Khessin.... But have you forgotten my name? You and I played together when we were children. DAVID. Hush! It is necessary for the sake of maintaining order, Abraham. Write the name clearly, Nullius. This is the first who waited for me and upon whom the will of my God has manifested itself. ANATHEMA. _Writes carefully._ Number one.... I'll rule the paper later, David. Number one: Abraham Khessin.... NAUM. _In a low voice._ Mamma, I will not dance any more. CURTAIN. ACT THREE _The same dust-covered road, with the bent posts and the old, deserted sentinel-box; the same little shops. The sun is burning as mercilessly as when Anathema first appeared there._ _A large number of poor people are gathered there to welcome David Leizer, who had distributed his fortune among the poor. The air is rent by shouting, motion, and merry bustling. Purikes, Bezkrainy, and Sonka, happy now, and proud of their shops, are doing a brisk business in soda-water and candies. Sarah Leizer is sitting as before near her little shop, dressed neatly but poorly._ _A solemn welcome is arranged for David and Anathema, who had gone to the seashore. All the little shops, even the posts and the deserted sentinel-box, are decorated with parti-colored rags and with branches of trees; on the right side of the road, upon the scorched grass, an orchestra is preparing to meet David--several Jews with various instruments, among which there are: a good violin, cymbals, a broken brass trumpet, and even a drum, slightly broken. The members of the orchestra are scolding one another criticizing each other's instruments._ _There are a number of children in the crowd. Also, little babes in arms. Abraham Khessin and those who were in line when David started to distribute his money are there; a little distance away from the crowd stands the stern organ-grinder, with his organ._ YOUNG JEW. _Blowing his crushed trumpet._ But why does it play only on one side? Such a good trumpet. VIOLINIST. _Agitated._ What do you want to do with me? How can you welcome David Leizer with such a trumpet? You might as well have brought along a cat and pulled her by the tail, and think that David would call you his son? YOUNG JEW. _Obstinately._ It's a good trumpet. My father played it when he was in the army, and everybody was thankful to him. VIOLINIST. Your father played it, but who sat upon it? Why is it so crushed? How can you welcome David Leizer with such a crushed trumpet? YOUNG JEW. _With tears._ It's a very good trumpet. VIOLINIST. _To a clean-shaven old man._ Is that your drum? Tell me, do you seriously believe that this is a drum? Have you ever seen another drum with a hole big enough for a dog to crawl through? KHESSIN. Don't get excited, Leibke. You are a very talented man, and your music will be fine, and David Leizer will be greatly moved by it. VIOLINIST. But I can't bear it. You are a very honorable man, Abraham Khessin, you have lived long in the world, but have you ever seen such a big hole in a drum? KHESSIN. No, Leibke, I haven't seen such a big hole, but that is not at all important. David Leizer was a multimillionaire, he had twenty million roubles, but he is unspoiled and humble, and your love will afford him joy. Does the soul need a drum to be able to express its love? I see here people who have neither drums nor trumpets, and who weep for happiness--their tears are noiseless like the dew.--Rise higher, Leibke, rise a little higher to the sky, and you will not hear any drums there, but therefore you will hear the tears falling. OLD MAN. You mustn't quarrel and darken the days of bright happiness,--that would be disagreeable to David. _A Wanderer is listening to their conversation; his face is stern and swarthy. His hair and his clothes are covered with dust. He is guarded in his movements, but his eyes, lustreless, stare ahead fixedly, like open windows at night._ WANDERER. He has brought peace and happiness on earth, and the whole world knows of him already. I have come from distant places, where the people are different from you, and where the customs are different from yours, and only in their suffering and their misery they are your brethren. And there they know already about David Leizer, who distributes bread and happiness, and they bless his name. KHESSIN. Do you hear, Sarah? _Wiping his eyes._ It is of your husband they are speaking, of David Leizer. SARAH. I hear, Abraham, I hear everything. But I hear no longer the voice of Naum who died; I hear no longer the voice of Rosa. Old man, you have wandered much over the world, and you know even the people that do not resemble us,--have you not met on the road a beautiful girl, the most beautiful of all girls on earth? BEZKRAINY. She had a daughter, Rosa, a beautiful girl, she ran away from home because she would not give up her share to the poor. Did she take much money along with her, Sarah? SARAH. Can there be such a thing as too much money for Rosa? You may as well say that there are too many diamonds in the Czar's crown and too many rays in the sun. WANDERER. No, I have not seen your daughter: I am traveling along the highways, and there you can see neither the rich nor the beautiful. SARAH. But perhaps you have seen people gathered, talking enthusiastically about a certain beautiful girl? That is my daughter, old man. WANDERER. No, I have not seen such people. But I have seen other people gathered, speaking about David Leizer, who is distributing bread and happiness. Is it true that your David has healed a woman who was suffering from an incurable disease and was already dying? KHESSIN. _Smiling._ No, that is not true. WANDERER. Is it true that David restored sight to a man who was blind from the day of his birth? KHESSIN. _Shaking his head._ No, that is not true. Some one has been deceiving the people who do not resemble us. Only God can perform miracles--David Leizer is only a kind-hearted and worthy man, such as all men who have not forgotten God should be. PURIKES. It is not true, Abraham Khessin. David is not an ordinary man, and he possesses a superhuman power. I know it. _The crowd that surrounded them is eagerly listening to Purikes._ PURIKES. I saw with my own eyes, how the one we regarded as a customer came upon the deserted, sunny road, but he was not a customer. I saw with my own eyes how he touched David with his hand, and David started to speak so terribly that I could not listen to him. Do you remember it, Ivan? BEZKRAINY. That's true. David is not an ordinary man. SONKA. Does an ordinary man throw money at people, like stones at a dog? Does an ordinary man go to weep over the grave of another's child, whom he did not bring forth, whom he did not fondle, and whom he did not bury when death came? WOMAN. _With child in her arms._ David is not an ordinary man. Who ever saw an ordinary man who was more a mother to a child than his own mother? Who hides behind the bed-curtain and watches how other people's children are eating, and who weeps for joy at the sight of them? Of whom even the tiniest children are not afraid, and they play with his venerable beard as with the beard of their grandfather? Did not the stupid little Rubin tear out a tuft of grey hair from David Leizer's venerable beard? Did David grow angry? Did he cry out for pain, did he stamp his feet? No, he began to laugh as if overcome with happiness, and he cried as though for joy. DRUNKARD. David is not an ordinary man. He is a queer fellow. I said to him: "Why do you give me money? It is true, I am barefooted and unwashed, but do not think that I will buy boots and soap for the money you give me. I'll spend it on drink in the nearest dram-shop." That's what I had to tell him, for although I am a drunkard, I am an honest man. And the queer David answered me jestingly, like a good-natured lunatic: "Semyon, if it pleases you to drink, please drink,--I have not come to teach the people but to bring them joy." OLD JEW. There are many teachers, but there is none to bring them joy. May God bless David who brings joy to mankind. BEZKRAINY. _To the drunkard._ So you didn't buy any boots, did you? DRUNKARD. No, I am an honest man. VIOLINIST. _In despair._ Well, tell me all, you who have any conscience: Is this the kind of music that should greet him who brings joy to mankind? I am ashamed that I have gotten together such a poor orchestra, and I would rather die than disgrace myself before David. SARAH. _To the organ-grinder._ Will you also play? You have such a fine organ now that even angels might dance to your music. ORGAN-GRINDER. I will. SARAH. But why have you no monkey? ORGAN-GRINDER. I couldn't find a good monkey. All the monkeys I have seen are either old, or mean, or altogether untalented, and are even unable to catch fleas. The fleas have already destroyed one of my monkeys, and I don't want another monkey destroyed that way. A monkey needs talent, just like a man,--it isn't enough to have a tail, even to be a monkey. _The wanderer is questioning Khessin in a low voice._ WANDERER. Tell me the truth, Jew: I was sent here by my people, and I walked many miles on my old legs, under the mercilessly scorching sun, for the purpose of learning the truth. Who is this David who brings joy to mankind. Let it be as you say that he does not heal the sick.... KHESSIN. It is a sin and an offence against God to think that a human being can heal. WANDERER. Be it so. But is it not true that Leizer wants to build an enormous palace of white stone and blue glass and gather together all the poor of the world there? KHESSIN. _In embarrassment._ I do not know. Is it possible to build such a large palace? WANDERER. _With conviction._ It is possible. Is it true that he wants to take away the power from the rich and bestow it upon the poor? (_In a whisper._) And to take the power from those who rule, the might from those who are in command, and distribute it among all the people on earth, giving an equal share to each of them? KHESSIN. I do not know _Timidly._ You frighten me, old man. WANDERER. _Looking around cautiously._ And is it true that he has already sent heralds to the black people that they, too, shall prepare themselves to accept the new kingdom, for he wants to bestow the power equally upon the black as upon the white, giving to each one according to his desire. (_In a mysterious whisper._) In accordance with justice. _On the road appears David Leizer, walking slowly; in his right hand, a staff; Anathema is holding his left arm reverently. There is agitation and confusion among the waiting crowd: the musicians rush for their instruments; the women pick up their children quickly. They shout: "He's coming! He's coming!" They call: "Moishe, Petya, Sarah!"_ WANDERER. And is it true.... KHESSIN. Ask him. Here he is coming. _Noticing the crowd, Anathema stops David, who is absorbed in thought, and he points triumphantly to the people. Thus they stand for some time: David with his grey head thrown back, and Anathema clinging close to him. Anathema whispers something in David's ear and keeps on pointing with his left hand. Leibke, bustling about desperately, gets his orchestra together and they begin to play a lively wild tune which is as discordant as the fluttering parti-colored rags. Shouting, laughter, the children are rushing forward, some one is crying; many people are outstretching their hands prayerfully to David. Then David moves forward amidst this chaos of lively sounds. The crowd makes room for him to pass; many throw branches and twigs on the ground and spread their clothes before him; women tear of their head-dress and throw it at his feet on the dusty road. Thus he walks over to Sarah, who rises and welcomes him together with the other women. The music stops. But David is silent. Confusion._ KHESSIN. Why are you silent, David? The people you have made happy are greeting you and spreading their clothing before you on the ground, for their love is great and their hearts cannot comprise all their joy. Say a word to them--they are waiting. _David remains standing, with lowered eyes; with both hands he is leaning on his staff; his face is stern and serious. Anathema looks at him, over his shoulder, with alarm._ ANATHEMA. They are waiting for you, David. Say unto them a word of joy and calm their love. _David is silent._ WOMAN. Why are you silent, David? You frighten us. Are you not the David who brings joy to mankind? ANATHEMA. _Impatiently._ Speak, David. Their agitated ears are waiting for a word of joy and by your silence, which is like the dumbness of the rock, you crush their soul to the earth. Speak! DAVID. _Lifting his eyes and surveying the crowd sternly._ Wherefore these honors and the noise of voices, and the music which plays so loudly? To whom do you render honors worthy of a prince or of one who has performed a great deed? Is it before me, before a poor old man who must die soon, that you spread out your clothes upon the ground? What have I done to deserve your delight and exultation, to force tears of senseless joy from your eyes? I gave you money and bread--but that was the money of the Uppermost, it came from Him and went back to Him through you. The only thing I have done was not to hide the money like a thief, I did not become a plunderer, like those who have forgotten God. Do I speak properly, Nullius? ANATHEMA. No, David, no. Your speech is not worthy of a wise man and it does not come forth from the lips of a humble man. OLD MAN. Bread without love is like grass without salt,--the stomach may be filled, but it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and a bitter recollection. DAVID. Have I forgotten anything, Nullius? Remind me, my friend: I am old and my eyesight is poor, but do I not see musicians there, Nullius? Tell me! Do I not see flags as red as the tongues of crows over my head? Tell me, Nullius. ANATHEMA. You have forgotten the people, David. You do not see the children, David Leizer. DAVID. The children? _The women, weeping, hold out their children to David._ VOICES. "Bless my son, David!" ... "Touch my little girl with your hand, David." "Bless." ... "Touch her with your hand." ... DAVID. _Raising his hands heavenward._ Oh, Hannah, oh, Benjamin, oh, Raphael, and my little Moishe!... _Looks down, outstretching his arms to the children._ DAVID. Oh, my little birds who died on the naked branches of the winter!... Oh, children, my children, little children, tiny children!... Well, Nullius, am I not weeping? Am I not weeping, Nullius? Well, let everybody weep. Let the musicians play, Nullius--I understand everything now. Oh, children, little children, I gave you all, I gave you my old heart, I gave you my sorrow and my joy--Did I not give them all my soul, Nullius? _Crying and laughing through tears._ You have again wrenched my soul from the jaws of sin, Nullius. On the day of rejoicing I appeared mournful before the people, on the day of the people's exultation I did not raise my eyes to Heaven, but lowered them to the ground,--bad old man that I am. Whom did I want to deceive with my insincerity? Do I not live by day and night in raptures of joy, and do I not draw love and happiness with full hands? Why have I feigned sadness?... I do not know your name, woman; give me your child, the one that is laughing when everybody is crying, because he alone is sensible. _Smiling through tears._ Or are you perhaps afraid that I will steal it like a gypsy? _The woman kneels and holds out her child._ WOMAN. Take it, David! Everything belongs to you,--we and our children. SECOND WOMAN. Take mine, too, David! THIRD WOMAN. Mine, mine! DAVID. _Takes the child and presses it to his breast, covering it with his grey beard._ Hush!... It's my beard! Oh, what a terrible beard! But never fear, my little one, press to me more closely and laugh--you are the wisest of all. Sarah, my wife, come over here. SARAH. _Weeping._ I am here. DAVID. Let us step aside for a while. Woman, I will return the child to you, I will only hold it for a while.... Come, Sarah, let us step aside. Before you I am not ashamed to cry, be they tears of sorrow or tears of joy. _They step aside and cry softly. Only their stooping backs are seen, and David's red handkerchief with which he wipes his eyes, and the tear-stained face of the child._ VOICES. Hush! hush! They are crying. Don't disturb their crying. Hush! hush! _Anathema, on tiptoe, whispers: "Hush, hush!" Then he goes over to the musicians and speaks to them in a low voice, conducting with his hand. Little by little the noise grows louder. Bezkrainy, Purikes, and Sonka are waiting, holding filled glasses in their hands._ DAVID. _Returns and wipes his eyes with his kerchief._ Here is your child, woman. We don't like him at all, do we, Sarah? SARAH. _Weeping._ We have no children any longer, David. DAVID. _Smiling._ No, no, Sarah! But are not all the children in the world our children? He has no children who has three, six, or even twelve, but not he who knows not their number. SONKA. Drink a glass of soda-water, honorable David Leizer--it is your water. PURIKES. Drink a glass of mine, David,--this will bring me customers. BEZKRAINY. Drink a glass of noblemen's cider, David. Now it is real noblemen's cider. I can say it frankly; with your money everything is becoming real. SARAH. _Through tears._ I have always told you that your cider was bad, Ivan. And now, when it is real cider, you do not offer it to me. BEZKRAINY. Oh, Sarah.... DAVID. She is jesting, Ivan. Thank you, but I cannot drink so much,--I will taste everybody's. It's very, very good water, Sonka. You have discovered the secret and you will soon grow rich. SONKA. I put a little more soda into the water, David. WANDERER. _To Anathema, in a law voice._ Is it true--you are a close friend of David Leizer's, and you can tell it to me--is it true that he wants to build-- ANATHEMA. Why so loud? Let us step aside. _They speak in a whisper. Anathema shakes his head negatively. He is truthful. He smiles and pats the old man on the shoulder. The old man evidently does not believe him. Then Anathema gradually leads the musicians away, also the Organ-grinder and the people beyond the stone pillars. Only the sound of their voices, their exclamations, their laughter are heard. A few remain and speak with David reverently._ KHESSIN. Is it true, David, that you and Sarah are going to Jerusalem, to the Holy City, of which we can only dream? DAVID. Yes, it is true, Abraham. Although I am stronger now and I feel no longer any pain in my chest-- KHESSIN. But that is a miracle, David! DAVID. Joy restores health, Abraham, and the serving of God strengthens a man. But after all, Sarah and I cannot live much longer, and we should like to rest our eyes upon the wonderful beauty of God's land. But why do you address me as a stranger, old friend? Have you not yet forgiven me? KHESSIN. _Frightened._ Oh, do not say that, David! If you were to tell me: Call me "thou" or kill yourself, I would rather kill myself, but would not say "thou" to you. You are not an ordinary man, David. DAVID. I am not an ordinary man. I am a happy man. But where is the gay man Nullius? I don't see him. I suppose he is preparing some prank or another--I know him. There is a man who does not darken the face of the earth with gloom, Abraham, who is never averse to laughter, which is to life like dew upon grass, and which sparkles in many colors in the rays of the sun. Of course he is playing his pranks; do you hear? _Music is playing beyond the pillars; the organ, together with the orchestra, is playing the same tune it had played before. The sounds are discordant, somewhat wild, but strangely gay. Together with the music the crowd appears in a solemn procession. At the head of the procession, side by side with the Organ-grinder, walks Anathema, as if dancing. He carries the organ on a strap and turns the handle with one hand, keeping time with the other hand, whistling shrilly, and casting glances on all sides and skyward. The musicians and the poor, now gay, follow him. On passing David, Anathema bends his head toward him and keeps on playing and whistling. David, smiling, nods his head and adjusts his grey, long beard. The procession disappears._ SARAH. _With emotion._ What beautiful music! How fine, how solemn, David! David, is all this for you? DAVID. For us, Sarah. SARAH. What am I? I can only love our children. But you, but you-- _With certain fear._ You are not an ordinary man, David. DAVID. _Smiling._ So, so.... Well, what am I, then,--a governor? Or, perhaps, a general? SARAH. Do not make light of this, David. You are not an ordinary man. _The Wanderer, who stood near by all the time and saw the solemn procession, now listens to Sarah's words and nods his head. Anathema, gay, somewhat out of breath, appears._ ANATHEMA. How was it, David? I think it was not bad. They marched very well--better than I expected. Only that stupid trumpet. _Dancing, he passes David again, whistling. Then he bursts into laughter._ DAVID. _Good-naturedly._ Yes, Nullius. The music was very good. I never before heard such fine music. I thank you, Nullius,--you have afforded great pleasure to the people by your gayety. ANATHEMA. _To the Wanderer._ Did you like it, old man? WANDERER. I liked it fairly well. But what will happen when all the nations on earth will bend at the feet of David Leizer? ANATHEMA. _Astonished._ What is he saying, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Oh, David, it is very touching: the people are in love with you, even as a bride is in love with the bridegroom. This wonderful man, who has come thousands of miles-- WANDERER. More. ANATHEMA. Asked me: "Does David Leizer perform miracles?" Well,... I laughed, I laughed. KHESSIN. He asked me, too, but to me it was not laughable. The ear of him who waits is keen,--even the stones seem to sing to him. WANDERER. Only the footsteps of the blind are short, but their thoughts are long. _He steps aside and, watches David. It is near sunset and the earth is in the embrace of shadows. Abraham Khessin bids David farewell and goes away. The shopkeepers prepare to close their shops. Silence and peace._ ANATHEMA. _Breathing with difficulty._ At last. We have worked quite hard, David--the trumpet alone (_closes his ears_)--what is that worth? (_Candidly_) My misfortune is that my ear is keen, unbearably sharp, almost--yes, almost like that of a dog. If I hear-- DAVID. I am very tired, Nullius, and I want to rest. I do not feel like seeing any more people to-day, and you will not be offended, my old friend-- ANATHEMA. I understand. I will only escort you to your palace. DAVID. Yes, yes, to my palace. According to my contract, I am king for six months more. Come, Sarah,--with you alone I want to pass the remainder of this great day in peace and joy. SARAH. You are not an ordinary man, David. How did you guess my desire? _They go away towards the pillars. David pauses, looks back, and says, leaning upon Sarah's shoulder:_ DAVID. Look, Sarah; this is the place where our life has passed--how sad and poor it is, Sarah, and it breathes of the homelessness of the desert. But was not it here, Sarah, that I learned the great truth concerning the fate of man? I was poor, alone, and near death, a foolish old man, seeking an answer from the waves. But now people have come--Am I alone now? Am I poor and near death? Listen to me, Nullius; there is no death for man. What death is there? What is death? Who was the mournful one that invented this strange word--Death?--Perhaps it does exist, I do not know--but I, Nullius--I am immortal. _As though struck, he lends down, but lifts his arms upward._ Oh, how terrible it is: I am immortal! Where is the end of the sky? I have lost it. I am immortal! Oh, the breast of man aches from immortality, and his joy bums him like a fire. Where is the end of man?--I am immortal. Adenoi! Adenoi! Blessed be the mysterious name of Him who has given immortality to man, forever and aye. ANATHEMA. _Hastily._ The name! The name! Do you know the name? You have deceived me. DAVID. _Not listening to him._ I give the spirit of man over to the boundless space of Time. May it five immortally, in the immortality of fire. May it live immortally in the immortality of light, which is life. And may darkness stop before the dwelling of immortal light. I am happy, I am immortal--O my God! ANATHEMA. _Ecstatically._ It is a lie! Oh, how long yet will I listen to this foolish man? North and South, East and West, I am calling you. Quicker, come here, to the aid of the Devil! Rush over here in four oceans of tears and bury man in your abyss. Come here! This way! _No one heeds Anathema's sobs, neither David, radiant with the ecstasy of immortality, nor Sarah, nor the other people, who listen attentively to David. Anathema moves restlessly about, alone, cursing. A shrill voice is heard; a woman, terribly painted, rushes in from the road. Her clothes are torn, and her beautiful face is disfigured. She screams and sobs and calls wildly._ WOMAN. My God! Where is David, who is distributing his fortune? Two days and two nights, two days and two nights, I have been looking for him all over the city, but the houses are silent and the people are laughing. Tell me, kind people, have you not seen David, who brings joy to the people? Do not look upon my open bosom--a wicked man tore my clothes and scratched my face. Oh, do not look upon my open bosom: it never knew the happiness of feeding innocent lips. WANDERER. David is here. WOMAN. _Falling on her knees._ David is here? Oh, have pity on me, people! do not deceive me; I am blinded by deceit, and falsehoods have made me deaf. Do I hear right? Is David here? BEZKRAINY. Yes, there he stands. But you are too late--he has already distributed all his fortune. PURINES. He has already distributed all his fortune. WOMAN. What are you doing to me, people? Two days and two nights I have been looking for him--the people deceived me, and now I am too late. I will die on the way now--I have nowhere else to go. _Tearfully, flings herself about on the dust-covered road._ ANATHEMA. It seems that somebody has come to you, David. DAVID. _Advancing._ What does this woman wish? WOMAN. _Without lifting her head._ Are you David, who has brought joy to mankind? WANDERER. Yes, it is he. DAVID. Yes, it is I. WOMAN. _Without lifting her head._ I do not dare glance at you. You must be like the sun. _Gently and trustfully._ Oh, David, how long I have been looking for you!... The people kept deceiving me all the time. They told me that you went away, that you do not exist at all, and that you never existed. One man said to me that he was David, and he seemed to be kind, but he treated me like a robber. DAVID. Rise! WOMAN. Permit me to rest here, at your feet. Like a bird that has crossed the sea, I am beaten by the rain, I am exhausted by the storms, I am tired to death. _Weeps; continues trustfully._ Now I am calm, now I am happy: I am at the feet of David, who has brought joy to mankind. DAVID. _Irresolutely._ But you have come too late, woman. I have already given away everything I had, and I have nothing left. ANATHEMA. Yes. We have distributed all the money. Go home, woman,--we have nothing left. We feel sorry for you, but you are too late. Do you understand? You are too late,--only this morning we gave away the last penny. DAVID. Don't be so cruel, Nullius. ANATHEMA. But it is the truth, David. WOMAN. _Doubtingly._ That is impossible! _Lifting her eyes._ Are you David? How kind-hearted you are. Did you say that I am too late? No, he said it--his face is mean. David, please give me some money and save me. I am tired to death. And your name is Sarah? You are his wife? I have heard about you, too. _Crawls over to her and kisses her dress._ WOMAN. Plead for me, Sarah. SARAH. _Weeping._ Give her some money, David. Get up, my dear; it is very dusty here--you have such beautiful black hair. Sit down here, and rest yourself. David will soon give you money. _Lifts the woman and seats her near herself upon a rock, and caresses her._ DAVID. What shall I do? _Confusedly; wiping his face with a red kerchief._ What shall I do, Nullius? You are such a wise man,--help me. ANATHEMA. _Outstretching his arms._ By God, I do not know. Here is the list--we have not a cent, and I am an honest lawyer, not a counterfeiter. I can't bring you every day an inheritance from America. _Whistles._ I have nothing to do, so I roam about the world. DAVID. _Indignantly._ That is cruel, Nullius. I did not expect it from you. But what shall I do? what shall I do? _Anathema shrugs his shoulders._ SARAH. Sit here, my dear; I will come back soon. David, let us step aside; I must tell you something. _They step aside and whisper._ ANATHEMA. Did they beat you hard, woman? Evidently the man who was beating you was not skillful--he did not knock your eyes out, as he wanted to do. WOMAN. _Covering her face with her hair._ Do not look upon me! SARAH. Nullius, come over here. ANATHEMA. _Goes to her._ Here I am, madam Leizer. DAVID. _In a low voice._ How much money have we for our journey to Jerusalem? ANATHEMA. Three hundred roubles. DAVID. Give it to the woman. _Smiling and crying._ Sarah does not want to go to Jerusalem. She wants to continue in business here until death comes. What a foolish woman, Nullius, isn't she? _Cries restrainedly._ SARAH. Does that cause you much pain, David? Were you so eager to go? DAVID. What a foolish woman, Nullius. She does not understand that I also want to remain in business here. _Cries._ ANATHEMA. _Moved._ You are not an ordinary man, David. DAVID. It was my dream, Nullius, to die in the Holy City and to join my dust to the dust of the righteous people buried there. But (_he smiles_) is not the ground everywhere kind to its dead? Give the money to the poor woman. Well, Sarah, how shall it be? We must open a store and learn from Sonka how to make good soda-water. ANATHEMA. _Triumphantly._ Woman, David, who has brought joy to mankind, gives you money and happiness. BEZKRAINY. _To Sonka._ I told you that he has not distributed all his money. He has millions. WANDERER. _Listening._ That's right. How could David give away everything? He only started to give away. _The woman thanks David and Sarah; he places his hands upon her head, as though blessing her. Behind him, from the side of the field, something grey appears, dust-covered, moving slowly. They move silently, and it is hard to discern at first that they are human beings. The grey dust has equalized them--their distress and their suffering have made them brethren. There is something alarming in their dull, inflexible movement--and the people look upon them uneasily._ BEZKRAINY. Who is coming there on the road? SONKA. Something grey is crawling along the road. If they are human beings, they do not look like human beings. PURIKES. Oh, I am afraid for David. He stands with his back toward them, and does not see them. And they are coming like blind people. SONKA. They will soon crush him. David, David, turn around and look. ANATHEMA. It is too late, Sonka,--David can't hear you now. PURIKES. But who is that? I am afraid of them. WANDERER. These are our people! These are blind people from our land,--they have come to David for their eyesight. _Loudly._ Stop, stop! you have reached your destination. David is in your midst. _The blind, almost crushing the frightened David, pause and seek him with their fingers._ THE BLIND. Where is David? Help us to find David. Where is David, who brings joy to mankind? He is here. I feel him already with my fingers. Are you David? Where is David? Where is David? Are you David? DAVID. _Frightened voices come out of the darkness._ It is I--I am David Leizer. What is it you wish of me? SARAH. _Weeping._ David! David! I don't see you. David, David, where are you? THE BLIND. _Closing in around him._ Here is David. Are you David? CURTAIN. ACT FOUR _A large, high, somewhat dark room--David's study in the rich villa where he spends his last days. Two large windows in the room: one overlooking the road to the city; the other, on the left, overlooking the garden. Near this window, a large writing-table, covered with papers in disorder--sheets of paper of various sizes, and large books. Under the table, and near it, paper torn into small bits. A large Bible, bound in old leather, lies on the floor, open, with its back upward, resembling the roof of a house which is falling apart. Notwithstanding the heal, there is a fire in the fireplace. David Leizer feels cold and feverish._ _It is growing dark. Through the lowered blinds, faint sunlight comes in, but it is already dark in the room. Only the small lamp on the table brings out into bold relief the white heads of David and Anathema._ _David is sitting by the table. His hair and beard, unkempt for some time, lend him a savage and terrible appearance; his face is emaciated, his eyes are wide open; clasping his head with both hands, he stares fixedly through his large spectacles, examines a paper, throws it aside, takes up another paper, and nervously turns the leaves of a heavy volume._ _Anathema stands near him, holding the back of his arm-chair. He is motionless, thoughtful, and stern._ _The windows are closed, but through the dosed windows comes the muffled noise of many voices. It increases slowly, wavering in force and impassionateness. Those who had been called by David are now besieging his house. Silence._ DAVID. It has crumbled away into dust; Nullius! The mountain that reached the sky has split into rocks, the rocks have turned into dust, and the wind has carried the dust away. Where is the mountain, Nullius? Where are the millions which you brought me? Here I have been looking for an hour through my papers for one copeck, only one copeck, that I may give it to him who asks for it, but I cannot find it. What is lying around there? ANATHEMA. The Bible. DAVID. No, no, I mean there, among the papers. Let me have it. I think it is an account I haven't examined yet. That would be good luck, Nullius! _Stares intently._ No, it is all crossed out here. Look, Nullius, look! A hundred, then fifty, then twenty,--and then one copeck. But I cannot take this copeck away from him, can I? ANATHEMA. Six, eight, twenty,--correct. DAVID. No, no, Nullius,--one hundred, fifty--twenty,--one copeck. It has all melted away, it slipped through my fingers like water. And the fingers are dry already--and I feel cold, Nullius! ANATHEMA. It is warm here. DAVID. I say it is cold here, Nullius. Throw some logs of wood into the fireplace.... No, wait. How much does a log cost? Oh, it costs a great deal; put it away, Nullius,--this accursed fire is devouring wood so quickly, as though it did not know that every log of wood is--a life. Wait, Nullius.... You have a splendid memory, you never forget anything, like a book--don't you remember how much I designated for Abraham Khessin? ANATHEMA. At first, five hundred. DAVID. Yes, yes, Nullius, of course,--he is an old friend of mine; we used to play together. And for a friend five hundred is not much at all. Of course, he is an old friend of mine, and I must have pitied him and left to him more than to the others in the end--for our friendship is such a tender feeling, Nullius. But it is bad if a man wrongs strangers and distant people on account of a friend--for they have no friends or protection. And we will cut down Abraham Khessin's allowance, we will cut it down just a little bit.... _With fear._ Tell me, how much have I now allowed for Abraham? ANATHEMA. One copeck. DAVID. Impossible! Tell me that you have made an error! Have pity on me, and tell me that you have made an error, Nullius! It cannot be--Abraham is my friend--we used to play together. Do you understand what it means when children play together, and then they grow up and they have grey beards, and they smile together at the past? You have also a grey beard, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Yes, my beard is grey. You allowed one copeck for Khessin. DAVID. _Takes Anathema by the arm; in a whisper._ But she said that her child would die, Nullius,--that he is dying already. Understand me, my old friend, I must have money. You are such a fine man, you are (_pats his arm_) such a kind man, you remember everything, like a book,--search a little more. ANATHEMA. Bethink yourself, David; your reason is betraying you. It is already two days that you have been sitting here at this table, looking for that which is no more. Go out to the people who are waiting for you, tell them that you have nothing left, and dismiss them. _Angrily._ DAVID. But did I not go out ten times already to the people and did I not tell them that I have nothing left? Did a single one of them go away? They stand and wait there, and they are firm in their misery, like a rock, obstinate like the child at the mother's breast. Does a child ask whether there is milk in the mother's breast? When I speak, they are silent and they listen to me like reasonable people; but when I become silent, the spirit of despair and want seizes upon them and wails in a thousand voices. Did I not give everything away to them, Nullius? Did I not cry out all my tears? Did I not give them away all the blood of my heart? What are they waiting for, Nullius? What do they want of the poor Jew, who has already exhausted his life?... ANATHEMA. They are waiting for a miracle, David. DAVID. _Rising, with fear._ Be silent, Nullius, be silent,--you are tempting God. Who am I that I should perform miracles? Bethink yourself, Nullius. Can I make two copecks of one? Can I come over to the mountains and say: "Mountains of the earth, turn into mountains of bread and satisfy the hunger of the hungry"? Can I come over to the ocean and say: "Sea of water as salty as tears, turn into a sea of milk and honey and quench the thirst of the thirsty"? Think of it, Nullius! ANATHEMA. Did you see the blind? DAVID. Only once did I dare lift my eyes,--but I saw strange, grey people, into whose eyes some one had spat something white, and they feel the air as if it were a danger, and they fear the earth as though it were a horror. What do they want, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Did you see the sick and the maimed, with organs of the body missing,--did you see them crawl on the ground? Out of the pores of the earth they come like a perspiration of blood--the earth is of them. DAVID. Be silent, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Did you see people who are devoured by their conscience: their face is dark, as though scorched by fire, and their eyes are surrounded with white rings, and they run about in a circle like mad horses? Did you see people who look straight ahead, and in their hands they hold long staffs for measuring the road? These are the people searching after truth. DAVID. I dared not look any further. ANATHEMA. Did you hear the voice of the earth, David? _Enter Sarah; she advances to David timidly._ DAVID. Is that you, Sarah? Shut the door tightly, do not leave a crevice behind you. What is it you wish, Sarah? SARAH. _With fear and faith._ Are you not entirely prepared yet, David? Make haste and go out to the people: they are tired of waiting and many of them fear death. Dismiss these, for others are coming, David, and soon there will be no place for a man to stand. The water has already given out in the fountains and they are not bringing any bread from the city, as you have ordered, David. DAVID. _Uplifting his hands; horrified._ Awaken, Sarah, sleep has enmeshed you in nets of cunning and your heart is poisoned with the madness of love. It is I, David!... _With fear._ And I did not command to bring bread. SARAH. If you are not quite ready, David, they can wait. But order lamps lighted and give bedding for the women and the children,--for night will soon set in and the earth will grow cold. And order them to give milk to the children--they are starved. There, in the distance, we have heard the sound of innumerable footsteps: are those not herds of cows and goats, full of milk, driven here at your command? DAVID. _Hoarsely._ Oh, my God, my God!... ANATHEMA. _In a low voice, to Sarah._ Go away, Sarah: David is praying. Do not disturb his prayer. _Sarah goes away timidly and cautiously._ DAVID. Mercy! Mercy! _The noise outside the windows subsides. Suddenly it is heard again: Sarah had notified them that they must wait._ DAVID. Mercy! Mercy! ANATHEMA. _In a commanding tone._ David be a man in the face of the great fear. Did you not call them here? Did you not call loudly, in a voice of love, to the silence and the darkness where unspeakable horror dwells? And now they have come to you--North and South, East and West, and like four oceans of tears they have stretched themselves at your feet. Rise, David! DAVID. What shall I do, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Tell them the truth. DAVID. What shall I do, Nullius? Shall I perhaps take a rope and, hanging it upon a tree, strangle myself like the one who had once betrayed? Am I, perhaps, a traitor, having called them and not given anything to them, and loving them in order to destroy them? Oh, how my heart is aching!... Oh, how my heart is aching, Nullius! Oh, I feel as cold as the ground that is covered with ice, and within it there is heat and white flame. Oh, Nullius, have you seen the white flame on which the moon turns dark and the sun burns like yellow straw? _He tosses about._ Hide me, Nullius. Is there not a dark room, where the light does not penetrate? are there not strong walls through which I would not hear these voices? Whither are they calling me? I am a sick old man, I cannot endure and suffer so long--I myself had small children, and did they not die? What were their names, Nullius? I have forgotten. Who is it they call David, the man who has brought joy to mankind? ANATHEMA. That was your name, David Leizer. You are deceived, Leizer. You are deceived even as I am deceived! DAVID. _With entreaty._ Protect me, Nullius. Go out to them and tell them aloud, so they all can hear: "David Leizer is a sick old man, and he has nothing left." They will listen to you, Nullius,--you have such a respectful appearance,--and they will return to their homes. ANATHEMA. Yes, yes, David. You see the truth already, and you will soon proclaim it to the people. Ha, ha! Who said that David Leizer could perform miracles? DAVID. _Folding his arms._ Yes, yes, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Who dares demand miracles of Leizer? Is he not a sick old man,--mortal like all the rest? DAVID. Yes, yes, Nullius,--a man. ANATHEMA. Did not love deceive Leizer? It said to him: "I shall do everything,"--and it raised only dust on the road like the blind wind from behind a corner, which bursts in noisily and lies down quietly, which blinds the eyes and stirs up the dust. Let us go, then, to Him who gave love to David, and ask Him: "Wherefore did you deceive our brother David?" DAVID. Yes, yes, Nullius! Of what good is love to man if it is powerless? Of what good is life if there is no immortality? ANATHEMA. _Rapidly._ Go out and tell this to them,--they will listen to you. They will lift their voice to Heaven--and we shall hear the answer of Heaven, David! Tell them the truth and you will stir up the earth. DAVID. I am going, Nullius. And I will tell them the truth--I have never lied. Open the doors, Nullius. _Anathema quickly throws the door open and respectfully allows David to pass to the balcony. David walks slowly, with an air of importance. Then Anathema closes the door behind David. The noise suddenly subsides, a deathlike silence sets in, and David's quivering voice is heard faintly. Anathema dances about the room in a fit of ecstasy._ ANATHEMA. Ah! you would not listen to me,--now listen to them. Ah! you forced me to crawl on my belly like a dog. You would not permit me to glimpse even through a crevice!... You laughed at me in your silence!... You tortured me by your motionlessness. Listen, then, and answer, if you can. It is not the Devil who speaks to you, it is not the son of Dawn who raises his voice,--it is man, it is your favorite son, your care, your love, your tenderness, and your proud hope, that is wriggling under your foot like a worm. Well? You are silent? Lie to him by your thunder, deceive him with your lightning,--how dares he look into the heavens? Let him, like Anathema? _Wailing._ The poor, offended Anathema, who is crawling on his belly like a dog.... _Furiously._ Let man crawl back again to his dark hole, let him decay in silence, bury himself in gloom, where unspeakable horror dwells. _A myriad-voiced sound is heard from outside the windows._ ANATHEMA. Do you hear? _Sarcastically._ It is not I. It is they. Six, eight, twenty-correct. It is always correct with the Devil.... _The door opens and David, horror-stricken, runs in. A shout is heard behind him. David closes the door and holds it with his shoulder._ DAVID. Help, Nullius! They will soon break in--the door is not strong; they will break it. ANATHEMA. What do they say? DAVID. They do not believe me, Nullius. They ask for a miracle. But do the dead also shout?--I saw the dead they have brought here. ANATHEMA. _Furiously._ Then lie to them, Jew! _David goes away from, the door and says mysteriously, with confusion and fear:_ DAVID. Do you know, Nullius, something is going on within me,--I have nothing,--but here I went out to them, I saw them and suddenly I felt that it is not true--I do have something. And I spoke, but I did not believe it myself; I spoke, and yet I felt that I stood with them and shouted against myself, and demanded angrily.... With my lips I declare that I have nothing,'and with my heart I promise them, and with my eyes I cry out, Yes, yes, yes! What shall I do, Nullius? Tell me, are you sure that I have nothing? _Anathema smiles. Sarah's_, _voice is heard behind the door on the right; a knock at the door._ SARAH. Let me in, David. DAVID. Do not open the door, Nullius. ANATHEMA. It is your wife, Sarah. _He opens the door. Sarah enters, leading by the hand a pale-faced woman who is carrying something in her arms._ SARAH. _Meekly._ Forgive me, David. But this woman says that she cannot wait any more. She says that if you delay any longer, she will not recognize her child when he is revived. If it is necessary for you to know his name, it is Moishe, little Moishe. He is a dark little one,--I looked at him. WOMAN. _Falling down on her knees._ Forgive me, David, for breaking the line and not waiting for my turn. But there are those who died but a little while ago, while I am carrying him already three days and three nights on my breast. Perhaps it is necessary for you to take a look at him? Then I will uncover him--I am not deceiving you, David. SARAH. I have looked at him already, David. She let me hold him awhile. She is very tired, David. _David retreats slowly, the palms of his hands outstretched forward. He moves thus until he reaches the wall._ DAVID. Mercy! Mercy! _Both women wait patiently._ DAVID. What shall I do? I am fainting, O God! Nullius, tell them that I do not resurrect the dead! WOMAN. I implore you, David! Do I ask you to restore life to an old man who has lived long and who has deserved death for his evil deeds? Do I not understand whom it is possible to resurrect and whom it is not possible to resurrect? But perhaps it is hard for you because he is dead so long. I did not know this,--forgive me. And when he was dying, I promised him: "Moishe, do not be afraid to die--David, who brings joy to mankind, will restore your little life to you." DAVID. Show him to me. _Looks at him, shaking his head, and weeps, wiping his eyes with his red kerchief. Sarah looks at him confidently, leaning on his shoulder._ SARAH. How old was he? WOMAN. Two years, going on the third. _David turns his tear-stained face to Anathema and says in a strange voice:_ DAVID. Shall I make an attempt, perhaps, Nullius? _Suddenly he bends down and cries hoarsely:_ Adenoi!... Adenoi!... Begone! Begone! The Devil has sent you here. Tell them, Nullius, that I do not resurrect the dead. They have come to mock me! Look, they are both laughing there. Begone! Begone! ANATHEMA. _In a low voice, to Sarah._ Go away, Sarah, and lead the woman away. David is not quite ready yet. SARAH. _In a whisper._ I will take her to my room. Later you may tell David that she is there. _To the woman._ Come, woman,--David is not quite ready yet. _They go out. David, exhausted, sits down in an arm-chair and lowers his grey head. He reads something softly._ ANATHEMA. They have gone, David. Do you hear? They have gone away. DAVID. Nullius, did you see? It was a dead child. Moishe.... Yes, yes, Moishe, a dark little one; we looked at him.... (_Loudly, in despair._) What shall I do? Teach me, Nullius. ANATHEMA. _Quickly._ Flee! _Listens to what is going on outside the window, nods his head affirmatively, and advances to David cautiously, like a conspirator; David waits for him, with his arms folded as in prayer, a confident smile on his lips. His back is bent, and he frequently takes his red kerchief from his pocket, but does not know what to do with it._ ANATHEMA. _In a whisper._ We must flee, David, flee! DAVID. _Joyously._ Yes, yes, Nullius,--we must flee. ANATHEMA. I shall hide you in a dark room which no one knows of; when they fall asleep, tired of waiting and hungry, I shall lead you through the sleeping people--and will save you. DAVID. _Joyously._ Yes, yes, save me. ANATHEMA. And they will be waiting! In their sleep they will, wait and dream dreams of great expectations--and you will not be here any longer! DAVID. _Nodding his head joyously._ And I shall not be here any longer, Nullius! And I shall have fled already, Nullius! _Laughs._ ANATHEMA. _Laughing._ And you will not be here any longer! You will have fled! Let them speak to Heaven then. _They look at each other and laugh._ ANATHEMA. _In a friendly tone._ Wait for me, David. I shall go out at once and see whether the house is still surrounded. They are such madmen! DAVID. Yes, yes, look. They are such madmen! Meanwhile I shall prepare myself, Nullius.... But I ask you, do not leave me here all alone for a long time. _Anathema goes out. David goes cautiously on tiptoe to the window and wants to look out, but he dares not; he goes to the table and is frightened by the scattered sheets of paper; he moves cautiously to the corner where his clothes are. He dresses hastily, mixing up his clothes. For a long time he does not know what to do with his beard; suddenly he pushes it under his coat and hides it with his collar._ DAVID. _Muttering._ Yes, yes. I must hide my beard. All the children know my beard.... But why did they not tear it out? Yes, yes, my beard.... But what a black coat! It does not matter, you will hide it. That's the way. Rosa had a mirror.... But Rosa ran away, and Naum also died, and Sarah--oh, but why does not Nullius come? Does he not hear how they are shouting?... _A knock on the door._ DAVID. _Frightened._ Who is there? David Leizer is not here. ANATHEMA. It is I, David; let me in. _Anathema enters._ DAVID. Well, Nullius,--it is possible to recognize me now, is it not? ANATHEMA. Very good, David. But I don't know how we can get out. Sarah has filled the house with guests: in every room the blind and the maimed are waiting for you with a pleasant smile; there are also dead people there, David. Your Sarah is a splendid woman, but she is too much of a hostess, David, and she intends to build up a fine household on miracles. DAVID. But she must not do it, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Many people are already sleeping at your doors, smiling in their dreams,--self-confident, lucky people, who have managed to outstrip the others.... And in the garden and in the yard.... DAVID. _With fear._ What is there in the yard?... ANATHEMA. Not so loud, David. Look and listen. _He puts out the light in the room and draws aside the draperies; the windows are lit up with a red light; it is dark in the room, but David's head, and the paper on the floor, are tinted a pale crimson hue._ DAVID. _Frightened, in a whisper._ Where does this fire come from, Nullius? I am afraid. ANATHEMA. _Also in a whisper._ 'Tis a cold night, and they have started bonfires. Sarah told them that they would have to wait a long time yet, so they have taken precautions. DAVID. Where did they get the wood? ANATHEMA. They broke certain things. Sarah told them that you ordered them to start bonfires, and they are humbly burning whatever wood they find.... And there, David, farther away.... DAVID. _In despair._ What is it, Nullius? What else can there be, there yonder?... ANATHEMA. I do not know, David. But from the upper window, which was wide open, I heard something like the roaring of the ocean when the rocks tremble with pain from the beating of the breakers; it was as though the roaring of brass trumpets that I heard, David,--they are shouting to the sky and to you, and they are calling you.... Do you hear? _In the muffled noise and chaos of sounds, ring out the sounds: Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!_ DAVID. I hear my name. Who is calling? What do they want? ANATHEMA. I don't know. Perhaps they want to crown you as their king. DAVID. Me? ANATHEMA. You, David Leizer. Perhaps they are bringing you might and power--and the power of performing miracles--do you not want perhaps to become a God, David? Look and listen. _He throws the windows wide open. The sounds of the voices calling "Da-vid, Da-vid, Da-vid!" grow louder and are mingled with the blowing of trumpets._ _David at first moves to the wall, then he slowly advances to the window. He straightens himself, looks out of the window, and pushing Anathema aside, outstretches his arms to the poor of the earth._ DAVID. _Calling._ Come this way! Come here! To me! I am here! I am with you! ANATHEMA. _Astonished._ What? You are calling them? You--are--calling--them? Bethink yourself, Leizer! DAVID. _Angrily._ Be silent! you do not understand me! We are all human beings and we shall go together. _Enthusiastically._ And we shall go together! Come here, brethren, come! Look, Nullius,--they have lifted their heads, they are looking, they hear me. This way! this way! ANATHEMA. Will you perform miracles? DAVID. _Angrily._ Be silent--you are a stranger. You speak as an enemy of God and mankind. You know neither pity nor compassion. We are tired, we are exhausted,--even the dead have grown tired of waiting. Come here--and we shall go together. This way! ANATHEMA. _Looking at David._ Are not the blind showing the way to them? DAVID. Who needs eyesight if not the blind? This way, blind! ANATHEMA. Are not the lame making the road and swallowing the dust there? DAVID. Who needs the road if not the lame? This way, maimed! ANATHEMA. Are they not carrying the dead on the stretchers, swaying with measured steps? Look, David, and dare to say: "Come this way, to me. I am he who resurrects the dead!" DAVID. _Tormented._ You know no love, Nullius. ANATHEMA. "I am he who restores sight to the blind"-- _Loudly, through the window._ This way! Nations of the earth, seeking God,--come together, at the feet of David--he is here! DAVID. Not so loud. ANATHEMA. Eh, this way! Suffering mothers,--fathers who have lost their reason in grief,--brothers and sisters who devour one another in the convulsions of hunger--come this way, to David, who has brought joy to mankind! DAVID. _Seizing him by the shoulder._ You have lost your mind, Nullius. They may hear you and may break into the house.... What are you doing, Nullius? Be more cautious. ANATHEMA. _Shouting._ David is calling you! DAVID. _Dragging him away from the window forcibly._ Be silent! I'll choke you if you utter another word. You dog! ANATHEMA. _Releasing himself._ You are as foolish as a human being. When I call you to flee from here, you curse me. When I call you to love--you want to choke me. _With contempt._ Man! DAVID. _Enfeebled._ Oh, do not ruin me, Nullius. Oh, forgive me if I have angered you, foolish old man that I am, with a memory that fails me. But I cannot--I cannot perform any miracles! ANATHEMA. Let us flee from here. DAVID. Yes, yes, let us flee. _Irresolutely._ But where? Where do you want to lead me, Nullius? Is there a place on earth where God is not present? ANATHEMA. I shall lead you to God. DAVID. No, I don't want to go to Him. What will God tell me? And what shall I answer Him? Be considerate, Nullius. Can I say anything in answer to God now? ANATHEMA. I shall lead you to the desert. We shall leave here these wicked and vicious people, who are seized with the itch of suffering and who break down posts and fences like hogs that scratch themselves. DAVID. _Irresolutely._ But they are human beings, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Renounce them, and, pure, stand up in the desert before the face of God. Let the rock be your bed, let the howling jackal become your friend, let only the sky and the sand hear the penitent moans of David--not a single stain of another's sin shall come upon the pure snow of his soul. He who remains with lepers becomes a leper himself--only in solitude will you see God. To the desert, David, to the desert! DAVID. I shall pray. ANATHEMA. You will pray. DAVID. I shall exhaust my body with fasting. ANATHEMA. You will exhaust your body with fasting. DAVID. I shall cover my head with ashes. ANATHEMA. What for? Unfortunate people do that. But you will be happy, David, in your sinlessness. To the desert, David, to the desert! DAVID. To the desert, Nullius, to the desert! ANATHEMA. _Quickly._ Let us run. There is a cellar here of which no one knows. There are old barrels there, and there is the smell of wine. I shall hide you. And when they fall asleep-- DAVID. To the desert! To the desert! _They rush out quickly. Disorder and silence in the room.. Through the open window soon comes in the noise of voices and of brass trumpets, moans and sobs of the mob,--"Da-a-a-vid!"_ _And with its pages bent under it, like a house that is falling apart, lies the Bible, with its back upward._ SLOW CURTAIN. ACT FIVE. _On the right, upon the slope of a mountain, a dilapidated stone fence. On the left, the sea is seen. Beyond the fence, a deserted garden; among the trees two tall cypress trees stand out prominently. The sea is dark. It is before a storm. The sky is overcast with heavy clouds, which are driven rapidly by the wind._ _As the curtain goes up no one is on the stage; then Anathema climbs over the fence and assists David over the fence. David is very weak and moves with difficulty. Their dark clothes are covered with mud and torn in places. Both have lost their hats on the way._ ANATHEMA. Quicker, quicker, David! They are pursuing us. In this dark garden, where it is so quiet, I heard a roaring in the distance, on that side,--as though there were another sea there. Quicker, David! DAVID. I can't, Nullius. Put me down here that I may die. ANATHEMA. Put your foot here, on this rock. Take care. DAVID. Before my eyes are paths which turn and turn and lead to the wall. Then there are more walls, Nullius, and this dark ditch where a bloated dead horse is lying. Where are we, Nullius? ANATHEMA. We are at the sea. We shall take a boat from the fishermen and trust ourselves to the waves--You will sooner find mercy with the senseless waves, David, than with the maddened people. DAVID. Yes, it is better to die. _He lies down by the fence._ I am fifty-eight years old, Nullius, and I must have a rest.... But who was the man that met us on the highway and was so greatly overjoyed, and ran off shouting: "Here is David, who has brought joy to mankind? How does he know me? I had never seen him before. ANATHEMA. _As if surveying the shore._ Your fame is great, David.... Strange, I do not find any path leading downward. DAVID. _Shutting his eyes._ The cypress trees have turned dark--there will be a storm to-night, Nullius. We should have remained at the stone pit: it was dark and quiet there, and I slept like a man with clear conscience. _Grumbling._ But why are you silent, Nullius? Or am I to speak all alone, as if I were already in the desert? NULLIUS. I am searching. DAVID. _With dissatisfaction._ What else is there to search for? We have searched enough to-day, and we jumped like trained dogs. I felt ashamed, Nullius, when I climbed the fences like a little boy stealing apples. You had better come over here and tell me something about your wanderings. I am too tired to sleep. ANATHEMA. You'll not be able to sleep, David. _Advancing._ There is no way down to the sea. DAVID. What of it? Look for it elsewhere. ANATHEMA. _Outstretching his hand in the direction of the city._ Look, David; what is that white line there in the distance? DAVID. _Lifting his head._ I don't see it. ANATHEMA. It is the city which is awaiting you. Now listen. What is that noise in the distance? DAVID. _Listening._ That--of course, Nullius, that is the echo of the waves of the sea. ANATHEMA. No. It is the voice of the people, who will come here soon and will demand miracles from you, and will offer you the kingdom of the poor on earth. When we were hiding in the rocks, I heard two men speak as they hastened to the city: they said that you had been carried away by some evil one and that it was necessary to rescue you from that evil one and offer you the kingdom. DAVID. Am I not a sick old Jew? Am I a piece of gold that I should be stolen? Leave me alone, Nullius; you are raving like the other people.... I am sleepy. ANATHEMA. _Impatiently._ But they are coming this way. DAVID. Let them come. You will tell them that David is sleeping and that he does not want to perform miracles. _He prepares himself for sleep._ ANATHEMA. Bethink yourself, David. DAVID. _Stubbornly._ He does not want to perform any miracles. Good night, Nullius. I am old and I do not like to talk nonsense. ANATHEMA. David! _David does not answer; he falls asleep, his hands folded under his head._ ANATHEMA. Awaken, David! the people have come here. _Pushes him angrily._ Get up, I say. You make believe that you are asleep--I don't believe you. Do you hear? _Through his teeth._ You've fallen asleep--damned flesh! _Steps aside and listens._ ANATHEMA. Ha, ha! They are coming.... They are coming.... And their king is sleeping! They are coming--and their miracle-worker is sleeping the sleep of the horse which draws water. They are carrying a crown and death--and their victim and master is catching the wind with an open mouth, smacking his lips for pleasure. O miserable race! There is treachery in your bones, betrayal in your blood, and falsehood in your heart! It is better to rely upon flowing waters, to walk upon the waves as upon a bridge; it is better to lean upon the air as upon a rock, than to trust one's haughty anger and bitter dreams to a traitor. _Goes over to David and pushes him rudely._ Get up! Get up, David,--Sarah is here, Sarah, Sarah! DAVID. _Awakening._ Are you here, Sarah? I'll be up soon; I am very tired, Sarah.... What is this? You, Nullius? Where is Sarah? Didn't she call me just now? How tired I am! how tired I am, Nullius! ANATHEMA. Sarah is coming. Sarah is carrying an infant. DAVID. What infant? We have no small children. Our children-- _Half rises, looks around, frightened._ What is that, Nullius? who is crying there? ANATHEMA. Sarah is carrying a dead child. You must resurrect the dead child, David. He is dark, and his name is Moishe--Moishe--Moishe! DAVID. _Rising._ We must flee, Nullius. We must flee. But where is the road? Where have you led me to? _Seizes Anathema by the arm._ Listen how they are shouting. They are coming this way, to me--oh, save me, Nullius! ANATHEMA. There is no way. _Holding David._ There is an abyss. DAVID. What shall I do, Nullius? Shall I, mayhap, hurl myself down and dash my head against the rocks? But am I a wicked wretch that I should come to God without His calling me? Oh, if God only called me--faster than an arrow would my old soul rush to Him.... _Listens._ They are shouting. They are calling ... calling? Step aside, Nullius; I want to pray. ANATHEMA. _Steps aside._ But make haste, David; they are near. DAVID. Do you hear? They are coming. I love them, but my love is bitterer than hatred, and it is as powerless as indifference. Kill me, and meet them yourself. Kill me--and meet them with mercy, with love. Fertilize the hungry earth with my body and grow bread upon it, drown sorrow with my soul and grow laughter upon it. And joy, O Lord, joy for mankind.... _The approach of an enormous mob is heard._ ANATHEMA. _Advancing._ Quicker, David, quicker,--they are approaching. DAVID. One moment, one moment. _In despair._ Joy ... What else? Only one word--only one word--but I have forgotten it. _Weeping._ Oh, what a great number of words there are, but one is missing.... But, perhaps, you need no words at all? ANATHEMA. Only one word is missing? How strange! It seems that they have found their word--do you hear them wailing? "Da-a-vid! Da-a-vid!" Rise, David, and meet them proudly; it seems they are beginning to mock you. _David rises. Some one rushes in ahead of the mob, shouting joyously: "David!" and runs back. The sea looks in one place as though stained with blood._ DAVID. _Retreating a step._ I am afraid, Nullius. This is the same one we met on the road, with a red little beard.... I fear him, Nullius. ANATHEMA. Meet them proudly. Strike them with the truth, David,--with the truth! DAVID. But do not leave me alone, Nullius, or I shall forget again where the truth is. _People appear on the fence. They are exhausted, mud-covered, like David. They seem to be blind yet their faces are radiant with joy, and they keep exclaiming: "Da-vid! Da-vid!"_ DAVID. _Outstretching his arms._ Back-- _They do not listen to him and keep climbing the fence, wailing._ ANATHEMA. _Audaciously._ Where are you going? Back--back, you were told. _The people in the front rank pause in fear._ VOICES. Stop! Stop! Who's that? That's David. No, that's the robber. The one who has carried him off. The robber. A RESTLESS MAN. Silence! Silence! David wishes to speak. Listen to David. _They become silent; but in the distance people are still shouting: "Da-vid!"_ DAVID. What is it you want? Yes, it is I, David Leizer, a Jew from the same city that you come from. Why do you pursue me like a thief and frighten me like a robber with your shouting? ANATHEMA. _Audaciously._ What do you want? Go away from here. My friend David Leizer does not want to see you. DAVID. Yes. Let me die here, for death is already approaching my heart; go home to your wives and your children. I cannot ease your sufferings in any way,--go. Do I speak properly, Nullius? ANATHEMA. Yes, David. THE RESTLESS MAN. Our wives are here and our children are here. Here they stand, waiting for your word of kindness, David,--you who have brought joy to mankind! I have no strength left in me and I have nothing to say. Go. WOMAN. Move forward a little, Rubin, and bow to our master David. You probably remember him, David? Bow to him once more, Rubin. _The boy bows timidly and hides in the crowd again. Laughter._ OLD MAN. _Smiling._ He is afraid of you, David. Don't be afraid, boy. _Milled laughter. The Wanderer comes forward._ WANDERER. You have called us, David, and we have come. We have long waited silently for your merciful call, and now your call has reached the remotest boundaries of the earth. The roads have become black with people; the deserted roads have come to life and the narrow paths are filled with footsteps, and they will soon become highways--and even as the blood that is in the body all rushes to the heart, so all the poor on earth will come to you alone. Welcome to you, our master David--the people are bowing before you with their life and the earth. DAVID. _Tormented._ What do you want? WANDERER. _Softly._ Righteousness. DAVID. What do you want? ALL. Righteousness. _Expectation._ DAVID. _With sudden hope._ Tell me, Nullius, tell me: Is righteousness a miracle? ANATHEMA. _Bitterly._ There are the blind--they are innocent. There are the dead--and they are also innocent. The earth is bowing before you with its graves, and it greets you with darkness. Perform a miracle. DAVID. A miracle? Again a miracle? WANDERER. _Suspiciously and sternly._ And the people do not want you to speak with him whose name we dare not utter. He is an enemy of mankind, and at night, when you were asleep, he carried you off to this mountain--but it did not occur to him to carry off the heart of the people; and, beating unceasingly, this heart has brought us to you. ANATHEMA. _Audaciously._ It seems that I am superfluous here. DAVID. No, no. Do not forsake me, Nullius. _Tormented._ Begone, begone from here! You are tempting God--I do not know you. Begone.... Begone! ANATHEMA. Begone! VOICES. _Frightened._ David is angry. What shall we do? The master is angry. David is angry. OLD MAN. Call Sarah. WOMAN. Call Sarah. Sarah! VOICES. Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!... DAVID. _Horror-stricken._ Do you hear? They are calling. JOYOUS VOICE. Sarah is coming. _The mob grows bolder._ KHESSIN. _Bowing several times._ It is I, David,--I. Peace be with you, our master David. SONKA. _Smiling and bowing._ Peace be with you. Peace be with you, David. _David turns aside and covers his face with his hands._ ANATHEMA. _Indifferently._ Begone! _General confusion; interrupted smiles, muffled groans. Sarah, led respectfully by the arms, advances to David. Nearing him, she walks alone._ ANATHEMA. Turn around, David.... Sarah is here. SARAH. Peace be with you, David. Forgive me for disturbing you, but the people have asked me to speak with you and to find out when you intend to return home to your palace. And they have also asked you to make haste, David, for many have died already of unbearable sufferings--and the dead have already grown tired of waiting. And many have already lost their reason from their unbearable sufferings, and they will soon commence to murder; if you will not make haste, David, all the people will become enemies--and it will be hard for you to establish a kingdom upon the dead earth. _Bitter wailings in the distance: "Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!"_ DAVID. _With restraint._ Go away, Sarah. SARAH. _Humbly._ Your clothes are torn, David, and I fear that there are wounds upon your body. What ails you? Why do you not rejoice with us? DAVID. _Weeping._ Oh, Sarah, Sarah! What are you doing with me? Consider, Sarah,--consider you all. Have I not given everything away to you? I have nothing left. Have pity on me even as I had pity on you,--and kill my unnecessary body with stones. I love you--and words of anger are powerless upon my lips, and wrath upon loving lips does not frighten you--have pity on me. I have nothing more. I have a little blood in my veins, but would I not give away the last drop of it, if I could only quench your bitter thirst? Like a sponge I would have squeezed my heart between the palms of my hands--and the cunning heart, so greedy for life, would not dare hide a single drop.... _Be tears his clothes and scratches his chest with his nails._ Here my blood is flowing--my blood is flowing? has a single one of you smiled a smile of joy? Here I am tearing the hair of my beard and I fling the grey locks--I fling them at your feet--has a single dead person risen? Here I spit into your eyes--will one blind man regain his sight? Here I bite the rocks--the rocks--like a mad beast--will one hungry person be satiated? Here I hurl myself at you-- _Be makes several quick steps, and the crowd retreats in horror._ ANATHEMA. That's right, David! Strike them! SARAH. _Retreating._ Oh, do not punish us, David. WANDERER. _To the crowd._ He obeys the one who carried him off. He says: I shall not give anything to the people. He spits and says he spits into the eyes of the people.... _Cries of horror and growing malice. But in the distance there are still prayerful wailings: "Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!"_ SOMEONE. He dares not spit at the people. We have done him no wrong. ANOTHER VOICE. I saw it, I saw it. He lifted stones. Defend yourselves. ANATHEMA. Be on your guard; they will soon throw stones at you. They are beasts. WANDERER. _To David._ You have deceived us, you Jew. SARAH. Do not dare speak like this. KHESSIN. _Seizes the Wanderer by the chest._ Another word and I shall choke you. DAVID. _Shouting._ I have not deceived any one. I have given everything away and have nothing left. ANATHEMA. Do you hear, fools? David has nothing. _Laughs._ Nothing. Am I not telling the truth, David? WANDERER. Do you hear? He has nothing. Why, then, did he call us? He has deceived us. He has deceived us. KHESSIN. _Perplexed._ But that is true, Sarah; he himself says that he has nothing. SARAH. Do not mind David. He is ill. He is tired. He will give us everything. WANDERER. _With sorrow and anger._ How could you do that, David? What have you done with the people, accursed one? RESTLESS MAN. Listen what David, who has brought joy to mankind, has done to me. He promised me ten roubles, and then took it back and gave me one copeck, and I thought that the copeck was not really a copeck--I went to a store with it and demanded a great deal, but they laughed and chased me away as a thief. You are the thief. You are the robber; you have left my children without milk. Here is your copeck. _Throws the copeck at David's feet. Many other people follow his example._ SARAH. _Defending David._ Do not dare offend David. _David weeps silently, his face covered with his hands._ ANGRY MAN. Traitor! He raised the dead out of their graves in order to make sport of them. Strike him with stones. _Bends down to lift a stone. A strong wind rises; in the distance thunder-peals resound. The mob is horror-stricken._ DAVID. _Raising his head and baring his chest._ Stone me--I am a traitor! _Louder thunder-peals. Anathema laughs merrily._ WANDERER. Traitor! Stone him! He has deceived us! He has betrayed us! He has lied to us! _Confusion. They advance towards David, lifting stones; some flee, sobbing._ DAVID. Take me. I am going to you. ANATHEMA. Where? They will kill you! DAVID. You are my enemy. Leave me. _Releases himself from his grasp._ WANDERER. _Raising a stone above his head._ Back! Satan! ANATHEMA. _Hastily._ Curse them, David. They will soon put you to death. Quick! _David lifts his arms and sinks down, struck by a stone. Almost in silence, grumbling, they hurl stones upon his motionless body. Thunder-peals. Anathema is laughing. Suddenly a woman screams. Then another. All are shouting. The mob runs away. The last one lifts a stone to throw it on David's head, but looks around and finding himself alone, lets the stone fall out of his hand and runs away with a wild outcry._ ANATHEMA. _Swaying himself in every direction, he leaps upon a rock, jumps down, then up again._ Ah, you have triumphed, David! _Laughter._ Look! Look how the herd you have cursed is fleeing. Ha, ha! They are falling from the rocks. Ha, ha! They are hurling themselves into the sea. Ha! They are trampling children under their feet. Look, David,--they are trampling upon children. You have done it. Great and mighty David Leizer! Favorite son of God! You have done it. Ha, ha, ha! _He whirls around, madly laughing._ Ah, where shall I go with my joy? Ah, where shall I go with my tidings? the earth is too small for it! East and West! North and South! Look and listen. David, who has brought joy to mankind, is put to death by mankind and by God. And upon his ill-smelling corpse I--Anathema--will put my foot. _To heaven._ Do you hear? Answer, if you can. _He tramples upon David's body. Then a groan is heard, and David's grey, blood-stained head lifts itself, quivering strangely._ ANATHEMA. _Retreating._ You are still alive? You have lied even this time. DAVID. _Crawls._ I am coming to you. Wait for me, Sarah. One moment. ANATHEMA. _Bending over, examines David._ You are crawling? Like myself? Like a dog? After them? DAVID. _In the agony of death._ Oh, I cannot reach them. Carry me, Nullius. Do I say that it is not necessary to stone me? Oh, let them stone me. Carry me, Nullius. I shall lie down quietly on the threshold, I shall only look through the crevice and see how the little children are eating.... Oh, my beard.... Oh, my terrible beard.... Oh, don't be afraid, my little one,--you alone are laughing. My little children, my tiny little children.... ANATHEMA. _Stamping his foot._ You are mistaken, David. You are dead. And your children are dead. The earth is dead--dead--dead. Look. _David rises with difficulty and looks into the distance, his weak hands outstretched._ DAVID. I see, Nullius. My old friend--my old friend, stay here, I beg you--and I shall go to them. Do you know, Nullius.... _Confused._ I think that I found a copeck.... _Laughs quietly._ I told you, Nullius, to examine that paper. Abraham Khessin, my friend-- _Firmly._ Abraham Khessin is my friend.... _He sinks down and dies._ _Thunder in the distance. It is dark; the sun, red, is seen on the horizon, near the water. It sets._ ANATHEMA. _Bending over him._ Is it true this time? Are you dead? Or do you He again? No--it is an honest death now. Let me have your fist. Open it. You don't want to? But I am stronger than you. _Rises and examines what David had in his hand._ A copeck! _Throws it down with contempt. Pushes David with his foot._ Farewell, fool. To-morrow people will find your body here and will bury you with pomp, according to the custom of the people. Kind-hearted murderers, they love those they kill. And out of the rocks with which they stoned you for your love, they will erect a tall, crooked, and stupid tombstone. And in order to enliven the stupid, dead pile of stone, they will put me on the top. _He laughs. Then he suddenly breaks of his laughter and assumes a haughty pose._ Who shall wrench the victory from the hands of Anathema? The strong I kill, the weak I force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance--a mad dance--a devilish dance. _He strikes the ground with his foot._ Be subdued, O earth, and bring me your gifts humbly! Kill, burn, betray, O man, in the name of your master! I steer my boat over a sea of blood which smells so sweetly,--and my sails are burning red-- _To heaven._ To you, for an answer! Not as a dog crawling on his belly, but as a distinguished guest, as the reigning prince of the earth, I shall come sailing to your mute shores. _Majestically._ Be prepared. I shall demand an exact answer. Ha, ha, ha! _Disappears in the darkness, bursting into laughter._ CURTAIN. EPILOGUE. _Nothing has happened; nothing has changed. As before, the earth is weighted down by the heavy iron Gates, closed from time immemorial, beyond which dwells in silence and in mystery the Beginning of every being, the Supreme Wisdom of the universe. And the Guardian of the Entrances is just as silent and as sternly motionless as before. Nothing has happened; nothing has changed._ _The grey light, as grey as the rocks, is terrible; the place is terrible, but Anathema likes it. And he appears again; but he does not crawl on his belly like a dog; nor does he hide himself beyond the rocks like a thief. Like a conqueror, he is trying to seal his victory by his haughty gait, by the importance of his slow movements. But as the Devil can never be truthful, and as there are no bounds to his doubts, he brings his duality even into this: He walks like a conqueror, yet he is afraid; he throws his head back high like a sovereign, and yet he laughs at his exaggerated self-importance; a gloomy and malicious clown, he longs for greatness; and forced to laugh, he despises laughter._ _Thus, assuming important airs beyond measure, he goes up to the middle of the mountain and waits there in a haughty pose. But his uncertain importance is devoured by the silence, even as dry wood is devoured by fire--and he begins to hurry, without holding out the pause, like a poor musician, striving to conceal himself and his doubts and his odious fear in a vast deal of jests, in loud shouting and in rapid gestures. He stamps his foot and shouts in a voice of assumed sternness._ ANATHEMA. Why are there no trumpets here? Why no celebration? Why are these old and rusty gates closed? And why does no one hand me the keys? Is it proper in decent circles to meet thus an eminent guest, the reigning prince of the earth, which is friendly to us? Only the doorkeeper is here, apparently asleep, and no one else. It is bad--bad! _He bursts into laughter, and stretching himself wearily, sits down upon a rock. He speaks humbly and with an air of fatigue._ But I am not vainglorious. Trumpets, flowers, and shouting--all this is useless! I myself heard at one time how the people trumpeted glory for David Leizer, but what has come of it? _He heaves a sigh._ It is sad to think of it. _He whistles mournfully._ You have surely heard of the misfortune that has come upon my friend David Leizer? I remember when I last chatted with you,--you did not know this name then.... But do you know it now? It is a name to be proud of! When I left the earth, the entire earth in a million of hungry throats called this glorious name, shouting: "David is a deceiver! David is a traitor! David is a liar!" Then it seemed to me that some of the people reproached also another one--for my honest friend, who died an untimely death, did not act so incautiously in his own name. _The Guardian is silent. And Anathema shouts now with an air of real triumph, breathing malice._ The name! Call the name of him who has ruined David and thousands of people! I, Anathema, have no heart, my eyes have dried up from the fire of Hell, and there are no tears in them, but if the tears were there I would have given them all to David. I have no heart, but there was an instant when something five trembled in my chest, and I was frightened: I wondered whether a heart could be born. I saw how David was perishing and thousands of people with him, I saw how his spirit, grown dark, curled up piteously like a dead worm in the sun, was hurled down into the abyss of non-existence, into my abode of darkness and death.... Tell me, are you not the one who has ruined David? GUARDIAN OF THE ENTRANCES. David has attained immortality, and he lives forever in the deathlessness of fire. David has attained immortality, and he fives forever in the deathlessness of fight, which is fife. _Dumfounded, Anathema falls to the ground and lies motionless for an instant. Then he lifts his head, which is as angry as that of a serpent. He rises and speaks with the calm of boundless wrath._ ANATHEMA. You fie! Forgive me my daring, but you fie. Surely your power is immense--and you can give immortality to a dead worm that has turned black from the sun. But would that be just? Or do the numbers fie to which you, too, must submit? Or do all the scales fie, and is all your world nothing but one fie,--a cruel and mad game of laws, a malicious laugh of a despot at the dumbness and submissiveness of the slave? _He speaks gloomily, in the grief of deathless blindness._ ANATHEMA. I am tired of searching. I have grown tired of life, of aimless tortures--of the quest after the ever elusive. Give me death, but do not torment me with ignorance; answer me honestly, even as I am honest in my uprising as a slave. Did not David love? Answer. Did not David give his soul away? Answer. And did they not stone David, who had given his soul away? Answer. GUARDIAN. Yes. They stoned David, who had given his soul away. ANATHEMA. _Smiling darkly._ Now you are honest and you answer me with modesty. Without having stilled the hunger of the hungry, without having restored sight to the blind, without having brought to life those who had died innocently,--having stirred up dissension and dispute and cruel bloodshed, for the people have already risen against one another and are committing violence, murder, and plunder in the name of David,--did not David manifest the powerlessness of love, and did he not create a great evil which could be numbered and weighed? GUARDIAN. Yes. David has done that which you say; and the people have done that of which you accuse them. And the numbers do not lie, and the scales are correct, and every measure is what it is. ANATHEMA. _Triumphantly._ You say that! GUARDIAN. But that which you do not know, Anathema, is not measured with a measure, and is not calculated in numbers, and is not weighed on scales. Light has no boundaries, nor is there any boundary for the glow of fire--there is a red fire, and there is a yellow fire, and there is a white fire, in which the sun bums like a yellow straw,--and there is still another unknown fire, whose name no one knows--for there is no limit to the glow of fire. Having died in numbers, having died in measures and in weights, David has attained immortality in the deathlessness of fire. ANATHEMA, You lie again! _He flings himself about on the ground in despair._ ANATHEMA. Oh, who will help the honest Anathema? He is being deceived eternally. Oh, who will help the unfortunate Anathema? His immortality is deception. Oh, weep, you who have grown fond of the Devil; wail and grieve, you who strive for truth, who honor wisdom,--Anathema is being deceived eternally. When I win, he takes it away from me. When I come out victorious, he fetters the conqueror in chains, he pricks out the eyes of the ruler, and to the haughty he gives the traits of a dog, a wagging and quivering tail. David, David, I was a friend to you,--tell him that he lies. _He puts his head down on his outstretched arms, like a dog, and wails bitterly._ Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Was it not crushed with stones? Is it not lying in the ditch together with the carrion? Oh, the light has died out from the world! Oh, the world has no eyes!... he crows have pecked them out.... Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Where is the truth? _Plaintively._ Tell me, will Anathema ever learn the truth? GUARDIAN. No. ANATHEMA. Tell me, will Anathema ever see the gates open? Shall I ever see your face? GUARDIAN. No. Never. My face is open, but you see it not. My speech is loud, but you hear it not. My commands are clear, but you know them not, Anathema. And you will never see, and you will never hear, and you will never know, Anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, ever alive in measure and in weight, but as yet unborn to life. _Anathema leaps to his feet._ ANATHEMA. You lie,--silent dog, you who have robbed the world of the truth, you who have barred the entrances with iron! Farewell; I like a fair game, and I pay when I lose. And if you will not pay, I shall cry before the whole universe: "Help! I have been robbed!" _He bursts into laughter. Whistling, he retreats a few steps, and turns around. He speaks unconcernedly._ ANATHEMA. I have nothing to do, so I roam about the world. Do you know where I am going now? I shall go to the grave of David Leizer. Like a grieving widow, like the son of a father who had been murdered from behind the corner by a traitor's blow,--I shall sit down on David Leizer's grave and shall weep so bitterly, and cry so loudly, and call so terribly, that not one honest soul will remain that would not curse the murderer. Insane from grief, I shall point to the right and to the left.... Was not this the one who killed him? Did not that one assist in the bloody crime? Did not that one betray? I shall cry so bitterly, I shall accuse so sternly, that all on earth will become murderers and hangmen, in the name of Leizer, in the name of David Leizer, in the name of David, who brought joy to mankind! And when from the heap of corpses, of filthy, foulsmelling, and disgusting corpses I shall announce to the people that you are the one who killed David and the people,--they will believe me. _Bursts into laughter._ For you have such a bad reputation--of a liar, a deceiver, a murderer. Good-by. _He goes off laughing. His laughter resounds once more from the depths. And then everything relapses into silence._ CURTAIN. 
3735	----	THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL By Nicolay Gogol A comedy in five acts Translated by Thomas Seltzer from the Russian INTRODUCTION The Inspector-General is a national institution. To place a purely literary valuation upon it and call it the greatest of Russian comedies would not convey the significance of its position either in Russian literature or in Russian life itself. There is no other single work in the modern literature of any language that carries with it the wealth of associations which the Inspector-General does to the educated Russian. The Germans have their Faust; but Faust is a tragedy with a cosmic philosophic theme. In England it takes nearly all that is implied in the comprehensive name of Shakespeare to give the same sense of bigness that a Russian gets from the mention of the Revizor. That is not to say that the Russian is so defective in the critical faculty as to balance the combined creative output of the greatest English dramatist against Gogol's one comedy, or even to attribute to it the literary value of any of Shakespeare's better plays. What the Russian's appreciation indicates is the pregnant role that literature plays in the life of intellectual Russia. Here literature is not a luxury, not a diversion. It is bone of the bone, flesh of the flesh, not only of the intelligentsia, but also of a growing number of the common people, intimately woven into their everyday existence, part and parcel of their thoughts, their aspirations, their social, political and economic life. It expresses their collective wrongs and sorrows, their collective hopes and strivings. Not only does it serve to lead the movements of the masses, but it is an integral component element of those movements. In a word, Russian literature is completely bound up with the life of Russian society, and its vitality is but the measure of the spiritual vitality of that society. This unique character of Russian literature may be said to have had its beginning with the Inspector-General. Before Gogol most Russian writers, with few exceptions, were but weak imitators of foreign models. The drama fashioned itself chiefly upon French patterns. The Inspector-General and later Gogol's novel, Dead Souls, established that tradition in Russian letters which was followed by all the great writers from Dostoyevsky down to Gorky. As with one blow, Gogol shattered the notions of the theatre-going public of his day of what a comedy should be. The ordinary idea of a play at that time in Russia seems to have been a little like our own tired business man's. And the shock the Revizor gave those early nineteenth-century Russian audiences is not unlike the shocks we ourselves get when once in a while a theatrical manager is courageous enough to produce a bold modern European play. Only the intensity of the shock was much greater. For Gogol dared not only bid defiance to the accepted method; he dared to introduce a subject-matter that under the guise of humor audaciously attacked the very foundation of the state, namely, the officialdom of the Russian bureaucracy. That is why the Revizor marks such a revolution in the world of Russian letters. In form it was realistic, in substance it was vital. It showed up the rottenness and corruption of the instruments through which the Russian government functioned. It held up to ridicule, directly, all the officials of a typical Russian municipality, and, indirectly, pointed to the same system of graft and corruption among the very highest servants of the crown. What wonder that the Inspector-General became a sort of comedy-epic in the land of the Czars, the land where each petty town-governor is almost an absolute despot, regulating his persecutions and extortions according to the sage saying of the town-governor in the play, "That's the way God made the world, and the Voltairean free-thinkers can talk against it all they like, it won't do any good." Every subordinate in the town administration, all the way down the line to the policemen, follow--not always so scrupulously--the law laid down by the same authority, "Graft no higher than your rank." As in city and town, so in village and hamlet. It is the tragedy of Russian life, which has its roots in that more comprehensive tragedy, Russian despotism, the despotism that gives the sharp edge to official corruption. For there is no possible redress from it except in violent revolutions. That is the prime reason why the Inspector-General, a mere comedy, has such a hold on the Russian people and occupies so important a place in Russian literature. And that is why a Russian critic says, "Russia possesses only one comedy, the Inspector-General." The second reason is the brilliancy and originality with which this national theme was executed. Gogol was above all else the artist. He was not a radical, nor even a liberal. He was strictly conservative. While hating the bureaucracy, yet he never found fault with the system itself or with the autocracy. Like most born artists, he was strongly individualistic in temperament, and his satire and ridicule were aimed not at causes, but at effects. Let but the individuals act morally, and the system, which Gogol never questioned, would work beautifully. This conception caused Gogol to concentrate his best efforts upon delineation of character. It was the characters that were to be revealed, their actions to be held up to scorn and ridicule, not the conditions which created the characters and made them act as they did. If any lesson at all was to be drawn from the play it was not a sociological lesson, but a moral one. The individual who sees himself mirrored in it may be moved to self-purgation; society has nothing to learn from it. Yet the play lives because of the social message it carries. The creation proved greater than the creator. The author of the Revizor was a poor critic of his own work. The Russian people rejected his estimate and put their own upon it. They knew their officials and they entertained no illusions concerning their regeneration so long as the system that bred them continued to live. Nevertheless, as a keen satire and a striking exposition of the workings of the hated system itself, they hailed the Revizor with delight. And as such it has remained graven in Russia's conscience to this day. It must be said that "Gogol himself grew with the writing of the Revizor." Always a careful craftsman, scarcely ever satisfied with the first version of a story or a play, continually changing and rewriting, he seems to have bestowed special attention on perfecting this comedy. The subject, like that of Dead Souls, was suggested to him by the poet Pushkin, and was based on a true incident. Pushkin at once recognized Gogol's genius and looked upon the young author as the rising star of Russian literature. Their acquaintance soon ripened into intimate friendship, and Pushkin missed no opportunity to encourage and stimulate him in his writings and help him with all the power of his great influence. Gogol began to work on the play at the close of 1834, when he was twenty-five years old. It was first produced in St. Petersburg, in 1836. Despite the many elaborations it had undergone before Gogol permitted it to be put on the stage, he still did not feel satisfied, and he began to work on it again in 1838. It was not brought down to its present final form until 1842. Thus the Revizor occupied the mind of the author over a period of eight years, and resulted in a product which from the point of view of characterization and dramatic technique is almost flawless. Yet far more important is the fact that the play marked an epoch in Gogol's own literary development. When he began on it, his ambitions did not rise above making it a comedy of pure fun, but, gradually, in the course of his working on it, the possibilities of the subject unfolded themselves and influenced his entire subsequent career. His art broadened and deepened and grew more serious. If Pushkin's remark, that "behind his laughter you feel the sad tears," is true of some of Gogol's former productions, it is still truer of the Revizor and his later works. A new life had begun for him, he tells us himself, when he was no longer "moved by childish notions, but by lofty ideas full of truth." "It was Pushkin," he writes, "who made me look at the thing seriously. I saw that in my writings I laughed vainly, for nothing, myself not knowing why. If I was to laugh, then I had better laugh over things that are really to be laughed at. In the Inspector-General I resolved to gather together all the bad in Russia I then knew into one heap, all the injustice that was practised in those places and in those human relations in which more than in anything justice is demanded of men, and to have one big laugh over it all. But that, as is well known, produced an outburst of excitement. Through my laughter, which never before came to me with such force, the reader sensed profound sorrow. I myself felt that my laughter was no longer the same as it had been, that in my writings I could no longer be the same as in the past, and that the need to divert myself with innocent, careless scenes had ended along with my young years." With the strict censorship that existed in the reign of Czar Nicholas I, it required powerful influence to obtain permission for the production of the comedy. This Gogol received through the instrumentality of his friend, Zhukovsky, who succeeded in gaining the Czar's personal intercession. Nicholas himself was present at the first production in April, 1836, and laughed and applauded, and is said to have remarked, "Everybody gets it, and I most of all." Naturally official Russia did not relish this innovation in dramatic art, and indignation ran high among them and their supporters. Bulgarin led the attack. Everything that is usually said against a new departure in literature or art was said against the Revizor. It was not original. It was improbable, impossible, coarse, vulgar; lacked plot. It turned on a stale anecdote that everybody knew. It was a rank farce. The characters were mere caricatures. "What sort of a town was it that did not hold a single honest soul?" Gogol's sensitive nature shrank before the tempest that burst upon him, and he fled from his enemies all the way out of Russia. "Do what you please about presenting the play in Moscow," he writes to Shchepkin four days after its first production in St. Petersburg. "I am not going to bother about it. I am sick of the play and all the fussing over it. It produced a great noisy effect. All are against me... they abuse me and go to see it. No tickets can be obtained for the fourth performance." But the best literary talent of Russia, with Pushkin and Bielinsky, the greatest critic Russia has produced, at the head, ranged itself on his side. Nicolay Vasilyevich Gogol was born in Sorochintzy, government of Poltava, in 1809. His father was a Little Russian, or Ukrainian, landowner, who exhibited considerable talent as a playwright and actor. Gogol was educated at home until the age of ten, then went to Niezhin, where he entered the gymnasium in 1821. Here he edited a students' manuscript magazine called the Star, and later founded a students' theatre, for which he was both manager and actor. It achieved such success that it was patronized by the general public. In 1829 Gogol went to St. Petersburg, where he thought of becoming an actor, but he finally gave up the idea and took a position as a subordinate government clerk. His real literary career began in 1830 with the publication of a series of stories of Little Russian country life called Nights on a Farm near Dikanka. In 1831 he became acquainted with Pushkin and Zhukovsky, who introduced the "shy Khokhol" (nickname for "Little Russian"), as he was called, to the house of Madame O. A. Smirnov, the centre of "an intimate circle of literary men and the flower of intellectual society." The same year he obtained a position as instructor of history at the Patriotic Institute, and in 1834 was made professor of history at the University of St. Petersburg. Though his lectures were marked by originality and vivid presentation, he seems on the whole not to have been successful as a professor, and he resigned in 1835. During this period he kept up his literary activity uninterruptedly, and in 1835 published his collection of stories, Mirgorod, containing How Ivan Ivanovich Quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich, Taras Bulba, and others. This collection firmly established his position as a leading author. At the same time he was at work on several plays. The Vladimir Cross, which was to deal with the higher St. Petersburg functionaries in the same way as the Revizor with the lesser town officials, was never concluded, as Gogol realized the impossibility of placing them on the Russian stage. A few strong scenes were published. The comedy Marriage, finished in 1835, still finds a place in the Russian theatrical repertoire. The Gamblers, his only other complete comedy, belongs to a later period. After a stay abroad, chiefly in Italy, lasting with some interruptions for seven years (1836-1841), he returned to his native country, bringing with him the first part of his greatest work, Dead Souls. The novel, published the following year, produced a profound impression and made Gogol's literary reputation supreme. Pushkin, who did not live to see its publication, on hearing the first chapters read, exclaimed, "God, how sad our Russia is!" And Alexander Hertzen characterized it as "a wonderful book, a bitter, but not hopeless rebuke of contemporary Russia." Aksakov went so far as to call it the Russian national epic, and Gogol the Russian Homer. Unfortunately the novel remained incomplete. Gogol began to suffer from a nervous illness which induced extreme hypochondria. He became excessively religious, fell under the influence of pietists and a fanatical priest, sank more and more into mysticism, and went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to worship at the Holy Sepulchre. In this state of mind he came to consider all literature, including his own, as pernicious and sinful. After burning the manuscript of the second part of Dead Souls, he began to rewrite it, had it completed and ready for the press by 1851, but kept the copy and burned it again a few days before his death (1852), so that it is extant only in parts. THOMAS SELTZER. CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY ANTON ANTONOVICH SKVOZNIK-DMUKHANOVSKY, the Governor. ANNA ANDREYEVNA, his wife. MARYA ANTONOVNA, his daughter. LUKA LUKICH KHLOPOV, the Inspector of Schools. His Wife. AMMOS FIODOROVICH LIAPKIN-TIAPKIN, the Judge. ARTEMY FILIPPOVICH ZEMLIANIKA, the Superintendent of Charities. IVAN KUZMICH SHPEKIN, the Postmaster. PIOTR IVANOVICH DOBCHINSKY. } PIOTR IVANOVICH BOBCHINSKY. } Country Squires. IVAN ALEKSANDROVICH KHLESTAKOV, an official from St. Petersburg. OSIP, his servant. CHRISTIAN IVANOVICH HÜBNER, the district Doctor. FIODR ANDREYEVICH LULIUKOV. } ex-officials, }esteemed IVAN LAZAREVICH RASTAKOVSKY. }personages STEPAN IVANOVICH KOROBKIN. }of the town. STEPAN ILYICH UKHOVERTOV, the Police Captain. SVISTUNOV. } PUGOVITZYN. }Police Sergeants. DERZHIMORDA. } ABDULIN, a Merchant. FEVRONYA PETROVA POSHLIOPKINA, the Locksmith's wife. The Widow of a non-commissioned Officer. MISHKA, the Governor's Servant. Servant at the Inn. Guests, Merchants, Citizens, and Petitioners. CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES DIRECTIONS FOR ACTORS THE GOVERNOR.--A man grown old in the service, by no means a fool in his own way. Though he takes bribes, he carries himself with dignity. He is of a rather serious turn and even given somewhat to ratiocination. He speaks in a voice neither too loud nor too low and says neither too much nor too little. Every word of his counts. He has the typical hard stern features of the official who has worked his way up from the lowest rank in the arduous government service. Coarse in his inclinations, he passes rapidly from fear to joy, from servility to arrogance. He is dressed in uniform with frogs and wears Hessian boots with spurs. His hair with a sprinkling of gray is close-cropped. ANNA ANDREYEVNA.--A provincial coquette, still this side of middle age, educated on novels and albums and on fussing with household affairs and servants. She is highly inquisitive and has streaks of vanity. Sometimes she gets the upper hand over her husband, and he gives in simply because at the moment he cannot find the right thing to say. Her ascendency, however, is confined to mere trifles and takes the form of lecturing and twitting. She changes her dress four times in the course of the play. KHLESTAKOV.--A skinny young man of about twenty-three, rather stupid, being, as they say, "without a czar in his head," one of those persons called an "empty vessel" in the government offices. He speaks and acts without stopping to think and utterly lacks the power of concentration. The words burst from his mouth unexpectedly. The more naiveté and ingenousness the actor puts into the character the better will he sustain the role. Khlestakov is dressed in the latest fashion. OSIP.--A typical middle-aged servant, grave in his address, with eyes always a bit lowered. He is argumentative and loves to read sermons directed at his master. His voice is usually monotonous. To his master his tone is blunt and sharp, with even a touch of rudeness. He is the cleverer of the two and grasps a situation more quickly. But he does not like to talk. He is a silent, uncommunicative rascal. He wears a shabby gray or blue coat. BOBCHINSKY AND DOBCHINSKY.--Short little fellows, strikingly like each other. Both have small paunches, and talk rapidly, with emphatic gestures of their hands, features and bodies. Dobchinsky is slightly the taller and more subdued in manner. Bobchinsky is freer, easier and livelier. They are both exceedingly inquisitive. LIAPKIN-TIAPKIN.--He has read four or five books and so is a bit of a freethinker. He is always seeing a hidden meaning in things and therefore puts weight into every word he utters. The actor should preserve an expression of importance throughout. He speaks in a bass voice, with a prolonged rattle and wheeze in his throat, like an old-fashioned clock, which buzzes before it strikes. ZEMLIANIKA.--Very fat, slow and awkward; but for all that a sly, cunning scoundrel. He is very obliging and officious. SHPEKIN.--Guileless to the point of simplemindedness. The other characters require no special explanation, as their originals can be met almost anywhere. The actors should pay especial attention to the last scene. The last word uttered must strike all at once, suddenly, like an electric shock. The whole group should change its position at the same instant. The ladies must all burst into a simultaneous cry of astonishment, as if with one throat. The neglect of these directions may ruin the whole effect. THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL ACT I A Room in the Governor's House. SCENE I Anton Antonovich, the Governor, Artemy Filippovich, the Superintendent of Charities, Luka Lukich, the Inspector of Schools, Ammos Fiodorovich, the Judge, Stepan Ilyich, Christian Ivanovich, the Doctor, and two Police Sergeants. GOVERNOR. I have called you together, gentlemen, to tell you an unpleasant piece of news. An Inspector-General is coming. AMMOS FIOD. What, an Inspector-General? ARTEMY FIL. What, an Inspector-General? GOVERNOR. Yes, an Inspector from St. Petersburg, incognito. And with secret instructions, too. AMMOS. A pretty how-do-you-do! ARTEMY. As if we hadn't enough trouble without an Inspector! LUKA LUKICH. Good Lord! With secret instructions! GOVERNOR. I had a sort of presentiment of it. Last night I kept dreaming of two rats--regular monsters! Upon my word, I never saw the likes of them--black and supernaturally big. They came in, sniffed, and then went away.--Here's a letter I'll read to you--from Andrey Ivanovich. You know him, Artemy Filippovich. Listen to what he writes: "My dear friend, godfather and benefactor--[He mumbles, glancing rapidly down the page.]--and to let you know"--Ah, that's it--"I hasten to let you know, among other things, that an official has arrived here with instructions to inspect the whole government, and your district especially. [Raises his finger significantly.] I have learned of his being here from highly trustworthy sources, though he pretends to be a private person. So, as you have your little peccadilloes, you know, like everybody else--you are a sensible man, and you don't let the good things that come your way slip by--" [Stopping] H'm, that's his junk--"I advise you to take precautions, as he may arrive any hour, if he hasn't already, and is not staying somewhere incognito.--Yesterday--" The rest are family matters. "Sister Anna Krillovna is here visiting us with her husband. Ivan Krillovich has grown very fat and is always playing the fiddle"--et cetera, et cetera. So there you have the situation we are confronted with, gentlemen. AMMOS. An extraordinary situation, most extraordinary! Something behind it, I am sure. LUKA. But why, Anton Antonovich? What for? Why should we have an Inspector? GOVERNOR. It's fate, I suppose. [Sighs.] Till now, thank goodness, they have been nosing about in other towns. Now our turn has come. AMMOS. My opinion is, Anton Antonovich, that the cause is a deep one and rather political in character. It means this, that Russia--yes--that Russia intends to go to war, and the Government has secretly commissioned an official to find out if there is any treasonable activity anywhere. GOVERNOR. The wise man has hit on the very thing. Treason in this little country town! As if it were on the frontier! Why, you might gallop three years away from here and reach nowhere. AMMOS. No, you don't catch on--you don't--The Government is shrewd. It makes no difference that our town is so remote. The Government is on the look-out all the same-- GOVERNOR [cutting him short]. On the look-out, or not on the look-out, anyhow, gentlemen, I have given you warning. I have made some arrangements for myself, and I advise you to do the same. You especially, Artemy Filippovich. This official, no doubt, will want first of all to inspect your department. So you had better see to it that everything is in order, that the night-caps are clean, and the patients don't go about as they usually do, looking as grimy as blacksmiths. ARTEMY. Oh, that's a small matter. We can get night-caps easily enough. GOVERNOR. And over each bed you might hang up a placard stating in Latin or some other language--that's your end of it, Christian Ivanovich--the name of the disease, when the patient fell ill, the day of the week and the month. And I don't like your invalids to be smoking such strong tobacco. It makes you sneeze when you come in. It would be better, too, if there weren't so many of them. If there are a large number, it will instantly be ascribed to bad supervision or incompetent medical treatment. ARTEMY. Oh, as to treatment, Christian Ivanovich and I have worked out our own system. Our rule is: the nearer to nature the better. We use no expensive medicines. A man is a simple affair. If he dies, he'd die anyway. If he gets well, he'd get well anyway. Besides, the doctor would have a hard time making the patients understand him. He doesn't know a word of Russian. The Doctor gives forth a sound intermediate between M and A. GOVERNOR. And you, Ammos Fiodorovich, had better look to the courthouse. The attendants have turned the entrance hall where the petitioners usually wait into a poultry yard, and the geese and goslings go poking their beaks between people's legs. Of course, setting up housekeeping is commendable, and there is no reason why a porter shouldn't do it. Only, you see, the courthouse is not exactly the place for it. I had meant to tell you so before, but somehow it escaped my memory. AMMOS. Well, I'll have them all taken into the kitchen to-day. Will you come and dine with me? GOVERNOR. Then, too, it isn't right to have the courtroom littered up with all sorts of rubbish--to have a hunting-crop lying right among the papers on your desk. You're fond of sport, I know, still it's better to have the crop removed for the present. When the Inspector is gone, you may put it back again. As for your assessor, he's an educated man, to be sure, but he reeks of spirits, as if he had just emerged from a distillery. That's not right either. I had meant to tell you so long ago, but something or other drove the thing out of my mind. If his odor is really a congenital defect, as he says, then there are ways of remedying it. You might advise him to eat onion or garlic, or something of the sort. Christian Ivanovich can help him out with some of his nostrums. The Doctor makes the same sound as before. AMMOS. No, there's no cure for it. He says his nurse struck him when he was a child, and ever since he has smelt of vodka. GOVERNOR. Well, I just wanted to call your attention to it. As regards the internal administration and what Andrey Ivanovich in his letter calls "little peccadilloes," I have nothing to say. Why, of course, there isn't a man living who hasn't some sins to answer for. That's the way God made the world, and the Voltairean freethinkers can talk against it all they like, it won't do any good. AMMOS. What do you mean by sins? Anton Antonovich? There are sins and sins. I tell everyone plainly that I take bribes. I make no bones about it. But what kind of bribes? White greyhound puppies. That's quite a different matter. GOVERNOR. H'm. Bribes are bribes, whether puppies or anything else. AMMOS. Oh, no, Anton Antonovich. But if one has a fur overcoat worth five hundred rubles, and one's wife a shawl-- GOVERNOR. [testily]. And supposing greyhound puppies are the only bribes you take? You're an atheist, you never go to church, while I at least am a firm believer and go to church every Sunday. You--oh, I know you. When you begin to talk about the Creation it makes my flesh creep. AMMOS. Well, it's a conclusion I've reasoned out with my own brain. GOVERNOR. Too much brain is sometimes worse than none at all.--However, I merely mentioned the courthouse. I dare say nobody will ever look at it. It's an enviable place. God Almighty Himself seems to watch over it. But you, Luka Lukich, as inspector of schools, ought to have an eye on the teachers. They are very learned gentlemen, no doubt, with a college education, but they have funny habits--inseparable from the profession, I know. One of them, for instance, the man with the fat face--I forget his name--is sure, the moment he takes his chair, to screw up his face like this. [Imitates him.] And then he has a trick of sticking his hand under his necktie and smoothing down his beard. It doesn't matter, of course, if he makes a face at the pupils; perhaps it's even necessary. I'm no judge of that. But you yourself will admit that if he does it to a visitor, it may turn out very badly. The Inspector, or anyone else, might take it as meant for himself, and then the deuce knows what might come of it. LUKA. But what can I do? I have told him about it time and again. Only the other day when the marshal of the nobility came into the class-room, he made such a face at him as I had never in my life seen before. I dare say it was with the best intentions; But I get reprimanded for permitting radical ideas to be instilled in the minds of the young. GOVERNOR. And then I must call your attention to the history teacher. He has a lot of learning in his head and a store of facts. That's evident. But he lectures with such ardor that he quite forgets himself. Once I listened to him. As long as he was talking about the Assyrians and Babylonians, it was not so bad. But when he reached Alexander of Macedon, I can't describe what came over him. Upon my word, I thought a fire had broken out. He jumped down from the platform, picked up a chair and dashed it to the floor. Alexander of Macedon was a hero, it is true. But that's no reason for breaking chairs. The state must bear the cost. LUKA. Yes, he is a hot one. I have spoken to him about it several times. He only says: "As you please, but in the cause of learning I will even sacrifice my life." GOVERNOR. Yes, it's a mysterious law of fate. Your clever man is either a drunkard, or he makes such grimaces that you feel like running away. LUKA. Ah, Heaven save us from being in the educational department! One's afraid of everything. Everybody meddles and wants to show that he is as clever as you. GOVERNOR. Oh, that's nothing. But this cursed incognito! All of a sudden he'll look in: "Ah, so you're here, my dear fellows! And who's the judge here?" says he. "Liapkin-Tiapkin." "Bring Liapkin-Tiapkin here.--And who is the Superintendent of Charities?" "Zemlianika."--"Bring Zemlianika here!"--That's what's bad. SCENE II Enter Ivan Kuzmich, the Postmaster. POSTMASTER. Tell me, gentlemen, who's coming? What chinovnik? GOVERNOR. What, haven't you heard? POSTMASTER. Bobchinsky told me. He was at the postoffice just now. GOVERNOR. Well, what do you think of it? POSTMASTER. What do I think of it? Why, there'll be a war with the Turks. AMMOS. Exactly. Just what I thought. GOVERNOR [sarcastically]. Yes, you've both hit in the air precisely. POSTMASTER. It's war with the Turks for sure, all fomented by the French. GOVERNOR. Nonsense! War with the Turks indeed. It's we who are going to get it, not the Turks. You may count on that. Here's a letter to prove it. POSTMASTER. In that case, then, we won't go to war with the Turks. GOVERNOR. Well, how do you feel about it, Ivan Kuzmich? POSTMASTER. How do I feel? How do YOU feel about it, Anton Antonovich? GOVERNOR. I? Well, I'm not afraid, but I just feel a little--you know--The merchants and townspeople bother me. I seem to be unpopular with them. But the Lord knows if I've taken from some I've done it without a trace of ill-feeling. I even suspect--[Takes him by the arm and walks aside with him.]--I even suspect that I may have been denounced. Or why would they send an Inspector to us? Look here, Ivan Kuzmich, don't you think you could--ahem!--just open a little every letter that passes through your office and read it--for the common benefit of us all, you know--to see if it contains any kind of information against me, or is only ordinary correspondence. If it is all right, you can seal it up again, or simply deliver the letter opened. POSTMASTER. Oh, I know. You needn't teach me that. I do it not so much as a precaution as out of curiosity. I just itch to know what's doing in the world. And it's very interesting reading, I tell you. Some letters are fascinating--parts of them written grand--more edifying than the Moscow Gazette. GOVERNOR. Tell me, then, have you read anything about any official from St. Petersburg? POSTMASTER. No, nothing about a St. Petersburg official, but plenty about Kostroma and Saratov ones. A pity you don't read the letters. There are some very fine passages in them. For instance, not long ago a lieutenant writes to a friend describing a ball very wittily.--Splendid! "Dear friend," he says, "I live in the regions of the Empyrean, lots of girls, bands playing, flags flying." He's put a lot of feeling into his description, a whole lot. I've kept the letter on purpose. Would you like to read it? GOVERNOR. No, this is no time for such things. But please, Ivan Kuzmich, do me the favor, if ever you chance upon a complaint or denunciation, don't hesitate a moment, hold it back. POSTMASTER. I will, with the greatest pleasure. AMMOS. You had better be careful. You may get yourself into trouble. POSTMASTER. Goodness me! GOVERNOR. Never mind, never mind. Of course, it would be different if you published it broadcast. But it's a private affair, just between us. AMMOS. Yes, it's a bad business--I really came here to make you a present of a puppy, sister to the dog you know about. I suppose you have heard that Cheptovich and Varkhovinsky have started a suit. So now I live in clover. I hunt hares first on the one's estate, then on the other's. GOVERNOR. I don't care about your hares now, my good friend. That cursed incognito is on my brain. Any moment the door may open and in walk-- SCENE III Enter Bobchinsky and Dobchinsky, out of breath. BOBCHINSKY. What an extraordinary occurrence! DOBCHINSKY. An unexpected piece of news! ALL. What is it? What is it? DOBCHINSKY. Something quite unforeseen. We were about to enter the inn-- BOBCHINSKY [interrupting]. Yes, Piotr Ivanovich and I were entering the inn-- DOBCHINSKY [interrupting]. Please, Piotr Ivanovich, let me tell. BOBCHINSKY. No, please, let me--let me. You can't. You haven't got the style for it. DOBCHINSKY. Oh, but you'll get mixed up and won't remember everything. BOBCHINSKY. Yes, I will, upon my word, I will. PLEASE don't interrupt! Do let me tell the news--don't interrupt! Pray, oblige me, gentlemen, and tell Dobchinsky not to interrupt. GOVERNOR. Speak, for Heaven's sake! What is it? My heart is in my mouth! Sit down, gentlemen, take seats. Piotr Ivanovich, here's a chair for you. [All seat themselves around Bobchinsky and Dobchinsky.] Well, now, what is it? What is it? BOBCHINSKY. Permit me, permit me. I'll tell it all just as it happened. As soon as I had the pleasure of taking leave of you after you were good enough to be bothered with the letter which you had received, sir, I ran out--now, please don't keep interrupting, Dobchinsky. I know all about it, all, I tell you.--So I ran out to see Korobkin. But not finding Korobkin at home, I went off to Rastakovsky, and not seeing him, I went to Ivan Kuzmich to tell him of the news you'd got. Going on from there I met Dobchinsky-- DOBCHINSKY [interjecting]. At the stall where they sell pies-- BOBCHINSKY. At the stall where they sell pies. Well, I met Dobchinsky and I said to him: "Have you heard the news that came to Anton Antonovich in a letter which is absolutely reliable?" But Piotr Ivanovich had already heard of it from your housekeeper, Avdotya, who, I don't know why, had been sent to Filipp Antonovich Pachechuyev-- DOBCHINSKY [interrupting]. To get a little keg for French brandy. BOBCHINSKY. Yes, to get a little keg for French brandy. So then I went with Dobchinsky to Pachechuyev's.--Will you stop, Piotr Ivanovich? Please don't interrupt.--So off we went to Pachechuyev's, and on the way Dobchinsky said: "Let's go to the inn," he said. "I haven't eaten a thing since morning. My stomach is growling." Yes, sir, his stomach was growling. "They've just got in a supply of fresh salmon at the inn," he said. "Let's take a bite." We had hardly entered the inn when we saw a young man-- DOBCHINSKY [Interrupting]. Of rather good appearance and dressed in ordinary citizen's clothes. BOBCHINSKY. Yes, of rather good appearance and dressed in citizen's clothes--walking up and down the room. There was something out of the usual about his face, you know, something deep--and a manner about him--and here [raises his hand to his forehead and turns it around several times] full, full of everything. I had a sort of feeling, and I said to Dobchinsky, "Something's up. This is no ordinary matter." Yes, and Dobchinsky beckoned to the landlord, Vlas, the innkeeper, you know,--three weeks ago his wife presented him with a baby--a bouncer--he'll grow up just like his father and keep a tavern.--Well, we beckoned to Vlas, and Dobchinsky asked him on the quiet, "Who," he asked, "is that young man?" "That young man," Vlas replied, "that young man"--Oh, don't interrupt, Piotr Ivanovich, please don't interrupt. You can't tell the story. Upon my word, you can't. You lisp and one tooth in your mouth makes you whistle. I know what I'm saying. "That young man," he said, "is an official."--Yes, sir.--"On his way from St. Petersburg. And his name," he said, "is Ivan Aleksandrovich Khlestakov, and he's going," he said "to the government of Saratov," he said. "And he acts so queerly. It's the second week he's been here and he's never left the house; and he won't pay a penny, takes everything on account." When Vlas told me that, a light dawned on me from above, and I said to Piotr Ivanovich, "Hey!"-- DOBCHINSKY. No, Piotr Ivanovich, I said "HEY!" BOBCHINSKY. Well first YOU said it, then I did. "Hey!" said both of us, "And why does he stick here if he's going to Saratov?"--Yes, sir, that's he, the official. GOVERNOR. Who? What official? BOBCHINSKY. Why, the official who you were notified was coming, the Inspector. GOVERNOR [terrified]. Great God! What's that you're saying. It can't be he. DOBCHINSKY. It is, though. Why, he doesn't pay his bills and he doesn't leave. Who else can it be? And his postchaise is ordered for Saratov. BOBCHINSKY. It's he, it's he, it's he--why, he's so alert, he scrutinized everything. He saw that Dobchinsky and I were eating salmon--chiefly on account of Dobchinsky's stomach--and he looked at our plates so hard that I was frightened to death. GOVERNOR. The Lord have mercy on us sinners! In what room is he staying? DOBCHINSKY. Room number 5 near the stairway. BOBCHINSKY. In the same room that the officers quarreled in when they passed through here last year. GOVERNOR. How long has he been here? DOBCHINSKY. Two weeks. He came on St. Vasili's day. GOVERNOR. Two weeks! [Aside.] Holy Fathers and saints preserve me! In those two weeks I have flogged the wife of a non-commissioned officer, the prisoners were not given their rations, the streets are dirty as a pothouse--a scandal, a disgrace! [Clutches his head with both hands.] ARTEMY. What do you think, Anton Antonovich, hadn't we better go in state to the inn? AMMOS. No, no. First send the chief magistrate, then the clergy, then the merchants. That's what it says in the book. The Acts of John the Freemason. GOVERNOR. No, no, leave it to me. I have been in difficult situations before now. They have passed off all right, and I was even rewarded with thanks. Maybe the Lord will help us out this time, too. [Turns to Bobchinsky.] You say he's a young man? BOBCHINSKY. Yes, about twenty-three or four at the most. GOVERNOR. So much the better. It's easier to pump things out of a young man. It's tough if you've got a hardened old devil to deal with. But a young man is all on the surface. You, gentlemen, had better see to your end of things while I go unofficially, by myself, or with Dobchinsky here, as though for a walk, to see that the visitors that come to town are properly accommodated. Here, Svistunov. [To one of the Sergeants.] SVISTUNOV. Sir. GOVERNOR. Go instantly to the Police Captain--or, no, I'll want you. Tell somebody to send him here as quickly as possibly and then come back. Svistunov hurries off. ARTEMY. Let's go, let's go, Ammos Fiodorovich. We may really get into trouble. AMMOS. What have you got to be afraid of? Put clean nightcaps on the patients and the thing's done. ARTEMY. Nightcaps! Nonsense! The patients were ordered to have oatmeal soup. Instead of that there's such a smell of cabbage in all the corridors that you've got to hold your nose. AMMOS. Well, my mind's at ease. Who's going to visit the court? Supposing he does look at the papers, he'll wish he had left them alone. I have been on the bench fifteen years, and when I take a look into a report, I despair. King Solomon in all his wisdom could not tell what is true and what is not true in it. The Judge, the Superintendent of Charities, the School Inspector, and Postmaster go out and bump up against the Sergeant in the doorway as the latter returns. SCENE IV The Governor, Bobchinsky, Dobchinsky, and Sergeant Svistunov. GOVERNOR. Well, is the cab ready? SVISTUNOV. Yes, sir. GOVERNOR. Go out on the street--or, no, stop--go and bring--why, where are the others? Why are you alone? Didn't I give orders for Prokhorov to be here? Where is Prokhorov? SVISTUNOV. Prokhorov is in somebody's house and can't go on duty just now. GOVERNOR. Why so? SVISTUNOV. Well, they brought him back this morning dead drunk. They poured two buckets of water over him, but he hasn't sobered up yet. GOVERNOR [clutching his head with both hands]. For Heaven's sake! Go out on duty quick--or, no, run up to my room, do you hear? And fetch my sword and my new hat. Now, Piotr Ivanovich, [to Dobchinsky] come. BOBCHINSKY. And me--me, too. Let me come, too, Anton Antonovich. GOVERNOR. No, no, Bobchinsky, it won't do. Besides there is not enough room in the cab. BOBCHINSKY. Oh, that doesn't matter. I'll follow the cab on foot--on foot. I just want to peep through a crack--so--to see that manner of his--how he acts. GOVERNOR [turning to the Sergeant and taking his sword]. Be off and get the policemen together. Let them each take a--there, see how scratched my sword is. It's that dog of a merchant, Abdulin. He sees the Governor's sword is old and doesn't provide a new one. Oh, the sharpers! I'll bet they've got their petitions against me ready in their coat-tail pockets.--Let each take a street in his hand--I don't mean a street--a broom--and sweep the street leading to the inn, and sweep it clean, and--do you hear? And see here, I know you, I know your tricks. You insinuate yourselves into the inn and walk off with silver spoons in your boots. Just you look out. I keep my ears pricked. What have you been up to with the merchant, Chorniayev, eh? He gave you two yards of cloth for your uniform and you stole the whole piece. Take care. You're only a Sergeant. Don't graft higher than your rank. Off with you. SCENE V Enter the Police Captain. GOVERNOR. Hello, Stepan Ilyich, where the dickens have you been keeping yourself? What do you mean by acting that way? CAPTAIN. Why, I was just outside the gate. GOVERNOR. Well, listen, Stepan Ilyich. An official has come from St. Petersburg. What have you done about it? CAPTAIN. What you told me to. I sent Sergeant Pugovichyn with policemen to clean the street. GOVERNOR. Where is Derzhimorda? CAPTAIN. He has gone off on the fire engine. GOVERNOR. And Prokhorov is drunk? CAPTAIN. Yes. GOVERNOR. How could you allow him to get drunk? CAPTAIN. God knows. Yesterday there was a fight outside the town. He went to restore order and was brought back drunk. GOVERNOR. Well, then, this is what you are to do.--Sergeant Pugovichyn--he is tall. So he is to stand on duty on the bridge for appearance' sake. Then the old fence near the bootmaker's must be pulled down at once and a post stuck up with a whisp of straw so as to look like grading. The more debris there is the more it will show the governor's activity.--Good God, though, I forgot that about forty cart-loads of rubbish have been dumped against that fence. What a vile, filthy town this is! A monument, or even only a fence, is erected, and instantly they bring a lot of dirt together, from the devil knows where, and dump it there. [Heaves a sigh.] And if the functionary that has come here asks any of the officials whether they are satisfied, they are to say, "Perfectly satisfied, your Honor"; and if anybody is not satisfied, I'll give him something to be dissatisfied about afterwards.--Ah, I'm a sinner, a terrible sinner. [Takes the hat-box, instead of his hat.] Heaven only grant that I may soon get this matter over and done with; then I'll donate a candle such as has never been offered before. I'll levy a hundred pounds of wax from every damned merchant. Oh my, oh my! Come, let's go, Piotr Ivanovich. [Tries to put the hat-box on his head instead of his hat.] CAPTAIN. Anton Antonovich, that's the hat-box, not your hat. GOVERNOR [throwing the box down]. If it's the hat-box, it's the hat-box, the deuce take it!--And if he asks why the church at the hospital for which the money was appropriated five years ago has not been built, don't let them forget to say that the building was begun but was destroyed by fire. I sent in a report about it, you know. Some blamed fool might forget and let out that the building was never even begun. And tell Derzhimorda not to be so free with his fists. Guilty or innocent, he makes them all see stars in the cause of public order.--Come on, come on, Dobchinsky. [Goes out and returns.] And don't let the soldiers appear on the streets with nothing on. That rotten garrison wear their coats directly over their undershirts. All go out. SCENE VI Anna Andreyevna and Marya Antonovna rush in on the stage. ANNA. Where are they? Where are they? Oh, my God! [opening the door.] Husband! Antosha! Anton! [hurriedly, to Marya.] It's all your fault. Dawdling! Dawdling!--"I want a pin--I want a scarf." [Runs to the window and calls.] Anton, where are you going? Where are you going? What! He has come? The Inspector? He has a moustache? What kind of a moustache? GOVERNOR [from without]. Wait, dear. Later. ANNA. Wait? I don't want to wait. The idea, wait! I only want one word. Is he a colonel or what? Eh? [Disgusted.] There, he's gone! You'll pay for it! It's all your fault--you, with your "Mamma, dear, wait a moment, I'll just pin my scarf. I'll come directly." Yes, directly! Now we have missed the news. It's all your confounded coquettishness. You heard the Postmaster was here and so you must prink and prim yourself in front of the mirror--look on this side and that side and all around. You imagine he's smitten with you. But I can tell you he makes a face at you the moment you turn your back. MARYA. It can't be helped, mamma. We'll know everything in a couple of hours anyway. ANNA. In a couple of hours! Thank you! A nice answer. Why don't you say, in a month. We'll know still more in a month. [She leans out of the window.] Here, Avdotya! I say! Have you heard whether anybody has come, Avdotya?--No, you goose, you didn't--He waved his hands? Well, what of it? Let him wave his hands. But you should have asked him anyhow. You couldn't find out, of course, with your head full of nonsense and lovers. Eh, what? They left in a hurry? Well, you should have run after the carriage. Off with you, off with you at once, do you hear? Run and ask everybody where they are. Be sure and find out who the newcomer is and what he is like, do you hear? Peep through a crack and find everything out--what sort of eyes he has, whether they are black or blue, and be back here instantly, this minute, do you hear? Quick, quick, quick! She keeps on calling and they both stand at the window until the curtain drops. ACT II A small room in the inn, bed, table, travelling bag, empty bottle, boots, clothes brush, etc. SCENE I OSIP [lying on his master's bed]. The devil take it! I'm so hungry. There's a racket in my belly, as if a whole regiment were blowing trumpets. We'll never reach home. I'd like to know what we are going to do. Two months already since we left St. Pete. He's gone through all his cash, the precious buck, so now he sticks here with his tail between his legs and takes it easy. We'd have had enough and more than enough to pay for the fare, but no he must exhibit himself in every town. [Imitates him.] "Osip, get me the best room to be had and order the best dinner they serve. I can't stand bad food. I must have the best." It would be all right for a somebody, but for a common copying clerk! Goes and gets acquainted with the other travellers, plays cards, and plays himself out of his last penny. Oh, I'm sick of this life. It's better in our village, really. There isn't so much going on, but then there is less to bother about. You get yourself a wife and lie on the stove all the time and eat pie. Of course, if you wanted to tell the truth, there's no denying it that there's nothing like living in St. Pete. All you want is money. And then you can live smart and classy--theeadres, dogs to dance for you, everything, and everybody talks so genteel, pretty near like in high society. If you go to the Schukin bazaar, the shopkeepers cry, "Gentlemen," at you. You sit with the officials in the ferry boat. If you want company, you go into a shop. A sport there will tell you about life in the barracks and explain the meaning of every star in the sky, so that you see them all as if you held them in your hand. Then an old officer's wife will gossip, or a pretty chambermaid will dart a look at you--ta, ta, ta! [Smirks and wags his head.] And what deucedly civil manners they have, too. You never hear no impolite language. They always say "Mister" to you. If you are tired of walking, why you take a cab and sit in it like a lord. And if you don't feel like paying, then you don't. Every house has an open-work gate and you can slip through and the devil himself won't catch you. There's one bad thing, though; sometimes you get first class eats and sometimes you're so starved you nearly drop--like now. It's all his fault. What can you do with him? His dad sends him money to keep him going, but the devil a lot it does. He goes off on a spree, rides in cabs, gets me to buy a theeadre ticket for him every day, and in a week look at him--sends me to the old clo'es man to sell his new dress coat. Sometimes he gets rid of everything down to his last shirt and is left with nothing except his coat and overcoat. Upon my word, it's the truth. And such fine cloth, too. English, you know. One dress coat costs him a hundred and fifty rubles and he sells it to the old clo'es man for twenty. No use saying nothing about his pants. They go for a song. And why? Because he doesn't tend to his business. Instead of sticking to his job, he gads about on the Prospect and plays cards. Ah, if the old gentleman only knew it! He wouldn't care that you are an official. He'd lift up your little shirtie and would lay it on so that you'd go about rubbing yourself for a week. If you have a job, stick to it. Here's the innkeeper says he won't let you have anything to eat unless you pay your back bills. Well, and suppose we don't pay. [Sighing.] Oh, good God! If only I could get cabbage soup. I think I could eat up the whole world now. There's a knock at the door. I suppose it's him. [Rises from the bed hastily.] SCENE II Osip and Khlestakov. KHLESTAKOV. Here! [Hands him his cap and cane.] What, been warming the bed again! OSIP. Why should I have been warming the bed? Have I never seen a bed before? KHLESTAKOV. You're lying. The bed's all tumbled up. OSIP. What do I want a bed for? Don't I know what a bed is like? I have legs and can use them to stand on. I don't need your bed. KHLESTAKOV [walking up and down the room]. Go see if there isn't some tobacco in the pouch. OSIP. What tobacco? You emptied it out four days ago. KHLESTAKOV [pacing the room and twisting his lips. Finally he says in a loud resolute voice]. Listen--a--Osip. OSIP. Yes, sir? KHLESTAKOV [In a voice just as loud, but not quite so resolute]. Go down there. OSIP. Where? KHLESTAKOV [in a voice not at all resolute, nor loud, but almost in entreaty]. Down to the restaurant--tell them--to send up dinner. OSIP. No, I won't. KHLESTAKOV. How dare you, you fool! OSIP. It won't do any good, anyhow. The landlord said he won't let you have anything more to eat. KHLESTAKOV. How dare he! What nonsense is this? OSIP. He'll go to the Governor, too, he says. It's two weeks now since you've paid him, he says. You and your master are cheats, he says, and your master is a blackleg besides, he says. We know the breed. We've seen swindlers like him before. KHLESTAKOV. And you're delighted, I suppose, to repeat all this to me, you donkey. OSIP. "Every Tom, Dick and Harry comes and lives here," he says, "and runs up debts so that you can't even put him out. I'm not going to fool about it," he says, "I'm going straight to the Governor and have him arrested and put in jail." KHLESTAKOV. That'll do now, you fool. Go down at once and tell him to have dinner sent up. The coarse brute! The idea! OSIP. Hadn't I better call the landlord here? KHLESTAKOV. What do I want the landlord for? Go and tell him yourself. OSIP. But really, master-- KHLESTAKOV. Well, go, the deuce take you. Call the landlord. Osip goes out. SCENE III KHLESTAKOV [alone]. I am so ravenously hungry. I took a little stroll thinking I could walk off my appetite. But, hang it, it clings. If I hadn't dissipated so in Penza I'd have had enough money to get home with. The infantry captain did me up all right. Wonderful the way the scoundrel cut the cards! It didn't take more than a quarter of an hour for him to clean me out of my last penny. And yet I would give anything to have another set-to with him. Only I never will have the chance.--What a rotten town this is! You can't get anything on credit in the grocery shops here. It's deucedly mean, it is. [He whistles, first an air from Robert le Diable, then a popular song, then a blend of the two.] No one's coming. SCENE IV Khlestakov, Osip, and a Servant. SERVANT. The landlord sent me up to ask what you want. KHLESTAKOV. Ah, how do you do, brother! How are you? How are you? SERVANT. All right, thank you. KHLESTAKOV. And how are you getting on in the inn? Is business good? SERVANT. Yes, business is all right, thank you. KHLESTAKOV. Many guests? SERVANT. Plenty. KHLESTAKOV. See here, good friend. They haven't sent me dinner yet. Please hurry them up! See that I get it as soon as possible. I have some business to attend to immediately after dinner. SERVANT. The landlord said he won't let you have anything any more. He was all for going to the Governor to-day and making a complaint against you. KHLESTAKOV. What's there to complain about? Judge for yourself, friend. Why, I've got to eat. If I go on like this I'll turn into a skeleton. I'm hungry, I'm not joking. SERVANT. Yes, sir, that's what he said. "I won't let him have no dinner," he said, "till he pays for what he has already had." That was his answer. KHLESTAKOV. Try to persuade him. SERVANT. But what shall I tell him? KHLESTAKOV. Explain that it's a serious matter, I've got to eat. As for the money, of course--He thinks that because a muzhik like him can go without food a whole day others can too. The idea! SERVANT. Well, all right. I'll tell him. The Servant and Osip go out. SCENE V Khlestakov alone. KHLESTAKOV. A bad business if he refuses to let me have anything. I'm so hungry. I've never been so hungry in my life. Shall I try to raise something on my clothes? Shall I sell my trousers? No, I'd rather starve than come home without a St. Petersburg suit. It's a shame Joachim wouldn't let me have a carriage on hire. It would have been great to ride home in a carriage, drive up under the porte-cochere of one of the neighbors with lamps lighted and Osip behind in livery. Imagine the stir it would have created. "Who is it? What's that?" Then my footman walks in [draws himself up and imitates] and an-nounces: "Ivan Aleksandrovich Khlestakov of St. Petersburg. Will you receive him?" Those country lubbers don't even know what it means to "receive." If any lout of a country squire pays them a visit, he stalks straight into the drawing-room like a bear. Then you step up to one of their pretty girls and say: "Dee-lighted, madam." [Rubs his hands and bows.] Phew! [Spits.] I feel positively sick, I'm so hungry. SCENE VI Khlestakov, Osip, and later the Servant. KHLESTAKOV. Well? OSIP. They're bringing dinner. KHLESTAKOV [claps his hands and wriggles in his chair]. Dinner, dinner, dinner! SERVANT [with plates and napkin]. This is the last time the landlord will let you have dinner. KHLESTAKOV. The landlord, the landlord! I spit on your landlord. What have you got there? SERVANT. Soup and roast beef. KHLESTAKOV. What! Only two courses? SERVANT. That's all. KHLESTAKOV. Nonsense! I won't take it. What does he mean by that? Ask him. It's not enough. SERVANT. The landlord says it's too much. KHLESTAKOV. Why is there no sauce? SERVANT. There is none. KHLESTAKOV. Why not? I saw them preparing a whole lot when I passed through the kitchen. And in the dining-room this morning two short little men were eating salmon and lots of other things. SERVANT. Well, you see, there is some and there isn't. KHLESTAKOV. Why "isn't"? SERVANT. Because there isn't any. KHLESTAKOV. What, no salmon, no fish, no cutlets? SERVANT. Only for the better kind of folk. KHLESTAKOV. You're a fool. SERVANT. Yes, sir. KHLESTAKOV. You measly suckling pig. Why can they eat and I not? Why the devil can't I eat, too? Am I not a guest the same as they? SERVANT. No, not the same. That's plain. KHLESTAKOV. How so? SERVANT. That's easy. THEY pay, that's it. KHLESTAKOV. I'm not going to argue with you, simpleton! [Ladles out the soup and begins to eat.] What, you call that soup? Simply hot water poured into a cup. No taste to it at all. It only stinks. I don't want it. Bring me some other soup. SERVANT. All right. I'll take it away. The boss said if you didn't want it, you needn't take it. KHLESTAKOV [putting his hand over the dishes]. Well, well, leave it alone, you fool. You may be used to treat other people this way, but I'm not that sort. I advise you not to try it on me. My God! What soup! [Goes on eating.] I don't think anybody in the world tasted such soup. Feathers floating on the top instead of butter. [Cuts the piece of chicken in the soup.] Oh, oh, oh! What a bird!--Give me the roast beef. There's a little soup left, Osip. Take it. [Cuts the meat.] What sort of roast beef is this? This isn't roast beef. SERVANT. What else is it? KHLESTAKOV. The devil knows, but it isn't roast beef. It's roast iron, not roast beef. [Eats.] Scoundrels! Crooks! The stuff they give you to eat! It makes your jaws ache to chew one piece of it. [Picks his teeth with his fingers.] Villains! It's as tough as the bark of a tree. I can't pull it out no matter how hard I try. Such meat is enough to ruin one's teeth. Crooks! [Wipes his mouth with the napkin.] Is there nothing else? SERVANT. No. KHLESTAKOV. Scoundrels! Blackguards! They might have given some decent pastry, or something, the lazy good-for-nothings! Fleecing their guests! That's all they're good for. [The Servant takes the dishes and carries them out accompanied by Osip.] SCENE VII Khlestakov alone. KHLESTAKOV. It's just as if I had eaten nothing at all, upon my word. It has only whetted my appetite. If I only had some change to send to the market and buy some bread. OSIP [entering]. The Governor has come, I don't know what for. He's inquiring about you. KHLESTAKOV [in alarm]. There now! That inn-keeper has gone and made a complaint against me. Suppose he really claps me into jail? Well! If he does it in a gentlemanly way, I may--No, no, I won't. The officers and the people are all out on the street and I set the fashion for them and the merchant's daughter and I flirted. No, I won't. And pray, who is he? How dare he, actually? What does he take me for? A tradesman? I'll tell him straight out, "How dare you? How--" [The door knob turns and Khlestakov goes pale and shrinks back.] SCENE VIII Khlestakov, the Governor, and Dobchinsky. The Governor advances a few steps and stops. They stare at each other a few moments wide-eyed and frightened. GOVERNOR [recovering himself a little and saluting military fashion]. I have come to present my compliments, sir. KHLESTAKOV [bows]. How do you do, sir? GOVERNOR. Excuse my intruding. KHLESTAKOV. Pray don't mention it. GOVERNOR. It's my duty as chief magistrate of this town to see that visitors and persons of rank should suffer no inconveniences. KHLESTAKOV [a little halting at first, but toward the end in a loud, firm voice]. Well--what was--to be--done? It's not--my fault. I'm--really going to pay. They will send me money from home. [Bobchinsky peeps in at the door.] He's most to blame. He gives me beef as hard as a board and the soup--the devil knows what he put into it. I ought to have pitched it out of the window. He starves me the whole day. His tea is so peculiar--it smells of fish, not tea. So why should I--The idea! GOVERNOR [scared]. Excuse me! I assure you, it's not my fault. I always have good beef in the market here. The Kholmogory merchants bring it, and they are sober, well-behaved people. I'm sure I don't know where he gets his bad meat from. But if anything is wrong, may I suggest that you allow me to take you to another place? KHLESTAKOV. No, I thank you. I don't care to leave. I know what the other place is--the jail. What right have you, I should like to know--how dare you?--Why, I'm in the government service at St. Petersburg. [Puts on a bold front.] I--I--I-- GOVERNOR [aside]. My God, how angry he is. He has found out everything. Those damned merchants have told him everything. KHLESTAKOV [with bravado]. I won't go even if you come here with your whole force. I'll go straight to the minister. [Bangs his fist on the table.] What do you mean? What do you mean? GOVERNOR [drawing himself up stiffly and shaking all over]. Have pity on me. Don't ruin me. I have a wife and little children. Don't bring misfortune on a man. KHLESTAKOV. No, I won't go. What's that got to do with me? Must I go to jail because you have a wife and little children? Great! [Bobchinsky looks in at the door and disappears in terror.] No, much obliged to you. I will not go. GOVERNOR [trembling]. It was my inexperience. I swear to you, it was nothing but my inexperience and insufficient means. Judge for yourself. The salary I get is not enough for tea and sugar. And if I have taken bribes, they were mere trifles--something for the table, or a coat or two. As for the officer's widow to whom they say I gave a beating, she's in business now, and it's a slander, it's a slander that I beat her. Those scoundrels here invented the lie. They are ready to murder me. That's the kind of people they are. KHLESTAKOV. Well. I've nothing to do with them. [Reflecting.] I don't see, though, why you should talk to me about your scoundrels or officer's widow. An officer's widow is quite a different matter.--But don't you dare to beat me. You can't do it to me--no, sir, you can't. The idea! Look at him! I'll pay, I'll pay the money. Just now I'm out of cash. That's why I stay here--because I haven't a single kopek. GOVERNOR [aside]. Oh, he's a shrewd one. So that's what he's aiming at? He's raised such a cloud of dust you can't tell what direction he's going. Who can guess what he wants? One doesn't know where to begin. But I will try. Come what may, I'll try--hit or miss. [Aloud.] H'm, if you really are in want of money, I'm ready to serve you. It is my duty to assist strangers in town. KHLESTAKOV. Lend me some, lend me some. Then I'll settle up immediately with the landlord. I only want two hundred rubles. Even less would do. GOVERNOR. There's just two hundred rubles. [Giving him the money.] Don't bother to count it. KHLESTAKOV [taking it]. Very much obliged to you. I'll send it back to you as soon as I get home. I just suddenly found myself without--H'm--I see you are a gentleman. Now it's all different. GOVERNOR [aside]. Well, thank the Lord, he's taken the money. Now I suppose things will move along smoothly. I slipped four hundred instead of two into his hand. KHLESTAKOV. Ho, Osip! [Osip enters.] Tell the servant to come. [To the Governor and Dobchinsky.] Please be seated. [To Dobchinsky.] Please take a seat, I beg of you. GOVERNOR. Don't trouble. We can stand. KHLESTAKOV. But, please, please be seated. I now see perfectly how open-hearted and generous you are. I confess I thought you had come to put me in--[To Dobchinsky.] Do take a chair. The Governor and Dobchinsky sit down. Bobchinsky looks in at the door and listens. GOVERNOR [aside]. I must be bolder. He wants us to pretend he is incognito. Very well, we will talk nonsense, too. We'll pretend we haven't the least idea who he is. [Aloud.] I was going about in the performance of my duty with Piotr Ivanovich Dobchinsky here--he's a landed proprietor here--and we came to the inn to see whether the guests are properly accommodated--because I'm not like other governors, who don't care about anything. No, apart from my duty, out of pure Christian philanthropy, I wish every mortal to be decently treated. And as if to reward me for my pains, chance has afforded me this pleasant acquaintance. KHLESTAKOV. I, too, am delighted. Without your aid, I confess, I should have had to stay here a long time. I didn't know how in the world to pay my bill. GOVERNOR [aside]. Oh, yes, fib on.--Didn't know how to pay his bill! May I ask where your Honor is going? KHLESTAKOV. I'm going to my own village in the Government of Saratov. GOVERNOR [aside, with an ironical expression on his face]. The Government of Saratov! H'm, h'm! And doesn't even blush! One must be on the qui vive with this fellow. [Aloud.] You have undertaken a great task. They say travelling is disagreeable because of the delay in getting horses but, on the other hand, it is a diversion. You are travelling for your own amusement, I suppose? KHLESTAKOV. No, my father wants me. He's angry because so far I haven't made headway in the St. Petersburg service. He thinks they stick the Vladimir in your buttonhole the minute you get there. I'd like him to knock about in the government offices for a while. GOVERNOR [aside]. How he fabricates! Dragging in his old father, too. [Aloud.] And may I ask whether you are going there to stay for long? KHLESTAKOV. I really don't know. You see, my father is stubborn and stupid--an old dotard as hard as a block of wood. I'll tell him straight out, "Do what you will, I can't live away from St. Petersburg." Really, why should I waste my life among peasants? Our times make different demands on us. My soul craves enlightenment. GOVERNOR [aside]. He can spin yarns all right. Lie after lie and never trips. And such an ugly insignificant-looking creature, too. Why, it seems to me I could crush him with my finger nails. But wait, I'll make you talk. I'll make you tell me things. [Aloud.] You were quite right in your observation, that one can do nothing in a dreary out-of-the-way place. Take this town, for instance. You lie awake nights, you work hard for your country, you don't spare yourself, and the reward? You don't know when it's coming. [He looks round the room.] This room seems rather damp. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, it's a dirty room. And the bugs! I've never experienced anything like them. They bite like dogs. GOVERNOR. You don't say! An illustrious guest like you to be subjected to such annoyance at the hands of--whom? Of vile bugs which should never have been born. And I dare say, it's dark here, too. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, very gloomy. The landlord has introduced the custom of not providing candles. Sometimes I want to do something--read a bit, or, if the fancy strikes me, write something.--I can't. It's a dark room, yes, very dark. GOVERNOR. I wonder if I might be bold enough to ask you--but, no, I'm unworthy. KHLESTAKOV. What is it? GOVERNOR. No, no, I'm unworthy. I'm unworthy. KHLESTAKOV. But what is it? GOVERNOR. If I might be bold enough--I have a fine room for you at home, light and cosy. But no, I feel it is too great an honor. Don't be offended. Upon my word, I made the offer out of the simplicity of my heart. KHLESTAKOV. On the contrary, I accept your invitation with pleasure. I should feel much more comfortable in a private house than in this disreputable tavern. GOVERNOR. I'm only too delighted. How glad my wife will be. It's my character, you know. I've always been hospitable from my very childhood, especially when my guest is a distinguished person. Don't think I say this out of flattery. No, I haven't that vice. I only speak from the fullness of my heart. KHLESTAKOV. I'm greatly obliged to you. I myself hate double-faced people. I like your candor and kind-heartedness exceedingly. And I am free to say, I ask for nothing else than devotion and esteem--esteem and devotion. SCENE IX The above and the Servant, accompanied by Osip. Bobchinsky peeps in at the door. SERVANT. Did your Honor wish anything? KHLESTAKOV. Yes, let me have the bill. SERVANT. I gave you the second one a little while ago. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, I can't remember your stupid accounts. Tell me what the whole comes to. SERVANT. You were pleased to order dinner the first day. The second day you only took salmon. And then you took everything on credit. KHLESTAKOV. Fool! [Starts to count it all up now.] How much is it altogether? GOVERNOR. Please don't trouble yourself. He can wait. [To the Servant.] Get out of here. The money will be sent to you. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, that's so, of course. [He puts the money in his pocket.] The Servant goes out. Bobchinsky peeps in at the door. SCENE X The Governor, Khlestakov and Dobchinsky. GOVERNOR. Would you care to inspect a few institutions in our town now--the philanthropic institutions, for instance, and others? KHLESTAKOV. But what is there to see? GOVERNOR. Well, you'll see how they're run--the order in which we keep them. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, with the greatest pleasure. I'm ready. Bobchinsky puts his head in at the door. GOVERNOR. And then, if you wish, we can go from there and inspect the district school and see our method of education. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, yes, if you please. GOVERNOR. Afterwards, if you should like to visit our town jails and prisons, you will see how our criminals are kept. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, yes, but why go to prison? We had better go to see the philanthropic institutions. GOVERNOR. As you please. Do you wish to ride in your own carriage, or with me in the cab? KHLESTAKOV. I'd rather take the cab with you. GOVERNOR [to Dobchinsky]. Now there'll be no room for you, Piotr Ivanovich. DOBCHINSKY. It doesn't matter. I'll walk. GOVERNOR [aside, to Dobchinsky]. Listen. Run as fast as you can and take two notes, one to Zemlianika at the hospital, the other to my wife. [To Khlestakov.] May I take the liberty of asking you to permit me to write a line to my wife to tell her to make ready to receive our honored guest? KHLESTAKOV. Why go to so much trouble? However, there is the ink. I don't know whether there is any paper. Would the bill do? GOVERNOR. Yes, that'll do. [Writes, talking to himself at the same time.] We'll see how things will go after lunch and several stout-bellied bottles. We have some Russian Madeira, not much to look at, but it will knock an elephant off its legs. If I only knew what he is and how much I have to be [on] my guard. He finishes writing and gives the notes to Dobchinsky. As the latter walks across the stage, the door suddenly falls in, and Bobchinsky tumbles in with it to the floor. All exclaim in surprise. Bobchinsky rises. KHLESTAKOV. Have you hurt yourself? BOBCHINSKY. Oh, it's nothing--nothing at all--only a little bruise on my nose. I'll run in to Dr. Hübner's. He has a sort of plaster. It'll soon pass away. GOVERNOR [making an angry gesture at Bobchinsky. To Khlestakov]. Oh, it's nothing. Now, if you please, sir, we'll go. I'll tell your servant to carry your luggage over. [Calls Osip.] Here, my good fellow, take all your master's things to my house, the Governor's. Anyone will tell you where it is. By your leave, sir. [Makes way for Khlestakov and follows him; then turns and says reprovingly to Bobchinsky.] Couldn't you find some other place to fall in? Sprawling out here like a lobster! Goes out. After him Bobchinsky. Curtain falls. ACT III SCENE: The same as in Act I. SCENE I Anna Andreyevna and Marya Antonovna standing at the window in the same positions as at the end of Act I. ANNA. There now! We've been waiting a whole hour. All on account of your silly prinking. You were completely dressed, but no, you have to keep on dawdling.--Provoking! Not a soul to be seen, as though on purpose, as though the whole world were dead. MARYA. Now really, mamma, we shall know all about it in a minute or two. Avdotya must come back soon. [Looks out of the window and exclaims.] Oh, mamma, someone is coming--there down the street! ANNA. Where? Just your imagination again!--Why, yes, someone is coming. I wonder who it is. A short man in a frock coat. Who can it be? Eh? The suspense is awful! Who can it be, I wonder. MARYA. Dobchinsky, mamma. ANNA. Dobchinsky! Your imagination again! It's not Dobchinsky at all. [Waves her handkerchief.] Ho, you! Come here! Quick! MARYA. It is Dobchinsky, mamma. ANNA. Of course, you've got to contradict. I tell you, it's not Dobchinsky. MARYA. Well, well, mamma? Isn't it Dobchinsky? ANNA. Yes, it is, I see now. Why do you argue about it? [Calls through the window.] Hurry up, quick! You're so slow. Well, where are they? What? Speak from where you are. It's all the same. What? He is very strict? Eh? And how about my husband? [Moves away a little from the window, exasperated.] He is so stupid. He won't say a word until he is in the room. SCENE II Enter Dobchinsky. ANNA. Now tell me, aren't you ashamed? You were the only one I relied on to act decently. They all ran away and you after them, and till now I haven't been able to find out a thing. Aren't you ashamed? I stood godmother to your Vanichka and Lizanko, and this is the way you treat me. DOBCHINSKY. Godmother, upon my word, I ran so fast to pay my respects to you that I'm all out of breath. How do you do, Marya Antonovna? MARYA. Good afternoon, Piotr Ivanovich. ANNA. Well, tell me all about it. What is happening at the inn? DOBCHINSKY. I have a note for you from Anton Antonovich. ANNA. But who is he? A general? DOBCHINSKY. No, not a general, but every bit as good as a general, I tell you. Such culture! Such dignified manners! ANNA. Ah! So he is the same as the one my husband got a letter about. DOBCHINSKY. Exactly. It was Piotr Ivanovich and I who first discovered him. ANNA. Tell me, tell me all about it. DOBCHINSKY. It's all right now, thank the Lord. At first he received Anton Antonovich rather roughly. He was angry and said the inn was not run properly, and he wouldn't come to the Governor's house and he didn't want to go to jail on account of him. But then when he found out that Anton Antonovich was not to blame and they got to talking more intimately, he changed right away, and, thank Heaven, everything went well. They've gone now to inspect the philanthropic institutions. I confess that Anton Antonovich had already begun to suspect that a secret denunciation had been lodged against him. I myself was trembling a little, too. ANNA. What have you to be afraid of? You're not an official. DOBCHINSKY. Well, you see, when a Grand Mogul speaks, you feel afraid. ANNA. That's all rubbish. Tell me, what is he like personally? Is he young or old? DOBCHINSKY. Young--a young man of about twenty-three. But he talks as if he were older. "If you will allow me," he says, "I will go there and there." [Waves his hands.] He does it all with such distinction. "I like," he says, "to read and write, but I am prevented because my room is rather dark." ANNA. And what sort of a looking man is he, dark or fair? DOBCHINSKY. Neither. I should say rather chestnut. And his eyes dart about like little animals. They make you nervous. ANNA. Let me see what my husband writes. [Reads.] "I hasten to let you know, dear, that my position was extremely uncomfortable, but relying on the mercy of God, two pickles extra and a half portion of caviar, one ruble and twenty-five kopeks." [Stops.] I don't understand. What have pickles and caviar got to do with it? DOBCHINSKY. Oh, Anton Antonovich hurriedly wrote on a piece of scrap paper. There's a kind of bill on it. ANNA. Oh, yes, I see. [Goes on reading.] "But relying on the mercy of God, I believe all will turn out well in the end. Get a room ready quickly for the distinguished guest--the one with the gold wall paper. Don't bother to get any extras for dinner because we'll have something at the hospital with Artemy Filippovich. Order a little more wine, and tell Abdulin to send the best, or I'll wreck his whole cellar. I kiss your hand, my dearest, and remain yours, Anton Skvoznik-Dmukhanovsky." Oh my! I must hurry. Hello, who's there? Mishka? DOBCHINSKY [Runs to the door and calls.] Mishka! Mishka! Mishka! [Mishka enters.] ANNA. Listen! Run over to Abdulin--wait, I'll give you a note. [She sits down at the table and writes, talking all the while.] Give this to Sidor, the coachman, and tell him to take it to Abdulin and bring back the wine. And get to work at once and make the gold room ready for a guest. Do it nicely. Put a bed in it, a wash basin and pitcher and everything else. DOBCHINSKY. Well, I'm going now, Anna Andreyevna, to see how he does the inspecting. ANNA. Go on, I'm not keeping you. SCENE III Anna Andreyevna and Marya Antonovna. ANNA. Now, Mashenka, we must attend to our toilet. He's a metropolitan swell and God forbid that he should make fun of us. You put on your blue dress with the little flounces. It's the most becoming. MARYA. The idea, mamma! The blue dress! I can't bear it. Liapkin-Tiapkin's wife wears blue and so does Zemlianika's daughter. I'd rather wear my flowered dress. ANNA. Your flowered dress! Of course, just to be contrary. You'll look lots better in blue because I'm going to wear my dun-colored dress. I love dun-color. MARYA. Oh, mamma, it isn't a bit becoming to you. ANNA. What, dun-color isn't becoming to me? MARYA. No, not a bit. I'm positive it isn't. One's eyes must be quite dark to go with dun-color. ANNA. That's nice! And aren't my eyes dark? They are as dark as can be. What nonsense you talk! How can they be anything but dark when I always draw the queen of clubs. MARYA. Why, mamma, you are more like the queen of hearts. ANNA. Nonsense! Perfect nonsense! I never was a queen of hearts. [She goes out hurriedly with Marya and speaks behind the scenes.] The ideas she gets into her head! Queen of hearts! Heavens! What do you think of that? As they go out, a door opens through which Mishka sweeps dirt on to the stage. Osip enters from another door with a valise on his head. SCENE IV Mishka and Osip. OSIP. Where is this to go? MISHKA. In here, in here. OSIP. Wait, let me fetch breath first. Lord! What a wretched life! On an empty stomach any load seems heavy. MISHKA. Say, uncle, will the general be here soon? OSIP. What general? MISHKA. Your master. OSIP. My master? What sort of a general is he? MISHKA. Isn't he a general? OSIP. Yes, he's a general, only the other way round. MISHKA. Is that higher or lower than a real general? OSIP. Higher. MISHKA. Gee whiz! That's why they are raising such a racket about him here. OSIP. Look here, young man, I see you're a smart fellow. Get me something to eat, won't you? MISHKA. There isn't anything ready yet for the likes of you. You won't eat plain food. When your master takes his meal, they'll let you have the same as he gets. OSIP. But have you got any plain stuff? MISHKA. We have cabbage soup, porridge and pie. OSIP. That's all right. We'll eat cabbage soup, porridge and pie, we'll eat everything. Come, help me with the valise. Is there another way to go out there? MISHKA. Yes. They both carry the valise into the next room. SCENE V The Sergeants open both folding doors. Khlestakov enters followed by the Governor, then the Superintendent of Charities, the Inspector of Schools, Dobchinsky and Bobchinsky with a plaster on his nose. The Governor points to a piece of paper lying on the floor, and the Sergeants rush to pick it up, pushing each other in their haste. KHLESTAKOV. Excellent institutions. I like the way you show strangers everything in your town. In other towns they didn't show me a thing. GOVERNOR. In other towns, I venture to observe, the authorities and officials look out for themselves more. Here, I may say, we have no other thought than to win the Government's esteem through good order, vigilance, and efficiency. KHLESTAKOV. The lunch was excellent. I've positively overeaten. Do you set such a fine table every day? GOVERNOR. In honor of so agreeable a guest we do. KHLESTAKOV. I like to eat well. That's what a man lives for--to pluck the flowers of pleasure. What was that fish called? ARTEMY [running up to him]. Labardan. KHLESTAKOV. It was delicious. Where was it we had our lunch? In the hospital, wasn't it? ARTEMY. Precisely, in the hospital. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, yes, I remember. There were beds there. The patients must have gotten well. There don't seem to have been many of them. ARTEMY. About ten are left. The rest recovered. The place is so well run, there is such perfect order. It may seem incredible to you, but ever since I've taken over the management, they all recover like flies. No sooner does a patient enter the hospital than he feels better. And we obtain this result not so much by medicaments as by honesty and orderliness. GOVERNOR. In this connection may I venture to call your attention to what a brain-racking job the office of Governor is. There are so many matters he has to give his mind to just in connection with keeping the town clean and repairs and alterations. In a word, it is enough to upset the most competent person. But, thank God, all goes well. Another governor, of course, would look out for his own advantage. But believe me, even nights in bed I keep thinking: "Oh, God, how could I manage things in such a way that the government would observe my devotion to duty and be satisfied?" Whether the government will reward me or not, that of course, lies with them. At least I'll have a clear conscience. When the whole town is in order, the streets swept clean, the prisoners well kept, and few drunkards--what more do I want? Upon my word, I don't even crave honors. Honors, of course, are alluring; but as against the happiness which comes from doing one's duty, they are nothing but dross and vanity. ARTEMY [aside]. Oh, the do-nothing, the scoundrel! How he holds forth! I wish the Lord had blessed me with such a gift! KHLESTAKOV. That's so. I admit I sometimes like to philosophize, too. Sometimes it's prose, and sometimes it comes out poetry. BOBCHINSKY [to Dobchinsky]. How true, how true it all is, Piotr Ivanovich. His remarks are great. It's evident that he is an educated man. KHLESTAKOV. Would you tell me, please, if you have any amusements here, any circles where one could have a game of cards? GOVERNOR [aside]. Ahem! I know what you are aiming at, my boy. [Aloud.] God forbid! Why, no one here has even heard of such a thing as card-playing circles. I myself have never touched a card. I don't know how to play. I can never look at cards with indifference, and if I happen to see a king of diamonds or some such thing, I am so disgusted I have to spit out. Once I made a house of cards for the children, and then I dreamt of those confounded things the whole night. Heavens! How can people waste their precious time over cards! LUKA LUKICH [aside]. But he faroed me out of a hundred rubles yesterday, the rascal. GOVERNOR. I'd rather employ my time for the benefit of the state. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, well, that's rather going too far. It all depends upon the point of view. If, for instance, you pass when you have to treble stakes, then of course--No, don't say that a game of cards isn't very tempting sometimes. SCENE VI The above, Anna Andreyevna and Marya Antonovna. GOVERNOR. Permit me to introduce my family, my wife and daughter. KHLESTAKOV [bowing]. I am happy, madam, to have the pleasure of meeting you. ANNA. Our pleasure in meeting so distinguished a person is still greater. KHLESTAKOV [showing off]. Excuse me, madam, on the contrary, my pleasure is the greater. ANNA. Impossible. You condescend to say it to compliment me. Won't you please sit down? KHLESTAKOV. Just to stand near you is bliss. But if you insist, I will sit down. I am so, so happy to be at your side at last. ANNA. I beg your pardon, but I dare not take all the nice things you say to myself. I suppose you must have found travelling very unpleasant after living in the capital. KHLESTAKOV. Extremely unpleasant. I am accustomed, comprenez-vous, to life in the fashionable world, and suddenly to find myself on the road, in dirty inns with dark rooms and rude people--I confess that if it were not for this chance which--[giving Anna a look and showing off] compensated me for everything-- ANNA. It must really have been extremely unpleasant for you. KHLESTAKOV. At this moment, however, I find it exceedingly pleasant, madam. ANNA. Oh, I cannot believe it. You do me much honor. I don't deserve it. KHLESTAKOV. Why don't you deserve it? You do deserve it, madam. ANNA. I live in a village. KHLESTAKOV. Well, after all, a village too has something. It has its hills and brooks. Of course it's not to be compared with St. Petersburg. Ah, St. Petersburg! What a life, to be sure! Maybe you think I am only a copying clerk. No, I am on a friendly footing with the chief of our department. He slaps me on the back. "Come, brother," he says, "and have dinner with me." I just drop in the office for a couple of minutes to say this is to be done so, and that is to be done that way. There's a rat of a clerk there for copying letters who does nothing but scribble all the time--tr, tr--They even wanted to make me a college assessor, but I think to myself, "What do I want it for?" And the doorkeeper flies after me on the stairs with the shoe brush. "Allow me to shine your boots for you, Ivan Aleksandrovich," he says. [To the Governor.] Why are you standing, gentleman? Please sit down. {GOVERNOR. Our rank is such that we can very Together { well stand. {ARTEMY. We don't mind standing. {LUKA. Please don't trouble. KHLESTAKOV. Please sit down without the rank. [The Governor and the rest sit down.] I don't like ceremony. On the contrary, I always like to slip by unobserved. But it's impossible to conceal oneself, impossible. I no sooner show myself in a place than they say, "There goes Ivan Aleksandrovich!" Once I was even taken for the commander-in-chief. The soldiers rushed out of the guard-house and saluted. Afterwards an officer, an intimate acquaintance of mine, said to me: "Why, old chap, we completely mistook you for the commander-in-chief." ANNA. Well, I declare! KHLESTAKOV. I know pretty actresses. I've written a number of vaudevilles, you know. I frequently meet literary men. I am on an intimate footing with Pushkin. I often say to him: "Well, Pushkin, old boy, how goes it?" "So, so, partner," he'd reply, "as usual." He's a great original. ANNA. So you write too? How thrilling it must be to be an author! You write for the papers also, I suppose? KHLESTAKOV. Yes, for the papers, too. I am the author of a lot of works--The Marriage of Figaro, Robert le Diable, Norma. I don't even remember all the names. I did it just by chance. I hadn't meant to write, but a theatrical manager said, "Won't you please write something for me?" I thought to myself: "All right, why not?" So I did it all in one evening, surprised everybody. I am extraordinarily light of thought. All that has appeared under the name of Baron Brambeus was written by me, and the The Frigate of Hope and The Moscow Telegraph. ANNA. What! So you are Brambeus? KHLESTAKOV. Why, yes. And I revise and whip all their articles into shape. Smirdin gives me forty thousand for it. ANNA. I suppose, then, that Yury Miroslavsky is yours too. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, it's mine. ANNA. I guessed at once. MARYA. But, mamma, it says that it's by Zagoskin. ANNA. There! I knew you'd be contradicting even here. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, yes, it's so. That was by Zagoskin. But there is another Yury Miroslavsky which was written by me. ANNA. That's right. I read yours. It's charming. KHLESTAKOV. I admit I live by literature. I have the first house in St. Petersburg. It is well known as the house of Ivan Aleksandrovich. [Addressing the company in general.] If any of you should come to St. Petersburg, do please call to see me. I give balls, too, you know. ANNA. I can guess the taste and magnificence of those balls. KHLESTAKOV. Immense! For instance, watermelon will be served costing seven hundred rubles. The soup comes in the tureen straight from Paris by steamer. When the lid is raised, the aroma of the steam is like nothing else in the world. And we have formed a circle for playing whist--the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the French, the English and the German Ambassadors and myself. We play so hard we kill ourselves over the cards. There's nothing like it. After it's over I'm so tired I run home up the stairs to the fourth floor and tell the cook, "Here, Marushka, take my coat"--What am I talking about?--I forgot that I live on the first floor. One flight up costs me--My foyer before I rise in the morning is an interesting spectacle indeed--counts and princes jostling each other and humming like bees. All you hear is buzz, buzz, buzz. Sometimes the Minister--[The Governor and the rest rise in awe from their chairs.] Even my mail comes addressed "Your Excellency." And once I even had charge of a department. A strange thing happened. The head of the department went off, disappeared, no one knew where. Of course there was a lot of talk about how the place would be filled, who would fill it, and all that sort of thing. There were ever so many generals hungry for the position, and they tried, but they couldn't cope with it. It's too hard. Just on the surface it looks easy enough; but when you come to examine it closely, it's the devil of a job. When they saw they couldn't manage, they came to me. In an instant the streets were packed full with couriers, nothing but couriers and couriers--thirty-five thousand of them, imagine! Pray, picture the situation to yourself! "Ivan Aleksandrovich, do come and take the directorship of the department." I admit I was a little embarrassed. I came out in my dressing-gown. I wanted to decline, but I thought it might reach the Czar's ears, and, besides, my official record--"Very well, gentlemen," I said, "I'll accept the position, I'll accept. So be it. But mind," I said, "na-na-na, LOOK SHARP is the word with me, LOOK SHARP!" And so it was. When I went through the offices of my department, it was a regular earthquake, Everyone trembled and shook like a leaf. [The Governor and the rest tremble with fright. Khlestakov works himself up more and more as he speaks.] Oh, I don't like to joke. I got all of them thoroughly scared, I tell you. Even the Imperial Council is afraid of me. And really, that's the sort I am. I don't spare anybody. I tell them all, "I know myself, I know myself." I am everywhere, everywhere. I go to Court daily. Tomorrow they are going to make me a field-marsh-- He slips and almost falls, but is respectfully held up by the officials. GOVERNOR [walks up to him trembling from top to toe and speaking with a great effort]. Your Ex-ex-ex- KHLESTAKOV [curtly]. What is it? GOVERNOR. Your Ex-ex-ex- KHLESTAKOV [as before]. I can't make out a thing, it's all nonsense. GOVERNOR. Your Ex-ex--Your 'lency--Your Excellency, wouldn't you like to rest a bit? Here's a room and everything you may need. KHLESTAKOV. Nonsense--rest! However, I'm ready for a rest. Your lunch was fine, gentlemen. I am satisfied, I am satisfied. [Declaiming.] Labardan! Labardan! He goes into the next room followed by the Governor. SCENE VII The same without Khlestakov and the Governor. BOBCHINSKY [to Dobchinsky]. There's a man for you, Piotr Ivanovich. That's what I call a man. I've never in my life been in the presence of so important a personage. I almost died of fright. What do you think is his rank, Piotr Ivanovich? DOBCHINSKY. I think he's almost a general. BOBCHINSKY. And I think a general isn't worth the sole of his boots. But if he is a general, then he must be the generalissimo himself. Did you hear how he bullies the Imperial Council? Come, let's hurry off to Ammos Fiodorovich and Korobkin and tell them about it. Good-by, Anna Andreyevna. DOBCHINSKY. Good afternoon, godmother. Both go out. ARTEMY. It makes your heart sink and you don't know why. We haven't even our uniforms on. Suppose after he wakes up from his nap he goes and sends a report about us to St. Petersburg. [He goes out sunk in thought, with the School Inspector, both saying.] Good-by, madam. SCENE VIII Anna Andreyevna and Marya Antonovna. ANNA. Oh, how charming he is! MARYA. A perfect dear! ANNA. Such refined manners. You can recognize the big city article at once. How he carries himself, and all that sort of thing! Exquisite! I'm just crazy for young men like him. I am in ecstasies--beside myself. He liked me very much though. I noticed he kept looking at me all the time. MARYA. Oh, mamma, he looked at me. ANNA. No more nonsense please. It's out of place now. MARYA. But really, mamma, he did look at me. ANNA. There you go! For God's sake, don't argue. You mustn't. That's enough. What would he be looking at you for? Please tell me, why would he be looking at you? MARYA. It's true, mamma. He kept looking at me. He looked at me when he began to speak about literature and he looked at me afterwards, when he told about how he played whist with the ambassadors. ANNA. Well, maybe he looked at you once or twice and might have said to himself, "Oh, well, I'll give her a look." SCENE IX The same and the Governor. GOVERNOR. Sh-sh! ANNA. What is it? GOVERNOR. I wish I hadn't given him so much to drink. Suppose even half of what he said is true? [Sunk in thought.] How can it not be true? A man in his cups is always on the surface. What's in his heart is on his tongue. Of course he fibbed a little. No talking is possible without some lying. He plays cards with the ministers and he visits the Court. Upon my word the more you think the less you know what's going on in your head. I'm as dizzy as if I were standing in a belfry, or if I were going to be hanged, the devil take it! ANNA. And I didn't feel the least bit afraid. I simply saw a high-toned, cultured man of the world, and his rank and titles didn't make me feel a bit queer. GOVERNOR. Oh, well, you women. To say women and enough's said. Everything is froth and bubble to you. All of a sudden you blab out words that don't make the least sense. The worst you'd get would be a flogging; but it means ruination to the husband.--Say, my dear, you are as familiar with him as if he were another Bobchinsky. ANNA. Leave that to us. Don't bother about that. [Glancing at Marya.] We know a thing or two in that line. GOVERNOR [to himself]. Oh, what's the good of talking to you! Confound it all! I can't get over my fright yet. [Opens the door and calls.] Mishka, tell the sergeants, Svistunov and Derzhimorda, to come here. They are near the gate. [After a pause of silence.] The world has turned into a queer place. If at least the people were visible so you could see them; but they are such a skinny, thin race. How in the world could you tell what he is? After all you can tell a military man; but when he wears a frock-coat, it's like a fly with clipped wings. He kept it up a long time in the inn, got off a lot of allegories and ambiguities so that you couldn't make out head or tail. Now he's shown himself up at last.--Spouted even more than necessary. It's evident that he's a young man. SCENE X The same and Osip. All rush to meet Osip, beckoning to him. ANNA. Come here, my good man. GOVERNOR. Hush! Tell me, tell me, is he asleep? OSIP. No, not yet. He's stretching himself a little. ANNA. What's your name? OSIP. Osip, madam. GOVERNOR [to his wife and daughter]. That'll do, that'll do. [To Osip.] Well, friend, did they give you a good meal? OSIP. Yes, sir, very good. Thank you kindly. ANNA. Your master has lots of counts and princes visiting him, hasn't he? OSIP [aside]. What shall I say? Seeing as they've given me such good feed now, I s'pose they'll do even better later. [Aloud.] Yes, counts do visit him. MARYA. Osip, darling, isn't your master just grand? ANNA. Osip, please tell me, how is he-- GOVERNOR. Do stop now. You just interfere with your silly talk. Well, friend, how-- ANNA. What is your master's rank? OSIP. The usual rank. GOVERNOR. For God's sake, your stupid questions keep a person from getting down to business. Tell me, friend, what sort of a man is your master? Is he strict? Does he rag and bully a fellow--you know what I mean--does he or doesn't he? OSIP. Yes, he likes things to be just so. He insists on things being just so. GOVERNOR. I like your face. You must be a fine man, friend. What--? ANNA. Listen, Osip, does your master wear uniform in St. Petersburg? GOVERNOR. Enough of your tattle now, really. This is a serious matter, a matter of life and death. (To Osip.) Yes, friend, I like you very much. It's rather chilly now and when a man's travelling an extra glass of tea or so is rather welcome. So here's a couple of rubles for some tea. OSIP [taking the money.] Thank you, much obliged to you, sir. God grant you health and long life. You've helped a poor man. GOVERNOR. That's all right. I'm glad to do it. Now, friend-- ANNA. Listen, Osip, what kind of eyes does your master like most? MARYA. Osip, darling, what a dear nose your master has! GOVERNOR. Stop now, let me speak. [To Osip.] Tell me, what does your master care for most? I mean, when he travels what does he like? OSIP. As for sights, he likes whatever happens to come along. But what he likes most of all is to be received well and entertained well. GOVERNOR. Entertained well? OSIP. Yes, for instance, I'm nothing but a serf and yet he sees to it that I should be treated well, too. S'help me God! Say we'd stop at some place and he'd ask, "Well, Osip, have they treated you well?" "No, badly, your Excellency." "Ah," he'd say, "Osip, he's not a good host. Remind me when we get home." "Oh, well," thinks I to myself [with a wave of his hand]. "I am a simple person. God be with them." GOVERNOR. Very good. You talk sense. I've given you something for tea. Here's something for buns, too. OSIP. You are too kind, your Excellency. [Puts the money in his pocket.] I'll sure drink your health, sir. ANNA. Come to me, Osip, and I'll give you some, too. MARYA. Osip, darling, kiss your master for me. Khlestakov is heard to give a short cough in the next room. GOVERNOR. Hush! [Rises on tip-toe. The rest of the conversation in the scene is carried on in an undertone.] Don't make a noise, for heaven's sake! Go, it's enough. ANNA. Come, Mashenka, I'll tell you something I noticed about our guest that I can't tell you unless we are alone together. [They go out.] GOVERNOR. Let them talk away. If you went and listened to them, you'd want to stop up your ears. [To Osip.] Well, friend-- SCENE XI The same, Derzhimorda and Svistunov. GOVERNOR. Sh--sh! Bandy-legged bears--thumping their boots on the floor! Bump, bump as if a thousand pounds were being unloaded from a wagon. Where in the devil have you been knocking about? DERZHIMORDA. I had your order-- GOVERNOR. Hush! [Puts his hand over Derzhimorda's mouth.] Like a bull bellowing. [Mocking him.] "I had your order--" Makes a noise like an empty barrel. [To Osip.] Go, friend, and get everything ready for your master. And you two, you stand on the steps and don't you dare budge from the spot. And don't let any strangers enter the house, especially the merchants. If you let a single one in, I'll--The instant you see anybody with a petition, or even without a petition and he looks as if he wanted to present a petition against me, take him by the scruff of the neck, give him a good kick, [shows with his foot] and throw him out. Do you hear? Hush--hush! He goes out on tiptoe, preceded by the Sergeants. CURTAIN ACT IV SCENE: Same as in Act III. SCENE I Enter cautiously, almost on tiptoe, Ammos Fiodorovich, Artemy Filippovich, the Postmaster, Luka Lukich, Dobchinsky and Bobchinsky in full dress-uniform. AMMOS. For God's sake, gentlemen, quick, form your line, and let's have more order. Why, man alive, he goes to Court and rages at the Imperial Council. Draw up in military line, strictly in military line. You, Piotr Ivanovich, take your place there, and you, Piotr Ivanovich, stand here. [Both the Piotr Ivanoviches run on tiptoe to the places indicated.] ARTEMY. Do as you please, Ammos Fiodorovich, I think we ought to try. AMMOS. Try what? ARTEMY. It's clear what. AMMOS. Grease? ARTEMY. Exactly, grease. AMMOS. It's risky, the deuce take it. He'll fly into a rage at us. He's a government official, you know. Perhaps it should be given to him in the form of a gift from the nobility for some sort of memorial? POSTMASTER. Or, perhaps, tell him some money has been sent here by post and we don't know for whom? ARTEMY. You had better look out that he doesn't send you by post a good long ways off. Look here, things of such a nature are not done this way in a well-ordered state. What's the use of a whole regiment here? We must present ourselves to him one at a time, and do--what ought to be done, you know--so that eyes do not see and ears do not hear. That's the way things are done in a well-ordered society. You begin it, Ammos Fiodorovich, you be the first. AMMOS. You had better go first. The distinguished guest has eaten in your institution. ARTEMY. Then Luka Lukich, as the enlightener of youth, should go first. LUKA. I can't, I can't, gentlemen. I confess I am so educated that the moment an official a single degree higher than myself speaks to me, my heart stands still and I get as tongue-tied as though my tongue were caught in the mud. No, gentlemen, excuse me. Please let me off. ARTEMY. It's you who have got to do it, Ammos Fiodorovich. There's no one else. Why, every word you utter seems to be issuing from Cicero's mouth. AMMOS. What are you talking about! Cicero! The idea! Just because a man sometimes waxes enthusiastic over house dogs or hunting hounds. ALL [pressing him]. No, not over dogs, but the Tower of Babel, too. Don't forsake us, Ammos Fiodorovich, help us. Be our Saviour! AMMOS. Let go of me, gentlemen. Footsteps and coughing are heard in Khlestakov's room. All hurry to the door, crowding and jostling in their struggle to get out. Some are uncomfortably squeezed, and half-suppressed cries are heard. BOBCHINSKY'S VOICE. Oh, Piotr Ivanovich, you stepped on my foot. ARTEMY. Look out, gentlemen, look out. Give me a chance to atone for my sins. You are squeezing me to death. Exclamations of "Oh! Oh!" Finally they all push through the door, and the stage is left empty. SCENE II Enter Khlestakov, looking sleepy. KHLESTAKOV [alone]. I seem to have had a fine snooze. Where did they get those mattresses and feather beds from? I even perspired. After the meal yesterday they must have slipped something into me that knocked me out. I still feel a pounding in my head. I see I can have a good time here. I like hospitality, and I must say I like it all the more if people entertain me out of a pure heart and not from interested motives. The Governor's daughter is not a bad one at all, and the mother is also a woman you can still--I don't know, but I do like this sort of life. SCENE III Khlestakov and the Judge. JUDGE [comes in and stops. Talking to himself]. Oh, God, bring me safely out of this! How my knees are knocking together! [Drawing himself up and holding the sword in his hand. Aloud.] I have the honor to present myself--Judge of the District Court here, College Assessor Liapkin-Tiapkin. KHLESTAKOV. Please be seated. So you are the Judge here? JUDGE. I was elected by the nobility in 1816 and I have served ever since. KHLESTAKOV. Does it pay to be a judge? JUDGE. After serving three terms I was decorated with the Vladimir of the third class with the approval of the government. [Aside.] I have the money in my hand and my hand is on fire. KHLESTAKOV. I like the Vladimir. Anna of the third class is not so nice. JUDGE [slightly extending his balled fist. Aside]. Good God! I don't know where I'm sitting. I feel as though I were on burning coals. KHLESTAKOV. What have you got in your hand there? AMMOS [getting all mixed up and dropping the bills on the floor]. Nothing. KHLESTAKOV. How so, nothing? I see money has dropped out of it. AMMOS [shaking all over]. Oh no, oh no, not at all! [Aside.] Oh, Lord! Now I'm under arrest and they've brought a wagon to take me. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, it IS money. [Picking it up.] AMMOS [aside]. It's all over with me. I'm lost! I'm lost! KHLESTAKOV. I tell you what--lend it to me. AMMOS [eagerly]. Why, of course, of course--with the greatest pleasure. [Aside.] Bolder! Bolder! Holy Virgin, stand by me! KHLESTAKOV. I've run out of cash on the road, what with one thing and another, you know. I'll let you have it back as soon as I get to the village. AMMOS. Please don't mention it! It is a great honor to have you take it. I'll try to deserve it--by putting forth the best of my feeble powers, by my zeal and ardor for the government. [Rises from the chair and draws himself up straight with his hands hanging at his sides.] I will not venture to disturb you longer with my presence. You don't care to give any orders? KHLESTAKOV. What orders? JUDGE. I mean, would you like to give orders for the district court here? KHLESTAKOV. What for? I have nothing to do with the court now. No, nothing. Thank you very much. AMMOS [bowing and leaving. Aside.]. Now the town is ours. KHLESTAKOV. The Judge is a fine fellow. SCENE IV Khlestakov and the Postmaster. POSTMASTER [in uniform, sword in hand. Drawing himself up]. I have the honor to present myself--Postmaster, Court Councilor Shpekin. KHLESTAKOV. I'm glad to meet you. I like pleasant company very much. Take a seat. Do you live here all the time? POSTMASTER. Yes, sir. Quite so. KHLESTAKOV. I like this little town. Of course, there aren't many people. It's not very lively. But what of it? It isn't the capital. Isn't that so--it isn't the capital? POSTMASTER. Quite so, quite so. KHLESTAKOV. It's only in the capital that you find bon-ton and not a lot of provincial lubbers. What is your opinion? Isn't that so? POSTMASTER. Quite so. [Aside.] He isn't a bit proud. He inquires about everything. KHLESTAKOV. And yet you'll admit that one can live happily in a little town. POSTMASTER. Quite so. KHLESTAKOV. In my opinion what you want is this--you want people to respect you and to love you sincerely. Isn't that so? POSTMASTER. Exactly. KHLESTAKOV. I'm glad you agree with me. Of course, they call me queer. But that's the kind of character I am. [Looking him in the face and talking to himself.] I think I'll ask this postmaster for a loan. [Aloud.] A strange accident happened to me and I ran out of cash on the road. Can you lend me three hundred rubles? POSTMASTER. Of course. I shall esteem it a piece of great good fortune. I am ready to serve you with all my heart. KHLESTAKOV. Thank you very much. I must say, I hate like the devil to deny myself on the road. And why should I? Isn't that so? POSTMASTER. Quite so. [Rises, draws himself up, with his sword in his hand.] I'll not venture to disturb you any more. Would you care to make any remarks about the post office administration? KHLESTAKOV. No, nothing. The Postmaster bows and goes out. KHLESTAKOV [lighting a cigar]. It seems to me the Postmaster is a fine fellow, too. He's certainly obliging. I like people like that. SCENE V Khlestakov and Luka Lukich, who is practically pushed in on the stage. A voice behind him is heard saying nearly aloud, "Don't be chickenhearted." LUKA [drawing himself up, trembling, with his hand on his sword]. I have the honor to present myself--School Inspector, Titular Councilor Khlopov. KHLESTAKOV. I'm glad to see you. Take a seat, take a seat. Will you have a cigar? [Offers him a cigar.] LUKA [to himself, hesitating]. There now! That's something I hadn't anticipated. To take or not to take? KHLESTAKOV. Take it, take it. It's a pretty good cigar. Of course not what you get in St. Petersburg. There I used to smoke twenty-five cent cigars. You feel like kissing yourself after having smoked one of them. Here, light it. [Hands him a candle.] Luka Lukich tries to light the cigar shaking all over. KHLESTAKOV. Not that end, the other. LUKA [drops the cigar from fright, spits and shakes his hands. Aside]. Confound it! My damned timidity has ruined me! KHLESTAKOV. I see you are not a lover of cigars. I confess smoking is my weakness--smoking and the fair sex. Not for the life of me can I remain indifferent to the fair sex. How about you? Which do you like more, brunettes or blondes? Luka Lukich remains silent, at a complete loss what to say. KHLESTAKOV. Tell me frankly, brunettes or blondes? LUKA. I don't dare to know. KHLESTAKOV. No, no, don't evade. I'm bound to know your taste. LUKA. I venture to report to you--[Aside.] I don't know what I'm saying. KHLESTAKOV. Ah, you don't want to say. I suppose some little brunette or other has cast a spell over you. Confess, she has, hasn't she? Luka Lukich remains silent. KHLESTAKOV. Ah, you're blushing. You see. Why don't you speak? LUKA. I'm scared, your Hon--High--Ex--[Aside.] Done for! My confounded tongue has undone me! KHLESTAKOV. You're scared? There IS something awe-inspiring in my eyes, isn't there? At least I know not a single woman can resist them. Isn't that so? LUKA. Exactly. KHLESTAKOV. A strange thing happened to me on the road. I ran entirely out of cash. Can you lend me three hundred rubles? LUKA [clutching his pockets. Aside]. A fine business if I haven't got the money! I have! I have! [Takes out the bills and gives them to him, trembling.] KHLESTAKOV. Thank you very much. LUKA [drawing himself up, with his hand on his sword]. I will not venture to disturb you with my presence any longer. KHLESTAKOV. Good-by. LUKA [dashes out almost at a run, saying aside.] Well, thank the Lord! Maybe he won't inspect the schools. SCENE VI Khlestakov and Artemy Filippovich. ARTEMY [enters and draws himself up, his hand on his sword]. I have the honor to present myself--Superintendent of Charities, Court Councilor Zemlianika. KHLESTAKOV. Howdeedo? Please sit down. ARTEMY. I had the honor of receiving you and personally conducting you through the philanthropic institutions committed to my care. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, yes, I remember. You treated me to a dandy lunch. ARTEMY. I am glad to do all I can in behalf of my country. KHLESTAKOV. I admit, my weakness is a good cuisine.--Tell me, please, won't you--it seems to me you were a little shorter yesterday, weren't you? ARTEMY. Quite possible. [After a pause.] I may say I spare myself no pains and perform the duties of my office with the utmost zeal. [Draws his chair closer and speaks in a lowered tone.] There's the postmaster, for example, he does absolutely nothing. Everything is in a fearful state of neglect. The mail is held up. Investigate for yourself, if you please, and you will see. The Judge, too, the man who was here just now, does nothing but hunt hares, and he keeps his dogs in the court rooms, and his conduct, if I must confess--and for the benefit of the fatherland, I must confess, though he is my relative and friend--his conduct is in the highest degree reprehensible. There is a squire here by the name of Dobchinsky, whom you were pleased to see. Well, the moment Dobchinsky leaves the house, the Judge is there with Dobchinsky's wife. I can swear to it. You just take a look at the children. Not one of them resembles Dobchinsky. All of them, even the little girl, are the very image of the Judge. KHLESTAKOV. You don't say so. I never imagined it. ARTEMY. Then take the School Inspector here. I don't know how the government could have entrusted him with such an office. He's worse than a Jacobin freethinker, and he instils such pernicious ideas into the minds of the young that I can hardly describe it. Hadn't I better put it all down on paper, if you so order? KHLESTAKOV. Very well, why not? I should like it very much. I like to kill the weary hours reading something amusing, you know. What is your name? I keep forgetting. ARTEMY. Zemlianika. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, yes, Zemlianika. Tell me, Mr. Zemlianika, have you any children? ARTEMY. Of course. Five. Two are already grown up. KHLESTAKOV. You don't say! Grown up! And how are they--how are they--a--a? ARTEMY. You mean that you deign to ask what their names are? KHLESTAKOV. Yes, yes, what are their names? ARTEMY. Nikolay, Ivan, Yelizaveta, Marya and Perepetuya. KHLESTAKOV. Good. ARTEMY. I don't venture to disturb you any longer with my presence and rob you of your time dedicated to the performance of your sacred duties---[Bows and makes to go.] KHLESTAKOV [escorting him]. Not at all. What you told me is all very funny. Call again, please. I like that sort of thing very much. [Turns back and reopens the door, calling.] I say, there! What is your----I keep forgetting. What is your first name and your patronymic? ARTEMY. Artemy Filippovich. KHLESTAKOV. Do me a favor, Artemy Filippovich. A curious accident happened to me on the road. I've run entirely out of cash. Have you four hundred rubles to lend me? ARTEMY. I have. KHLESTAKOV. That comes in pat. Thank you very much. SCENE VII Khlestakov, Bobchinsky, and Dobchinsky. BOBCHINSKY. I have the honor to present myself--a resident of this town, Piotr, son of Ivan Bobchinsky. DOBCHINSKY. I am Piotr, son of Ivan Dobchinsky, a squire. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, yes, I've met you before. I believe you fell? How's your nose? BOBCHINSKY. It's all right. Please don't trouble. It's dried up, dried up completely. KHLESTAKOV. That's nice. I'm glad it's dried up. [Suddenly and abruptly.] Have you any money? DOBCHINSKY. Money? How's that--money? KHLESTAKOV. A thousand rubles to lend me. BOBCHINSKY. Not so much as that, honest to God I haven't. Have you, Piotr Ivanovich? DOBCHINSKY. I haven't got it with me, because my money--I beg to inform you--is deposited in the State Savings Bank. KHLESTAKOV. Well, if you haven't a thousand, then a hundred. BOBCHINSKY [fumbling in his pockets]. Have you a hundred rubles, Piotr Ivanovich? All I have is forty. DOBCHINSKY [examining his pocket-book]. I have only twenty-five. BOBCHINSKY. Look harder, Piotr Ivanovich. I know you have a hole in your pocket, and the money must have dropped down into it somehow. DOBCHINSKY. No, honestly, there isn't any in the hole either. KHLESTAKOV. Well, never mind. I merely mentioned the matter. Sixty-five will do. [Takes the money.] DOBCHINSKY. May I venture to ask a favor of you concerning a very delicate matter? KHLESTAKOV. What is it? DOBCHINSKY. It's a matter of an extremely delicate nature. My oldest son--I beg to inform you--was born before I was married. KHLESTAKOV. Indeed? DOBCHINSKY. That is, only in a sort of way. He is really my son, just as if he had been born in wedlock. I made up everything afterwards, set everything right, as it should be, with the bonds of matrimony, you know. Now, I venture to inform you, I should like to have him altogether--that is, I should like him to be altogether my legitimate son and be called Dobchinsky the same as I. KHLESTAKOV. That's all right. Let him be called Dobchinsky. That's possible. DOBCHINSKY. I shouldn't have troubled you; but it's a pity, he is such a talented youngster. He gives the greatest promise. He can recite different poems by heart; and whenever he gets hold of a penknife, he makes little carriages as skilfully as a conjurer. Here's Piotr Ivanovich. He knows. Am I not right? BOBCHINSKY. Yes, the lad is very talented. KHLESTAKOV. All right, all right. I'll try to do it for you. I'll speak to--I hope--it'll be done, it'll all be done. Yes, yes. [Turning to Bobchinsky.] Have you anything you'd like to say to me? BOBCHINSKY. Why, of course. I have a most humble request to make. KHLESTAKOV. What is it? BOBCHINSKY. I beg your Highness or your Excellency most worshipfully, when you get back to St. Petersburg, please tell all the high personages there, the senators and the admirals, that Piotr Ivanovich Bobchinsky lives in this town. Say this: "Piotr Ivanovich lives there." KHLESTAKOV. Very well. BOBCHINSKY. And if you should happen to speak to the Czar, then tell him, too: "Your Majesty," tell him, "Your Majesty, Piotr Ivanovich Bobchinsky lives in this town." KHLESTAKOV. Very well. BOBCHINSKY. Pardon me for having troubled you with my presence. KHLESTAKOV. Not at all, not at all. It was my pleasure. [Sees them to the door.] SCENE VIII KHLESTAKOV [alone]. My, there are a lot of officials here. They seem to be taking me for a government functionary. To be sure, I threw dust in their eyes yesterday. What a bunch of fools! I'll write all about it to Triapichkin in St. Petersburg. He'll write them up in the papers. Let him give them a nice walloping.--Ho, Osip, give me paper and ink. OSIP [looking in at the door]. D'rectly. KHLESTAKOV. Anybody gets caught in Triapichkin's tongue had better look out. For the sake of a witticism he wouldn't spare his own father. They are good people though, these officials. It's a nice trait of theirs to lend me money. I'll just see how much it all mounts up to. Here's three hundred from the Judge and three hundred from the Postmaster--six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred--What a greasy bill!--Eight hundred, nine hundred.--Oho! Rolls up to more than a thousand! Now, if I get you, captain, now! We'll see who'll do whom! SCENE IX Khlestakov and Osip entering with paper and ink. KHLESTAKOV. Now, you simpleton, you see how they receive and treat me. [Begins to write.] OSIP. Yes, thank God! But do you know what, Ivan Aleksandrovich? KHLESTAKOV. What? OSIP. Leave this place. Upon my word, it's time. KHLESTAKOV [writing]. What nonsense! Why? OSIP. Just so. God be with them. You've had a good time here for two days. It's enough. What's the use of having anything more to do with them? Spit on them. You don't know what may happen. Somebody else may turn up. Upon my word, Ivan Aleksandrovich. And the horses here are fine. We'll gallop away like a breeze. KHLESTAKOV [writing]. No, I'd like to stay a little longer. Let's go tomorrow. OSIP. Why tomorrow? Let's go now, Ivan Aleksandrovich, now, 'pon my word. To be sure, it's a great honor and all that. But really we'd better go as quick as we can. You see, they've taken you for somebody else, honest. And your dad will be angry because you dilly-dallied so long. We'd gallop off so smartly. They'd give us first-class horses here. KHLESTAKOV [writing]. All right. But first take this letter to the postoffice, and, if you like, order post horses at the same time. Tell the postilions that they should drive like couriers and sing songs, and I'll give them a ruble each. [Continues to write.] I wager Triapichkin will die laughing. OSIP. I'll send the letter off by the man here. I'd rather be packing in the meanwhile so as to lose no time. KHLESTAKOV. All right. Bring me a candle. OSIP [outside the door, where he is heard speaking]. Say, partner, go to the post office and mail a letter, and tell the postmaster to frank it. And have a coach sent round at once, the very best courier coach; and tell them the master doesn't pay fare. He travels at the expense of the government. And make them hurry, or else the master will be angry. Wait, the letter isn't ready yet. KHLESTAKOV. I wonder where he lives now, on Pochtamtskaya or Grokhovaya Street. He likes to move often, too, to get out of paying rent. I'll make a guess and send it to Pochtamtskaya Street. [Folds the letter and addresses it.] Osip brings the candle. Khlestakov seals the letter with sealing wax. At that moment Derzhimorda's voice is heard saying: "Where are you going, whiskers? You've been told that nobody is allowed to come in." KHLESTAKOV [giving the letter to Osip]. There, have it mailed. MERCHANT'S VOICE. Let us in, brother. You have no right to keep us out. We have come on business. DERZHIMORDA'S VOICE. Get out of here, get out of here! He doesn't receive anybody. He's asleep. The disturbance outside grows louder. KHLESTAKOV. What's the matter there, Osip? See what the noise is about. OSIP [looking through the window]. There are some merchants there who want to come in, and the sergeant won't let them. They are waving papers. I suppose they want to see you. KHLESTAKOV [going to the window]. What is it, friends? MERCHANT'S VOICE. We appeal for your protection. Give orders, your Lordship, that our petitions be received. KHLESTAKOV. Let them in, let them in. Osip, tell them to come in. Osip goes out. KHLESTAKOV [takes the petitions through the window, unfolds one of them and reads]. "To his most honorable, illustrious financial Excellency, from the merchant Abdulin...." The devil knows what this is! There's no such title. SCENE X Khlestakov and Merchants, with a basket of wine and sugar loaves. KHLESTAKOV. What is it, friends? MERCHANTS. We beseech your favor. KHLESTAKOV. What do you want? MERCHANTS. Don't ruin us, your Worship. We suffer insult and wrong wholly without cause. KHLESTAKOV. From whom? A MERCHANT. Why, from our governor here. Such a governor there never was yet in the world, your Worship. No words can describe the injuries he inflicts upon us. He has taken the bread out of our mouths by quartering soldiers on us, so that you might as well put your neck in a noose. He doesn't treat you as you deserve. He catches hold of your beard and says, "Oh, you Tartar!" Upon my word, if we had shown him any disrespect, but we obey all the laws and regulations. We don't mind giving him what his wife and daughter need for their clothes, but no, that's not enough. So help me God! He comes to our shop and takes whatever his eyes fall on. He sees a piece of cloth and says, "Oh, my friends, that's a fine piece of goods. Take it to my house." So we take it to his house. It will be almost forty yards. KHLESTAKOV. Is it possible? My, what a swindler! MERCHANTS. So help us God! No one remembers a governor like him. When you see him coming you hide everything in the shop. It isn't only that he wants a few delicacies and fineries. He takes every bit of trash, too--prunes that have been in the barrel seven years and that even the boy in my shop would not eat, and he grabs a fist full. His name day is St. Anthony's, and you'd think there's nothing else left in the world to bring him and that he doesn't want any more. But no, you must give him more. He says St. Onufry's is also his name day. What's to be done? You have to take things to him on St. Onufry's day, too. KHLESTAKOV. Why, he's a plain robber. MERCHANTS. Yes, indeed! And try to contradict him, and he'll fill your house with a whole regiment of soldiers. And if you say anything, he orders the doors closed. "I won't inflict corporal punishment on you," he says, "or put you in the rack. That's forbidden by law," he says. "But I'll make you swallow salt herring, my good man." KHLESTAKOV. What a swindler! For such things a man can be sent to Siberia. MERCHANTS. It doesn't matter where you are pleased to send him. Only the farthest away from here the better. Father, don't scorn to accept our bread and salt. We pay our respects to you with sugar and a basket of wine. KHLESTAKOV. No, no. Don't think of it. I don't take bribes. Oh, if, for example, you would offer me a loan of three hundred rubles, that's quite different. I am willing to take a loan. MERCHANTS. If you please, father. [They take out money.] But what is three hundred? Better take five hundred. Only help us. KHLESTAKOV. Very well. About a loan I won't say a word. I'll take it. MERCHANTS [proffering him the money on a silver tray]. Do please take the tray, too. KHLESTAKOV. Very well. I can take the tray, too. MERCHANTS [bowing]. Then take the sugar at the same time. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, no. I take no bribes. OSIP. Why don't you take the sugar, your Highness? Take it. Everything will come in handy on the road. Give here the sugar and that case. Give them here. It'll all be of use. What have you got there--a string? Give it here. A string will be handy on the road, too, if the coach or something else should break--for tying it up. MERCHANTS. Do us this great favor, your illustrious Highness. Why, if you don't help us in our appeal to you, then we simply don't know how we are to exist. We might as well put our necks in a noose. KHLESTAKOV. Positively, positively. I shall exert my efforts in your behalf. [The Merchants leave. A woman's voice is heard saying:] "Don't you dare not to let me in. I'll make a complaint against you to him himself. Don't push me that way. It hurts." KHLESTAKOV. Who is there? [Goes to the window.] What is it, mother? [Two women's voices are heard:] "We beseech your grace, father. Give orders, your Lordship, for us to be heard." KHLESTAKOV. Let her in. SCENE XI Khlestakov, the Locksmith's Wife, and the non-commissioned Officer's Widow. LOCK.'S WIFE [kneeling]. I beseech your grace. WIDOW. I beseech your grace. KHLESTAKOV. Who are you? WIDOW. Ivanova, widow of a non-commissioned officer. LOCK.'S WIFE. Fevronya Petrova Poshliopkina, the wife of a locksmith, a burgess of this town. My father-- KHLESTAKOV. Stop! One at a time. What do you want? LOCK.'S WIFE. I beg for your grace. I beseech your aid against the governor. May God send all evil upon him. May neither he nor his children nor his uncles nor his aunts ever prosper in any of their undertakings. KHLESTAKOV. What's the matter? LOCK.'S WIFE. He ordered my husband to shave his forehead as a soldier, and our turn hadn't come, and it is against the law, my husband being a married man. KHLESTAKOV. How could he do it, then? LOCK.'S WIFE. He did it, he did it, the blackguard! May God smite him both in this world and the next. If he has an aunt, may all harm descend upon her. And if his father is living, may the rascal perish, may he choke to death. Such a cheat! The son of the tailor should have been levied. And he is a drunkard, too. But his parents gave the governor a rich present, so he fastened on the son of the tradeswoman, Panteleyeva. And Panteleyeva also sent his wife three pieces of linen. So then he comes to me. "What do you want your husband for?" he says. "He isn't any good to you any more." It's for me to know whether he is any good or not. That's my business. The old cheat! "He's a thief," he says. "Although he hasn't stolen anything, that doesn't matter. He is going to steal. And he'll be recruited next year anyway." How can I do without a husband? I am not a strong woman. The skunk! May none of his kith and kin ever see the light of God. And if he has a mother-in-law, may she, too,-- KHLESTAKOV. All right, all right. Well, and you? [Addressing the Widow and leading the Locksmith's Wife to the door.] LOCK.'S WIFE [leaving]. Don't forget, father. Be kind and gracious to me. WIDOW. I have come to complain against the Governor, father. KHLESTAKOV. What is it? What for? Be brief. WIDOW. He flogged me, father. KHLESTAKOV. How so? WIDOW. By mistake, my father. Our women got into a squabble in the market, and when the police came, it was all over, and they took me and reported me--I couldn't sit down for two days. KHLESTAKOV. But what's to be done now? WIDOW. There's nothing to be done, of course. But if you please, order him to pay a fine for the mistake. I can't undo my luck. But the money would be very useful to me now. KHLESTAKOV. All right, all right. Go now, go. I'll see to it. [Hands with petitions are thrust through the window.] Who else is out there? [Goes to the window.] No, no. I don't want to, I don't want to. [Leaves the window.] I'm sick of it, the devil take it! Don't let them in, Osip. OSIP [calling through the window]. Go away, go away! He has no time. Come tomorrow. The door opens and a figure appears in a shag cloak, with unshaven beard, swollen lip, and a bandage over his cheek. Behind him appear a whole line of others. OSIP. Go away, go away! What are you crowding in here for? He puts his hands against the stomach of the first one, and goes out through the door, pushing him and banging the door behind. SCENE XII Khlestakov and Marya Antonovna. MARYA. Oh! KHLESTAKOV. What frightened you so, mademoiselle? MARYA. I wasn't frightened. KHLESTAKOV [showing off]. Please, miss. It's a great pleasure to me that you took me for a man who--May I venture to ask you where you were going? MARYA. I really wasn't going anywhere. KHLESTAKOV. But why weren't you going anywhere? MARYA. I was wondering whether mamma was here. KHLESTAKOV. No. I'd like to know why you weren't going anywhere. MARYA. I should have been in your way. You were occupied with important matters. KHLESTAKOV [showing off]. Your eyes are better than important matters. You cannot possibly disturb me. No, indeed, by no means. On the contrary, you afford me great pleasure. MARYA. You speak like a man from the capital. KHLESTAKOV. For such a beautiful lady as you. May I give myself the pleasure of offering you a chair? But no, you should have, not a chair, but a throne. MARYA. I really don't know--I really must go [She sits down.] KHLESTAKOV. What a beautiful scarf that is. MARYA. You are making fun of me. You're only ridiculing the provincials. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, mademoiselle, how I long to be your scarf, so that I might embrace your lily neck. MARYA. I haven't the least idea what you are talking about--scarf!--Peculiar weather today, isn't it? KHLESTAKOV. Your lips, mademoiselle, are better than any weather. MARYA. You are just saying that--I should like to ask you--I'd rather you would write some verses in my album for a souvenir. You must know very many. KHLESTAKOV. Anything you desire, mademoiselle. Ask! What verses will you have? MARYA. Any at all. Pretty, new verses. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, what are verses! I know a lot of them. MARYA. Well, tell me. What verses will you write for me? KHLESTAKOV. What's the use? I know them anyway. MARYA. I love them so. KHLESTAKOV. I have lots of them--of every sort. If you like, for example, I'll give you this: "Oh, thou, mortal man, who in thy anguish murmurest against God--" and others. I can't remember them now. Besides, it's all bosh. I'd rather offer you my love instead, which ever since your first glance--[Moves his chair nearer.] MARYA. Love? I don't understand love. I never knew what love is. [Moves her chair away.] KHLESTAKOV. Why do you move your chair away? It is better for us to sit near each other. MARYA [moving away]. Why near? It's all the same if it's far away. KHLESTAKOV [moving nearer]. Why far? It's all the same if it's near. MARYA [moving away]. But what for? KHLESTAKOV [moving nearer]. It only seems near to you. Imagine it's far. How happy I would be, mademoiselle, if I could clasp you in my embrace. MARYA [looking through the window]. What is that? It looked as if something had flown by. Was it a magpie or some other bird? KHLESTAKOV [kisses her shoulder and looks through the window]. It's a magpie. MARYA [rises indignantly]. No, that's too much--Such rudeness, such impertinence. KHLESTAKOV [holding her back]. Forgive me, mademoiselle. I did it only out of love--only out of love, nothing else. MARYA. You take me for a silly provincial wench. [Struggles to go away.] KHLESTAKOV [still holding her back]. It's out of love, really--out of love. It was just a little fun. Marya Antonovna, don't be angry. I'm ready to beg your forgiveness on my knees. [Falls on his knees.] Forgive me, do forgive me! You see, I am on my knees. SCENE XIII The same and Anna Andreyevna. ANNA [seeing Khlestakov on his knees]. Oh, what a situation! KHLESTAKOV [rising]. Oh, the devil! ANNA [to Marya]. What does this mean? What does this behavior mean? MARYA. I, mother-- ANNA. Go away from here. Do you hear? And don't you dare to show your face to me. [Marya goes out in tears.] Excuse me. I must say I'm greatly astonished. KHLESTAKOV [aside]. She's very appetizing, too. She's not bad-looking, either. [Flings himself on his knees.] Madam, you see I am burning with love. ANNA. What! You on your knees? Please get up, please get up. This floor isn't very clean. KHLESTAKOV. No, I must be on my knees before you. I must. Pronounce the verdict. Is it life or death? ANNA. But please--I don't quite understand the significance of your words. If I am not mistaken, you are making a proposal for my daughter. KHLESTAKOV. No, I am in love with you. My life hangs by a thread. If you don't crown my steadfast love, then I am not fit to exist in this world. With a burning flame in my bosom, I pray for your hand. ANNA. But please remember I am in a certain way--married. KHLESTAKOV. That's nothing. Love knows no distinction. It was Karamzin who said: "The laws condemn." We will fly in the shadow of a brook. Your hand! I pray for your hand! SCENE XIV The same and Marya Antonovna. MARYA [running in suddenly]. Mamma, papa says you should--[seeing Khlestakov on his knees, exclaims:] Oh, what a situation! ANNA. Well, what do you want? Why did you come in here? What for? What sort of flightiness is this? Breaks in like a cat leaping out of smoke. Well, what have you found so wonderful? What's gotten into your head again? Really, she behaves like a child of three. She doesn't act a bit like a girl of eighteen, not a bit. I don't know when you'll get more sense into your head, when you'll behave like a decent, well-bred girl, when you'll know what good manners are and a proper demeanor. MARYA [through her tears]. Mamma, I really didn't know-- ANNA. There's always a breeze blowing through your head. You act like Liapkin-Tiapkin's daughter. Why should you imitate them? You shouldn't imitate them. You have other examples to follow. You have your mother before you. She's the example to follow. KHLESTAKOV [seizing Marya's hand]. Anna Andreyevna, don't oppose our happiness. Give your blessing to our constant love. ANNA [in surprise]. So it's in her you are-- KHLESTAKOV. Decide--life or death? ANNA. Well, there, you fool, you see? Our guest is pleased to go down on his knees for such trash as you. You, running in suddenly as if you were out of your mind. Really, it would be just what you deserve, if I refused. You are not worthy of such happiness. MARYA. I won't do it again, mamma, really I won't. SCENE XV The same and the Governor in precipitate haste. GOVERNOR. Your Excellency, don't ruin me, don't ruin me. KHLESTAKOV. What's the matter? GOVERNOR. The merchants have complained to your Excellency. I assure you on my honor that not one half of what they said is so. They themselves are cheats. They give short measure and short weight. The officer's widow lied to you when she said I flogged her. She lied, upon my word, she lied. She flogged herself. KHLESTAKOV. The devil take the officer's widow. What do I care about the officer's widow. GOVERNOR. Don't believe them, don't believe them. They are rank liars; a mere child wouldn't believe them. They are known all over town as liars. And as for cheating, I venture to inform you that there are no swindlers like them in the whole of creation. ANNA. Do you know what honor Ivan Aleksandrovich is bestowing upon us? He is asking for our daughter's hand. GOVERNOR. What are you talking about? Mother has lost her wits. Please do not be angry, your Excellency. She has a touch of insanity. Her mother was like that, too. KHLESTAKOV. Yes, I am really asking for your daughter's hand. I am in love with her. GOVERNOR. I cannot believe it, your Excellency. ANNA. But when you are told! KHLESTAKOV. I am not joking. I could go crazy, I am so in love. GOVERNOR. I daren't believe it. I am unworthy of such an honor. KHLESTAKOV. If you don't consent to give me your daughter Marya Antonovna's hand, then I am ready to do the devil knows what. GOVERNOR. I cannot believe it. You deign to joke, your Excellency. ANNA. My, what a blockhead! Really! When you are told over and over again! GOVERNOR. I can't believe it. KHLESTAKOV. Give her to me, give her to me! I am a desperate man and I may do anything. If I shoot myself, you will have a law-suit on your hands. GOVERNOR. Oh, my God! I am not guilty either in thought or in action. Please do not be angry. Be pleased to act as your mercy wills. Really, my head is in such a state I don't know what is happening. I have turned into a worse fool than I've ever been in my life. ANNA. Well, give your blessing. Khlestakov goes up to Marya Antonovna. GOVERNOR. May God bless you, but I am not guilty. [Khlestakov kisses Marya. The Governor looks at them.] What the devil! It's really so. [Rubs his eyes.] They are kissing. Oh, heavens! They are kissing. Actually to be our son-in-law! [Cries out, jumping with glee.] Ho, Anton! Ho, Anton! Ho, Governor! So that's the turn events have taken! SCENE XVI The same and Osip. OSIP. The horses are ready. KHLESTAKOV. Oh! All right. I'll come presently. GOVERNOR. What's that? Are you leaving? KHLESTAKOV. Yes, I'm going. GOVERNOR. Then when--that is--I thought you were pleased to hint at a wedding. KHLESTAKOV. Oh--for one minute only--for one day--to my uncle, a rich old man. I'll be back tomorrow. GOVERNOR. We would not venture, of course, to hold you back, and we hope for your safe return. KHLESTAKOV. Of course, of course, I'll come back at once. Good-by, my dear--no, I simply can't express my feelings. Good-by, my heart. [Kisses Marya's hand.] GOVERNOR. Don't you need something for the road? It seems to me you were pleased to be short of cash. KHLESTAKOV, Oh, no, what for? [After a little thought.] However, if you like. GOVERNOR. How much will you have? KHLESTAKOV. You gave me two hundred then, that is, not two hundred, but four hundred--I don't want to take advantage of your mistake--you might let me have the same now so that it should be an even eight hundred. GOVERNOR. Very well. [Takes the money out of his pocket-book.] The notes happen to be brand-new, too, as though on purpose. KHLESTAKOV. Oh, yes. [Takes the bills and looks at them.] That's good. They say new money means good luck. GOVERNOR. Quite right. KHLESTAKOV. Good-by, Anton Antonovich. I am very much obliged to you for your hospitality. I admit with all my heart that I have never got such a good reception anywhere. Good-by, Anna Andreyevna. Good-by, my sweet-heart, Marya Antonovna. All go out. Behind the Scenes. KHLESTAKOV. Good-by, angel of my soul, Marya Antonovna. GOVERNOR. What's that? You are going in a plain mail-coach? KHLESTAKOV. Yes, I'm used to it. I get a headache from a carriage with springs. POSTILION. Ho! GOVERNOR. Take a rug for the seat at least. If you say so, I'll tell them to bring a rug. KHLESTAKOV. No, what for? It's not necessary. However, let them bring a rug if you please. GOVERNOR. Ho, Avdotya. Go to the store-room and bring the very best rug from there, the Persian rug with the blue ground. Quick! POSTILION. Ho! GOVERNOR. When do you say we are to expect you back? KHLESTAKOV. Tomorrow, or the day after. OSIP. Is this the rug? Give it here. Put it there. Now put some hay on this side. POSTILION. Ho! OSIP. Here, on this side. More. All right. That will be fine. [Beats the rug down with his hand.] Now take the seat, your Excellency. KHLESTAKOV. Good-by, Anton Antonovich. GOVERNOR. Good-by, your Excellency. ANNA } MARYA} Good-by, Ivan Aleksandrovich. KHLESTAKOV. Good-by, mother. POSTILION. Get up, my boys! The bell rings and the curtain drops. ACT V SCENE: Same as in Act IV. SCENE I Governor, Anna Andreyevna, and Marya Antonovna. GOVERNOR. Well, Anna Andreyevna, eh? Did you ever imagine such a thing? Such a rich prize? I'll be--. Well, confess frankly, it never occurred to you even in your dreams, did it? From just a simple governor's wife suddenly--whew!--I'll be hanged!--to marry into the family of such a big gun. ANNA. Not at all. I knew it long ago. It seems wonderful to you because you are so plain. You never saw decent people. GOVERNOR. I'm a decent person myself, mother. But, really, think, Anna Andreyevna, what gay birds we have turned into now, you and I. Eh, Anna Andreyevna? High fliers, by Jove! Wait now, I'll give those fellows who were so eager to present their petitions and denunciations a peppering. Ho, who's there? [Enter a Sergeant.] Is it you, Ivan Karpovich? Call those merchants here, brother, won't you? I'll give it to them, the scoundrels! To make such complaints against me! The damned pack of Jews! Wait, my dear fellows. I used to dose you down to your ears. Now I'll dose you down to your beards. Make a list of all who came to protest against me, especially the mean petty scribblers who cooked the petitions up for them, and announce to all that they should know what honor the Heavens have bestowed upon the Governor, namely this: that he is marrying his daughter, not to a plain ordinary man, but to one the like of whom has never yet been in the world, who can do everything, everything, everything, everything! Proclaim it to all so that everybody should know. Shout it aloud to the whole world. Ring the bell, the devil take it! It is a triumph, and we will make it a triumph. [The Sergeant goes out.] So that's the way, Anna Andreyevna, eh? What shall we do now? Where shall we live? Here or in St. Pete? ANNA. In St. Petersburg, of course. How could we remain here? GOVERNOR. Well, if St. Pete, then St. Pete. But it would be good here, too. I suppose the governorship could then go to the devil, eh, Anna Andreyevna? ANNA. Of course. What's a governorship? GOVERNOR. Don't you think, Anna Andreyevna, I can rise to a high rank now, he being hand in glove with all the ministers, and visiting the court? In time I can be promoted to a generalship. What do you think, Anna Andreyevna? Can I become a general? ANNA. I should say so. Of course you can. GOVERNOR. Ah, the devil take it, it's nice to be a general. They hang a ribbon across your shoulders. What ribbon is better, the red St. Anne or the blue St. Andrew? ANNA. The blue St. Andrew, of course. GOVERNOR. What! My, you're aiming high. The red one is good, too. Why does one want to be a general? Because when you go travelling, there are always couriers and aides on ahead with "Horses"! And at the stations they refuse to give the horses to others. They all wait, all those councilors, captains, governors, and you don't take the slightest notice of them. You dine somewhere with the governor-general. And the town-governor--I'll keep him waiting at the door. Ha, ha, ha! [He bursts into a roar of laughter, shaking all over.] That's what's so alluring, confound it! ANNA. You always like such coarse things. You must remember that our life will have to be completely changed, that your acquaintances will not be a dog-lover of a judge, with whom you go hunting hares, or a Zemlianika. On the contrary, your acquaintances will be people of the most refined type, counts, and society aristocrats. Only really I am afraid of you. You sometimes use words that one never hears in good society. GOVERNOR. What of it? A word doesn't hurt. ANNA. It's all right when you are a town-governor, but there the life is entirely different. GOVERNOR. Yes, they say there are two kinds of fish there, the sea-eel and the smelt, and before you start to eat them, the saliva flows in your mouth. ANNA. That's all he thinks about--fish. I shall insist upon our house being the first in the capital and my room having so much amber in it that when you come in you have to shut your eyes. [She shuts her eyes and sniffs.] Oh, how good! SCENE II The same and the Merchants. GOVERNOR. Ah, how do you do, my fine fellows? MERCHANTS [bowing]. We wish you health, father. GOVERNOR. Well, my dearly beloved friends, how are you? How are your goods selling? So you complained against me, did you, you tea tanks, you scurvy hucksters? Complain, against me? You crooks, you pirates, you. Did you gain a lot by it, eh? Aha, you thought you'd land me in prison? May seven devils and one she-devil take you! Do you know that-- ANNA. Good heavens, Antosha, what words you use! GOVERNOR [irritated]. Oh, it isn't a matter of words now. Do you know that the very official to whom you complained is going to marry my daughter? Well, what do you say to that? Now I'll make you smart. You cheat the people, you make a contract with the government, and you do the government out of a hundred thousand, supplying it with rotten cloth; and when you give fifteen yards away gratis, you expect a reward besides. If they knew, they would send you to--And you strut about sticking out your paunches with a great air of importance: "I'm a merchant, don't touch me." "We," you say, "are as good as the nobility." Yes, the nobility, you monkey-faces. The nobleman is educated. If he gets flogged in school, it is for a purpose, to learn something useful. And you--start out in life learning trickery. Your master beats you for not being able to cheat. When you are still little boys and don't know the Lord's Prayer, you already give short measure and short weight. And when your bellies swell and your pockets fill up, then you assume an air of importance. Whew! What marvels! Because you guzzle sixteen samovars full a day, that's why you put on an air of importance. I spit on your heads and on your importance. MERCHANTS [bowing]. We are guilty, Anton Antonovich. GOVERNOR. Complaining, eh? And who helped you with that grafting when you built a bridge and charged twenty thousand for wood when there wasn't even a hundred rubles' worth used? I did. You goat beards. Have you forgotten? If I had informed on you, I could have despatched you to Siberia. What do you say to that? A MERCHANT. I'm guilty before God, Anton Antonovich. The evil spirit tempted me. We will never complain against you again. Ask whatever satisfaction you want, only don't be angry. GOVERNOR. Don't be angry! Now you are crawling at my feet. Why? Because I am on top now. But if the balance dipped the least bit your way, then you would trample me in the very dirt--you scoundrels! And you would crush me under a beam besides. MERCHANTS [prostrating themselves]. Don't ruin us, Anton Antonovich. GOVERNOR. Don't ruin us! Now you say, don't ruin us! And what did you say before? I could give you--[shrugging his shoulders and throwing up his hands.] Well, God forgive you. Enough. I don't harbor malice for long. Only look out now. Be on your guard. My daughter is going to marry, not an ordinary nobleman. Let your congratulations be--you understand? Don't try to get away with a dried sturgeon or a loaf of sugar. Well, leave now, in God's name. Merchants leave. SCENE III The same, Ammos Fiodorovich, Artemy Filippovich, then Rastakovsky. AMMOS [in the doorway]. Are we to believe the report, Anton Antonovich? A most extraordinary piece of good fortune has befallen you, hasn't it? ARTEMY. I have the honor to congratulate you on your unusual good fortune. I was glad from the bottom of my heart when I heard it. [Kisses Anna's hand.] Anna Andreyevna! [Kissing Marya's hand.] Marya Antonovna! Rastakovsky enters. RASTAKOVSKY. I congratulate you, Anton Antonovich. May God give you and the new couple long life and may He grant you numerous progeny--grand-children and great-grand-children. Anna Andreyevna! [Kissing her hand.] Marya Antonovna! [Kissing her hand.] SCENE IV The same, Korobkin and his Wife, Liuliukov. KOROBKIN. I have the honor to congratulate you, Anton Antonovich, and you, Anna Andreyevna [kissing her hand] and you Marya Antonovna [kissing her hand]. KOROBKIN'S WIFE. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart, Anna Andreyevna, on your new stroke of good fortune. LIULIUKOV. I have the honor to congratulate you, Anna Andreyevna. [Kisses her hand and turns to the audience, smacks his lips, putting on a bold front.] Marya Antonovna, I have the honor to congratulate you. [Kisses her hand and turns to the audience in the same way.] SCENE V A number of Guests enter. They kiss Anna's hand saying: "Anna Andreyevna," then Marya's hand, saying "Marya Antonovna." Bobchinsky and Dobchinsky enter jostling each other. BOBCHINSKY. I have the honor to congratulate you. DOBCHINSKY. Anton Antonovich, I have the honor to congratulate you. BOBCHINSKY. On the happy event. DOBCHINSKY. Anna Andreyevna! BOBCHINSKY. Anna Andreyevna! They bend over her hand at the same time and bump foreheads. DOBCHINSKY. Marya Antonovna! [Kisses her hand.] I have the honor to congratulate you. You will enjoy the greatest happiness. You will wear garments of gold and eat the most delicate soups, and you will pass your time most entertainingly. BOBCHINSKY [breaking in]. God give you all sorts of riches and of money and a wee tiny little son, like this. [Shows the size with his hands.] So that he can sit on the palm of your hand. The little fellow will be crying all the time, "Wow, wow, wow." SCENE VI More Guests enter and kiss the ladies' hands, among them Luka Lukich and his wife. LUKA LUKICH. I have the honor. LUKA'S WIFE [running ahead]. Congratulate you, Anna Andreyevna. [They kiss.] Really, I was so glad to hear of it. They tell me, "Anna Andreyevna has betrothed her daughter." "Oh, my God," I think to myself. It made me so glad that I said to my husband, "Listen, Lukanchik, that's a great piece of fortune for Anna Andreyevna." "Well," think I to myself, "thank God!" And I say to him, "I'm so delighted that I'm consumed with impatience to tell it to Anna Andreyevna herself." "Oh, my God," think I to myself, "it's just as Anna Andreyevna expected. She always did expect a good match for her daughter. And now what luck! It happened just exactly as she wanted it to happen." Really, it made me so glad that I couldn't say a word. I cried and cried. I simply screamed, so that Luka Lukich said to me, "What are you crying so for, Nastenka?" "Lukanchik," I said, "I don't know myself. The tears just keep flowing like a stream." GOVERNOR. Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen. Ho, Mishka, bring some more chairs in. The Guests seat themselves. SCENE VII The same, the Police Captain and Sergeants. CAPTAIN. I have the honor to congratulate you, your Honor, and to wish you long years of prosperity. GOVERNOR. Thank you, thank you! Please sit down, gentlemen. The Guests seat themselves. AMMOS. But please tell us, Anton Antonovich, how did it all come about, and how did it all--ahem!--go? GOVERNOR. It went in a most extraordinary way. He condescended to make the proposal in his own person. ANNA. In the most respectful and most delicate manner. He spoke beautifully. He said: "Anna Andreyevna, I have only a feeling of respect for your worth." And such a handsome, cultured man! His manners so genteel! "Believe me, Anna Andreyevna," he says, "life is not worth a penny to me. It is only because I respect your rare qualities." MARYA. Oh, mamma, it was to me he said that. ANNA. Shut up! You don't know anything. And don't meddle in other people's affairs. "Anna Andreyevna," he says, "I am enraptured." That was the flattering way he poured out his soul. And when I was going to say, "We cannot possibly hope for such an honor," he suddenly went down on his knees, and so aristocratically! "Anna Andreyevna," he says, "don't make me the most miserable of men. Consent to respond to my feelings, or else I'll put an end to my life." MARYA. Really, mamma, it was to me he said that. ANNA. Yes, of course--to you, too. I don't deny it. GOVERNOR. He even frightened us. He said he would put a bullet through his brains. "I'll shoot myself, I'll shoot myself," he said. MANY GUESTS. Well, for the Lord's sake! AMMOS. How remarkable! LUKA. It must have been fate that so ordained. ARTEMY. Not fate, my dear friend. Fate is a turkey-hen. It was the Governor's services that brought him this piece of fortune. [Aside.] Good luck always does crawl into the mouths of swine like him. AMMOS. If you like, Anton Antonovich, I'll sell you the dog we were bargaining about. GOVERNOR. I don't care about dogs now. AMMOS. Well, if you don't want it, then we'll agree on some other dog. KOROBKIN'S WIFE. Oh, Anna Andreyevna, how happy I am over your good fortune. You can't imagine how happy I am. KOROBKIN. But where, may I ask, is the distinguished guest now? I heard he had gone away for some reason or other. GOVERNOR. Yes, he's gone off for a day on a highly important matter. ANNA. To his uncle--to ask his blessing. GOVERNOR. To ask his blessing. But tomorrow--[He sneezes, and all burst into one exclamation of well-wishes.] Thank you very much. But tomorrow he'll be back. [He sneezes, and is congratulated again. Above the other voices are heard those of the following.] {CAPTAIN. I wish you health, your Honor. {BOBCHINSKY. A hundred years and a sack of ducats. {DOBCHINSKY. May God increase it to a thousand. {ARTEMY. May you go to hell! {KOROBKIN'S WIFE. The devil take you! GOVERNOR. I'm very much obliged to you. I wish you the same. ANNA. We intend to live in St. Petersburg now. I must say, the atmosphere here is too village-like. I must say, it's extremely unpleasant. My husband, too--he'll be made a general there. GOVERNOR. Yes, confound it, gentlemen, I admit I should very much like to be a general. LUKA. May God grant that you get a generalship. RASTAKOVSKY. From man it is impossible, but from God everything is possible. AMMOS. High merits, high honors. ARTEMY. Reward according to service. AMMOS [aside]. The things he'll do when he becomes a general. A generalship suits him as a saddle suits a cow. It's a far cry to his generalship. There are better men than you, and they haven't been made generals yet. ARTEMY [aside]. The devil take it--he's aiming for a generalship. Well, maybe he will become a general after all. He's got the air of importance, the devil take him! [Addressing the Governor.] Don't forget us then, Anton Antonovich. AMMOS. And if anything happens--for instance, some difficulty in our affairs--don't refuse us your protection. KOROBKIN. Next year I am going to take my son to the capital to put him in government service. So do me the kindness to give me your protection. Be a father to the orphan. GOVERNOR. I am ready for my part--ready to exert my efforts on your behalf. ANNA. Antosha, you are always ready with your promises. In the first place, you won't have time to think of such things. And how can you--how is it possible for you, to burden yourself with such promises? GOVERNOR. Why not, my dear? It's possible occasionally. ANNA. Of course it's possible. But you can't give protection to every small potato. KOROBKIN'S WIFE. Do you hear the way she speaks of us? GUEST. She's always been that way. I know her. Seat her at table and she'll put her feet on it. SCENE VIII The same and the Postmaster, who rushes in with an unsealed letter in his hand. POSTMASTER. A most astonishing thing, ladies and gentlemen! The official whom we took to be an inspector-general is not an inspector-general. ALL. How so? Not an inspector-general? POSTMASTER. No, not a bit of it. I found it out from the letter. GOVERNOR. What are you talking about? What are you talking about? What letter? POSTMASTER. His own letter. They bring a letter to the postoffice, I glance at the address and I see Pochtamtskaya Street. I was struck dumb. "Well," I think to myself, "I suppose he found something wrong in the postoffice department and is informing the government." So I unsealed it. GOVERNOR. How could you? POSTMASTER. I don't know myself. A supernatural power moved me. I had already summoned a courier to send it off by express; but I was overcome by a greater curiosity than I have ever felt in my life. "I can't, I can't," I hear a voice telling me. "I can't." But it pulled me and pulled me. In one ear I heard, "Don't open the letter. You will die like a chicken," and in the other it was just as if the devil were whispering, "Open it, open it." And when I cracked the sealing wax, I felt as if I were on fire; and when I opened the letter, I froze, upon my word, I froze. And my hands trembled, and everything whirled around me. GOVERNOR. But how did you dare to open it? The letter of so powerful a personage? POSTMASTER. But that's just the point--he's neither powerful nor a personage. GOVERNOR. Then what is he in your opinion? POSTMASTER. He's neither one thing nor another. The devil knows what he is. GOVERNOR [furiously]. How neither one thing nor another? How do you dare to call him neither one thing nor another? And the devil knows what besides? I'll put you under arrest. POSTMASTER. Who--you? GOVERNOR. Yes, I. POSTMASTER. You haven't the power. GOVERNOR. Do you know that he's going to marry my daughter? That I myself am going to be a high official and will have the power to exile to Siberia? POSTMASTER. Oh, Anton Antonovich, Siberia! Siberia is far away. I'd rather read the letter to you. Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to read the letter. ALL. Do read it. POSTMASTER [reads]. "I hasten to inform you, my dear friend, what wonderful things have happened to me. On the way here an infantry captain did me out of my last penny, so that the innkeeper here wanted to send me to jail, when suddenly, thanks to my St. Petersburg appearance and dress, the whole town took me for a governor-general. Now I am staying at the governor's home. I am having a grand time and I am flirting desperately with his wife and daughter. I only haven't decided whom to begin with. I think with the mother first, because she seems ready to accept all terms. You remember how hard up we were taking our meals wherever we could without paying for them, and how once the pastry cook grabbed me by the collar for having charged pies that I ate to the king of England? Now it is quite different. They lend me all the money I want. They are an awful lot of originals. You would split your sides laughing at them. I know you write for the papers. Put them in your literature. In the first place the Governor is as stupid as an old horse--" GOVERNOR. Impossible! That can't be in the letter. POSTMASTER [showing the letter]. Read for yourself. GOVERNOR [reads]. "As an old horse." Impossible! You put it in yourself. POSTMASTER. How could I? ARTEMY. Go on reading. LUKA. Go on reading. POSTMASTER [continuing to read]. "The Governor is as stupid as an old horse--" GOVERNOR. Oh, the devil! He's got to read it again. As if it weren't there anyway. POSTMASTER [continuing to read]. H'm, h'm--"an old horse. The Postmaster is a good man, too." [Stops reading.] Well, here he's saying something improper about me, too. GOVERNOR. Go on--read the rest. POSTMASTER. What for? GOVERNOR. The deuce take it! Once we have begun to read it, we must read it all. ARTEMY. If you will allow me, I will read it. [Puts on his eye-glasses and reads.] "The Postmaster is just like the porter Mikheyev in our office, and the scoundrel must drink just as hard." POSTMASTER [to the audience]. A bad boy! He ought to be given a licking. That's all. ARTEMY [continues to read]. "The Superintendent of Char-i-i--" [Stammers.] KOROBKIN. Why did you stop? ARTEMY. The handwriting isn't clear. Besides, it's evident that he's a blackguard. KOROBKIN. Give it to me. I believe my eyesight is better. ARTEMY [refusing to give up the letter]. No. This part can be omitted. After that it's legible. KOROBKIN. Let me have it please. I'll see for myself. ARTEMY. I can read it myself. I tell you that after this part it's all legible. POSTMASTER. No, read it all. Everything so far could be read. ALL. Give him the letter, Artemy Filippovich, give it to him. [To Korobkin.] You read it. ARTEMY. Very well. [Gives up the letter.] Here it is. [Covers a part of it with his finger.] Read from here on. [All press him.] POSTMASTER. Read it all, nonsense, read it all. KOROBKIN [reading]. "The Superintendent of Charities, Zemlianika, is a regular pig in a cap." ARTEMY [to the audience]. Not a bit witty. A pig in a cap! Have you ever seen a pig wear a cap? KOROBKIN [continues reading]. "The School Inspector reeks of onions." LUKA [to the audience]. Upon my word, I never put an onion to my mouth. AMMOS [aside]. Thank God, there's nothing about me in it. KOROBKIN [continues reading]. "The Judge--" AMMOS. There! [Aloud.] Ladies and gentlemen, I think the letter is far too long. To the devil with it! Why should we go on reading such trash? LUKA. No. POSTMASTER. No, go on. ARTEMY. Go on reading. KOROBKIN. "The Judge, Liapkin-Tiapkin, is extremely mauvais ton." [He stops.] That must be a French word. AMMOS. The devil knows what it means. It wouldn't be so bad if all it means is "cheat." But it may mean something worse. KOROBKIN [continues reading]. "However, the people are hospitable and kindhearted. Farewell, my dear Triapichkin. I want to follow your example and take up literature. It's tiresome to live this way, old boy. One wants food for the mind, after all. I see I must engage in something lofty. Address me: Village of Podkatilovka in the Government of Saratov." [Turns the letter and reads the address.] "Mr. Ivan Vasilyevich Triapichkin, St. Petersburg, Pochtamtskaya Street, House Number 97, Courtyard, third floor, right." A LADY. What an unexpected rebuke! GOVERNOR. He has cut my throat and cut it for good. I'm done for, completely done for. I see nothing. All I see are pigs' snouts instead of faces, and nothing more. Catch him, catch him! [Waves his hand.] POSTMASTER. Catch him! How? As if on purpose, I told the overseer to give him the best coach and three. The devil prompted me to give the order. KOROBKIN'S WIFE. Here's a pretty mess. AMMOS. Confound it, he borrowed three hundred rubles from me. ARTEMY. He borrowed three hundred from me, too. POSTMASTER [sighing]. And from me, too. BOBCHINSKY. And sixty-five from me and Piotr Ivanovich. AMMOS [throwing up his hands in perplexity]. How's that, gentlemen? Really, how could we have been so off our guard? GOVERNOR [beating his forehead]. How could I, how could I, old fool? I've grown childish, stupid mule. I have been in the service thirty years. Not one merchant, not one contractor has been able to impose on me. I have over-reached one swindler after another. I have caught crooks and sharpers that were ready to rob the whole world. I have fooled three governor-generals. As for governor-generals, [with a wave of his hand] it is not even worth talking about them. ANNA. But how is it possible, Antosha? He's engaged to Mashenka. GOVERNOR [in a rage]. Engaged! Rats! Fiddlesticks! So much for your engagement! Thrusts her engagement at me now! [In a frenzy.] Here, look at me! Look at me, the whole world, the whole of Christendom. See what a fool the governor was made of. Out upon him, the fool, the old scoundrel! [Shakes his fist at himself.] Oh, you fat-nose! To take an icicle, a rag for a personage of rank! Now his coach bells are jingling all along the road. He is publishing the story to the whole world. Not only will you be made a laughing-stock of, but some scribbler, some ink-splasher will put you into a comedy. There's the horrid sting. He won't spare either rank or station. And everybody will grin and clap his hands. What are you laughing at? You are laughing at yourself, oh you! [Stamps his feet.] I would give it to all those ink-splashers! You scribblers, damned liberals, devil's brood! I would tie you all up in a bundle, I would grind you into meal, and give it to the devil. [Shakes his fist and stamps his heel on the floor. After a brief silence.] I can't come to myself. It's really true, whom the gods want to punish they first make mad. In what did that nincompoop resemble an inspector-general? In nothing, not even half the little finger of an inspector-general. And all of a sudden everybody is going about saying, "Inspector-general, inspector-general." Who was the first to say it? Tell me. ARTEMY [throwing up his hands]. I couldn't tell how it happened if I had to die for it. It is just as if a mist had clouded our brains. The devil has confounded us. AMMOS. Who was the first to say it? These two here, this noble pair. [Pointing to Dobchinsky and Bobchinsky.] BOBCHINSKY. So help me God, not I. I didn't even think of it. DOBCHINSKY. I didn't say a thing, not a thing. ARTEMY. Of course you did. LUKA. Certainly. You came running here from the inn like madmen. "He's come, he's come. He doesn't pay." Found a rare bird! GOVERNOR. Of course it was you. Town gossips, damned liars! ARTEMY. The devil take you with your inspector-general and your tattle. GOVERNOR. You run about the city, bother everybody, confounded chatterboxes. You spread gossip, you short-tailed magpies, you! AMMOS. Damned bunglers! LUKA. Simpletons. ARTEMY. Pot-bellied mushrooms! All crowd around them. BOBCHINSKY. Upon my word, it wasn't I. It was Piotr Ivanovich. DOBCHINSKY. No, Piotr Ivanovich, you were the first. BOBCHINSKY. No, no. You were the first. LAST SCENE The same and a Gendarme. GENDARME. An official from St. Petersburg sent by imperial order has arrived, and wants to see you all at once. He is stopping at the inn. All are struck as by a thunderbolt. A cry of amazement bursts from the ladies simultaneously. The whole group suddenly shifts positions and remains standing as if petrified. SILENT SCENE The Governor stands in the center rigid as a post, with outstretched hands and head thrown backward. On his right are his wife and daughter straining toward him. Back of them the Postmaster, turned toward the audience, metamorphosed into a question mark. Next to him, at the edge of the group, three lady guests leaning on each other, with a most satirical expression on their faces directed straight at the Governor's family. To the left of the Governor is Zemlianika, his head to one side as if listening. Behind him is the Judge with outspread hands almost crouching on the ground and pursing his lips as if to whistle or say: "A nice pickle we're in!" Next to him is Korobkin, turned toward the audience, with eyes screwed up and making a venomous gesture at the Governor. Next to him, at the edge of the group, are Dobchinsky and Bobchinsky, gesticulating at each other, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. The other guests remain standing stiff. The whole group retain the same position of rigidity for almost a minute and a half. The curtain falls. THE END 
62880	----	Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made available by the Blue Mountain Project, Princeton University. Love of One's Neighbor THE GLEBE VOLUME 1 NUMBER 4 JANUARY 1914 SUBSCRIPTION Three Dollars Yearly THIS ISSUE 35 CENTS By Leonid Andreyev The only editorial policy of THE GLEBE is that embodied in its declaration of absolute freedom of expression, which makes for a range broad enough to include every temperament from the most radical to the most conservative, the only requisite being that the work should have unmistakable merit. Each issue will be devoted exclusively to one individual, thereby giving him an opportunity to present his work in sufficient bulk to make it possible for the reader to obtain a much more comprehensive grasp of his personality than is afforded him in the restricted space allotted by the other magazines. Published monthly, or more frequently if possible, THE GLEBE will issue twelve to twenty books per year, chosen on their merits alone, since the subscription list does away with the need of catering to the popular demand that confronts every publisher. Thus, THE GLEBE can promise the best work of American and foreign authors, known and unknown. The price of each issue of THE GLEBE will vary with the cost of publication, but the yearly subscription, including special numbers, is three dollars. Editor ALFRED KREYMBORG LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR BY LEONID ANDREYEV AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY THOMAS SELTZER NEW YORK ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI 96 FIFTH AVENUE 1914 Copyright, 1914 By Albert and Charles Boni LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR SCENE. A wild place in the mountains. (A man in an attitude of despair is standing on a tiny projection of a rock that rises almost sheer from the ground. How he got there it is not easy to say, but he cannot be reached either from above or below. Short ladders, ropes and sticks show that attempts have been made to save the unknown person, but without success. It seems that the unhappy man has been in that desperate position a long time. A considerable crowd has already collected, extremely varied in composition. There are venders of cold drinks; there is a whole little bar behind which the bartender skips about out of breath and perspiring--he has more on his hands than he can attend to; there are peddlers selling picture postal cards, coral beads, souvenirs, and all sorts of trash. One fellow is stubbornly trying to dispose of a tortoise-shell comb, which is really not tortoise-shell. Tourists keep pouring in from all sides, attracted by the report that a catastrophe is impending--Englishmen, Americans, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Italians, etc., with all their peculiar national traits of character, manner and dress. Nearly all carry alpenstocks, field-glasses and cameras. The conversation is in different languages, all of which, for the convenience of the reader, we shall translate into English. At the foot of the rock where the unknown man is to fall, two policemen are chasing the children away and partitioning off a space, drawing a rope around short stakes stuck in the ground. It is noisy and jolly.) POLICEMAN. Get away, you loafer! The man'll fall on your head and then your mother and father will be making a hullabaloo about it. BOY. Will he fall here? POLICEMAN. Yes, here. BOY. Suppose he drops farther? SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. He may get desperate and jump, land beyond the rope and hit some people in the crowd. I guess he weighs at least about two hundred pounds. FIRST POLICEMAN. Move on, move on, you! Where are you going? Is that your daughter, lady? Please take her away! The young man will soon fall. LADY. Soon? Did you say he is going to fall soon? Oh, heavens, and my husband's not here! LITTLE GIRL. He's in the café, mamma. LADY (desperately). Yes, of course. He's always in the café. Go call him, Nellie. Tell him the man will soon drop. Hurry! Hurry! VOICES. Waiter!--Garçon--Kellner--Three beers out here!--No beer?--What?--Say, that's a fine bar--We'll have some in a moment--Hurry up--Waiter!--Waiter!--Garçon! FIRST POLICEMAN. Say, boy, you're here again? BOY. I wanted to take the stone away. POLICEMAN. What for? BOY. So he shouldn't get hurt so badly when he falls. SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. We ought to remove the stone. We ought to clear the place altogether. Isn't there any sawdust or sand about? (Two English tourists enter. They look at the unknown man through field-glasses and exchange remarks.) FIRST TOURIST. He's young. SECOND TOURIST. How old? FIRST TOURIST. Twenty-eight. SECOND TOURIST. Twenty-six. Fright has made him look older. FIRST TOURIST. How much will you bet? SECOND TOURIST. Ten to a hundred. Put it down. FIRST TOURIST (writing in his note-book. To the policeman). How did he got up there? Why don't they take him off? POLICEMAN. They tried, but they couldn't. Our ladders are too short. SECOND TOURIST. Has he been here long? POLICEMAN. Two days. FIRST TOURIST. Aha! He'll drop at night. SECOND TOURIST. In two hours. A hundred to a hundred. FIRST TOURIST. Put it down. (He shouts to the man on the rock.) How are you feeling? What? I can't hear you. UNKNOWN MAN (in a scarcely audible voice). Bad, very bad. LADY. Oh, heavens, and my husband is not here! LITTLE GIRL (running in). Papa said he'll get here in plenty of time. He's playing chess. LADY. Oh, heavens! Nellie, tell him he must come. I insist. But perhaps I had rather-- Will he fall soon, Mr. Policeman? No? Nellie, you go. I'll stay here and keep the place for papa. (A tall, lanky woman of unusually independent and military appearance and a tourist dispute for the same place. The tourist, a short, quiet, rather weak man, feebly defends his rights; the woman is resolute and aggressive.) TOURIST. But, lady, it is my place. I have been standing here for two hours. MILITARY WOMAN. What do I care how long you have been standing here. I want this place. Do you understand? It offers a good view, and that's just what I want. Do you understand? TOURIST (weakly). It's what I want, too. MILITARY WOMAN. I beg your pardon, what do you know about these things anyway? TOURIST. What knowledge is required? A man will fall. That's all. MILITARY WOMAN (mimicking). "A man will fall. That's all." Won't you have the goodness to tell me whether you have ever seen a man fall? No? Well, I did. Not one, but three. Two acrobats, one rope-walker and three aeronauts. TOURIST. That makes six. MILITARY WOMAN (mimicking). "That makes six." Say, you are a mathematical prodigy. And did you ever see a tiger tear a woman to pieces in a zoo, right before your eyes? Eh? What? Yes, exactly. Now, I did-- Please! Please! (The tourist steps aside, shrugging his shoulders with an air of injury, and the tall woman triumphantly takes possession of the stone she has won by her prowess. She sits down, spreading out around her her bag, handkerchiefs, peppermints, and medicine bottle, takes off her gloves and wipes her field-glass, glancing pleasantly on all around. Finally she turns to the lady who is waiting for her husband in the café.) MILITARY WOMAN (amiably). You will tire yourself out, dear. Why don't you sit down? LADY. Oh, my, don't talk about it. My legs are as stiff as that rock there. MILITARY WOMAN. Men are so rude nowadays. They will never give their place to a woman. Have you brought peppermints with you? LADY (frightened). No. Why? Is it necessary? MILITARY WOMAN. When you keep looking up a long time you are bound to get sick. Sure thing. Have you spirits of ammonia? No? Good gracious, how thoughtless! How will they bring you back to consciousness when he falls? You haven't any smelling salts either, I dare say. Of course not. Have you anybody to take care of you, seeing that you are so helpless yourself? LADY (frightened). I will tell my husband. He is in the café. MILITARY WOMAN. Your husband is a brute. POLICEMAN. Whose coat is this? Who threw this rag here? BOY. It's mine. I spread my coat there so that he doesn't hurt himself so badly when he falls. POLICEMAN. Take it away. (Two tourists armed with cameras contending for the same position.) FIRST TOURIST. I wanted this place. SECOND TOURIST. You wanted it, but I got it. FIRST TOURIST. You just came here. I have had this place for two days. SECOND TOURIST. Then why did you go without even leaving your shadow? FIRST TOURIST. I wasn't going to starve myself to death. COMB-VENDER (mysteriously). Tortoise-shell. TOURIST (savagely). Well? VENDER. Genuine tortoise-shell. TOURIST. Go to the devil. THIRD TOURIST, PHOTOGRAPHER. For heaven's sake, lady, you're sitting on my camera! LITTLE LADY. Oh! Where is it? TOURIST. Under you, under you, lady. LITTLE LADY. I am so tired. What a wretched camera you have. I thought it felt uncomfortable and I was wondering why. Now I know; I am sitting on your camera. TOURIST (agonized). Lady! LITTLE LADY. I thought it was a stone. I saw something lying there and I thought: A queer-looking stone; I wonder why it's so black. So that's what it was; it was your camera. I see. TOURIST (agonized). Lady, for heaven's sake! LITTLE LADY. Why is it so large, tell me. Cameras are small, but this one is so large. I swear I never had the faintest suspicion it was a camera. Can you take my picture? I would so much like to have my picture taken with the mountains here for a background, in this wonderful setting. TOURIST. How can I take your picture if you are sitting on my camera? LITTLE LADY (jumping up, frightened). Is it possible? You don't say so. Why didn't you tell me so? Does it take pictures? VOICES. Waiter, one beer!--What did you bring wine for?--I gave you my order long ago.--What will you have, sir?--One minute.--In a second. Waiter!--Waiter--Toothpicks!-- (A fat tourist enters in haste, panting, surrounded by a numerous family.) TOURIST (crying). Mary! Aleck! Jimmie!--Where is Mary? For God's sake! Where is Mary? STUDENT (dismally). Here she is, papa. TOURIST. Where is she? Mary! GIRL. Here I am, papa. TOURIST. Where in the world are you? (He turns around.) Ah, there! What are you standing back of me for? Look, look! For goodness sake, where are you looking? GIRL (dismally). I don't know, papa. TOURIST. No, that's impossible. Imagine! She never once saw a lightning flash. She always keeps her eyes open as wide as onions, but the instant it flashes she closes them. So she never saw lightning, not once. Mary, you are missing it again. There it is! You see! STUDENT. She sees, papa. TOURIST. Keep an eye on her. (Suddenly dropping into tone of profound pity.) Ah, poor young man. Imagine! He'll fall from that high rock. Look, children, see how pale he is! That should be a lesson to you how dangerous climbing is. STUDENT (dismally). He won't fall to-day, papa! SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary has closed her eyes again. FIRST STUDENT. Let us sit down, papa! Upon my word, he won't fall to-day. The porter told me so. I can't stand it any more. You've been dragging us about every day from morning till night visiting art galleries. TOURIST. What's that? For whose benefit am I doing this? Do you think I enjoy spending my time with a dunce? SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary is blinking her eyes again. SECOND STUDENT. I can't stand it either. I have terrible dreams. Yesterday I dreamed of garçons the whole night long. TOURIST. Jimmie. FIRST STUDENT. I have gotten so thin I am nothing but skin and bones. I can't stand it any more, father. I'd rather be a farmer, or tend pigs. TOURIST. Aleck. FIRST STUDENT. If he were really to fall--but it's a fake. You believe every lie told you! They all lie. Baedecker lies, too. Yes, your Baedecker lies! MARY (dismally). Papa, children, he's beginning to fall. (The man on the rock shouts something down into the crowd. There is general commotion. Voices, "Look, he's falling." Field-glasses are raised; the photographers, violently agitated, click their cameras; the policemen diligently clean the place where he is to fall.) PHOTOGRAPHER. Oh, hang it! What is the matter with me? The devil! When a man's in a hurry-- SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Brother, your camera is closed. PHOTOGRAPHER. The devil take it. VOICES. Hush! He's getting ready to fall.-- No, he's saying something.--No, he's falling.--Hush! UNKNOWN MAN ON THE ROCK (faintly). Save me! Save me! TOURIST. Ah, poor young man. Mary, Jimmie, there's a tragedy for you. The sky is clear, the weather is beautiful, and has he to fall and be shattered to death? Can you realize how dreadful that is, Aleck? STUDENT (wearily). Yes, I can realize it. TOURIST. Mary, can you realize it? Imagine. There is the sky. There are people enjoying themselves and partaking of refreshments. Everything is so nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a tragedy! Do you remember Hamlet? SECOND GIRL (prompting). Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, of Alsinore. JAMES. Of Helsingfors, I know. Don't bother me, father! MARY (dismally). He dreamed about garçons all night long. ALECK. Why don't you order sandwiches, father. COMB-VENDER (mysteriously). Tortoise-shell. Genuine tortoise-shell. TOURIST (credulously). Stolen? VENDER. Why, sir, the idea! TOURIST (angrily). Do you mean to tell me it's genuine if it isn't stolen? Go on. Not much. MILITARY WOMAN (amiably). Are all these your children? TOURIST. Yes, madam. A father's duty. You see, they are protesting. It is the eternal conflict between fathers and children. Here is such a tragedy going on, such a heart-rending tragedy--Mary, you are blinking your eyes again. MILITARY WOMAN. You are quite right. Children must be hardened to things. But why do you call this a terrible tragedy? Every roofer, when he falls, falls from a great height. But this here--what is it? A hundred, two hundred feet. I saw a man fall plumb from the sky. TOURIST (overwhelmed). You don't say? ALECK. Children, listen. Plumb from the sky. MILITARY WOMAN. Yes, yes. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon an iron roof. TOURIST. How terrible! MILITARY WOMAN. That's what I call a tragedy. It took two hours to bring me back to consciousness, and all that time they pumped water on me, the scoundrels. I was nearly drowned. From that day on I never step out of the door without taking spirits of ammonia with me. (Enter a strolling troop of Italian singers and musicians: a short, fat tenor, with a reddish beard and large, watery, stupidly dreamy eyes, singing with extraordinary sweetness; a skinny humpback with a jockey cap, and a screeching baritone; a bass who is also a mandolinist, looking like a bandit; a girl with a violin, closing her eyes when she plays, so that only the whites are seen. They take their stand and begin to sing: "Sul mare luccica--Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia--") MARY (dismally). Papa, children, look. He is beginning to wave his hands. TOURIST. Is that the effect the music has upon him? MILITARY WOMAN. Quite possible. Music usually goes with such things. But that'll make him fall sooner than he should. Musicians, go away from here! Go! (A tall tourist, with up-curled mustache, violently gesticulating, enters, followed by a small group attracted by curiosity.) TALL TOURIST. It's scandalous. Why don't they save him? Ladies and gentlemen, you all heard him shout: "Save me." Didn't you? THE CURIOUS (in chorus). Yes, yes, we heard him. TALL TOURIST. There you are. I distinctly heard these words: "Save me! Why don't they save me?" It's scandalous. Policemen, policemen! Why don't you save him? What are you doing there? POLICEMEN. We are cleaning up the place for him to fall. TALL TOURIST. That's a sensible thing to do, too. But why don't you save him? You ought to save him. If a man asks you to save him, it is absolutely essential to save him. Isn't it so, ladies and gentlemen? THE CURIOUS (in chorus). True, absolutely true. It is essential to save him. TALL TOURIST (with heat). We are not heathens, we are Christians. We should love our neighbors. When a man asks to be saved every measure which the government has at its command should be taken to save him. Policeman, have you taken every measure? POLICEMAN. Every one! TALL TOURIST. Every one without exception? Gentleman, every measure has been taken. Listen, young man, every measure has been taken to save you. Did you hear? UNKNOWN MAN (in a scarcely audible voice). Save me! TALL TOURIST (excitedly). Gentlemen, did you hear? He again asked to be saved. Policeman, did you hear? ONE OF THE CURIOUS (timidly). It is my opinion that it is absolutely necessary to save him. TALL TOURIST. That's right. Exactly. Why, that's what I have been saying for the last two hours. Policeman, do you hear? It is scandalous. ONE OF THE CURIOUS (a little bolder). It is my opinion that an appeal should be made to the highest authority. THE REST (in chorus). Yes, yes, a complaint should be made. It is scandalous. The government ought not to leave any of its citizens in danger. We all pay taxes. He must be saved. TALL TOURIST. Didn't I say so? Of course we must put up a complaint. Young man! Listen, young man. Do you pay taxes? What? I can't hear. TOURIST. Jimmie, Katie, listen! What a tragedy! Ah, the poor young man! He is soon to fall and they ask him to pay a domiciliary tax. KATE (the girl with glasses, pedantically). That can hardly be called a domicile, father. The meaning of domicile is-- JAMES (pinching her). Lickspittle. MARY (wearily). Papa, children, look! He's again beginning to fall. (There is excitement in the crowd, and again a bustling and shouting among the photographers.) TALL TOURIST. We must hurry, ladies and gentlemen. He must be saved at any cost. Who's going with me? THE CURIOUS (in chorus). We are all going! We are all going? TALL TOURIST. Policeman, did you hear? Come, ladies and gentlemen! (They depart, fiercely gesticulating. The café grows more lively. The sound of clinking beer glasses and the clatter of steins is heard, and the beginning of a loud German song. The bartender, who has forgotten himself while talking to somebody, starts suddenly and runs off, looks up to the sky with a hopeless air and wipes the perspiration from his face with his napkin. Angry calls of Waiter! Waiter!) UNKNOWN MAN (rather loudly). Can you let me have some soda water? (The waiter is startled, looks at the sky, glances at the man on the rock, and pretending not to have heard him, walks away.) MANY VOICES. Waiter! Beer! WAITER. One moment, one moment! (Two drunken men come out from the café.) LADY. Ah, there is my husband. Come here quick. MILITARY WOMAN. A downright brute. DRUNKEN MAN (waving his hand to the unknown man). Say, is it very bad up there? Hey? UNKNOWN MAN (rather loudly). Yes, it's bad. I am sick and tired of it. DRUNKEN MAN. Can't you get a drink? UNKNOWN MAN. No, how can I? SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Say, what are you talking about? How can he get a drink? The man is about to die and you tempt him and try to get him excited. Listen, up there, we have been drinking your health right along. It won't hurt you, will it? FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Ah, go on! What are you talking about? How can it hurt him? Why, it will only do him good. It will encourage him. Listen, honest to God, we are very sorry for you, but don't mind us. We are going to the café to have another drink. Good-bye. SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Look, what a crowd. FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Come, or he'll fall and then they'll close the café. (Enter a new crowd of tourists, a very elegant gentleman, the chief correspondent of European newspapers at their head. He is followed by an ecstatic whisper of respect and admiration. Many leave the café to look at him, and even the waiter turns slightly around, glances at him quickly, smiles happily and continues on his way, spilling something from his tray.) VOICES. The correspondent! The correspondent! Look! LADY. Oh, my, and my husband is gone again! TOURIST. Jimmie, Mary, Aleck, Katie, Charlie, look! This is the chief correspondent. Do you realize it? The very highest of all. Whatever he writes goes. KATE. Mary, dear, again you are not looking. ALECK. I wish you would order some sandwiches for us. I can't stand it any longer. A human being has to eat. TOURIST (ecstatically). What a tragedy! Katie dear, can you realize it? Consider how awful. The weather is so beautiful, and the chief correspondent. Take out your note-book, Jimmie. JAMES. I lost it, father. CORRESPONDENT. Where is he? VOICES (obligingly). There, there he is. There! A little higher. Still higher! A little lower! No, higher! CORRESPONDENT. If you please, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, I will find him myself. Oh, yes, there he is. Hm! What a situation! TOURIST. Won't you have a chair? CORRESPONDENT. Thank you. (Sits down.) Hm! What a situation! Very interesting. Very interesting, indeed. (Whisks out his note-book; amiably to the photographers.) Have you taken any pictures yet, gentlemen? FIRST PHOTOGRAPHER. Yes, sir, certainly, certainly. We have photographed the place showing the general character of the locality-- SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. The tragic situation of the young man-- CORRESPONDENT. Ye-es, very, very interesting. TOURIST. Did you hear, Aleck? This smart man, the chief correspondent, says it's interesting, and you keep bothering about sandwiches. Dunce! ALECK. May be he has had his dinner already. CORRESPONDENT. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet. OBLIGING VOICES. It is quieter in the café. CORRESPONDENT (shouts to the unknown man). Permit me to introduce myself. I am the chief correspondent of the European press. I have been sent here at the special request of the editors. I should like to ask you several questions concerning your situation. What is your name? What is your general position? How old are you? (The unknown man mumbles something.) CORRESPONDENT (a little puzzled). I can't hear a thing. Has he been that way all the time? VOICES. Yes, it's impossible to hear a word he says. CORRESPONDENT (jotting down something in his note-book). Fine! Are you a bachelor? (The unknown man mumbles.) CORRESPONDENT. I can't hear you. Are you married? Yes? TOURIST. He said he was a bachelor. SECOND TOURIST. No, he didn't. Of course, he's married. CORRESPONDENT (carelessly). You think so? All right. We'll put down, married. How many children have you? Can't hear! It seems to me he said three. Hm! Anyway, we'll put down five. TOURIST. Oh, my, what a tragedy. Five children! Imagine! MILITARY WOMAN. He is lying. CORRESPONDENT (shouting). How did you get into this position? What? I can't hear? Louder! Repeat. What did you say? (Perplexed, to the crowd.) What did he say? The fellow has a devilishly weak voice. FIRST TOURIST. It seems to me he said that he lost his way. SECOND TOURIST. No, he doesn't know himself how he got there. VOICES. He was out hunting.--He was climbing up the rocks.--No, no! He is simply a lunatic! CORRESPONDENT. I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen! Anyway, he didn't drop from the sky. However-- (He quickly jots down in his note-book.) Unhappy young man--suffering from childhood with attacks of lunacy.--The bright light of the full moon--the wild rocks.--Sleepy janitor--didn't notice-- FIRST TOURIST (to the second, in a whisper). But it's new moon now. SECOND TOURIST. Go, what does a layman know about astronomy. TOURIST (ecstatically). Mary, pay attention to this! You have before you an ocular demonstration of the influence of the moon on living organisms. What a terrible tragedy to go out walking on a moonlit night and find suddenly that you have climbed to a place whence it is impossible to climb down or be taken down. CORRESPONDENT (shouting). What feelings are you experiencing? I can't hear. Louder! Ah, so? Well, well! What a situation! CROWD (interested). Listen, listen! Let's hear what his feelings are. How terrible! CORRESPONDENT (writes in his note-book, tossing out detached remarks). Mortal terror numbs his limbs.--A cold shiver goes down his spinal column.--No hope.--Before his mental vision rises a picture of family bliss: Wife making sandwiches; his five children innocently lisping their love.--Grandma in the arm-chair with a tube to her ear, that is, grandpa in the arm-chair, with a tube to _his_ ear and grandma.--Deeply moved by the sympathy of the public.--His last wish before his death that the words he uttered with his last breath should be published in our newspapers-- MILITARY WOMAN (indignantly). My! He lies like a salesman. MARY (wearily). Papa, children, look, he is starting to fall again. TOURIST (angrily). Don't bother me. Such a tragedy is unfolding itself right before your very eyes--and you-- What are you making such big eyes for again? CORRESPONDENT (shouting). Hold on fast. That's it! My last question: What message do you wish to leave for your fellow citizens before you depart for the better world? UNKNOWN MAN. That they may all go to the devil. CORRESPONDENT. What? Hm, yes-- (He writes quickly.) Ardent love--is a stanch opponent of the law granting equal rights to negroes. His last words: "Let the black niggers--" PASTOR (out of breath, pushing through the crowd). Where is he? Ah, there! Poor young man. Has there been no clergyman here yet? No? Thank you. Am I the first? CORRESPONDENT (writes). A touching dramatic moment.--A minister has arrived.--All are trembling on the verge of suspense. Many are shedding tears-- PASTOR. Excuse me, excuse me! Ladies and gentlemen, a lost soul wishes to make its peace with God-- (He shouts.) My son, don't you wish to make your peace with God? Confess your sins to me. I will grant you remission at once! What? I cannot hear? CORRESPONDENT (writes). The air is shaken with the people's groans. The minister of the church exhorts the criminal, that is, the unfortunate man, in touching language.--The unfortunate creature with tears in his eyes thanks him in a faint voice-- UNKNOWN MAN (faintly). If you won't go away I will jump on your head. I weigh three hundred pounds. (All jump away frightened behind each other.) VOICES. He is falling! He is falling! TOURIST (agitatingly). Mary, Aleck, Jimmie. POLICEMAN (energetically). Clear the place, please! Move on! LADY. Nellie, go quick and tell your father he is falling. PHOTOGRAPHER (in despair). Oh my, I am out of films (tosses madly about, looking pitifully at the unknown man). One minute, I'll go and get them. I have some in my overcoat pocket over there. (He walks a short distance, keeping his eyes fixed on the unknown man, and then returns.) I can't, I am afraid I'll miss it. Good heavens! They are over there in my overcoat. Just one minute, please. I'll fetch them right away. What a fix. PASTOR. Hurry, my friend. Pull yourself together and try to hold out long enough to tell me at least your principal sins. You needn't mention the lesser ones. TOURIST. What a tragedy? CORRESPONDENT (writes). The criminal, that is, the unhappy man, makes a public confession and does penance. Terrible secrets revealed. He is a bank robber--blew up safes. TOURIST (credulously). The scoundrel. PASTOR (shouts). In the first place, have you killed? Secondly, have you stolen? Thirdly, have you committed adultery? TOURIST. Mary, Jimmie, Katie, Aleck, Charlie, close your ears. CORRESPONDENT (writing). Tremendous excitement in the crowd.--Shouts of indignation. PASTOR (hurriedly). Fourthly, have you blasphemed? Fifthly, have you coveted your neighbor's ass, his ox, his slave, his wife? Sixthly-- PHOTOGRAPHER (alarmed). Ladies and gentlemen, an ass! SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where? I can't see it! PHOTOGRAPHER (calmed). I thought I heard it. PASTOR. I congratulate you, my son! I congratulate you! You have made your peace with God. Now you may rest easy--Oh, God, what do I see? The Salvation Army! Policeman, chase them away! (Enter a Salvation Army band, men and women in uniforms. There are only three instruments, a drum, a violin and a piercingly shrill trumpet.) SALVATION ARMY MAN (frantically beating his drum and shouting in a nasal voice). Brethren and sisters-- PASTOR (shouting even louder in a still more nasal voice in an effort to drown the other's). He has already confessed. Bear witness, ladies and gentlemen, that he has confessed and made his peace with heaven. SALVATION ARMY WOMAN (climbing on a rock and shrieking). I once wandered in the dark just as this sinner and I lived a bad life and was a drunkard, but when the light of truth-- A VOICE. Why, she is drunk now. PASTOR. Policeman, didn't he confess and make his peace with heaven? (The Salvation Army man continues to beat his drum frantically; the rest begin to drawl a song. Shouts, laughter, whistling. Singing in the café, and calls of "Waiter!" in all languages. The bewildered policemen tear themselves away from the pastor, who is pulling them somewhere; the photographers turn and twist about as if the seats were burning under them. An English lady comes riding in on a donkey, who, stopping suddenly, sprawls out his legs and refuses to go farther, adding his noise to the rest. Gradually the noise subsides. The Salvation Army band solemnly withdraws, and the pastor, waving his hands, follows them.) FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST (to the other). How impolite! This crowd doesn't know how to behave itself. SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Come, let's go away from here. FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST. One minute. (He shouts.) Listen, won't you hurry up and fall? SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. What are you saying, Sir William? FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST (shouting). Don't you see that's what they are waiting for? As a gentleman you should grant them this pleasure and so escape the humiliation of undergoing tortures before this mob. SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Sir William. TOURIST (ecstatically). See? It's true. Aleck, Jimmie, it's true. What a tragedy! SEVERAL TOURISTS (going for the Englishman). How dare you? FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST (shoving them aside). Hurry up and fall! Do you hear? If you haven't the backbone I'll help you out with a pistol shot. VOICES. That red-haired devil has gone clear out of his mind. POLICEMAN (seizing the Englishman's hand). You have no right to do it, it's against the law. I'll arrest you. SOME TOURISTS. A barbarous nation! (The unknown man shouts something. Excitement below.) VOICES. Hear, hear, hear! UNKNOWN MAN (aloud). Take that jackass away to the devil. He wants to shoot me. And tell the boss that I can't stand it any longer. VOICES. What's that? What boss? He is losing his mind, the poor man. TOURIST. Aleck! Mary! This is a mad scene. Jimmie, you remember Hamlet? Quick. UNKNOWN MAN (angrily). Tell him my spinal column is broken. MARY (wearily). Papa, children, he's beginning to kick with his legs. KATE. Is that what is called convulsions, papa? TOURIST (rapturously). I don't know. I think it is. What a tragedy? ALECK (glumly). You fool! You keep cramming and cramming and you don't know that the right name for that is agony. And you wear eye-glasses, too. I can't bear it any longer, papa. TOURIST. Think of it, children. A man is about to fall down to his death and he is bothering about his spinal column. (There is a noise. A man in a white vest, very much frightened, enters, almost dragged by angry tourists. He smiles, bows on all sides, stretches out his arms, now running forward as he is pushed, now trying to escape in the crowd, but is seized and pulled again.) VOICES. A bare-faced deception! It is an outrage. Policeman, policeman, he must be taught a lesson! OTHER VOICES. What is it? What deception? What is it all about? They have caught a thief! THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST (bowing and smiling). It's a joke, ladies and gentlemen, a joke, that's all. The people were bored, so I wanted to provide a little amusement for them. UNKNOWN MAN (angrily). Boss! THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Wait a while, wait a while. UNKNOWN MAN. Do you expect me to stay here until the Second Advent? The agreement was till twelve o'clock. What time is it now? TALL TOURIST (indignantly). Do you hear, ladies and gentlemen? This scoundrel, this man here in the white vest hired that other scoundrel up there and just simply tied him to the rock. VOICES. Is he tied? TALL TOURIST. Yes, he is tied and he can't fall. We are excited and worrying, but he couldn't fall even if he tried. UNKNOWN MAN. What else do you want? Do you think I am going to break my neck for your measly ten dollars? Boss, I can't stand it any more. One man wanted to shoot me. The pastor preached me for two hours. This is not in the agreement. ALECK. Father, I told you that Baedecker lies. You believe everything anybody tells you and drag us about without eating. MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. My only desire was to amuse the people. MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? I don't understand a thing. Why isn't he going to fall? Who, then, is going to fall? TOURIST. I don't understand a thing either. Of course he's got to fall! JAMES. You never understand anything, father. Weren't you told that he's tied to the rock? ALECK. You can't convince him. He loves every Baedecker more than his own children. JAMES. A nice father! TOURIST. Silence! MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He must fall. TALL TOURIST. The idea! What a deception. You'll have to explain this. MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but wishing to accommodate you--give you a few hours of pleasant excitement--elevate your spirits--inspire you with altruistic sentiments-- ENGLISHMAN. Is the café yours? MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Yes. ENGLISHMAN. And is the hotel below also yours? GENTLEMAN. Yes. The people were bored-- CORRESPONDENT (writing). The proprietor of the café, desiring to increase his profits from the sale of alcoholic beverages, exploits the best human sentiments.--The people's indignation-- UNKNOWN MAN (angrily). Boss, will you have me taken off at once or won't you? HOTEL KEEPER. What do you want up there? Aren't you satisfied? Didn't I have you taken off at night? UNKNOWN MAN. Well, I should say so. You think I'd be hanging here nights, too! HOTEL OWNER. Then you can stand it a few minutes longer. The people are bored-- TALL TOURIST. Say, have you any idea of what you have done? Do you realize the enormity of it? You are scoundrels, who for your own sordid personal ends have impiously exploited the finest human sentiment, love of one's neighbor. You have caused us to undergo fear and suffering. You have poisoned our hearts with pity. And now, what is the upshot of it all? The upshot is that this scamp, your vile accomplice, is bound to the rock and not only will he not fall as everybody expects, but he _can't_. MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He has got to fall. TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman! (The pastor enters, out of breath.) PASTOR. What? Is he still living? Oh, there he is! What fakirs those Salvationists are. VOICES. Don't you know that he is bound? PASTOR. Bound! Bound to what? To life? Well, we are all bound to life until death snaps the cord. But whether he is bound or not bound, I reconciled him with heaven, and that's enough. But those fakirs-- TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman, you must draw up an official report. There is no way out of it. MILITARY WOMAN (going for the hotel owner). I will not allow myself to be fooled. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon a roof. I saw a tiger tear a woman to pieces-- PHOTOGRAPHER. I spoiled three films photographing that scamp. You will have to answer for this, sir. I will hold you responsible. TOURIST. An official report! An official report! Such a bare-faced deception. Mary, Jimmie, Aleck, Charlie, call a policeman. HOTEL KEEPER (drawing back, in despair). But, I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. I did everything in my power, ladies and gentlemen! MILITARY WOMAN. I will not allow it. HOTEL KEEPER. Excuse me. I promise you on my word of honor that the next time he will fall. But he doesn't want to, to-day. UNKNOWN MAN. What's that? What did you say about the next time? HOTEL KEEPER. You shut up there! UNKNOWN MAN. For ten dollars? PASTOR. Pray, what impudence! I just made his peace with heaven when he was in danger of his life. You have heard him threatening to fall on my head, haven't you? And still he is dissatisfied. Adulterer, thief, murderer, coveter of your neighbor's ass-- PHOTOGRAPHER. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass! SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where, where is an ass? PHOTOGRAPHER (calmed). I thought I heard one. SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. It is you who are an ass. I have become cross-eyed on account of your shouting: "An ass! An ass!" MARY (wearily). Papa, children, look! A policeman is coming. (Excitement and noise. On one side a crowd pulling a policeman, on the other the hotel keeper; both keep crying: "Excuse me! Excuse me!") TOURIST. Policeman, there he is, the fakir, the swindler. PASTOR. Policeman, there he is, the adulterer, the murderer, the coveter of his neighbor's ass-- POLICEMAN. Excuse me, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We will bring him to his senses in short order and make him confess. HOTEL KEEPER. I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. POLICEMAN. Hey, you, young man out there! Can you fall or can't you? Confess! UNKNOWN MAN (sullenly). I don't want to fall! VOICES. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel! TALL TOURIST. Write down what I dictate, policeman-- "Desiring--for the sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling--a-a-a--" TOURIST. Listen children, they are drawing up an official report. What exquisite choice of language! TALL TOURIST. The sacred feeling which-- POLICEMAN (writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out). Love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling which-- MARY (wearily). Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming. (Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: "I was bald.") UNKNOWN MAN. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better skidoo! THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE (stopping and speaking in a loud voice). I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride-- TOURIST. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children? (All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand.) THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE (solemnly). And the time came when my matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines recommended by quacks to make my hair grow-- TOURIST. Your note-book, Jimmie. MILITARY WOMAN. But when is he going to fall? HOTEL KEEPER (amiably). The next time, lady, the next time. I won't tie him so hard--you understand? (Curtain.) POETRY A MAGAZINE OF VERSE Edited by Harriet Monroe, 543 Cass St., Chicago, Ill. POETRY, at the end of its first year, is no longer an experiment but an assured artistic success, a publication whose importance is authoritatively recognized, not only in this country, but in Great Britain and France as well. The field it has opened up is full of brilliant possibilities, encouraging the editors to hope for the enthusiastic support of a discriminating public. POETRY endeavors to present the best verse now being written in English, quality alone being the test of acceptance. POETRY is an effort to create an organ for the art. While the ordinary magazines must minister to a large public little interested in poetry, this magazine appeals to and will develop a public primarily interested in poetry as an art, potentially the highest, most complete human expression of truth and beauty. Thus it offers to poets a chance to be heard by their own audience, in their own place, without the limitations imposed by the popular magazines. And to lovers of poetry it offers each month a sheaf of new verse in delicate form uninterrupted by prose articles demanding a different mood. If You Love Good Poetry, Subscribe-- POETRY 543 Cass Street, Chicago. Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning ................................ to Name .............................. Address ........................... THE INTERCOLLEGIATE SOCIALIST Thought-Compelling, Admirably Written Quarterly of Socialism and the Socialist Movement Among the year's contributors are: Karl Kautsky, Jean Longuet, Keir Hardie, Morris Hillquit, Alexander Irvine, Helen L. Sumner, Sidney and Beatrice Webb, Prof. Vida D. Scudder, Upton Sinclair, William English Walling, Charles Zueblin, Ernest Poole, Howard Brubaker, Albert Edwards, Jessie W. Hughan, Caro Lloyd. READ ITS REVIEW OF BOOKS! SUBSCRIPTION, 25c. SINGLE COPY, 10c. 15 COPIES, $1.00. INTERCOLLEGIATE SOCIALIST SOCIETY 105 WEST 40TH STREET - - NEW YORK CITY THE INTERNATIONAL A magazine for matured minds. A magazine for those who dare to think. A magazine for all true cosmopolites. A magazine with a courage so fearless that it publishes the best. Brieux, Schnitzler, Strindberg are only a few of the advanced thinkers who have appeared in the pages of THE INTERNATIONAL. We have been in the vanguard of intellectual freedom. We shall always be far ahead of our times. You may glimpse the future by reading THE INTERNATIONAL. George Sylvester Viereck, Editor. Leonard D. Abbott, Richard Le Gallienne, Associate Editors. 15 CENTS A COPY. $1.50 A YEAR. MOODS PUBLISHING COMPANY 29 WEST 42ND STREET - - NEW YORK CITY The February issue of THE GLEBE will present "Des Imagistes," an Anthology of the Imagistes, including Richard Aldington, Ford Madox Hueffer, Ezra Pound, and others. Subscription price per year, $3.00 Transcriber's Notes The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. All other changes are listed here (before/after): [p. 15]: ... is no nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a ... ... is so nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a ... 
49596	----	(Images generously provided by the Internet Archive.) THE SORROWS OF BELGIUM A PLAY IN SIX SCENES LEONID ANDREYEV AUTHOR OF "ANATHEMA" "THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED," ETC. AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY HERMAN BERNSTEIN NEW YORK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1915 INTRODUCTION Leonid Andreyev, the great Russian writer, whose "Anathema," "The Seven Who Were Hanged," "The Life of Man" and "Red Laughter" have attracted universal attention, has now written the story of the sorrows of the Belgian people. He delineates the tragedy of Belgium as reflected in the home of the foremost Belgian poet and thinker--regarded as the conscience of the Belgian nation. Leonid Andreyev feels deeply and keenly for the oppressed and weaker nationalities. He has depicted the victims of this war with profound sympathy,--the Belgians, and in another literary masterpiece he analyzed the sufferings of the Jews in Russia as a result of this war. He described vividly the sense of shame of the Russian people on account of the Russian official anti-Jewish policies. In both these works Leonid Andreyev holds German militarism and German influences responsible for the wrongs committed against smaller nationalities. In his treatise on the tragedy of the Jews in Russia, he writes of "Russian barbarians" and "German barbarians" as follows: "If for the Jews themselves the Pale of Settlement, the per cent norm and other restrictions were a fatal fact, which distorted all their life, it has been for me, a Russian, something like a hunch on my back, a monstrous growth, which I received I know not when and under what conditions. But wherever I may go and whatever I may do the hunch is always with me; it has disturbed my sleep at night, and in my waking hours, in the presence of people, it has filled me with a sensation of confusion and shame.... "It is necessary for all to understand that the end of Jewish sufferings is the beginning of our self-respect, without which Russia cannot live. The dark days of the war will pass and the German barbarians' of today will once more become cultured Germans whose voice will again be heard throughout the world. And it is essential that neither their voice nor any other voice should call us loudly 'Russian barbarians.'" Aside from its literary and dramatic value, if this volume on the sorrows of Belgium will tend to arouse a little more sympathy for the sufferings of the victims of the war, or if it will help to call forth in the minds of the people a stronger abhorrence of the horrors of war, it will have served an important and worthy purpose. HERMAN BERNSTEIN. _May 25, 1915._ THE SORROWS OF BELGIUM CHARACTERS _Count Clairmont._ _Emil Grelieu_--A Famous Belgian Author. _Jeanne_--His Wife. _Pierre_ } Their sons. _Maurice_ } _Lagard_--Member of the Cabinet. _General_--Adjutant to Count Clairmont. _Insane Girl._ _François_--Gardener. _Henrietta_ } Grelieu's Servants. _Silvina_ } _Commander of the German Armies in Belgium_. _Von Blumenfeld._ _Von Ritzau_ } _Von Stein_ } Officers. _Von Schauss_ } _Kloetz_--Military Engineer. _Zigler_--Telegraphist. _Greitzer._ _German Officer._ _Belgian Peasant_. _Doctor Langloi._ _A Chauffeur_--A Belgian. SCENE I _The action takes place in Belgium, at the beginning of the war of 1914. The scene represents a garden near the villa of the famous Belgian author, Emil Grelieu. Beyond the tops of low trees, beyond the stone fence which divides Grelieu's estate from the neighboring gardens, are seen the outlines of the red roofs of the houses in the small town, of the Town Hall, and of an ancient church. There the people already know about the war; there the church bells are ringing uneasily, while in the garden there is still peace. A small, splendidly kept flower garden; beautiful and fragrant flowers; shrubbery in bloom; a nook of a hothouse. The glass covers are half open. The sun is shining softly; there is in the air the bluish mist of a warm and quiet day, and all colors seem tenderly soft; only in the foreground the colors of the flowers stand out in sharp relief._ _François is sitting and clipping roses at one of the flower beds. He is an old and deaf, stern Belgian, with long, gray hair. He holds in his mouth an earthen pipe. François is working. He does not hear the tolling of the bells. He is alone in the garden, and it seems to him that all is calm and quiet._ _But something fills him with faint alarm. He hears an indistinct call. He looks around--but sees no one. He hums to himself a song without words. Suddenly he stops, straightens himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around again_. FRANÇOIS Who has called me? _He sees no one. He looks at the hothouse--it seems to him that some one is calling him from there._ I hear you, Monsieur Emil, I am here. _He sees no one. He frowns and cries angrily._ Who is calling me? No one here. _He looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work quietly._ They say I am deaf. But I heard some one calling me twice: "François!" "François!" No, perhaps it is my blood, making a noise in my ears. _Silence. But his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again._ I can still hear some one calling me: "François!" Very well; here is François, and if anyone needs me he may call me again. I shall not run. I can't hear the chirping of the birds; the birds have long since become silent for me. What nonsense--these birds! Very well, I am deaf--does anyone think I am going to cry over it? _Twitches his mouth into a smile._ And my eyes? That is another matter. My eyes! Why are you forever silent, François? Why should I speak if I do not hear your foolish answer? It is all nonsense--to talk and to listen. I can see more than you can hear. _Laughs._ Yes, I see this. This does not talk either, but bend down to it and you will learn more than Solomon ever knew. That is what the Bible says--Solomon. To you the earth is noise and prattle, while to me it is like a Madonna in colors upon a picture. Like a Madonna in colors. _The bell is ringing. In the distance a youthful voice calls "Papa!" "Papa!" Then, "François!" Maurice, Emil Grelieu's younger son, a youth of about 17, appears, coming quickly from the house. He calls François once more, but François does not hear. Finally he shouts right next to his ear._ MAURICE François, what is the matter with you? I am calling you. I am calling you. Haven't you seen papa? FRANÇOIS _Calmly, without turning around._ Did you call me, Maurice? I heard your call long ago. MAURICE You heard me, but did not respond. How obstinate you are! Haven't you seen papa? I am looking for him everywhere. Quick! Where is papa? FRANÇOIS Papa? MAURICE _Shouts._ Where is papa? Haven't you seen him? Silvina says he went to the hothouse. Do you hear? FRANÇOIS He is not there. I spoke to Monsieur this morning, but since then I have not seen him. No. MAURICE What is to be done? How they are tolling! François, what is to be done--do you hear them tolling? FRANÇOIS Ah! I hear. Will you take some roses, my boy? MAURICE You don't understand anything--you are beyond endurance! They are running in the streets, they are all running there, and papa is not here. I will run over there, too, at once. Perhaps he is there. What a day! FRANÇOIS Who is running? MAURICE You don't understand anything! _Shouts._ They have entered Belgium! FRANÇOIS Who has entered Belgium? MAURICE They--the Prussians. Can't you understand? It's war! War! Imagine what will happen. Pierre will have to go, and so will I go. I will not stay here under any circumstances. FRANÇOIS _Straightening himself, dropping the scissors._ War? What nonsense, my boy! Who has entered Belgium? MAURICE They--the Prussians. Pierre will go now, and I will go--I will not stay away under any circumstances, understand? What will become of Belgium now?--it is hard to conceive it. They entered Belgium yesterday--do you understand--what scoundrels! _In the distance, along the narrow streets of the town, an uneasy sound of footsteps and wheels is growing rapidly. Distinct voices and outcries blend into a dull, suppressed, ominous noise, full of alarm. The tolling, as though tired, now subsides, now turns almost to a shriek. François tries vainly to hear something. Then he takes up the scissors again angrily._ MAURICE François! FRANÇOIS _Sternly._ That's all nonsense! What are you prating, my boy? There is no war--that is impossible. MAURICE You are a foolish old man, yourself! They have entered Belgium--do you understand--they are here already. FRANÇOIS That's not true. MAURICE Why isn't it true? FRANÇOIS Because that is impossible. The newspapers print nonsense, and they have all gone mad. Fools, and nothing more--madmen. What Prussians? Young man, you have no right to make sport of me like this. MAURICE But listen-- FRANÇOIS Prussians! What Prussians? I don't know any Prussians, and I don't want to know them. MAURICE But understand, old man, they are already bombarding Liège! FRANÇOIS No! MAURICE They have killed many people. What a strange man you are! Don't you hear the tolling of the bells? The people are on the square. They are all running. The women are crying. What is that? FRANÇOIS _Angrily._ You are stepping on the flower bed. Get off! MAURICE Don't bother me! Why are they shouting so loudly? Something has happened there. _The sound of a trumpet is heard in the distance. The shouting of the crowd is growing ever louder. Sounds of the Belgian hymn are heard faintly. Suddenly an ominous silence follows the noise, and then the lone sound of the tolling bells._ MAURICE Now they are quiet.... What does it mean? FRANÇOIS Nonsense, nonsense! _Infuriated._ You are stepping on the flower bed again. Get off! You have all lost your reason! Go, go! The Prussians!... MAURICE You have lost your reason! FRANÇOIS I am seventy years old, and you tell me about the Prussians. Go! _Again the shouting of the crowd is heard. Silvina, the chambermaid, runs out of the house and calls: "Monsieur Maurice!"_ SILVINA Please, come into the house. Madame Jeanne is calling you. Madame is going away. Please, come. MAURICE And papa? SILVINA He isn't here yet. Come! _Both move away. François sits down at the flower bed impatiently._ MAURICE You don't understand, Silvina. He does not believe that there is a war. SILVINA It is very dreadful, Monsieur Maurice. I am afraid-- _They go out. François looks after them angrily, adjusts his apron, and prepares to resume his work._ FRANÇOIS Madmen! I am seventy years old. I am seventy years old, and they want me to believe a story about Prussians. Nonsense, they are crazy! Prussians! But it is true that I don't hear anything. _Rising, he listens attentively._ No, not a sound. Or do I hear something? Oh, the devil take it! I can't hear a sound. Impossible! No, no, impossible! But what is that? How could I believe that in this calm sky--in this calm sky-- _The din of battle is growing. François listens again and hears it. He grows thoughtful. His eyes express fright. He looks as though he had suddenly solved a terrible problem. He moves to and fro, his head bent down, as though trying to catch the sounds. Suddenly he throws down the scissors. He is seized with a feeling of terror. He raises his hands._ I hear it. No. No. Now I don't hear a sound. Oh, God, give me the power to hear! _He tries again to catch the fleeting sounds, his head bent, his neck outstretched. His hair is disheveled. His eyes stare. Suddenly, by a great effort, he hears the tolling of the bells and voices full of despair. He retreats and raises his hands again._ My God! They are tolling! They are crying! War! What war? What war? Eh, who is there--who is shouting "War!"? _The sound of the bells and the cries grows louder. Emil Grelieu appears, walking quickly in the alley_. EMIL GRELIEU What are you shouting, François? Where is Maurice? No one is in the house. FRANÇOIS Is it war? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, yes, it is war. The Prussians have entered Belgium. But you don't hear anything. FRANÇOIS _Painfully trying to catch the sounds._ I hear, I hear; are they killing? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, they are killing. The Prussians have entered Belgium. Where is Maurice? FRANÇOIS But, Monsieur Emil--but, Monsieur, what Prussians? Pardon me; I am seventy years old, and I lost my sense of hearing long ago. _Weeps._ Is it really a war? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, it is a real war. I can't understand it either. But the fighting has already commenced. I can't realize it myself, but it is war, old man. FRANÇOIS Tell me, Monsieur. Tell me about it. I believe you as I believe God. Tell me. I can hear you. Are they killing? EMIL GRELIEU It is war! What horror, François. It is very hard to understand it--yes, very hard. _Frowns and rubs his high, pale forehead nervously_. FRANÇOIS _Bent, weeps, his head shaking._ And the flowers? Our flowers? EMIL GRELIEU _Absentmindedly._ Our flowers? Don't cry, François--ah, what is that? _The tolling of the bells subsides. The crying and the shouting of the crowd changes, into a harmonious volume of sound--somebody is hailed in the distance. An important announcement seems to have been made there_. EMIL GRELIEU _Absentmindedly._ Our people are expecting the King there--he is on his way to Liège! Yes, yes-- _Silence. Suddenly there is a sound like the crash of thunder. Then it changes into a song--the crowd is singing the Belgian hymn._ _Curtain_ SCENE II _The reception hall in Emil Grelieu's villa. Plenty of air, light, and flowers. Large, windows overlooking the garden in bloom. One small window is almost entirely covered with the leaves of vines._ _In the room are Emil Grelieu and his elder son, Pierre, a handsome, pale, and frail-looking young man. He is dressed in military uniform. They pace up and down the room slowly. It is evident that Pierre is anxious to walk faster, but out of respect for his father he slackens his pace._ EMIL GRELIEU How many kilometers? PIERRE Twenty-five or thirty kilometers to Tirlemont--and here-- EMIL GRELIEU Seventy-four or five-- PIERRE Seventy-five--yes, about a hundred kilometers. It's not far, father. EMIL GRELIEU Not far. It seemed to me that I heard cannonading. I heard it last night. PIERRE No, it's hardly possible. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, I was mistaken. But the rays of the searchlights could be seen. They must be very powerful searchlights. Mamma saw them too. PIERRE Really? You are suffering from insomnia again, father? EMIL GRELIEU I sleep well. A hundred kilometers--a hundred kilometers-- _Silence. Pierre looks at his father attentively._ PIERRE Father! EMIL GRELIEU Well? It's too early for you, Pierre--you have three hours yet before your train starts. I am watching the time. PIERRE I know, father. No, I am thinking of something else--. Father, tell me, have you still any hopes? _Silence._ I am hesitating, I feel somewhat embarrassed to speak to you--you are so much wiser, so far above me, father.... Yes, yes, it's nonsense, of course, but that which I have learned in the army during these days gives me very little hope. They are coming in such a compact mass of people, of iron, machines, arms and horses, that there is no possibility of stopping them. It seems to me that seismographs must indicate the place over which they pass--they press the ground with such force. And we are so few in number! EMIL GRELIEU Yes, we are very few in number. PIERRE Very, very few, father! Dreadfully few! Even if we were invulnerable and deathless, even if we kept killing them off day and night, day and night, we would drop from fatigue and exhaustion before we stopped them. But we are mortal--and they have terrible guns, father! You are silent? You are thinking of our Maurice--I have caused you pain? EMIL GRELIEU There is little of the human in their movements. Do not think of Maurice--he will live. A human being has a face, Pierre. Every human being has his own face, but they have no faces. When I try to picture them to myself, I see only the lights, projectors, automobiles--those terrible guns--and something walking, walking. And those vulgar mustaches of Wilhelm--but that is a mask, an immobile mask, which has stood over Europe for a quarter of a century--what is behind it? Those vulgar mustaches--and suddenly so much misery, so much bloodshed and destruction! It is a mask! PIERRE _Almost to himself._ If there were only not so many of them, not so many--. Father, I believe that Maurice will live. He is a lucky boy. But what does mamma think about it? EMIL GRELIEU What mamma thinks? _Enter François. Sternly, without looking at anyone, he waters the flowers._ And what does he think? Look at him. PIERRE He can hardly hear anything. François! EMIL GRELIEU I don't know whether he hears anything or not. But there was a time when he did hear. He is silent, Pierre, and he furiously denies war. He denies it by work--he works alone in the garden as if nothing had happened. Our house is full of refugees. Mamma and everyone else in the house are busy, feeding them, washing the children--mamma is washing them--but he does not seem to notice anything. He denies war! Now he is bursting from anxiety to hear or guess what we are saying, but do you see the expression of his face? If you start to talk to him he will go away. PIERRE François! EMIL GRELIEU Don't bother him. He wants to be crafty. Perhaps he hears us. You ask me what mother is thinking of. Do I know? Who can tell? You see that she is not here, and yet these are your last hours at home. Yes, in this house--I am speaking of the house. She is young and resolute as ever, she walks just as lightly and is just as clear-headed, but she is not here. She is simply not here, Pierre. PIERRE Is she concealing something? EMIL GRELIEU No, she is not concealing anything, but she has gone into the depths of her own self, where all is silence and mystery. She is living through her motherhood again, from the very beginning--do you understand? when you and Maurice were not yet born--but in this she is crafty, like François. Sometimes I see clearly that she is suffering unbearably, that she is terrified by the war--. But she smiles in answer and then I see something else--I see how there has suddenly awakened in her the prehistoric woman--the woman who handed her husband the fighting club--. Wait, the soldiers are coming again! _Military music is heard in the distance, nearing._ PIERRE Yes, according to the assignment, it is the Ninth Regiment. EMIL GRELIEU Let us hear it, Pierre. I hear this music several times a day. There it starts on the right, and there it dies down. Always there. _They listen._ But they are brave fellows! PIERRE Yes. _Both listen attentively at the window. François looks at them askance and tries in vain to hear. The music begins to die out._ EMIL GRELIEU _Walking away from the window._ Yesterday they played the "Marseillaise." But they are brave fellows! _Emil Grelieu's wife enters quickly._ JEANNE Do you hear it? How beautiful! Even our refugees smiled when they heard it. Emil, I have brought you some telegrams, here. I have read them. EMIL GRELIEU What is it? Let me have them! _Reading the telegrams, he staggers to an armchair and sinks into it. He turns pale._ PIERRE What is it, father? EMIL GRELIEU Read! _Pierre reads it over the shoulder of his father. The woman looks at them with an enigmatical expression upon her face. She sits calmly, her beautiful head thrown back. Emil Grelieu rises quickly, and both he and his son start to pace the room in opposite directions._ PIERRE Do you see? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. PIERRE Do you see? EMIL GRELIEU Yes! Yes! JEANNE _As though indifferently._ Emil, was that an interesting library which they have destroyed? I don't know. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, very. But what are you asking me, Jeanne? How can you speak? JEANNE Oh, I speak only of those books! Tell me, were there many books there? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, many, many! JEANNE And they've burned them? _She hums softly in afresh, strong voice._ "Only the halo of the arts crowns law, liberty, and the King!--Law--" EMIL GRELIEU Books, books. JEANNE And there was also a Cathedral there. Oh, I remember it! Isn't it true, Emil, that it was a beautiful structure? _Hums._ "Law, liberty, and the King--" PIERRE Father! What? EMIL GRELIEU _He walks up and down the room._ JEANNE Pierre, it will soon be time for you to leave. I'll give you something to eat at once. Pierre, do you think it is true that they are killing women and children? I don't know. PIERRE It is true, mother. EMIL GRELIEU How can you say it, Jeanne? You don't know? JEANNE I say this on account of the children. Yes, there they write that they are killing children, so they write there. And all this was crowded upon that little slip of paper--and the children, as well as the fire-- _Rises quickly and walks away, humming._ EMIL GRELIEU Where are you going, Jeanne? JEANNE Nowhere in particular. François, do you hear? They are murdering our women and children. François! François! _Without turning around, François walks out, his shoulders bent. All look after him. Jeanne goes to the other door with a strange half-smile._ PIERRE Mamma! JEANNE I will return directly. EMIL GRELIEU What shall I call them? What can I call them? My dear Pierre, my boy, what shall I call them? PIERRE You are greatly agitated, father. EMIL GRELIEU I have always thought, I have always been convinced that words were at my command, but here I stand before this monstrous, inexplicable--I don't know, I don't know what to call them. My heart is crying out, I hear its voice, but the word! Pierre, you are a student, you are young, your words are direct and pure--Pierre, find the word! PIERRE You want me to find it, father? Yes, I was a student, and I knew certain words: Peace, Right, Humanity. But now you see! My heart is crying too, but I do not know what to call these scoundrels. Scoundrels? That is not sufficient. _In despair._ Not sufficient. EMIL GRELIEU That is not strong enough. Pierre, I have decided-- PIERRE Decided? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, I am going. PIERRE You, father? EMIL GRELIEU I decided to do it several days ago--even then, at the very beginning. And I really don't know why I--. Oh, yes, I had to overcome within me--my love for flowers. _Ironically._ Yes, Pierre, my love for flowers. Oh, my boy, it is so hard to change from flowers to iron and blood! PIERRE Father, I dare not contradict you. EMIL GRELIEU No, no, you dare not. It is not necessary. Listen, Pierre, you must examine me as a physician. PIERRE I am only a student, father. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, but you know enough to say--. You see, Pierre, I must not burden our little army with a single superfluous sick or weak man. Isn't that so? I must bring with me strength and power, not shattered health. Isn't that so? And I am asking you, Pierre, to examine me, simply as a physician, as a young physician. But I feel somewhat embarrassed with you--. Must I take this off, or can you do it without removing this? PIERRE It can be done this way. EMIL GRELIEU I think so, too. And--must I tell you everything, or--? At any rate, I will tell you that I have not had any serious ailments, and for my years I am a rather strong, healthy man. You know what a life I am leading. PIERRE That is unnecessary, father. EMIL GRELIEU It is necessary. You are a physician. I want to say that in my life there were none of those unwholesome--and bad excesses. Oh, the devil take it, how hard it is to speak of it. PIERRE Papa, I know all this. _Quickly kisses his father's hand. Silence._ EMIL GRELIEU But it is necessary to take my pulse, Pierre, I beg of you. PIERRE _Smiling faintly._ It isn't necessary to do even that. As a physician, I can tell you that you are healthy, but--you are unfit for war, you are unfit for war, father! I am listening to you and I feel like crying, father. EMIL GRELIEU _Thoughtfully._ Yes, yes. But perhaps it is not necessary to cry. Do you think, Pierre, that I should not kill? Pierre, you think, that I, Emil Grelieu, must not kill under any circumstances and at any time? PIERRE _Softly._ I dare not touch upon your conscience, father. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, that is a terrible question for a man. I must kill, Pierre. Of course, I could take your gun, but not to fire--no, that would have been disgusting, a sacrilegious deception! When my humble people are condemned to kill, who am I that I should keep my hands clean? That would be disgusting cleanliness, obnoxious saintliness. My humble nation did not desire to kill, but it was forced, and it has become a murderer. So I, too, must become a murderer, together with my nation. Upon whose shoulders will I place the sin--upon the shoulders of our youths and children? No, Pierre. And if ever the Higher Conscience of the world will call my dear people to the terrible accounting, if it will call you and Maurice, my children, and will say to you: "What have you done? You have murdered!" I will come forward and will say: "First you must judge me; I have also murdered--and you know that I am an honest man!" _Pierre sits motionless, his face covered with his hands. Enter Jeanne, unnoticed._ PIERRE _Uncovering his face._ But you must not die! You have no right! EMIL GRELIEU _Loudly, and with contempt._ Oh, death! _They notice Jeanne, and grow silent. Jeanne sits down and speaks in the same tone of strange, almost cheerful calm._ JEANNE Emil, she is here again. EMIL GRELIEU Yes? She is here again. Where has she been the last two nights? JEANNE She does not know herself. Emil, her dress and her hands were in blood. EMIL GRELIEU She is wounded? JEANNE No, it is not her own blood, and by the color I could not tell whose blood it is. PIERRE Who is that, mother? JEANNE A girl. Just a girl. She's insane. I have combed her hair and put a clean dress on her. She has beautiful hair. Emil, I have heard something--I understand that you want to go--? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. JEANNE Together with your children, Emil? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. Pierre has examined me and finds that I am fit to enter the ranks. JEANNE You intend to go tomorrow? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. JEANNE You cannot manage it today. Pierre, you have only an hour and a half left. _Silence._ PIERRE Mamma! Tell him that he must not--Forgive me, father!--that he should not go. Isn't that true, mother? Tell him! He has given to the nation his two sons--what more should he give? He has no right to give more. JEANNE More, Pierre? PIERRE Yes,--his life. You love him; you, yourself, would die if he were killed--tell him that, mother! JEANNE Yes, I love him. I love you, too. PIERRE Oh, what are we, Maurice and I? But he! Just as they have no right to destroy temples in war or to bum libraries, just as they have no right to touch the eternal, so he--he--has no right to die. I am speaking not as your son, no; but to kill Emil Grelieu--that would be worse than to bum books. Listen to me! You have brought me into this world. Listen to me!--although I am young and should be silent--Listen to me! They have already robbed us. They have deprived us of our land and of the air; they have destroyed our treasures which have been created by the genius of our people, and now we would cast our best men into their jaws! What does that mean? What will remain of us? Let them kill us all, let our land be turned into a waste desert, let all living creatures be burned to death, but as long as he lives, Belgium is alive! What is Belgium without him? Oh, do not be silent, mother! Tell him! _Silence._ EMIL GRELIEU _Somewhat sternly._ Calm yourself, Pierre! JEANNE Yesterday I--no, Pierre, that isn't what I was going to say--I don't know anything about it. How could I know? But yesterday I--it is hard to get vegetables, and even bread, here--so I went to town, and for some reason we did not go in that direction, but nearer the field of battle--. How strange it is that we found ourselves there! And there I saw them coming-- EMIL GRELIEU Whom? JEANNE Our soldiers. They were coming from there--where the battle raged for four days. There were not many of them--about a hundred or two hundred. But we all--there were so many people in the streets--we all stepped back to the wall in order to make way for them. Emil, just think of it; how strange! They did not see us, and we would have been in their way! They were black from smoke, from mud, from dried blood, and they were swaying from fatigue. They were all thin--as consumptives. But that is nothing, that is all nothing. Their eyes--what was it, Emil? They did not see their surroundings, they still reflected that which they had seen there--fire and smoke and death--and what else? Some one said: "Here are people returning from hell." We all bowed to them, we bowed to them, but they did not see that either. Is that possible, Emil? EMIL GRELIEU Yes, Jeanne, that is possible. PIERRE And he will go to that inferno? _Silence. Emil Grelieu walks over to his wife and kisses her hand. She looks at his head with a smile. Suddenly she rises._ JEANNE Forgive me; there is something else I must say-- _She moves quickly and lightly, but suddenly, as though stumbling over an invisible obstacle, falls on one knee. Then she tries to rise, kneels, pale and still smiling, bending to one side. They rush over to her and lift her from the ground._ PIERRE Mamma! Mamma! EMIL GRELIEU You have a headache? Jeanne, my dearest, what ails you? _She pushes them aside, stands up firmly, trying to conceal her nervousness._ JEANNE What is it? What? Don't trouble, Emil! My head? No, no! My foot slipped--you know, the one that pained me. You see, I can walk now. EMIL GRELIEU A glass of water, Pierre. JEANNE What for? How absurd! _But Pierre had already gone out. Jeanne sits down, hangs her head, as one guilty, endeavoring not to look into his eyes._ JEANNE What an excitable youth--your Pierre! Did you hear what he said? EMIL GRELIEU _Significantly._ Jeanne! JEANNE What? No, no--why do you look at me this way? No--I am telling you. _Pierre brings her water, but Jeanne does not drink it._ JEANNE Thank you, Pierre, but I don't want it. _Silence._ How fragrant the flowers are. Pierre, please give me that rose--yes, that one. Thank you. How fresh it is, Emil, and what a fine fragrance--come over here, Emil! _Emil Grelieu goes over to her and kisses the hand in which she holds the rose. Looks at her._ JEANNE _Lowering her hand._ No; I have asked for this flower simply because its fragrance seems to me immortal--it is always the same--as the sky. How strange it is, always the same. And when you bring it close to your face, and close to your eyes, it seems to you that there is nothing except this red rose and the blue sky. Nothing but the red rose and the distant, pale--very pale--blue sky.... EMIL GRELIEU Pierre! Listen to me, my boy! People speak of this only at night, when they are alone with their souls--and she knows it, but you do not know it yet. Don't you know it, Jeanne? JEANNE _Trembling, opening her eyes._ Yes, I know, Emil. EMIL GRELIEU The life of the poet does not belong to him. The roof over the heads of people, which shelters them--all that is a phantom for me, and my life does not belong to me. I am always far away, not here--I am always where I am not. You think of finding me among the living, while I am dead; you are afraid of finding me in death, mute, cold, doomed to decay, while I live and sing aloud from my grave. Death which makes people mute, which leaves the imprint of silence upon the bravest lips, restores the voice to the poet. Dead, I speak more loudly than alive. Dead, I am alive! Am I--just think of it, Pierre, my boy,--am I to fear death when in my most persistent searches I could not find the boundary between life and death, when in my feelings I mix life and death into one--as two strong, rare kinds of wine? Just think of it, my boy! _Silence. Emil Grelieu looks at his son, smiling. Pierre has covered his face with his hands. The woman is apparently calm. She turns her eyes from her weeping son to her husband._ PIERRE _Uncovering his face._ Forgive me, father! JEANNE Take this rose, Pierre, and when it fades and falls apart tear down another rose--it will have the same fragrance as this one. You are a foolish little boy, Pierre, but I am also foolish, although Emil is so kind that he thinks differently. Will you be in the same regiment, Emil? EMIL GRELIEU No, hardly, Jeanne. PIERRE Father, it is better that we be in the same regiment. I will arrange it, father--will you permit me? And I will teach you how to march--. You know, I am going to be your superior officer. EMIL GRELIEU _Smiling._ Very well. JEANNE _Goes out singing in a low voice._ "Only the halo of the arts is crowning--law, liberty, and the King." Who is that? Ah, you! Look, Pierre, here is the girl you wished to see. Come in, come in, my dear child! Don't be afraid, come in! You know him. That's my husband. He is a very good man and will do you no harm. And this is my son, Pierre. Give him your hand. _A girl enters; she is frail, very pale, and beautiful. She wears a black dress, her hair is combed neatly, and she is modest in her demeanor. Her eyes reflect fright and sorrow. She is followed by the chambermaid, Silvina, a kind, elderly woman in a white cap; by Madame Henrietta, and another woman in the service of the Grelieu household. They stop at the threshold and watch the girl curiously. The elder woman is weeping as she looks at her._ GIRL _Stretching forth her hand to Pierre._ Oh, that is a soldier! Be so kind, soldier, tell me how to go to Lonua. I have lost my way. PIERRE _Confused._ I do not know, Mademoiselle. GIRL _Looking at everybody mournfully._ Who knows? It is time for me to go. JEANNE _Cautiously and tenderly leading her to a seat._ Sit down, child, take a rest, my dear, give your poor feet a rest. Pierre, her feet are wounded, yet she wants to walk all the time. ELDERLY WOMAN I wanted to stop her, Monsieur Pierre, but it is impossible to stop her. If we close the door before her the poor girl beats her head against the walls, like a bird in a cage. Poor girl! _Dries her tears. François enters from the garden and occupies himself again with the flowers. He glances at the girl from time to time. It is evident that he is making painful efforts to hear and understand what is going on._ GIRL It is time for me to go. JEANNE Rest yourself, here, my child! Why should you leave? At night it is so terrible on the roads. There, in the dark air, bullets are buzzing instead of our dear bees; there wicked people, vicious beasts are roaming. And there is no one who can tell you, for there is no one who knows how to go to Lonua. GIRL Don't you know how I could find my way to Lonua? PIERRE _Softly._ What is she asking? Emil GRELIEU Oh, you may speak louder; she can hear as little as François. She is asking about the village which the Prussians have set on fire. Her home used to be there--now there are only ruins and corpses there. There is no road that leads to Lonua! GIRL Don't you know it, either? No one knows. I have asked everybody, and no one can tell me how to find my way to Lonua. I must hurry. They are waiting for me there. _She rises quickly and walks over to François._ Tell me; you are kindhearted! Don't you know the way to Lonua? _François looks at her intently. Silently he turns away and walks out, stooping._ JEANNE _Seating her again._ Sit down, little girl. He does not know. GIRL _Sadly._ I am asking, and they are silent. EMIL GRELIEU I suppose she is also asking the bodies of the dead that lie in the fields and in the ditches how to go to Lonua. JEANNE Her hands and her dress were bloodstained. She was walking all night. Take a rest, my little one! I will hold you in my arms, and you will feel better and more comfortable, my little child. GIRL _Softly._ Tell me, how can I find my way to Lonua? JEANNE Yes, yes, come! Emil, I will go with her to my room. There she will feel more comfortable. Come along, my dear. I'll hold you. Come! _They go out. The other women follow them. Emil Grelieu and Pierre remain._ EMIL GRELIEU Lonua! A quiet little village which no one ever noticed before--houses, trees, and flowers. Where is it now? Who knows the way to that little village? Pierre, the soul of our people is roaming about in the watches of the night, asking the dead how to find the way to Lonua! Pierre, I cannot endure it any longer! I am suffocating from hatred and anger! Oh, weep, you German Nation--bitter will be the fate of your children, terrible will be your disgrace before the judgment of the free nations! _Curtain_ SCENE III _Night. The dark silhouette of Emil Grelieu's villa stands out in the background. The gatekeeper's house is seen among the trees, a dim light in the window. At the cast-iron fence frightened women are huddled together, watching the fire in the distance. An alarming redness has covered the sky; only in the zenith is the sky dark. The reflection of the fire falls upon objects and people, casting strange shadows against the mirrors of the mute and dark villa. The voices sound muffled and timid; there are frequent pauses and prolonged sighs. Three women_. HENRIETTA My God, my God! How terrible it is! It is burning and burning, and there is no end to the fire! SECOND WOMAN Yesterday it was burning further away, and tonight the fire is nearer. It is growing nearer. O Lord! HENRIETTA It is burning and burning, there is no end to the fire! Today the sun was covered in a mist. SECOND WOMAN It is forever burning, and the sun is growing ever darker! Now it is lighter at night than in the daytime! SILVINA I am afraid! HENRIETTA Be silent, Silvina, be silent! _Silence._ SECOND WOMAN I can't hear a sound. What is binning there? If I close my eyes it seems to me that nothing is going on there. It is so quiet! Even the dogs are not barking! HENRIETTA I can see all that is going on there even with my eyes closed. Look; it seems the fire is spreading! SILVINA Oh, I am afraid! SECOND WOMAN Where is it burning? HENRIETTA I don't know. It is burning and burning, and there is no end to the fire! It may be that they have all perished by this time. It may be that something terrible is going on there, and we are looking on and know nothing. _A fourth woman approaches them quietly._ FOURTH WOMAN Good evening! SILVINA _With restraint._ Oh! HENRIETTA Oh, you have frightened us! Good evening, neighbor! FOURTH WOMAN Good evening, Madame Henrietta! Never mind my coming here--it is terrible to stay in the house! I guessed that you were not sleeping, but here, watching. You can see well from this spot. Don't you know where the fire is? SECOND WOMAN No. And we can't hear a sound--how quiet! HENRIETTA It is burning and burning. Haven't you heard anything about your husband? FOURTH WOMAN No, nothing. I have already stopped weeping. HENRIETTA And with whom are your children just now? FOURTH WOMAN Alone. They are asleep. Is it true that Monsieur Pierre was killed? I've heard about it. HENRIETTA _Agitated._ Just imagine! I don't know! I simply cannot understand what is going on! You see, there is no one in the house now, and we are afraid to sleep there-- SECOND WOMAN The three of us sleep here, in the gatekeeper's house. HENRIETTA I am afraid to look into that house even in the daytime--the house is so large and so empty! And there are no men there, not a soul-- FOURTH WOMAN Is it true that François has gone to shoot the Prussians? I have heard about it. HENRIETTA Maybe. Everybody is talking about it, but we don't know. He disappeared quietly, like a mouse. FOURTH WOMAN He will be hanged--the Prussians hang such people! HENRIETTA Wait, wait! Today, while I was in the garden, I heard the telephone ringing in the house; it was ringing for a long time. I was frightened, but I went in after all--and, just think of it! Some one said: "Monsieur Pierre was killed!" SECOND WOMAN And nothing more? HENRIETTA Nothing more; not a word! All grew quiet again. I felt so bad and was so frightened that I could hardly run out. Now I will not enter that house for anything! FOURTH WOMAN Whose voice was it? SECOND WOMAN Madame Henrietta says it was an unfamiliar voice. HENRIETTA Yes, an unfamiliar voice. FOURTH WOMAN Look! There seems to be a light in the windows of the house--somebody is there! SILVINA Oh, I am afraid! I can't bear it! HENRIETTA Oh, what are you saying; what are you saying? There is no one there! SECOND WOMAN That's from the redness of the sky! FOURTH WOMAN What if some one is ringing there again? HENRIETTA How is that possible? At night? _All listen. Silence._ SECOND WOMAN What will become of us? They are coming this way, and there is nothing that can stop them! FOURTH WOMAN I wish I might die now! When you are dead, you don't hear or see anything. HENRIETTA It keeps on all night like this--it is burning and burning! And in the daytime it will again be hard to see things on account of the smoke; and the bread will smell of burning! What is going on there? FOURTH WOMAN They have killed Monsieur Pierre. SECOND WOMAN They have killed him? Killed him? SILVINA You must not speak of it! My God, whither should I go! I cannot bear this. I cannot understand it! _Weeps softly._ FOURTH WOMAN They say there are twenty millions of them, and they have already set Paris on fire. They say they have cannon which can hit a hundred kilometers away. HENRIETTA My God, my God! And all that is coming upon us! SECOND WOMAN Merciful God, have pity on us! FOURTH WOMAN And they are flying and they are hurling bombs from airships--terrible bombs, which destroy entire cities! HENRIETTA My God! What have they done with the sky! Before this You were alone in the sky, and now those base Prussians are there too! SECOND WOMAN Before this, when my soul wanted rest and joy I looked at the sky, but now there is no place where a poor soul can find rest and joy! FOURTH WOMAN They have taken everything away from our Belgium--even the sky! I wish I could die at once! There is no air to breathe now! _Suddenly frightened._ Listen! Don't you think that now my husband, my husband-- HENRIETTA No, no! FOURTH WOMAN Why is the sky so red? What is it that is burning there? SECOND WOMAN Have mercy on us, O God! The fire seems to be moving toward us! _Silence. The redness of the flames seems to be swaying over the earth._ _Curtain_ SCENE IV _Dawn. The sun has already risen, but it is hidden behind the heavy mist and smoke._ _A large room in Emil Grelieu's villa, which has been turned into a sickroom. There are two wounded there, Grelieu himself, with a serious wound in his shoulder, and his son Maurice, with a light wound on his right arm. The large window, covered with half transparent curtains, admits a faint bluish light. The wounded appear to be asleep. In an armchair at the bedside of Grelieu there is a motionless figure in white, Jeanne_. EMIL GRELIEU _Softly._ Jeanne! _She leans over the bed quickly_. JEANNE Shall I give you some water? EMIL GRELIEU No. You are tired. JEANNE Oh, no, not at all. I was dozing all night. Can't you fall asleep, Emil? EMIL GRELIEU What time is it? _She goes over to the window quietly, and pushing the curtain aside slightly, looks at her little watch. Then she returns just as quietly._ JEANNE It is still early. Perhaps you will try to fall asleep, Emil? It seems to me that you have been suffering great pain; you have been groaning all night. EMIL GRELIEU No, I am feeling better. How is the weather this morning? JEANNE Nasty weather, Emil; you can't see the sun. Try to sleep. _Silence. Suddenly Maurice utters a cry in his sleep; the cry turns into a groan and indistinct mumbling. Jeanne walks over to him and listens, then returns to her seat._ EMIL GRELIEU Is the boy getting on well? JEANNE Don't worry, Emil. He only said a few words in his sleep. EMIL GRELIEU He has done it several times tonight. JEANNE I am afraid that he is disturbing you. We can have him removed to another room and Henrietta will stay with him. The boy's blood is in good condition. In another week, I believe, we shall be able to remove the bandage from his arm. EMIL GRELIEU No, let him stay here, Jeanne. JEANNE What is it, my dear? _She kneels at his bed and kisses his hand carefully._ EMIL GRELIEU Jeanne! JEANNE I think your fever has gone down, my dear. _Impresses another kiss upon his hand and clings to it._ EMIL GRELIEU You are my love, Jeanne. JEANNE Do not speak, do not speak. Don't agitate yourself. _A brief moment of silence._ EMIL GRELIEU _Moving his head restlessly._ It is so hard to breathe here, the air---- JEANNE The window has been open all night, my dear. There is not a breeze outside. EMIL GRELIEU There is smoke. JEANNE Yes. MAURICE _Utters a cry once more, then mutters_-- Stop, stop, stop! _Again indistinctly._ It is burning, it is burning! Oh! Who is going to the battery, who is going to the battery---- _He mutters and then grows silent._ EMIL GRELIEU What painful dreams! JEANNE That's nothing; the boy always used to talk in his sleep. Yesterday he looked so well. EMIL GRELIEU Jeanne! JEANNE What is it, my dear? EMIL GRELIEU Sit down. JEANNE Very well. EMIL GRELIEU Jeanne.... Are you thinking about Pierre? _Silence._ JEANNE _Softly._ Don't speak of him. EMIL GRELIEU You are right. Death is not so terrible. Isn't that true, Jeanne? JEANNE _After a brief pause._ That's true. EMIL GRELIEU We shall follow him later. He will not come here, but we shall go to him. I was thinking of it at night. It is so clear. Do you remember the red rose which you gave him? I remember it. JEANNE Yes. EMIL GRELIEU It is so clear. Jeanne, lean over me. You are the best woman in the world. _Silence._ EMIL GRELIEU _Tossing about in his bed._ It is so hard to breathe. JEANNE My dear---- EMIL GRELIEU No, that's nothing. The night is tormenting me. Jeanne, was I dreaming, or have I really heard cannonading? JEANNE You really heard it, at about five o'clock. But very far away, Emil--it was hardly audible. Close your eyes, my dear, rest yourself. _Silence_ MAURICE _Faintly._ Mamma! _Jeanne walks over to him quietly._ JEANNE Are you awake? MAURICE Yes. I have slept enough. How is father? JEANNE He is awake. EMIL GRELIEU Good morning, Maurice. MAURICE Good morning, papa. How do you feel? I am feeling well. EMIL GRELIEU I, too, am feeling well. Jeanne, you may draw the curtain aside. I can't sleep any longer. JEANNE Very well. What a nasty day! Still it will be easier for you to breathe when it is light. _She draws the curtain aside slowly, so as not to make it too light at once. Beyond the large window vague silhouettes of the trees are seen at the window frames and several withered, bent flowers. Maurice is trying to adjust the screen._ JEANNE What are you doing, Maurice? MAURICE My coat--Never mind, I'll fix it myself. _Guiltily._ No, mamma, you had better help me. JEANNE _Going behind the screen._ What a foolish boy you are, Maurice. _Behind the screen._ Be careful, be careful, that's the way. Don't hurry, be careful. MAURICE _Behind the screen._ Pin this for me right here, as you did yesterday. That's very good. JEANNE _Behind the screen._ Of course. Wait, you'll kiss me later--. Well? That's the way. _Maurice comes out, his right arm dressed in a bandage. He goes over to his father and first kisses his hand, then, upon a sign from his eyes, he kisses him on the lips._ EMIL GRELIEU Good morning, good morning, my dear boy. MAURICE _Looking around at the screen, where his mother is putting the bed in order._ Papa, look! _He takes his hand out of the bandage and straightens it quickly. Then he puts it back just as quickly. Emil Grelieu threatens him with his finger. Jeanne puts the screen aside, and the bed is already in order._ JEANNE I am through now. Maurice, come to the bathroom. I'll wash you. MAURICE Oh, no; under no circumstances. I'll wash myself today. Last night I washed myself with my left hand and it was very fine. _Walking over to the open window._ How nasty it is. These scoundrels have spoiled the day. Still, it is warm and there is the smell of flowers. It's good, papa; it is very fine. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, it is pleasant. MAURICE Well, I am going. JEANNE Clean your teeth; you didn't do it yesterday, Maurice. MAURICE _Grumbling. _ What's the use of it now? Very well, I'll do it. _At the door. _ Papa, do you know, well have good news today; I feel it. _He is heard calling in a ringing voice, "Silvina."_ EMIL GRELIEU I feel better. JEANNE I'll let you have your coffee directly. You are looking much better today, much better. EMIL GRELIEU What is this? JEANNE Perfume, with water. I'll bathe your face with it That's the way. Now I again have little children to wash. You see how pleasant it feels. EMIL GRELIEU Yes. What did he say about good news? JEANNE He didn't mean anything. He is very happy because he is a hero. EMIL GRELIEU Do you know any news? JEANNE _Irresolutely._ Nothing. What news could there be? EMIL GRELIEU Tell me, Jeanne; you were firmer before. Tell me my dear. JEANNE Was I firmer? Perhaps.... I have grown accustomed to talk to you softly at night. Well--how shall I tell it to you? They are coming. EMIL GRELIEU Coming? JEANNE Yes. You know their numbers and ours. Don't be excited, but I think that it will be necessary for us to leave for Antwerp today. EMIL GRELIEU Are they near? JEANNE Yes, they are near. Very near. _Sings softly._ "Le Roi, la Loi, la Liberté." Very near. I have not told you that the King inquired yesterday about your health. I answered that you were feeling better and that you will be able to leave today. EMIL GRELIEU Of course I am able to leave today. And what did he say about them? JEANNE What did the King say? _Singing the same tune._ He said that their numbers were too great. EMIL GRELIEU What else did he say? What else, Jeanne? JEANNE What else? He said that there was a God and there was righteousness. That's what I believe I heard him say--that there was still a God and that righteousness was still in existence. How old these words are, Emil! But it is so good that they still exist. _Silence._ EMIL GRELIEU Yes, in the daytime you are so different. Where do you get so much strength, Jeanne? JEANNE Where? EMIL GRELIEU I am forever looking at your hair. I am wondering why it hasn't turned gray. JEANNE I dye it at night, Emil. I'll bring in some more flowers. Now it is very cozy here. Oh, yes, I haven't told you yet--some one will be here to see you today--Secretary Lagard and some one else by the name of Count Clairmont. EMIL GRELIEU Count Clairmont? I don't know him. JEANNE It is not necessary that you should know him. He is simply known as Count Clairmont, Count Clairmont--. That's a good name for a very good man. EMIL GRELIEU I know a very good man in Belgium-- JEANNE Tsh! You must not know anything. You must only remember--Count Clairmont. They have some important matters to discuss with you, I believe. And they'll send you an automobile, to take you to Antwerp. EMIL GRELIEU _Smiling._ Count Clairmont? JEANNE _Also smiling._ Yes. You are loved by everybody, but if I were a King, I would have sent you an aeroplane. _Throwing back her hands in sorrow which she is trying vainly to suppress._ Ah, how good it would be now to rise from the ground and fly--and fly for a long, long time. _Enter Maurice._ MAURICE I am ready now, I have cleaned my teeth. I've even taken a walk in the garden. But I have never before noticed that we have such a beautiful garden! Papa, our garden is wonderfully beautiful! JEANNE Coffee will be ready directly. If he disturbs you with his talk, call me, Emil. MAURICE Oh, I did not mean to disturb you. Forgive me, papa. I'll not disturb you any more. EMIL GRELIEU You may speak, speak. I am feeling quite well, quite well. JEANNE But you must save your strength, don't forget that, Emil. _Exit._ MAURICE _Sitting down quietly at the window._ Perhaps I really ought not to speak, papa? EMIL GRELIEU _Smiling faintly._ Can you be silent? MAURICE _Blushing._ No, father, I cannot just now. I suppose I seem to you very young. EMIL GRELIEU And what do you think of it yourself? MAURICE _Blushing again._ I am no longer as young as I was three weeks ago. Yes, only three weeks ago--I remember the tolling of the bells in our church, I remember how I teased François. How strange that François has been lost and no one knows where he is. What does it mean that a human being is lost and no one knows where he is? Before, one could see everything on earth. EMIL GRELIEU Yes. MAURICE Papa! Why do they hang such people as François? That is cruel and stupid. Forgive me for speaking so harshly. But need an old man love his fatherland less than I love it, for instance? The old people love it even more intensely. Let everyone fight as he can. I am not tiring you, am I? An old man came to us, he was very feeble, he asked for bullets--well, let them hang me too--I gave him bullets. A few of our regiment made sport of him, but he said: "If only one Prussian bullet will strike me, it means that the Prussians will have one bullet less." That appealed to me. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, that appeals to me, too. Have you heard the cannonading at dawn? MAURICE No. Why, was there any cannonading? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. I heard cannonading. Did mamma tell you that they are coming nearer and nearer? They are approaching. MAURICE _Rising._ Really? Impossible! EMIL GRELIEU They are coming, and we must leave for Antwerp today. MAURICE Yes. _He rises and walks back and forth, forgetting his wounded arm. He is greatly agitated. Clenches his fist._ MAURICE Father, tell me: What do you think of the present state of affairs? EMIL GRELIEU Mamma says there is a God and there is righteousness. MAURICE _Raising his hand._ Mamma says----Let God bless mamma! I don't know--I--. Very well, very well. We shall see; we shall see! _His face twitches like a child's face. He is trying to repress his tears._ MAURICE I still owe them something for Pierre. Forgive me, father; I don't know whether I have a right to say this or not, but I am altogether different from you. It is wicked but I can't help it. I was looking this morning at your flowers in the garden and I felt so sorry--sorry for you, because you had grown them. Those rascals! EMIL GRELIEU Maurice! MAURICE The scoundrels! I don't want to consider them human beings, and I shall not consider them human beings. _Enter Jeanne._ JEANNE What is it, Maurice? That isn't right. MAURICE Very well. _As he passes he embraces his mother with his left hand and kisses her._ JEANNE You had better sit down. It is dangerous for your health to walk around this way. EMIL GRELIEU Sit down, Maurice. _Maurice sits down at the window facing the garden. Emil Grelieu smiles sadly and closes his eyes. Silvina, the maid, brings in coffee and sets it on the table near Grelieu's bed._ SILVINA Good morning, Monsieur Emil. EMIL GRELIEU _Opening his eyes._ Good morning, Silvina. _Exit Silvina._ JEANNE Go and have your breakfast, Maurice. MAURICE _Without turning around._ I don't want any breakfast. Mamma, I'll take off my bandage tomorrow. JEANNE _Laughing._ Soldier, is it possible that you are capricious? _Silence. Jeanne helps Emil Grelieu with his coffee._ JEANNE That's the way. Is it convenient for you this way, or do you want to drink it with a spoon? EMIL GRELIEU Oh, my poor head, it is so weak-- MAURICE _Going over to him._ Forgive me, father, I'll not do it any more. I was foolishly excited, but do you know I could not endure it. May I have a cup, mamma? JEANNE Yes, this is yours. You feel better now? MAURICE Yes, I do. EMIL GRELIEU I am feeling perfectly well today, Jeanne. When is the bandage to be changed? JEANNE Later. Count Clairmont will bring his surgeon along with him. MAURICE Who is that, mamma? Have I seen him? JEANNE You'll see him. But, please, Maurice, when you see him, don't open your mouth so wide. You have a habit--you open your mouth and then you forget about it. MAURICE _Blushing._ You are both looking at me and smiling. But I have time yet to grow. I have time yet to grow. _The sound of automobiles is heard._ JEANNE _Rising quickly._ I think they are here. Maurice, this is only Count Clairmont, don't forget. I'll be back directly. They will speak with you about a very, very important matter, Emil, but you must not be agitated. EMIL GRELIEU Yes, I know. JEANNE _Kissing him quickly._ I am going. _Exit, almost colliding with Silvina, who is excited._ MAURICE _Whispering._ Who is it, Silvina? _Silvina makes some answer in mingled delight and awe. Maurice's face assumes the same expression as Silvina's. Silvina goes out. Maurice walks quickly to the window and raises his left hand to his forehead, straightening himself in military fashion. Thus he stands until the others notice him._ _Enter Jeanne, Count Clairmont, followed by Secretary Lagard and the Count's adjudant, an elderly General of stem appearance, with numerous decorations upon his chest. The Count himself is tall, well built and young, in a modest officer's uniform, without any medals to signify his high station. He carries himself very modestly, almost bashfully, but overcoming his first uneasiness, he speaks warmly and powerfully and freely. His gestures are swift. All treat him with profound respect._ _Lagard is a strong old man with a leonine gray head. He speaks simply, his gestures are calm and resolute. It is evident that he is in the habit of speaking from a platform._ _Jeanne holds a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. Count Clairmont walks directly toward Grelieu's bedside._ COUNT CLAIRMONT _Confused._ I have come to shake hands with you, my dear master. Oh, but do not make a single unnecessary movement, not a single one, otherwise I shall be very unhappy! EMIL GRELIEU I am deeply moved, I am happy. COUNT CLAIRMONT No, no, don't speak that way. Here stands before you only a man who has learned to think from your books. But see what they have done to you--look, Lagard! LAGARD How are you, Grelieu? I, too, want to shake your hand. Today I am a Secretary by the will of Fate, but yesterday I was only a physician, and I may congratulate you--you have a kind hand. Let me feel your pulse. GENERAL _Coming forward modestly._ Allow me, too, in the name of this entire army of ours to express to you our admiration, Monsieur Grelieu! EMIL GRELIEU I thank you. I am feeling perfectly well, Lagard. COUNT CLAIRMONT But perhaps it is necessary to have a surgeon? JEANNE He can listen and talk, Count. He is smiling--he can listen. COUNT CLAIRMONT _Noticing Maurice, confused._ Oh! who is this? Please put down your hand--you are wounded. MAURICE I am so happy, Count. JEANNE This is our second son. Our first son, Pierre, was killed at Liège-- COUNT CLAIRMONT I dare not console you, Madame Grelieu. Give me your hand, Maurice. MAURICE Oh, Count! I am only a soldier. I dare not-- COUNT CLAIRMONT My dear young man, I, too, am nothing but a soldier now. Your hand, comrade. That's the way. Master! My children and my wife have sent you flowers--but where are they? Oh! how absentminded I am. JEANNE Here they are, Count. COUNT CLAIRMONT Thank you. But I did not know that your flowers were better than mine, for my flowers smell of smoke. LAGARD Like all Belgium. _To Count Clairmont._ His pulse is good. Grelieu, we have come to you not only to express our sympathy. Through me all the working people of Belgium are shaking your hand. EMIL GRELIEU I am proud of it, Lagard. LAGARD But we are just as proud. Yes; there is something we must discuss with you. Count Clairmont did not wish to disturb you, but I said: "Let him die, but before that we must speak to him." Isn't that so, comrade? EMIL GRELIEU I am not dying. Maurice, I think you had better go out. COUNT CLAIRMONT _Quickly._ Oh, no, no. He is your son, Grelieu, and he should be present to hear what his father will say. Oh, I should have been proud to have such a father. LAGARD Our Count is a very fine young man--Pardon me, Count, I have again upset our-- COUNT CLAIRMONT That's nothing, I have already grown accustomed to it. Master, it is necessary for you and your family to leave for Antwerp today. EMIL GRELIEU Are our affairs in such a critical condition? LAGARD What is there to tell? Things are in bad shape, very bad. That horde of Huns is coming upon us like the tide of the sea. Today they are still there, but tomorrow they will flood your house, Grelieu. They are coming toward Antwerp. To what can we resort in our defence? On this side are they, and there is the sea. Only very little is left of Belgium, Grelieu. Very soon there will be no room even for my beard here. Isn't that so, Count? _Silence. Dull sounds of cannonading are heard in the distance. All turn their eyes to the window._ EMIL GRELIEU Is that a battle? COUNT CLAIRMONT _Listening, calmly._ No, that is only the beginning. But tomorrow they will carry their devilish weapons past your house. Do you know they are real iron monsters, under whose weight our earth is quaking and groaning. They are moving slowly, like amphibia that have crawled out at night from the abyss--but they are moving! Another few days will pass, and they will crawl over to Antwerp, they will turn their jaws to the city, to the churches--Woe to Belgium, master! Woe to Belgium! LAGARD Yes, it is very bad. We are an honest and peaceful people despising bloodshed, for war is such a stupid affair! And we should not have had a single soldier long ago were it not for this accursed neighbor, this den of murderers. GENERAL And what would we have done without any soldiers, Monsieur Lagard? LAGARD And what can we do with soldiers, Monsieur General? COUNT CLAIRMONT You are wrong, Lagard. With our little army there is still one possibility--to die as freemen die. But without an army we would have been bootblacks, Lagard! LAGARD _Grumbling._ Well, I would not clean anybody's boots. Things are in bad shape, Grelieu, in very bad shape. And there is but one remedy left for us--. True, it is a terrible remedy. EMIL GRELIEU I know. LAGARD Yes? What is it? EMIL GRELIEU The dam. _Jeanne and Emil shudder and look at each other with terror in their eyes._ COUNT CLAIRMONT You shuddered, you are shuddering, madame. But what am I to do, what are we to do, we who dare not shudder? JEANNE Oh, I simply thought of a girl who was trying to find her way to Lonua. She will never find her way to Lonua. COUNT CLAIRMONT But what is to be done? What is to be done? _All become thoughtful. The Count steps away to the window and looks out, nervously twitching his mustaches. Maurice has moved aside and, as before, stands at attention. Jeanne stands a little distance away from him, with her shoulder leaning against the wall, her beautiful pale head thrown back. Lagard is sitting at the bedside as before, stroking his gray, disheveled beard. The General is absorbed in gloomy thoughts._ COUNT CLAIRMONT _Turning around resolutely._ I am a peaceful man, but I can understand why people take up arms. Arms! That means a sword, a gun, explosive contrivances. That is fire. Fire is killing people, but at the same time it also gives light. Fire cleanses. There is something of the ancient sacrifice in it. But water! cold, dark, silent, covering with mire, causing bodies to swell--water, which was the beginning of chaos; water, which is guarding the earth by day and night in order to rush upon it. My friend, believe me, I am quite a daring man, but I am afraid of water! Lagard, what would you say to that? LAGARD We Belgians have too long been struggling against the water not to have learned to fear it. I am also afraid of water. JEANNE But what is more terrible, the Prussians or water? GENERAL _Bowing._ Madame is right. The Prussians are not more terrible, but they are worse. LAGARD Yes. We have no other choice. It is terrible to release water from captivity, the beast from its den, nevertheless it is a better friend to us than the Prussians. I would prefer to see the whole of Belgium covered with water rather than extend a hand of reconciliation to a scoundrel! Neither they nor we shall live to see that, even if the entire Atlantic Ocean rush over our heads. _Brief pause._ GENERAL But I hope that we shall not come to that. Meanwhile it is necessary for us to flood only part of our territory. That is not so terrible. JEANNE _Her eyes closed, her head hanging down._ And what is to be done with those who could not abandon their homes, who are deaf, who are sick and alone? What will become of our children? _Silence._ JEANNE There in the fields and in the ditches are the wounded. There the shadows of people are wandering about, but in their veins there is still warm blood. What will become of them? Oh, don't look at me like that, Emil; you had better not listen to what I am saying. I have spoken so only because my heart is wrung with pain--it isn't necessary to listen to me at all, Count. _Count Clairmont walks over to Grelieu's bed quickly and firmly. At first he speaks confusedly, seeking the right word; then he speaks ever more boldly and firmly._ COUNT CLAIRMONT My dear and honored master! We would not have dared to take from you even a drop of your health, if--if it were not for the assurance that serving your people may give new strength to your heroic soul! Yesterday, it was resolved at our council to break the dams and flood part of our kingdom, but I could not, I dared not, give my full consent before I knew what you had to say to this plan. I did not sleep all night long, thinking--oh, how terrible, how inexpressibly sad my thoughts were! We are the body, we are the hands, we are the head--while you, Grelieu, you are the conscience of our people. Blinded by the war, we may unwillingly, unwittingly, altogether against our will, violate man-made laws. Let your noble heart tell us the truth. My friend! We are driven to despair, we have no Belgium any longer, it is trampled by our enemies, but in your breast, Emil Grelieu, the heart of all Belgium is beating--and your answer will be the answer of our tormented, blood-stained, unfortunate land! _He turns away to the window. Maurice is crying, looking at his father._ LAGARD _Softly._ Bravo, Belgium! _Silence. The sound of cannonading is heard._ JEANNE _Softly, to Maurice._ Sit down, Maurice, it is hard for you to stand. MAURICE Oh, mamma! I am so happy to stand here now-- LAGARD Now I shall add a few words. As you know, Grelieu, I am a man of the people. I know the price the people pay for their hard work. I know the cost of all these gardens, orchards and factories which we shall bury under the water. They have cost us sweat and health and tears, Grelieu. These are our sufferings which will be transformed into joy for our children. But as a nation that loves and respects liberty above its sweat and blood and tears--as a nation, I say, I would prefer that sea waves should seethe here over our heads rather than that we should have to black the boots of the Prussians. And if nothing but islands remain of Belgium they will be known as "honest islands," and the islanders will be Belgians as before. _All are agitated._ EMIL GRELIEU And what do the engineers say? GENERAL _Respectfully waiting for the Count's answer._ Monsieur Grelieu, they say this can be done in two hours. LAGARD _Grumbles._ In two hours! In two hours! How many years have we been building it! GENERAL The engineers were crying when they said it, Monsieur. LAGARD The engineers were crying? But how could they help crying? Think of it, Grelieu! _Suddenly he bursts into sobs, and slowly takes a handkerchief from his pocket._ COUNT CLAIRMONT We are awaiting your answer impatiently, Grelieu. You are charged with a grave responsibility to your fatherland--to lift your hand against your own fatherland. EMIL GRELIEU Have we no other defence? _Silence. All stand in poses of painful anxiety. Lagard dries his eyes and slowly answers with a sigh_. LAGARD No. GENERAL No. JEANNE _Shaking her head._ No. COUNT CLAIRMONT _Rapidly._ We must gain time, Grelieu. By the power of all our lives, thrown in the fields, we cannot stop them. _Stamping his foot._ Time, time! We must steal from fate a small part of eternity--a few days, a week! They are hastening to us. The Russians are coming to us from the East. The German steel has already penetrated to the heart of the French land--and infuriated with pain, the French eagle is rising over the Germans' bayonets and is coming toward us! The noble knights of the sea--the British--are already rushing toward us, and to Belgium are their powerful arms stretched out over the abyss. But, time, time! Give us time, Grelieu. Belgium is praying for a few days, for a few hours! You have already given to Belgium your blood, Grelieu, and you have the right to lift your hand against your blood-stained fatherland! _Brief pause._ EMIL GRELIEU We must break the dams. _Curtain_ SCENE V _Night. A small house occupied by the German staff. A sentinel on guard at the door leading to the rooms occupied by the Commander of the army. All the doors and windows are open. The room is illuminated with candles. Two officers on duty are talking lazily, suffering apparently from the heat. All is quiet in the camp. Only from time to time the measured footsteps of pickets are heard, and muffled voices and angry exclamations._ VON RITZAU Do you feel sleepy, von Stein? VON STEIN I don't feel sleepy, but I feel like smoking. RITZAU A bad habit! But you may smoke near the window. STEIN But what if _he_ should come in? Thank you, von Ritzau. What a stifling night! Not a breath of pure air enters the lungs. The air is poisoned with the smell of smoke. We must invent something against this obnoxious odor. Take it up, Ritzau. RITZAU I am not an inventor. First of all it is necessary to wring out the air as they wring the clothes they wash, and dry it in the sun. It is so moist, I feel as though I were diving in it. Do you know whether _he_ is in a good mood today? STEIN Why, is he subject to moods, good or bad? RITZAU Great self-restraint! STEIN Have you ever seen him undressed--or half-dressed? Or have you ever seen his hair in disorder? He is a wonderful old man! RITZAU He speaks so devilishly little, Stein. STEIN He prefers to have his cannon speak. It is quite a powerful voice, isn't it, Ritzau? _They laugh softly. A tall, handsome officer enters quickly and goes toward the door leading to the room of the Commander._ Blumenfeld! Any news? _The tall officer waves his hand and opens the door cautiously, ready to make his bow._ He is malting his career! RITZAU He is a good fellow. I can't bear it, Stein. I am suffocating here. STEIN Would you rather be in Paris? RITZAU I would prefer any less unbearable country to this. How dull it must be here in the winter time. STEIN But we have saved them from dullness for a long time to come. Were you ever in the Montmartre cafés, Ritzau? RITZAU Of course! STEIN Doesn't one find there a wonderful refinement, culture and innate elegance? Unfortunately, our Berlin people are far different. RITZAU Oh, of course. Great! _The tall officer comes out of the door, stepping backward. He heaves a sigh of relief and sits down near the two officers. Takes out a cigar._ VON BLUMENFELD How are things? RITZAU Very well. We were talking of Paris. STEIN Then I am going to smoke too. BLUMENFELD You may smoke. He is not coming out Do you want to hear important news? STEIN Well? BLUMENFELD He laughed just now I STEIN Really! BLUMENFELD Upon my word of honor! And he touched my shoulder with two fingers--do you understand? STEIN _With envy._ Of course! I suppose you brought him good news, Blumenfeld? _The military telegraphist, standing at attention, hands Blumenfeld a folded paper._ TELEGRAPHIST A radiogram, Lieutenant! BLUMENFELD Let me have it. _Slowly he puts his cigar on the window sill and enters the Commander's room cautiously._ STEIN He's a lucky fellow. You may say what you please about luck, but it exists. Who is this Blumenfeld? Von?--Did you know his father? Or his grandfather? RITZAU I have reason to believe that he had no grandfather at all. But he is a good comrade. _Blumenfeld comes out and rejoins the two officers, taking up his cigar._ STEIN Another military secret? BLUMENFELD Of course. Everything that is said and done here is a military secret. But I may tell you about it. The information we have received concerns our new siege guns--they are advancing successfully. STEIN Oho! BLUMENFELD Yes, successfully. They have just passed the most difficult part of the road--you know where the swamps are-- STEIN Oh, yes. RITZAU Great! BLUMENFELD The road could not support the heavy weight and caved in. Our commander was very uneasy. He ordered a report about the movement at each and every kilometer. STEIN Now he will sleep in peace. BLUMENFELD He never sleeps, von Stein. STEIN That's true. BLUMENFELD He never sleeps, von Stein! When he is not listening to reports or issuing commands, he is thinking. As the personal correspondent of his Highness I have the honor to know many things which others are not allowed to know--Oh, gentlemen, he has a wonderful mind! RITZAU Great! _Another very young officer enters, stands at attention before Blumenfeld._ BLUMENFELD Sit down, von Schauss. I am talking about our Commander. SCHAUSS Oh! BLUMENFELD He has a German philosophical mind which manages guns as Leibnitz managed ideas. Everything is preconceived, everything is prearranged, the movement of our millions of people has been elaborated into such a remarkable system that Kant himself would have been proud of it. Gentlemen, we are led forward by indomitable logic and by an iron will. We are inexorable as Fate. _The officers express their approval by subdued exclamations of "bravo."_ BLUMENFELD How can he sleep, if the movement of our armies is but the movement of parts of his brains! And what is the use of sleep in general? I sleep very little myself, and I advise you, gentlemen, not to indulge in foolish sleep. RITZAU But our human organism requires sleep. BLUMENFELD Nonsense! Organism--that is something invented by the doctors who are looking for practice among the fools. I know of no organism. I know only my desires and my will, which says: "Gerhardt, do this! Gerhardt, go there! Gerhardt, take this!" And I take it! RITZAU Great! SCHAUSS Will you permit me to take down your words in my notebook? BLUMENFELD Please, Schauss. What is it you want, Zigler? _The telegraphist has entered._ ZIGLER I really don't know, but something strange has happened. It seems that we are being interfered with, I can't understand anything. BLUMENFELD What is it? What is the matter? ZIGLER We can make out one word, "Water"--but after that all is incomprehensible. And then again, "Water"-- BLUMENFELD What water? You are intoxicated, Zigler. That must be wine, not water. Is the engineer there? ZIGLER He is also surprised and cannot understand. BLUMENFELD You are a donkey, Zigler! We'll have to call out-- _The Commander comes out. He is a tall, erect old man. His face is pale. His voice is dry and unimpassioned._ COMMANDER Blumenfeld! _All jump up, straighten themselves, as if petrified._ What is this? BLUMENFELD I have not yet investigated it, your Highness. Zigler is reporting-- COMMANDER What is it, Zigler? ZIGLER Your Highness, we are being interfered with. I don't know what it is, but I can't understand anything. We have been able to make out only one word--"Water." Then again--"Water." COMMANDER _Turning around._ See what it is, Blumenfeld, and report to me-- _Engineer runs in._ ENGINEER Where is Blumenfeld? I beg your pardon, your Highness! COMMANDER _Pausing._ What has happened there, Kloetz? ENGINEER They don't respond to our calls, your Highness. They are silent like the dead. Something has happened there. COMMANDER You think something serious has happened? ENGINEER I dare not think so, your Highness, but I am alarmed. Silence is the only answer to our most energetic calls. But Greitzer wishes to say something. ... Well? What is it, Greitzer? _The second telegraphist has entered quietly._ GREITZER They are silent, your Highness. _Brief pause._ COMMANDER _Again turning to the door._ Please investigate this, Lieutenant. _He advances a step to the door, then stops. There is a commotion behind the windows--a noise and the sound of voices. The word "water" is repeated frequently. The noise keeps growing, turning at times into a loud roar._ What is that? _All turn to the window. An officer, bareheaded, rushes in excitedly, his hair disheveled, his face pale._ OFFICER I want to see his Highness. I want to see his Highness! BLUMENFELD _Hissing._ You are insane! COMMANDER Calm yourself, officer. OFFICER Your Highness! I have the honor to report to you that the Belgians have burst the dams, and our armies are flooded. Water! _With horror._ We must hurry, your Highness! COMMANDER Hurry! I ask you to calm yourself, officer. What about our guns? OFFICER They are flooded, your Highness. COMMANDER Compose yourself, you are not behaving properly! I am asking you about our field guns-- OFFICER They are flooded, your Highness. The water is coming this way. We must hurry, your Highness, we are in a valley. This place is very low. They have broken the dams; and the water is rushing this way violently. It is only five kilometers away from here--and we can hardly--. I beg your pardon, your Highness! _Silence. The commotion without is growing louder. Glimmering lights appear. The beginning of a terrible panic is felt, embracing the entire camp. All watch impatiently the reddening face of the Commander._ COMMANDER But this is-- _He strikes the table with his fist forcibly._ Absurd! _He looks at them with cold fury, but all lower their eyes. The frightened officer is trembling and gazing at the window. The lights grow brighter outside--it is evident that a building has been set on fire. The voices without have turned into a roar. A dull noise, then the crash of shots is heard. The discipline is disappearing gradually._ BLUMENFELD They have gone mad! OFFICER They are firing! It is an attack! STEIN But that can't be the Belgians! RITZAU They may have availed themselves-- BLUMENFELD Aren't you ashamed, Stein? Aren't you ashamed, gentlemen? COMMANDER Silence! I beg of you-- _Suddenly a piercing, wild sound of a horn is heard ordering to retreat. The roaring sound is growing rapidly._ COMMANDER _Shots._ Who has commanded to retreat? Who dares command when I am here? What a disgrace, Blumenfeld! Order them to return! _Blumenfeld lowers his head._ COMMANDER This is not the German Army! You are unworthy of being called soldiers! Shame! I am ashamed to call myself your general! Cowards! BLUMENFELD _Stepping forward, with dignity._ Your Highness! OFFICER Eh! We are not fishes to swim in the water! _Runs out, followed by two or three others. The panic is growing._ BLUMENFELD Your Highness! We ask you--. Your life is in danger--your Highness. _Some one else runs out. The room is almost empty. Only the sentinel remains in the position of one petrified._ BLUMENFELD Your Highness! I implore you. Your life--I am afraid that another minute, and it will be too late! Oh, your Highness! COMMANDER But this is-- _Again strikes the table with his fist._ But this is absurd, Blumenfeld! _Curtain_ SCENE VI _The same hour of night. In the darkness it is difficult to discern the silhouettes of the ruined buildings and of the trees. At the right, a half-destroyed bridge. In the distance a fire is burning. From time to time the German flashlights are seen across the dark sky. Near the bridge, an automobile in which the wounded Emil Grelieu and his son are being carried to Antwerp. Jeanne and a young physician are with them. Something has broken down in the automobile and a soldier-chauffeur is bustling about with a lantern trying to repair it. Dr. Langloi stands near him._ DOCTOR _Uneasily._ Well? How is it? CHAUFFEUR _Examining._ I don't know yet. DOCTOR Is it a serious break? CHAUFFEUR No--I don't know. MAURICE _From the automobile._ What is it, Doctor? Can't we start? CHAUFFEUR _Angrily._ We'll start! DOCTOR I don't know. Something is out of order. He says it isn't serious. MAURICE Shall we stay here long? DOCTOR _To the chauffeur._ Shall we stay here long? CHAUFFEUR _Angrily._ How do I know? About ten minutes I think. Please hold the light for me. _Hands the lantern to the doctor._ MAURICE Then I will come out. JEANNE You had better stay here, Maurice. You may hurt your arm. MAURICE No, mother, I am careful. Where is the step? How inconvenient. Why don't they throw the flashlight here? _Jumps off and watches the chauffeur at work._ MAURICE How unfortunate that we are stuck here! CHAUFFEUR _Grumbling._ A bridge! How can anybody drive across such a bridge? DOCTOR Yes, it is unfortunate. We should have started out earlier. MAURICE _Shrugging his shoulders._ Father did not want to leave. How could we start? Mamina, do you think our people are already in Antwerp? JEANNE Yes, I think so. Emil, aren't you cold? EMIL GRELIEU No. It is very pleasant to breathe the fresh air. I feel stronger. DOCTOR _To Maurice._ I think we are still in the region which-- MAURICE Yes. What time is it, Doctor? DOCTOR _Looking at his watch._ Twenty--a quarter of ten. MAURICE Then it is a quarter of an hour since the bursting of the dams. Yes! Mamma, do you hear, it is a quarter of ten now! JEANNE Yes, I hear. MAURICE But it is strange that we haven't heard any explosions. DOCTOR How can you say that, Monsieur Maurice? It is very far away. MAURICE I thought that such explosions would be heard a hundred kilometers away. My God, how strange it is! Our house and our garden will soon be flooded! I wonder how high the water will rise. Do you think it will reach up to the second story? DOCTOR Possibly. Well, how are things moving? CHAUFFEUR _Grumbling._ I am working. MAURICE Look, look! Mamma, see how the searchlights are working. They seem to be frightened. Father, do you see them? EMIL GRELIEU Jeanne, lift me a little. JEANNE My dear, I don't know whether I am allowed to do it. DOCTOR You may lift him a little, if it isn't very painful. The bandage is tight. JEANNE Do you feel any pain? EMIL GRELIEU No. They are frightened. MAURICE Father, they are flashing the searchlights across the sky like madmen. Look, look! _A bluish light is flashed over them, faintly illuminating the whole group._ MAURICE Right into my eyes! Does that come from an elevation, father? EMIL GRELIEU I suppose so. Either they have been warned, or the water is reaching them by this time. JEANNE Do you think so, Emil? EMIL GRELIEU Yes. It seems to me that I hear the sound of the water from that side. _All listen and look in the direction from which the noise came._ DOCTOR _Uneasily._ How unpleasant this is! We should have started out sooner. We are too late. MAURICE Father, it seems to me I hear voices. Listen--it sounds as though they are crying there. Many, many people. Father, the Prussians are crying. It is they! _A distant, dull roaring of a crowd is heard. Then the crash of shots resounds. Sobs of military horns. The searchlights are swaying from side to side._ EMIL GRELIEU It is they. DOCTOR If we don't start in a quarter of an hour-- EMIL GRELIEU In half an hour, Doctor. MAURICE Father, how beautiful and how terrible it is! Give me your hand, mother. JEANNE What is it? MAURICE I want to kiss it. Mother, you have no gloves on! JEANNE What a foolish little boy you are, Maurice. MAURICE Monsieur Langloi said that in three days from now I may remove my bandage. Just think of it, in three days I shall be able to take up my gun again!... Oh, who is that? Look, who is that? _All near the automobile assume defensive positions. The chauffeur and the doctor draw their revolvers. A figure appears from the field, approaching from one of the ditches. A peasant, wounded in the leg, comes up slowly, leaning upon a cane._ MAURICE Who is there? PEASANT Our own, our own. And who are you? Are you going to the city? MAURICE Yes, we're going to the city. Our car has broken down, we're repairing it. What are you doing here? PEASANT What am I doing here? _Examines the unfamiliar faces curiously. They also look at him attentively, by the light of the lantern._ CHAUFFEUR Give me the light! PEASANT Are you carrying a wounded man? I am also wounded, in my leg. I cannot walk, it is very hard. I must lean on my cane. Are you going to the city? I lay there in the ditch and when I heard you speak French I crawled out. My name is Jaqular. DOCTOR How were you wounded? PEASANT I was walking in the field and they shot me. They must have thought I was a rabbit. _Laughs hoarsely._ They must have thought I was a rabbit. What is the news, gentlemen? Is our Belgium lost? _Laughs._ Eh? Is our Belgium lost? MAURICE Don't you know? PEASANT What can I know? I lay there and looked at the sky--that's all I know. Did you see the sky? Just look at it, I have been watching it all the time. What is that I see in the sky, eh? How would you explain it? EMIL GRELIEU Sit down near us. MAURICE Listen, sit down here. It seems you haven't heard anything. You must get away from here. Do you know that the dams are broken? Do you understand? The dams! PEASANT The dams? MAURICE Yes. Don't you hear the cries over there? Listen! They are crying there--the Prussians! PEASANT Water? MAURICE Water. It must be reaching them now. They must have learned of it by this time. Listen, it is so far, and yet we can hear! _The peasant laughs hoarsely._ MAURICE Sit down, right here, the automobile is large. Doctor, help him. I will hold the lantern. CHAUFFEUR _Muttering._ Sit down, sit down! Eh! DOCTOR _Uneasily._ What is it? Bad? Chauffeur, be quick! We can't stay here! The water is coming. We should have started out earlier. MAURICE What an unfortunate mishap! JEANNE _Agitated._ They shot you like a rabbit? Do you hear, Emil--they thought a rabbit was running! Did you resemble a rabbit so closely? _She laughs loudly, the peasant also laughs._ PEASANT I look like a rabbit! Exactly like a rabbit. JEANNE Do you hear, Emil? He says he looks exactly like a rabbit! _Laughs._ EMIL GRELIEU Jeanne! MAURICE Mamma! JEANNE It makes me laugh--it seems so comical to me that they mistake us for rabbits. And now, what are we now--water rats? Emil, just picture to yourself, water rats in an automobile! MAURICE Mamma! JEANNE No, no, I am not laughing any more, Maurice! _Laughs._ And what else are we? Moles? Must we hide in the ground? PEASANT _Laughs._ And now we must hide in the ground-- JEANNE _In the same tone._ And they will remain on the ground? Emil, do you hear? EMIL GRELIEU My dear! My dear! MAURICE _To the doctor._ Listen, you must do something. Haven't you anything? Listen! Mamma, we are starting directly, my dear! JEANNE No, never mind, I am not laughing any more. How foolish you are. Maurice, I simply felt like talking. I was silent too long. I was forever silent, but just now I felt like chattering. Emil, I am not disturbing you with my talk, am I? Why is the water so quiet, Emil? It was the King who said, "The water is silent," was it not? But I should like to see it roar, crash like thunder.... No, I cannot, I cannot bear this silence! Ah, why is it so quiet--I cannot bear it! MAURICE _To the chauffeur._ My dear fellow, please hurry up! CHAUFFEUR Yes, yes! I'm working, I'm working. We'll start soon. JEANNE _Suddenly cries, threatening._ But I cannot bear it! I cannot! _Covers her mouth with her hands; sobs._ I cannot! MAURICE Mamma! EMIL GRELIEU All will end well, Jeanne. All will end well. I know. I also feel as you do. But all will end well, Jeanne! JEANNE _Sobbing, but calming herself somewhat._ I cannot bear it! EMIL GRELIEU All will end well, Jeanne! Belgium will live! The sun will shine! I am suffering, but I know this, Jeanne! MAURICE Quicker! Quicker! CHAUFFEUR In a moment, in a moment. Now it is fixed, in a moment. EMIL GRELIEU _Faintly._ Jeanne! JEANNE Yes, yes, I know.... Forgive me, forgive me, I will soon-- _A loud, somewhat hoarse voice of a girl comes from the dark._ GIRL Tell me how I can find my way to Lonua! _Exclamations of surprise._ MAURICE Who is that? JEANNE Emil, it is that girl! _Laughs._ She is also like a rabbit! DOCTOR _Grumbles._ What is it, what is it--Who? _Throws the light on the girl. Her dress is torn, her eyes look wild. The peasant is laughing._ PEASANT She is here again? CHAUFFEUR Let me have the light! DOCTOR Very well! GIRL _Loudly._ How can I find my way to Lonua? EMIL GRELIEU Maurice, you must stop her! My child, my child! Doctor, you-- CHAUFFEUR Put down the lantern! The devil take this! GIRL _Shouts._ Hands off! No, no, you will not dare-- MAURICE You can't catch her-- _The girl runs away._ EMIL GRELIEU Doctor, you must catch her! She will perish here, quick-- _She runs away. The doctor follows her in the dark._ PEASANT She asked me, too, how to go to Lonua. How am I to know? Lonua! _The girl's voice resounds in the dark and then there is silence._ EMIL GRELIEU You must catch her! What is it? You must! MAURICE But how, father? _They listen. Silence. Dull cries of a mob resound. Jeanne breaks into muffled laughter._ MAURICE _Mutters._ Now he is gone! Oh, my God! CHAUFFEUR _Triumphantly._ Take your seats! Ready! MAURICE But the doctor isn't here. Oh, my God! Father, what shall we do now? CHAUFFEUR Let us call him. Eh! _Maurice and the chauffeur call: "Doctor! Eh! Langloi!"_ CHAUFFEUR _Angrily._ I must deliver Monsieur Grelieu, and I will deliver him. Take your seats! MAURICE _Shouts._ Langloi! _A faint echo in the distance._ Come! Doctor! _The response is nearer._ PEASANT He did not catch her. You cannot catch her. She asked me, too, about the road to Lonua. She is insane. _Laughs._ There are many like her now. EMIL GRELIEU _Imploringly._ Jeanne! JEANNE But I cannot, Emil. What is it? I cannot understand. What is it? Where are we? My God, I don't understand anything. I used to understand, I used to understand, but now--Where is Pierre? _Firmly._ Where is Pierre? MAURICE Oh, will he be here soon? Mother dear, we'll start in a moment! JEANNE Yes, yes, we'll start in a moment! But I don't understand anything. Where are we? Why such a dream, why such a dream? I can't understand! Who has come? My head is aching. Who has come? Why has it happened? _A mice from the darkness, quite near._ JEANNE _Frightened._ Who is shouting? What a strange dream, what a terrible, terrible, terrible dream. Where is Pierre? MAURICE Mother! JEANNE I cannot! _Lowering her voice._ I cannot--why are you torturing me? Where is Pierre? EMIL GRELIEU He is dead, Jeanne! JEANNE No!!! EMIL GRELIEU He is dead, Jeanne. But I swear to you by God, Jeanne!--Belgium will live. Weep, sob, you are a mother. I too am crying with you--But I swear by God: Belgium will live! God has given me the light to see, and I can see. Songs will resound here. Jeanne! A new Spring will come here, the trees will be covered with blossoms--I swear to you, Jeanne, they will be covered with blossoms! And mothers will caress their children, and the sun will shine upon their heads, upon their golden-haired little heads! Jeanne! There will be no more bloodshed. I see a new world, Jeanne! I see my nation: Here it is advancing with palm leaves to meet God who has come to earth again. Weep, Jeanne, you are a mother! Weep, unfortunate mother--God weeps with you. But there will be happy mothers here again--I see a new world, Jeanne, I see a new life! _Curtain_ 
26664	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] THE LIVE CORPSE A PLAY IN SIX ACTS CHARACTERS THEODORE VASÍLYEVICH PROTÁSOV (FÉDYA). ELISABETH ANDRÉYEVNA PROTÁSOVA (LISA). His wife. MÍSHA. Their son. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Lisa's mother. SÁSHA. Lisa's younger, unmarried sister. VICTOR MIHÁYLOVICH KARÉNIN. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA KARÉNINA. PRINCE SERGIUS DMÍTRIEVICH ABRÉZKOV. MÁSHA. A gipsy girl. IVÁN MAKÁROVICH. An old gipsy man. } } Másha's parents. NASTÁSIA IVÁNOVNA. An old gipsy woman. } OFFICER. MUSICIAN. FIRST GIPSY MAN. SECOND GIPSY MAN. GIPSY WOMAN. GIPSY CHOIR. DOCTOR. MICHAEL ALEXÁNDROVICH AFRÉMOV. STÁKHOV. } } BUTKÉVICH. } Fédya's boon companions. } KOROTKÓV. } IVÁN PETRÓVICH ALEXÁNDROV. VOZNESÉNSKY. Karénin's secretary. PETUSHKÓV. An artist. ARTÉMYEV. WAITER IN THE PRIVATE ROOM AT THE RESTAURANT. WAITER IN A LOW-CLASS RESTAURANT. MANAGER OF THE SAME. POLICEMAN. INVESTIGATING MAGISTRATE. MÉLNIKOV. CLERK. USHER. YOUNG LAWYER. PETRÚSHIN. A lawyer. LADY. ANOTHER OFFICER. ATTENDANT AT LAW COURTS. THE PROTÁSOVS' NURSE. THE PROTÁSOVS' MAID. AFRÉMOV'S FOOTMAN. KARÉNIN'S FOOTMAN. THE LIVE CORPSE ACT I SCENE 1 Protásov's[1] flat in Moscow. The scene represents a small dining-room. [1] Protásov is his family name, but the name by which he is usually addressed is Fédya, an abbreviation of his Christian name--Theodore. The ceremonious form of address would be Theodore Vasílyevich. Anna Pávlovna, a stout grey-haired lady, tightly laced, is sitting alone at the tea-table on which is a samovár. Enter nurse, carrying a teapot. NURSE. May I have a little hot water, ma'am? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes. How's Baby? NURSE. He's restless.... There's nothing worse than for a lady to nurse her baby herself! She has her troubles, and the child must suffer. What can her milk be like, when she lies awake crying all night? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. But she seems quieter now. NURSE. Quiet, indeed! It makes one ill to see her. She's been writing something, and crying. Enter Sásha. SÁSHA [to Nurse] Lisa is looking for you. NURSE. I'm coming, I'm coming. [Exit]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Nurse says she keeps on crying.... Why can't she control herself? SÁSHA. Well really, mother, you are amazing!... A woman has left her husband, her child's father, and you expect her to be calm! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, not calm ... But what's done is done! If I, her mother, not only allowed my daughter to leave her husband, but am even glad she has done it, that shows he deserved it. One ought to rejoice, not to grieve, at the chance of freeing oneself from such a bad man! SÁSHA. Mother, why say such things? You know it's not true! He's not bad--but on the contrary, he's a wonderful man, in spite of his weaknesses. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes indeed, a "wonderful" man--as soon as he has money in his pocket--his own or other people's.... SÁSHA. Mother! He has never taken other people's! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes he has--his wife's! Where's the difference? SÁSHA. But he gave all his property to his wife! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course, when he knew that otherwise he was sure to squander it all! SÁSHA. Squander or not, I only know that a wife must not separate from her husband, especially from such a one as Fédya. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then, in your opinion she ought to wait till he has squandered everything, and brought his gipsy mistresses into the house? SÁSHA. He has no mistresses! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. That's the misfortune--he seems to have bewitched you all! But not me--no! He won't come over me! I see through him, and he knows it. Had I been in Lisa's place I should have left him a year ago. SÁSHA. How lightly you say it! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not lightly at all. It's not a light thing for me, as a mother, to see my daughter divorced. Believe me it's not! But yet it is better than ruining a young life.... No, I'm thankful to God that she has at last made up her mind, and that it is all over. SÁSHA. Perhaps it's not all over! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh! If he only consents to a divorce.... SÁSHA. What good will that do? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. This good; that she is young, and may again be happy. SÁSHA. Oh mother! It's dreadful to hear you speak so! Lisa can't love another. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why not, when she's free? Many a man a thousand times better than your Fédya might turn up who would be only too happy to marry Lisa. SÁSHA. Mother, it's not right! I know you're thinking of Victor Karénin.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And why shouldn't I? He has loved her these ten years, and she loves him. SÁSHA. Yes, but not as a husband! They have been friends from childhood. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. We know those friendships! If only the obstacles were out of the way! Enter Maid. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What is it? MAID. The mistress has sent the porter with a note for Mr. Karénin. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What mistress? MAID. _Our_ mistress--Mrs. Protásova. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well? MAID. Mr. Karénin has sent back word that he will come round at once. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [surprised] We were just speaking of him! Only I can't think why ... [to Sásha] Do you know? SÁSHA. Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You always have secrets! SÁSHA. Lisa will tell you herself when she comes. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [shakes her head. To Maid] The samovár must be made to boil again. Take it, Dounyásha. Maid takes samovár, and exit. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [to Sásha who has risen and is going out] It turns out just as I told you! She sent for him at once.... SÁSHA. She may have sent for him for quite a different reason. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What for, then? SÁSHA. Now, at this moment, Karénin is the same to her as old Nurse Trífonovna. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, you'll see.... Don't I know her? She has sent for him to comfort her. SÁSHA. Oh mother, how little you know her, to be able to suppose ...! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, we'll see!... And I am very, very glad. SÁSHA. We _shall_ see! [Exit, humming a tune]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [alone, shakes her head and mutters] It's all right, it's all right! Enter Maid. MAID. Mr. Karénin has come. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well then, show him in, and tell your mistress. Maid exit by inner door. Enter Karénin, who bows to Anna Pávlovna. KARÉNIN. Your daughter wrote to me to come. I meant to come and see you to-night, anyhow. So I was very pleased ... Is Elisabeth Andréyevna[2] well? [2] Elisabeth Andréyevna is the polite way of speaking of Mrs. Protásova, otherwise Lisa. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, she is well, but Baby is a bit restless. She will be here directly. [In a melancholy voice] Ah yes! It is a sad time.... But you know all about it, don't you? KARÉNIN. I do. I was here, you know, the day before yesterday, when his letter came. But is it possible that everything is irrevocably settled? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why of course! Naturally! To go through it all again would be intolerable. KARÉNIN. This is a case where the proverb applies: "Measure ten times before you cut once." ... It is very painful to cut into the quick. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course it is; but then their marriage has long had a rift in it, so that the tearing asunder was easier than one would have thought. He himself sees that, after what has occurred, it is impossible for him to return. KARÉNIN. Why so? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How can you expect it, after all his horrid goings-on--after he swore it should not happen again, and that if it did he would renounce all rights as a husband and set her perfectly free? KARÉNIN. Yes, but how can a woman be free when she is bound by marriage? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. By divorce. He promised her a divorce, and we shall insist on it. KARÉNIN. Yes, but Elisabeth Andréyevna loved him so.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Ah, but her love has suffered such trials that there can hardly be anything left of it! Drunkenness, deception, and infidelity ... Can one love such a husband? KARÉNIN. Nothing is impossible to love. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You talk of love! But how can one love such a man--a broken reed, whom one can never depend on? Don't you know what it came to ...? [Looks round at the door, and continues hurriedly] All his affairs in a muddle, everything pawned, nothing to pay with! Then their uncle sends 2,000 roubles to pay the interest on their mortgaged estates, and he takes the money and disappears. His wife is left at home, with a sick baby, waiting for him--and at last gets a note asking her to send him his clothes and things! KARÉNIN. Yes, yes; I know. Enter Lisa and Sásha. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, here is Victor Miháylovich,[3] obedient to your summons. [3] The polite way of naming Mr. Karénin. KARÉNIN. Yes, but I am sorry I was delayed for a few minutes. LISA. Thank you. I have a great favour to ask of you, and I have no one to turn to but you. KARÉNIN. Anything in my power ... LISA. You know all about ...? KARÉNIN. I do. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well then, I shall leave you [To Sásha] Come, we'll leave them alone. [Exit with Sásha]. LISA. Yes, he wrote to me saying that he considers everything at an end ... [struggling with her tears] ... and I was hurt!... and so ... In a word, I consented to break--I answered, accepting his renunciation. KARÉNIN. And now you repent? LISA. Yes. I feel that I was wrong, and that I cannot do it. Anything is better than to be separated from him. In short--I want you to give him this letter.... Please, Victor, give him the letter, and tell him ... and bring him back! KARÉNIN [surprised] Yes, but how? LISA. Tell him I ask him to forget everything, and to return. I might simply send the letter, but I know him: his first impulse, as always, will be the right one--but then someone will influence him, and he'll change his mind and not do what he really wants to.... KARÉNIN. I will do what I can. LISA. You're surprised at my asking _you_? KARÉNIN. No.... Yet, to tell you the truth--yes, I am surprised. LISA. But you are not angry? KARÉNIN. As if I could be angry with you! LISA. I asked you because I know you care for him. KARÉNIN. Him, and you too! You know that. I am thinking not of myself, but of you. Thank you for trusting me! I will do what I can. LISA. I know.... I will tell you everything. To-day I went to Afrémov's to find out where he was. I was told he had gone to the gipsies--which is what I feared most of all. I know he will get carried away if he is not stopped in time--and that's what has to be done.... So you'll go? KARÉNIN. Of course, and at once. LISA. Go!... Find him, and tell him all is forgotten and I am waiting for him. KARÉNIN. But where am I to look for him? LISA. He is with the gipsies. I went there myself.... I went as far as the porch, and wished to send in the letter, but changed my mind and decided to ask you. Here is the address.... Well, then, tell him to return: tell him nothing has happened ... all is forgotten. Do it for love of him, and for the sake of our friendship! KARÉNIN. I will do all in my power! [Bows, and exit]. LISA. I can't, I can't! Anything rather than ... I can't! Enter Sásha. SÁSHA. Well, have you sent? Lisa nods affirmatively. SÁSHA. And he agreed? LISA. Of course. SÁSHA. But why just _him_? I don't understand. LISA. But who else? SÁSHA. Don't you know he is in love with you? LISA. That's dead and gone. Whom would you have had me send?... Do you think he _will_ come back? SÁSHA. I am sure of it, because ... Enter Anna Pávlovna. Sásha is silent. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And where is Victor Miháylovich? LISA. He's gone. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Gone! How's that? LISA. I asked him to do something for me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. "Do something?" Another secret! LISA. It's not a secret. I simply asked him to give a letter into Fédya's own hands. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Fédya? What--to Theodore Vasílyevich? LISA. Yes, to Fédya. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I thought all relations between you were over! LISA. I can't part from him. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What? Are you going to begin all over again? LISA. I wanted to, and tried ... but I can't! Anything you like--only I can't part from him! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then do you want to have him back again? LISA. Yes. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. To let that skunk into the house again? LISA. Mother, I beg you not to speak so of my husband! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. He _was_ your husband. LISA. No, he is my husband still. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. A spendthrift, a drunkard, a rake ... and you can't part from him? LISA. Why do you torment me! You seem to want to do it.... It's hard enough for me without that. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I torment you! Well then, I'll go. I can't stand by and see it.... Lisa is silent. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I see! That's just what you want--I'm in your way.... I can't live so. I can't make you out at all! It's all so new-fangled--first you make up your mind to separate, then you suddenly send for a man who is in love with you ... LISA. Nothing of the kind. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Karénin proposed to you ... and you send him to fetch your husband! Why? To arouse jealousy? LISA. Mother, what you are saying is terrible! Leave me alone! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Very well! Turn your mother out of the house, and let in your rake of a husband!... Yes, I will not remain here! Good-bye, then--I leave you to your fate; you can do as you please! [Exit slamming door]. LISA [drops into a chair] That's the last straw! SÁSHA. Never mind.... It will be all right; we'll soon pacify Mother. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [passing through] Dounyásha! My trunk! SÁSHA. Mother, listen!... [follows her out with a significant glance to Lisa]. Curtain. SCENE 2 A room in the gipsies' house. The choir is singing "Kanavela." Fédya in his shirt-sleeves is lying prone on the sofa. Afrémov sits astride a chair in front of the leader of the choir. An officer sits at a table, on which are bottles of champagne and glasses. A musician is taking notes. AFRÉMOV. Fédya, are you asleep? FÉDYA [rising] Don't talk.... Now let's have "Not at Eve." GIPSY LEADER. That won't do, Theodore Vasílyevich! Let Másha sing a solo now. FÉDYA. All right! And then, "Not at Eve." [Lies down again]. OFFICER. Sing "Fateful Hour." GIPSY. All agreed? AFRÉMOV. Go on! OFFICER [to musician] Have you taken it down? MUSICIAN. Quite impossible! It's different every time.... And the scale is somehow different. Look here! [Beckons to a gipsy woman who is looking on] Is this right? [Hums]. GIPSY. That's it, that's splendid! FÉDYA. He'll never get it; and if he does take it down and shoves it into an opera, he'll only spoil it!... Now, Másha, start off! Let's have "Fateful Hour"--take your guitar. [Rises, sits down opposite her, and gazes into her eyes]. Másha sings. FÉDYA. That's good too! Másha, you're a brick!... Now then, "Not at Eve"! AFRÉMOV. No, wait! First, my burial song.... OFFICER. Why _burial_? AFRÉMOV. Because, when I'm dead ... you know, dead and laid in my coffin, the gipsies will come (you know I shall leave instructions with my wife) and they will begin to sing "I Walked a Mile" ... and then I'll jump out of my coffin!... Do you understand? [To the musician] You just write this down. [To the gipsies] Well, rattle along! Gipsies sing. AFRÉMOV. What do you think of that?... Now then, "My Brave Lads"! Gipsies sing. Afrémov gesticulates and dances. The gipsies smile and continue singing, clapping their hands. Afrémov sits down and the song ends. GIPSIES. Bravo! Michael Andréyevich![4] He's a real gipsy! [4] The polite way of addressing Mr. Afrémov. FÉDYA. Well, _now_ "Not at Eve"! Gipsies sing. FÉDYA. That's it! It's wonderful ... And where does it all happen--all that this music expresses? Ah, it's fine!... And how is it man can reach such ecstasy, and cannot keep it? MUSICIAN [taking notes] Yes, it's most original. FÉDYA. Not original--but the real thing! AFRÉMOV [to gipsies] Well, have a rest now. [Takes the guitar and sits down beside Kátya, one of the gipsies]. MUSICIAN. It's really simple, except the rhythm.... FÉDYA [waves his hand, goes to Másha, and sits down on sofa beside her] Oh, Másha, Másha! How you do turn me inside-out! MÁSHA. And how about what I asked you for? FÉDYA. What? Money?... [Takes some out of his trouser-pocket] Here, take it! Másha laughs, takes it, and hides it in her bosom. FÉDYA [to the gipsies] Who can make it out? She opens heaven for me, and then asks for money to buy scents with! [To Másha] Why, you don't in the least understand what you're doing! MÁSHA. Not understand indeed! I understand that when I am in love, I try to please my man, and sing all the better. FÉDYA. Do you love me? MÁSHA. Looks like it! FÉDYA. Wonderful! [Kisses her]. Exeunt most of the gipsies. Some couples remain: Fédya with Másha, Afrémov with Kátya, and the officer with Gásha. The musician writes. A gipsy man strums a valse tune on the guitar. FÉDYA. But I'm married, and your choir won't allow it.... MÁSHA. The choir is one thing, one's heart's another! I love those I love, and hate those I hate. FÉDYA. Ah! This is good! Isn't it? MÁSHA. Of course it's good--we've jolly visitors, and are all merry. Enter gipsy man. GIPSY [to Fédya] A gentleman is asking for you. FÉDYA. What gentleman? GIPSY. I don't know.... Well dressed, wears a sable overcoat-- FÉDYA. A swell? Well, ask him in. [Exit Gipsy]. AFRÉMOV. Who has come to see you here? FÉDYA. The devil knows! Who can want me? Enter Karénin. Looks round. FÉDYA. Ah, Victor! I never expected _you_!... Take off your coat!... What wind has blown you here? Come, sit down and listen to "Not at Eve." KARÉNIN. _Je voudrais vous parler sans témoins._[5] [5] I wanted to speak to you alone. FÉDYA. What about? KARÉNIN. _Je viens de chez vous. Votre femme m'a chargé de cette lettre et puis ..._[6] [6] I have come from your home. Your wife has entrusted me with this letter and besides ... FÉDYA [takes letter, reads, frowns, then smiles affectionately] I say, Karénin, of course you know what is in this letter? KARÉNIN. I know ... and I want to say ... FÉDYA. Wait, wait a bit! Please don't imagine that I am drunk and my words irresponsible.... I mean, that I am irresponsible! I am drunk, but in this matter I see quite clearly.... Well, what were you commissioned to say? KARÉNIN. I was commissioned to find you, and to tell you ... that ... she ... is waiting for you. She asks you to forget everything and come back. FÉDYA [listens in silence, gazing into Karénin's eyes] Still, I don't understand why _you_ ... KARÉNIN. Elisabeth Andréyevna sent for me, and asked me ... FÉDYA. So ... KARÉNIN. But I ask you, not so much in your wife's name as from myself.... Come home! FÉDYA. You are a better man than I. (What nonsense! It is easy enough to be better than I) ... I am a scoundrel, and you are a good--yes, a good man.... And that is the very reason why I won't alter my decision.... No! Not on that account either--but simply because I can't and won't.... How could I return? KARÉNIN. Let us go to my rooms now, and I'll tell her that you will return to-morrow. FÉDYA. And to-morrow, what?... I shall still be I, and she--she. [Goes to the table and drinks] It's best to have the tooth out at one go.... Didn't I say that if I broke my word she was to throw me over? Well, I have broken it, and that's the end of it. KARÉNIN. For you, but not for her! FÉDYA. It is extraordinary that _you_ should take pains to prevent our marriage being broken up! KARÉNIN [is about to speak, but Másha comes up] ... FÉDYA [interrupting him] Just hear her sing "The Flax"!... Másha! The gipsies re-enter. MÁSHA [whispers] An ovation, eh? FÉDYA [laughs] An ovation!... "Victor, my Lord! Son of Michael!" ... Gipsies sing a song of greeting and laudation. KARÉNIN [listens in confusion then asks] How much shall I give them? FÉDYA. Well, give them twenty-five roubles.[7] [7] About £2, 10s. Karénin gives the money. FÉDYA. Splendid! And now, "The Flax!" Gipsies sing. FÉDYA [looks round] Karénin's bunked!... Well, devil take him! Gipsy group breaks up. FÉDYA [sits down by Másha] Do you know who that was? MÁSHA. I heard his name. FÉDYA. He's an excellent fellow! He came to take me home to my wife. She loves a fool like me, and see what I am doing here ...! MÁSHA. Well, and it's wrong! You ought to go back to her.... You ought to pity her. FÉDYA. You think I ought to? Well, I think I ought not. MÁSHA. Of course, if you don't love her you need not. Only love counts. FÉDYA. And how do you know that? MÁSHA. Seems I do! FÉDYA. Well, kiss me then!... Now, let's have "The Flax" once more, and then finish up. Gipsies sing. FÉDYA. Ah, how good it is! If only one hadn't to wake up!... If one could die so! Curtain. ACT II SCENE 1 Two weeks have passed since Act I. Anna Pávlovna and Karénin are discovered sitting in Lisa's dining-room. Enter Sásha. KARÉNIN. Well, what news? SÁSHA. The doctor says there is no danger at present, as long as he does not catch cold. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, but Lisa is quite worn out. SÁSHA. He says it's false croup, and a very mild attack. [Points to a basket]. What's that? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Grapes. Victor brought them. KARÉNIN. Won't you have some? SÁSHA. Yes, she likes grapes. She has become terribly nervous. KARÉNIN. Naturally--after not sleeping for two nights, and not eating. SÁSHA. And how about you. KARÉNIN. That's quite another matter. Enter doctor and Lisa. DOCTOR [impressively] Yes, that's it. Change it every half-hour if he's awake, but if he's asleep don't disturb him. You need not paint the throat. The room must be kept at its present temperature ... LISA. But if he again begins to choke? DOCTOR. He probably won't, but if he should, use the spray. And give him the powders: one in the morning and the other at night. I will give you the prescription now. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Have a cup of tea, doctor? DOCTOR. No thanks.... My patients are expecting me. Sits down to the table. Sásha brings him paper and ink. LISA. So you're sure it is not croup? DOCTOR [smiling] Perfectly certain! KARÉNIN [to Lisa] And now have some tea, or, better still, go and lie down!... Just see what you look like.... LISA. Oh, now I am alive again. Thank you, you are a true friend! [Presses his hand. Sásha moves away angrily] I am so grateful to you, dear friend! At such times one recog ... KARÉNIN. What have I done? There's really no cause at all to thank me. LISA. And who stopped up all night? Who fetched the very best doctor? KARÉNIN. I am already fully rewarded by the fact that Mísha is out of danger; and above all by your kindness. LISA [presses his hand again and laughs, showing him some money in her hand] That's for the doctor; but I never know how to give it.... KARÉNIN. Neither do I. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Don't know what? LISA. How to give money to a doctor.... He has saved more than my life, and I give him money! It seems so unpleasant. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Let me give it. I know how. It's quite simple. DOCTOR [rises and hands the prescription to Lisa] These powders are to be well mixed in a tablespoonful of boiled water ... [goes on talking]. Karénin sits at the table drinking tea; Sásha and Anna Pávlovna come forward. SÁSHA. I can't bear the way they go on! It's just as if she were in love with him. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, can it be wondered at? SÁSHA. It's disgusting! Doctor takes leave of everybody, and exit. Anna Pávlovna goes with him. LISA [to Karénin] He's so sweet now! As soon as even he was a little better he at once began to smile and crow. I must go to him, but I don't like leaving you. KARÉNIN. You had better have a cup of tea, and eat something. LISA. I don't want anything now. I am so happy after all that anxiety!... [Sobs]. KARÉNIN. There! You see how worn out you are! LISA. I'm so happy!... Would you like to have a look at him? KARÉNIN. Of course. LISA. Then come with me. [Exeunt]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [returning to Sásha] What are you looking so glum about?... I gave him the money quite well, and he took it. SÁSHA. It's disgusting! She has taken him with her to the nursery. It's just as if he were her _fiancé_ or her husband.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Whatever does it matter to you? Why need you get excited about it? Did you mean to marry him yourself? SÁSHA. I? Marry that pikestaff? I'd rather marry I don't know whom, than him! Such a thing never entered my head.... I am only disgusted that, after Fédya, Lisa can be so attracted by a stranger. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not a stranger, but an old playfellow! SÁSHA. Don't I see by their smiles and looks that they are in love? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, what is there to be surprised at in that? He shares her anxiety about her baby, shows sympathy and helps her ... and she feels grateful. Besides, why should she not love and marry Victor? SÁSHA. That would be disgusting--disgusting.... Enter Karénin and Lisa. Karénin silently takes leave. Sásha goes of angrily. LISA [to Anna Pávlovna] What's the matter with her? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I really don't know. Lisa sighs, and is silent. Curtain. SCENE 2 Afrémov's sitting-room. Glasses of wine on the table. Afrémov, Fédya, Stákhov (shaggy), Butkévich (close-shaven), and Korotkóv (a tuft-hunter). KOROTKÓV. And I tell you that he'll be out of the running! La Belle Bois is the best horse in Europe.... Will you bet? STÁKHOV. Don't, my dear fellow.... You know very well that nobody believes you, or will bet with you. KOROTKÓV. I tell you your Cartouche won't be in it! AFRÉMOV. Stop quarrelling! Let me settle it ... ask Fédya--he'll give you the right tip. FÉDYA. Both horses are good. All depends on the jockey. STÁKHOV. Gúsev is a rascal, and needs a firm hand on him. KOROTKÓV [shouts] No! FÉDYA. Wait a bit--I'll settle your differences.... Who won the Moscow Derby? KOROTKÓV. He did--but what of that? It was only chance. If Crakus had not fallen ill.... [Enter footman]. AFRÉMOV. What is it? FOOTMAN. A lady has come, and is asking for Mr. Protásov. AFRÉMOV. What is she like? A real lady? FOOTMAN. I don't know her name, but she's a real lady. AFRÉMOV. Fédya! a lady to see you! FÉDYA [startled] Who is it? AFRÉMOV. He doesn't know. FOOTMAN. Shall I ask her into the dining-room? FÉDYA. No, wait.... I'll go myself and see. Exeunt Fédya and footman. KOROTKÓV. Who can it be? It must be Másha. STÁKHOV. Which Másha? KOROTKÓV. The gipsy. She's in love with him, like a cat. STÁKHOV. What a darling she is ...! And how she sings! AFRÉMOV. Charming! Tanyúsha and she! They sang with Peter yesterday. STÁKHOV. What a lucky fellow that is! AFRÉMOV. Why? Because the girls are all sweet on him? Not much luck in that! KOROTKÓV. I can't bear gipsies--nothing refined about them. BUTKÉVICH. No, you can't say that! KOROTKÓV. I'd give the whole lot for one French woman! AFRÉMOV. Yes, we know you--and your æsthetics!... I'll go and see who it is. [Exit]. STÁKHOV. If it's Másha, bring her in here! We'll make her sing.... No, the gipsies aren't what they used to be. Tanyúsha, now--by Gad! BUTKÉVICH. And I believe they're just the same. STÁKHOV. Just the same? When instead of their own pieces they sing empty drawing-room songs? BUTKÉVICH. Some drawing-room songs are very good. KOROTKÓV. Will you bet I don't get them to sing a drawing-room song so that you won't know it from one of their own? STÁKHOV. Korotkóv always wants to bet! Enter Afrémov. AFRÉMOV. I say, you fellows, it's not Másha--and there's no room he can ask her into but this. Let us clear out to the billiard room. [Exeunt]. Enter Fédya and Sásha. SÁSHA [confused] Fédya, forgive me if it's unpleasant--but for God's sake hear me!... [Her voice trembles]. Fédya walks up and down the room. Sásha sits down, and follows him with her eyes. SÁSHA. Fédya! Come home! FÉDYA. Just listen to me, Sásha ... I quite understand you, Sásha dear, and in your place I should do the same--I should try to find some way to bring back the old state of affairs. But if you were me, if--strange as it sounds--you, dear sensitive girl, were in my place ... you would certainly have done as I did, and have gone away and ceased to spoil someone else's life. SÁSHA. Spoil? How? As if Lisa could live without you! FÉDYA. Oh, Sásha dear! Dear heart!... She can, she can! And she will yet be happy--far happier than with me. SÁSHA. Never! FÉDYA. It seems so to you [Takes her hand] ... But that's not the point. The chief thing is, that _I_ can't!... You know, one folds a piece of thick paper this way and that a hundred times and still it holds together; but fold it once more, and it comes in half.... So it was with Lisa and me. It hurts me too much to look into her eyes--and she feels the same, believe me! SÁSHA. No, no! FÉDYA. You say "No," but you yourself know that it is "Yes"! SÁSHA. I can only judge by myself. If I were in her place, and you answered as you are doing, it would be dreadful! FÉDYA. Yes, for _you_ ... [Pause; both are agitated]. SÁSHA [rises] Must things really remain so? FÉDYA. I suppose ... SÁSHA. Fédya come back! FÉDYA. Thank you, Sásha dear! You will always remain a precious memory to me.... But good-bye, dear heart!... Let me kiss you. [Kisses her forehead]. SÁSHA [agitated] No, I don't say good-bye, and I don't believe, and won't believe ... Fédya! FÉDYA. Well then, listen! But give me your word that what I tell you, you won't repeat to anybody--do you promise? SÁSHA. Of course! FÉDYA. Well then, listen, Sásha.... It's true that I am her husband and the father of her child, but I am--superfluous! Wait, wait--don't reply.... You think I'm jealous? Not at all! In the first place, I have no right; secondly, I have no cause. Victor Karénin is her old friend and mine too. He loves her, and she him. SÁSHA. No! FÉDYA. She does--as an honest, moral woman can, who does not allow herself to love anyone but her husband. But she loves, and will love him when this obstacle [points to himself] is removed; and I will remove it, and they shall be happy! [His voice trembles]. SÁSHA. Fédya, don't talk like that! FÉDYA. Why, you know very well that it's true! And I shall be glad of their happiness, and it's the best I can do. I shall not return, but shall give them their freedom.... Tell them so.... Don't answer--and good-bye! Kisses her on the forehead, and opens the door for her. SÁSHA. Fédya--you are wonderful! FÉDYA. Good-bye, good-bye!... [Exit Sásha]. FÉDYA. Yes, yes.... That's the thing ... that's the thing!... [Rings]. Enter footman. FÉDYA. Call your master.... [Exit footman].... And it's true--it's true. Enter Afrémov. FÉDYA. Come along! AFRÉMOV. Have you settled matters? FÉDYA. Splendidly! [Sings] "And she swore by ev'ry power ..." Splendidly!... Where are they all? AFRÉMOV. They're playing billiards. FÉDYA. That's right--we will too [Sings] "Rest here, just an hour ..." Come along! Curtain. ACT III SCENE 1 Prince Abrézkov, a sixty-year-old bachelor with moustaches, a retired army man, elegant, very dignified and melancholy-looking. Anna Dmítrievna Karénina (Victor's mother), a fifty-year-old "grande dame" who tries to appear younger, and intersperses her remarks with French expressions. Anna Dmítrievna's sitting-room, furnished with expensive simplicity, and filled with souvenirs. Anna Dmítrievna is writing. Footman enters. FOOTMAN. Prince Abrézkov ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Yes, certainly ... [Turns round and touches herself up before the looking-glass]. Enter Abrézkov. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. _J'espère que je ne force pas la consigne...._[8] [Kisses her hand]. [8] I hope I am not forcing myself on you. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. You know that _vous êtes toujours le bienvenu_[9]--and to-day especially! You got my note? [9] You are always welcome. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I did, and this is my answer. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Ah, my friend! I begin quite to despair. _Il est positivement ensorcelé!_[10] I never before knew him so insistent, so obstinate, so pitiless, and so indifferent to me. He has quite changed since that woman dismissed her husband! [10] He is positively bewitched! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. What are the facts? How do matters actually stand? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. He wants to marry her come what may. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. And how about the husband? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. He agrees to a divorce. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Dear me! ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. And he, Victor, lends himself to it, with all the abominations--lawyers, proofs of guilt--_tout ça est dégoutant_![11] And it doesn't seem to repel him. I don't understand him--he was always so sensitive, so reserved ... [11] It is all disgusting! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. He is in love! Ah, when a man really loves ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Yes, but how is it that in our day love could be pure--could be a loving friendship, lasting through life? That kind of love I understand and value. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Nowadays the young generation no longer contents itself with those ideal relations. _La possession de l'âme ne leur suffit plus._[12] It can't be helped!... What can one do with him? [12] For them, to possess the soul is no longer enough. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. You must not say that of _him_--but it's as if he were under a spell. It's just as if he were someone else.... You know, I called on her. He begged me so. I went there, did not find her in, and left my card. _Elle m'a fait demander si je ne pourrais la recevoir_;[13] and to-day [looks at the clock] at two o'clock, that is in a few minutes' time, she will be here. I promised Victor I would receive her, but you understand how I am placed! I am not myself at all; and so, from old habit, I sent for you. I need your help! [13] She inquired whether I would receive her. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Thank you. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. This visit of hers, you understand, will decide the whole matter--Victor's fate! I must either refuse my consent--but how can I? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Don't you know her at all? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I have never seen her. But I'm afraid of her. A good woman could not consent to leave her husband, and he a good man, too! As a fellow-student of Victor's he used to visit us, you know, and was very nice. But whatever he may be, _quels que soient les torts qu'il a eus vis-à-vis d'elle_,[14] one must not leave one's husband. She ought to bear her cross. What I don't understand is how Victor, with the convictions he holds, can think of marrying a divorced woman! How often--quite lately--he has argued warmly with Spítsin in my presence, that divorce was incompatible with true Christianity; and now he himself is going in for it! _Si elle a pu le charmer à un tel point_[15] ... I am afraid of her! But I sent for you to know what _you_ have to say to it all, and instead of that I have been doing all the talking myself! What do you think of it? Tell me your opinion. What ought I to do? You have spoken with Victor? [14] However he may have wronged her. [15] If she has been able to charm him to such a degree ... PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I have: and I think he loves her. He has grown used to loving her; and love has got a great hold on him. He is a man who takes things slowly but firmly. What has once entered his heart will never leave it again; and he will never love anyone but her; and he can never be happy without her, or with anyone else. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. And how willingly Várya Kazántseva would have married him! What a girl she is, and how she loves him! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV [smiling]. _C'est compter sans son hôte!_[16] That is quite out of the question now. I think it's best to submit, and help him to get married. [16] That's reckoning without your host! ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. To a divorced woman--and have him meet his wife's husband?... I can't think how you can speak of it so calmly. Is she a woman a mother could wish to see as the wife of her only son--and such a son? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. But what is to be done, my dear friend? Of course it would be better if he married a girl whom you knew and liked; but since that's impossible ... Besides it's not as if he were going to marry a gipsy, or goodness knows who ...! Lisa Protásova is a very nice good woman. I know her, through my niece Nelly, and know her to be a modest, kind-hearted, affectionate and moral woman. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. A moral woman--who makes up her mind to leave her husband! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. This is not like you! You're unkind and harsh! Her husband is the kind of man of whom one says that they are their own worst enemies; but he is an even greater enemy to his wife. He is a weak, fallen, drunken fellow. He has squandered all his property and hers too. She has a child.... How can you condemn her for leaving such a man? Nor has she left him: he left her. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Oh, what mud! What mud! And I have to soil my hands with it! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. And how about your religion? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Of course, of course! To forgive, "As we forgive them that trespass against us." _Mais, c'est plus fort que moi!_[17] [17] But it's beyond me! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. How could she live with such a man? If she had not loved anyone else she would have had to leave him. She would have had to, for her child's sake. The husband himself--an intelligent kind-hearted man when he is in his senses--advises her to do it.... Enter Victor, who kisses his mother's hand and greets Prince Abrézkov. VICTOR. Mother, I have come to say this: Elisabeth Andréyevna will be here in a minute, and I beg, I implore you--if you still refuse your consent to my marriage ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA [interrupting him] Of course I still refuse my consent ... VICTOR [continues his speech and frowns] In that case I beg, I implore you, not to speak to her of your refusal! Don't settle matters negatively ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I don't expect we shall mention the subject. For my part, I certainly won't begin. VICTOR. And she is even less likely to. I only want you to make her acquaintance. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. The one thing I can't understand is how you reconcile your desire to marry Mrs. Protásova, who has a husband living, with your religious conviction that divorce is contrary to Christianity. VICTOR. Mother, this is cruel of you! Are we really so immaculate that we must always be perfectly consistent when life is so complex? Mother, why are you so cruel to me? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I love you. I desire your happiness. VICTOR [to Prince Abrézkov] Prince! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Of course you desire his happiness. But it is not easy for you and me, with our grey hairs, to understand the young; and it is particularly difficult for a mother grown accustomed to her own idea of how her son is to be happy. Women are all like that. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Yes, yes indeed! You are all against me! You may do it, of course. _Vous êtes majeur._[18] ... But you will kill me! [18] You are of age. VICTOR. You are not yourself. This is worse than cruelty! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV [to Victor] Be quiet, Victor. Your mother's words are always worse than her deeds. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I shall tell her how I think and feel, but I will do it without offending her. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Of that I am sure. Enter footman. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Here she is. VICTOR. I'll go. FOOTMAN. Elisabeth Andréyevna Protásova. VICTOR. I am going. _Please_, Mother! [Exit.] Prince Abrézkov also rises. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Ask her in. [To Prince Abrézkov] No, you must please stay here! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I thought you'd find a _tête-à-tête_ easier. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. No, I'm afraid ... [Is restless] If I want to be left _tête-à-tête_ with her, I will nod to you. _Cela dépendra._[19] ... To be left alone with her may make it difficult for me. But I'll do like that if ... [Makes a sign]. [19] It will depend. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I shall understand. I feel sure you will like her. Only be just. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. How you are all against me! Enter Lisa, in visiting dress and hat. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA [rising] I was sorry not to find you in, and it is kind of you to call. LISA. I never dreamed that you'd be so good as to call.... I am so grateful to you for wishing to see me. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA [pointing to Prince Abrézkov] You are acquainted? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Yes, certainly. I have had the pleasure of being introduced. [They shake hands and sit down] My niece Nelly has often mentioned you to me. LISA. Yes, she and I were great friends [glancing timidly at Anna Dmítrievna], and we are still friendly. [To Anna Dmítrievna] I never expected that you would wish to see me. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I knew your husband well. He was friendly with Victor, and used to come to our house before he left for Tambóv. I think it was there you married? LISA. Yes, it was there we married. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. But after his return to Moscow he never visited us. LISA. Yes, he hardly went out anywhere. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. And he never introduced you to me. Awkward silence. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. The last time I met you was at the theatricals at the Denísovs'. They went off very well; and you were acting. LISA. No ... Yes ... Of course ... I did act. [Silence again]. Anna Dmítrievna, forgive me if what I am going to say displeases you, but I can't and don't know how to dissemble! I have come because Victor Miháylovich said ... because he--I mean, because you wished to see me.... But it is best to speak out [with a catch in her voice] ... It is very hard for me.... But you are kind. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I'd better go. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Yes, do. Prince Abrézkov takes leave of both women, and exit. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Listen, Lisa ... I am very sorry for you, and I like you. But I love Victor. He is the one being I love in the world. I know his soul as I know my own. It is a proud soul. He was proud as a boy of seven.... Not proud of his name or wealth, but proud of his character and innocence, which he has guarded. He is as pure as a maiden. LISA. I know. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. He has never loved any woman. You are the first. I do not say I am not jealous. I am jealous. But we mothers--your son is still a baby, and it is too soon for you--we are prepared for that. I was prepared to give him up to his wife and not to be jealous--but to a wife as pure as himself ... LISA. I ... have I ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Forgive me! I know it was not your fault, but you are unfortunate. And I know him. Now he is ready to bear--and will bear--anything, and he would never mention it, but he would suffer. His wounded pride would suffer, and he would not be happy. LISA. I have thought of that. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Lisa, my dear, you are a wise and good woman. If you love him you must desire his happiness more than your own. And if that is so, you will not wish to bind him and give him cause to repent--though he would never _say_ a word. LISA. I know he wouldn't! I have thought about it, and have asked myself that question. I have thought of it, and have spoken of it to him. But what can I do, when he says he does not wish to live without me? I said to him: "Let us be friends, but do not spoil your life; do not bind your pure life to my unfortunate one!" But he does not wish for that. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. No, not at present.... LISA. Persuade him to leave me, and I will agree. I love him for his own happiness and not for mine. Only help me! Do not hate me! Let us lovingly work together for his happiness! ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Yes, yes! I have grown fond of you. [Kisses her. Lisa cries] And yet, and yet it is dreadful! If only he had loved you before you married ... LISA. He says he did love me then, but did not wish to prevent a friend's happiness. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Ah, how hard it all is! Still, we will love one another, and God will help us to find what we want. VICTOR [entering] Mother, dear! I have heard everything! I expected this: you are fond of her, and all will be well! LISA. I am sorry you heard. I should not have said it if ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Still, nothing is settled. All I can say is, that if it were not for all these unfortunate circumstances, I should have been glad. [Kisses her]. VICTOR. Only, please don't change! Curtain. SCENE 2 A plainly furnished room; bed, table, sofa. Fédya alone. _A knock at the door. A woman's voice outside._ Why have you locked yourself in, Theodore Vasílyevich? Fédya! Open ...! FÉDYA [gets up and unlocks door] That's right! Thank you for coming. It's dull, terribly dull! MÁSHA. Why didn't you come to us? Been drinking again? Eh, eh! And after you'd promised! FÉDYA. D'you know, I've no money! MÁSHA. And why have I taken it into my head to care for you! FÉDYA. Másha! MÁSHA. Well, what about "Másha, Másha"? If you were really in love, you'd have got a divorce long ago. They themselves asked you to. You say you don't love her, but all the same you keep to her! I see you don't wish ... FÉDYA. But you know why I don't wish! MÁSHA. That's all rubbish. People say quite truly that you're an empty fellow. FÉDYA. What can I say to you? That your words hurt me, you know without being told! MÁSHA. Nothing hurts you! FÉDYA. You know that the one joy I have in life is your love. MÁSHA. _My_ love--yes; but yours doesn't exist. FÉDYA. All right. I'm not going to assure you. Besides, what's the good? You know! MÁSHA. Fédya; why torment me? FÉDYA. Which of us torments? MÁSHA [cries] You are unkind! FÉDYA [goes up and embraces her] Másha! What's it all about? Stop that. One must live, and not whine. It doesn't suit you at all, my lovely one! MÁSHA. You do love me? FÉDYA. Whom else could I love? MÁSHA. Only me? Well then, read what you have been writing. FÉDYA. It will bore you. MÁSHA. It's you who wrote it, so it's sure to be good. FÉDYA. Well then listen. [Reads] "One day, late in autumn, my friend and I agreed to meet on the Murýgin fields, where there was a close thicket with many young birds in it. The day was dull, warm, and quiet. The mist ..." Enter two old gipsies, Másha's parents, Iván Makárovich and Nastásia Ivánovna. NASTÁSIA [stepping up to her daughter] Here you are then, you damned runaway sheep! [To Fédya] My respects to you, sir! [To Másha] Is that how you treat us, eh? IVÁN [to Fédya] It's wrong, sir, what you're doing! You're ruining the wench! Oh, but it's wrong ... You're doing a dirty deed. NASTÁSIA. Put on your shawl! March at once!... Running away like this! What can I say to the choir? Gallivanting with a beggar--what can you get out of him? MÁSHA. I don't gallivant! I love this gentleman, that's all. I've not left the choir. I'll go on singing, and what ... IVÁN. Say another word, and I'll pull the hair off your head!... Slut!... Who behaves like that? Not your father, nor your mother, nor your aunt!... It's bad, sir! We were fond of you--often and often we sang to you without pay. We pitied you, and what have you done? NASTÁSIA. You've ruined our daughter for nothing ... our own, our only daughter, the light of our eyes, our priceless jewel--you've trodden her into the mire, that's what you've done! You've no conscience. FÉDYA. Nastásia Ivánovna, you suspect me falsely. Your daughter is like a sister to me. I care for her honour. You must think no evil ... but I love her! What is one to do? IVÁN. But you didn't love her when you had money! If you'd then subscribed ten thousand roubles or so to the choir, you might have had her honourably. But now you've squandered everything, and carry her off by stealth! It's a shame, sir, a shame! MÁSHA. He has not carried me off! I came to him myself, and if you take me away now, I shall come back again. I love him, and there's an end of it! My love is stronger than all your locks ... I won't! NASTÁSIA. Come, Másha dearest! Come, my own! Don't sulk. You've done wrong, and now come along. IVÁN. Now then, you've talked enough! March! [Seizes her hand] Excuse us, sir! [Exit the three gipsies]. Enter Prince Abrézkov. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Excuse me. I have been an unwilling witness of an unpleasant scene.... FÉDYA. Whom have I the honour?... [Recognises the Prince] Ah, Prince Abrézkov! [They shake hands]. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. An unwilling witness of an unpleasant scene. I should have been glad not to hear, but having overheard it, I consider it my duty to tell you so. I was directed here, and had to wait at the door for those people to come out--more particularly as their very loud voices rendered my knocking inaudible. FÉDYA. Yes, yes--please take a seat. Thank you for telling me: it gives me the right to explain that scene to you. I don't mind what you may think of me, but I should like to tell you that the reproaches you heard addressed to that girl, that gipsy singer, were unjust. That girl is as morally pure as a dove; and my relations with her are those of a friend. There may be a tinge of romance in them, but it does not destroy the purity--the honour--of the girl. That is what I wished to tell you; but what is it you want of me? In what way can I be of service? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. In the first place, I ... FÉDYA. Forgive me, Prince. My present social standing is such, that my former slight acquaintance with you does not entitle me to a visit from you, unless you have some business with me. What is it? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I won't deny it. You have guessed right. I have business with you; but I beg you to believe that the alteration in your position in no wise affects my attitude towards you. FÉDYA. I am sure of it. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. My business is this. The son of my old friend, Anna Dmítrievna Karénina, and she herself, have asked me to ascertain directly from you what are your relations ... May I speak out?... your relations with your wife, Elisabeth Andréyevna Protásova. FÉDYA. My relations with my wife, or rather with her who _was_ my wife, are entirely at an end. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. So I understood, and that is why I accepted this difficult mission. FÉDYA. At an end, and, I hasten to add, not by her fault, but by mine--by my innumerable faults. She is, as she always was, quite irreproachable. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Well then, Victor Karénin, or rather his mother, asked me to find out what your intentions are. FÉDYA [growing excited] What intentions? I have none. I set her quite free! Moreover, I will never disturb her peace. I know she loves Victor Karénin. Well, let her! I consider him a very dull, but very good and honourable man, and I think that she will, as the phrase goes, be happy with him; and--_que le bon Dieu les bénisse_![20] That's all ... [20] May God bless them! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Yes, but we ... FÉDYA [interrupting] And don't suppose that I feel the least bit jealous. If I said that Victor is dull, I withdraw the remark. He is an excellent, honourable, moral man: almost the direct opposite of myself. And he has loved her from childhood. Perhaps she too may have loved him when she married me--that happens sometimes! The very best love is unconscious love. I believe she always did love him; but as an honest woman she did not confess it even to herself. But ... a shadow of some kind always lay across our family life--but why am I confessing to you? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Please do! Believe me, my chief reason for coming to you was my desire to understand the situation fully.... I understand you. I understand that the shadow, as you so well express it, may have been ... FÉDYA. Yes, it was; and that perhaps is why I could not find satisfaction in the family life she provided for me, but was always seeking something, and being carried away. However, that sounds like excusing myself. I don't want to, and can't, excuse myself. I was (I say with assurance, _was_) a bad husband. I say _was_, because in my consciousness I am not, and have long not been, her husband. I consider her perfectly free. So there you have my answer to your question. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Yes, but you know Victor's family, and himself too. His relation to Elisabeth Andréyevna is, and has been all through, most respectful and distant. He assisted her when she was in trouble ... FÉDYA. Yes, I by my dissipation helped to draw them together. What's to be done? It had to be so! PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. You know the strictly Orthodox convictions of that family. Having myself a broader outlook on things, I do not share them; but I respect and understand them. I understand that for him, and especially for his mother, union with a woman without a Church marriage is unthinkable. FÉDYA. Yes, I know his stu ... his strictness, his conservatism in these matters. But what do they want? A divorce? I told them long ago that I am quite willing; but the business of taking the blame on myself, and all the lies connected with it, are very trying....[21] [21] Under the Russian law divorce was only obtainable if ocular evidence of adultery was forthcoming, and a great deal of perjury was usually involved in such cases. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I quite understand you, and sympathise. But how can it be avoided? I think it might be arranged that way--but you are right. It is dreadful, and I quite understand you. FÉDYA [pressing the Prince's hand] Thank you, dear Prince! I always knew you were a kind and honourable man. Tell me what to do. How am I to act? Put yourself in my place. I am not trying to improve. I am a good-for-nothing; but there are things I cannot do quietly. I cannot quietly tell lies. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I don't understand you! You, a capable, intelligent man, so sensitive to what is good--how can you let yourself be so carried away--so forget what you expect of yourself? How have you ruined your life and come to this? FÉDYA [forcing back tears of emotion] I have led this disorderly life for ten years, and this is the first time a man like you has pitied me! I have been pitied by my boon-companions, by rakes and by women; but a reasonable, good man like you ... Thank you! How did I come to my ruin? First, through drink. It is not that drink tastes nice; but do what I will, I always feel I am not doing the right thing, and I feel ashamed. I talk to you now, and feel ashamed. As for being a _Maréchal de la noblesse_, or a Bank Director--I should feel ashamed, so ashamed! It is only when I drink that I do not feel this shame. And music: not operas or Beethoven, but gipsies!... That is life! Energy flows into one's veins! And then those dear black eyes, and those smiles! And the more delicious it is, the more ashamed one feels afterwards. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. How about work? FÉDYA. I have tried it, but it's no good. I am always dissatisfied with it--but what's the use of talking about myself! I thank you. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Then what am I to say? FÉDYA. Tell them I will do what they wish. They want to get married, and that there should be no obstacle to their marriage? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Of course. FÉDYA. I'll do it! Tell them I will certainly do it. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. But when? FÉDYA. Wait a bit. Well, say in a fortnight. Will that do? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Then I may tell them so? FÉDYA. You may. Good-bye, Prince! Thank you once again! [Exit Prince]. FÉDYA [sits for a long time and smiles silently] That's the way, that's the way! It must be so, must be, must be! Splendid! Curtain. ACT IV SCENE 1 A private room in a restaurant. A waiter shows in Fédya and Iván Petróvich Alexándrov. WAITER. Here, please. No one will disturb you here. I'll bring some paper directly. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Protásov, I'll come in too. FÉDYA [seriously] If you like, but I'm busy and ... All right, come in. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. You wish to reply to their demands? I'll tell you what to say. I should not do it that way--always speak straight out, and act with decision. FÉDYA [to waiter] A bottle of champagne! Exit waiter. FÉDYA [taking out a revolver and putting it on the table] Wait a bit! IVÁN PETRÓVICH. What's that? Do you want to shoot yourself? You can if you like. I understand you! They wish to humiliate you, and you will show them the sort of man you are! You will kill yourself with a revolver, and them with magnanimity. I understand you. I understand everything, because I am a genius. FÉDYA. Of course--of course. Only ... [Enter waiter with paper and ink]. FÉDYA [covers the revolver with a napkin] Uncork it--let's have a drink. [They drink. Fédya writes] Wait a bit! IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Here's to your ... great journey! You know I'm above all this. I'm not going to restrain you! Life and death are alike to Genius. I die in life, and live in death. You will kill yourself that two people should pity you; and I--I shall kill myself that the whole world may understand what it has lost. I won't hesitate, or think about it! I seize it [snatches revolver]--now! And all is over. But it is too soon yet. [Lays down revolver] Nor shall I write anything; they must understand it themselves.... Oh, you ... FÉDYA [writing] Wait a bit. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Pitiful people! They fuss, they bustle, and don't understand--don't understand anything at all.... I'm not talking to you, I am only expressing my thoughts. And, after all, what does humanity need? Very little--only to value its geniuses. But they always are executed, persecuted, tortured.... No! I'm not going to be your toy! I will drag you out into the open! No-o-o! Hypocrites! FÉDYA [having finished writing, drinks and reads over his letter] Go away, please! IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Go away? Well, good-bye then! I am not going to restrain you. I shall do the same. But not yet. I only want to tell you ... FÉDYA. All right! You'll tell me afterwards. And now, dear chap, just one thing: give this to the manager [gives him money] and ask if a parcel and a letter have come for me.... Please do! IVÁN PETRÓVICH. All right--then you'll wait for me? I have still something important to tell you--something that you will not hear in this world nor in the next, at any rate not till I come there.... Am I to let him have _all_ of this? FÉDYA. As much as is necessary. [Exit Iván Petróvich.] Fédya sighs with relief; locks the door behind Iván Petróvich; takes up the revolver, cocks it, puts it to his temple; shudders, and carefully lowers it again. Groans. FÉDYA. No; I can't! I can't! I can't! [Knock at the door] Who's there? [Másha's voice from outside] It's me! FÉDYA. Who's "me"? Oh, Másha ... [opens door]. MÁSHA. I've been to your place, to Popóv's, to Afrémov's, and guessed that you must be here. [Sees revolver] That's a nice thing! There's a fool! A regular fool! Is it possible you really meant to? FÉDYA. No, I couldn't. MÁSHA. Do I count for nothing at all? You heathen! You had no pity for me? Oh, Theodore Vasílyevich, it's a sin, a sin! In return for my love ... FÉDYA. I wished to release them. I promised to, and I can't lie. MÁSHA. And what about me? FÉDYA. What about you? It would have set you free too. Is it better for you to be tormented by me? MÁSHA. Seems it's better. I can't live without you. FÉDYA. What sort of life could you have with me? You'd have cried a bit, and then gone on living your own life. MÁSHA. I shouldn't have cried at all! Go to the devil, if you don't pity me! [Cries]. FÉDYA. Másha, dearest! I meant to do it for the best. MÁSHA. Best for yourself! FÉDYA [smiles] How's that, when I meant to kill myself? MÁSHA. Of course, best for yourself! But what is it you want? Tell me. FÉDYA. What I want? I want a great deal. MÁSHA. Well, what? What? FÉDYA. First of all, to keep my promise. That is the first thing, and quite sufficient. To lie, and do all the dirty work necessary to get a divorce ... I can't! MÁSHA. Granted that it's horrid--I myself ... FÉDYA. Next, they must really be free--my wife and he. After all, they are good people; and why should they suffer? That's the second thing. MÁSHA. Well, there isn't much good in her, if she's thrown you over. FÉDYA. She didn't--I threw her over. MÁSHA. All right, all right! It's always you. She is an angel! What else! FÉDYA. This--that you are a good, dear girlie--and that I love you, and if I live I shall ruin you. MÁSHA. That's not your business. I know quite well what will ruin me. FÉDYA [sighs] But above all, above all ... What use is my life? Don't I know that I am a lost good-for-nothing? I am a burden to myself and to everybody--as your father said. I'm worthless.... MÁSHA. What rubbish! I shall stick to you. I've stuck to you already, and there's an end of it! As to your leading a bad life, drinking and going on the spree--well, you're a living soul! Give it up, and have done with it! FÉDYA. That's easily said. MÁSHA. Well, then, do it. FÉDYA. Yes, when I look at you I feel as if I could really do anything. MÁSHA. And so you shall! Yes, you'll do it! [Sees the letter] What's that? You've written to them? What have you written? FÉDYA. What have I written?... [Takes the letter and is about to tear it up] It's no longer wanted now. MÁSHA [snatches the letter] You've said you would kill yourself? Yes? You did not mention the revolver--only said that you'd kill yourself? FÉDYA. Yes, that I should be no more. MÁSHA. Give it me--give it, give it!... Have you read _What to Do_? FÉDYA. I think I have. MÁSHA. It's a tiresome novel, but there's one very, very good thing in it. That what's his name?--Rakhmánov--goes and pretends he has drowned himself. And you--can you swim? FÉDYA. No. MÁSHA. That's all right. Let me have your clothes--everything, and your pocket-book too. FÉDYA. How can I? MÁSHA. Wait a bit, wait, wait! Let's go home; then you'll change your clothes. FÉDYA. But it will be a fraud. MÁSHA. All right! You go to bathe, your clothes remain on the bank, in the pocket is your pocket-book and this letter. FÉDYA. Yes, and then? MÁSHA. And then? Why, then we'll go off together and live gloriously. Enter Iván Petróvich. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. There now! And the revolver? I'll take it. MÁSHA. Take it; take it! We're off. Curtain. SCENE 2 The Protásovs' drawing-room. KARÉNIN. He promised so definitely, that I am sure he will keep his word. LISA. I am ashamed to say it, but I must confess that what I heard about that gipsy girl makes me feel quite free. Don't think it is jealousy; it isn't, but you know--it sets me free. I hardly know how to tell you.... KARÉNIN. You don't know how to tell me ... Why? LISA [smiling] Never mind! Only let me explain what I feel. The chief thing that tormented me was, that I felt I loved two men; and that meant that I was an immoral woman. KARÉNIN. _You_ immoral? LISA. But since I knew that he had got someone else, and that he therefore did not need me, I felt free, and felt that I might truthfully say that I love you. Now things are clear within me, and only my position torments me. This divorce! It is such torture--and then this waiting! KARÉNIN. It will soon, very soon, be settled. Besides his promise, I sent my secretary to him with the petition ready for signature, and told him not to leave till it is signed. If I did not know him so well, I should think he was purposely behaving as he does. LISA. He? No, it is the result both of his weakness and his honesty. He doesn't want to say what is not true. Only you were wrong to send him money. KARÉNIN. I had to. The want of it might be the cause of the delay. LISA. No, there is something bad about money. KARÉNIN. Well, anyhow, _he_ need not have been so punctilious ... LISA. How selfish we are becoming! KARÉNIN. Yes, I confess it. It's your own fault. After all that waiting, that hopelessness, I am now so happy! And happiness makes one selfish. It's your fault! LISA. Do you think it's you only? I too--I feel full of happiness, bathed in bliss! I have everything--Mísha has recovered, your mother likes me, and you--and above all, I, I love! KARÉNIN. Yes? And no repenting? No turning back? LISA. Since that day everything has changed in me. KARÉNIN. And will not change again? LISA. Never! I only wish you to have done with it all as completely as I have. Enter nurse, with baby. Lisa takes the baby on her lap. KARÉNIN. What wretched people we are! LISA [kissing baby] Why? KARÉNIN. When you married, and I heard of it on my return from abroad, and was wretched because I felt that I had lost you, it was a relief to me to find that you still remembered me. I was content even with that. Then when our friendship was established and I felt your kindness to me, and even a little gleam of something in our friendship that was more than friendship, I was almost happy. I was only tormented by a fear that I was not being honest towards Fédya. But no! I was always so firmly conscious that any other relation than one of purest friendship with my friend's wife was impossible--besides which, I knew you--that I was not really troubled about that. Afterwards, when Fédya began to cause you anxiety, and I felt that I was of some use to you, and that my friendship was beginning to alarm you--I was quite happy, and a sort of vague hope awoke in me. Still later, when he became altogether impossible and you decided to leave him, and I spoke to you plainly for the first time, and you did not say "No," but went away in tears--then I was perfectly happy; and had I then been asked what more I wanted, I should have answered "Nothing"! But later on, when there came the possibility of uniting our lives: when my mother grew fond of you and the possibility began to be realised; when you told me that you loved and had loved me, and then (as you did just now) that he no longer existed for you and that you love only me--what more, one would think, could I wish for? But no! Now the past torments me! I wish that past had not existed, and that there were nothing to remind me of it. LISA [reproachfully] Victor! KARÉNIN. Lisa, forgive me! If I tell you this, it is only because I don't want a single thought of mine about you to be hidden from you. I have purposely told you, to show how bad I am, and how well I know that I must struggle with and conquer myself.... And now I've done it! I love him. LISA. That's as it should be. I did all I could, but it was not I that did what you desired: it happened in my heart, from which everything but you has vanished. KARÉNIN. Everything? LISA. Everything, everything--or I would not say so. Enter footman. FOOTMAN. Mr. Voznesénsky. KARÉNIN. He's come with Fédya's answer. LISA [to Karénin] Ask him in here. KARÉNIN [rising and going to the door] Well, here is the answer! LISA [gives baby to nurse; exit nurse] Is it possible, Victor, that everything will now be decided? [Kisses Karénin]. Enter Voznesénsky. KARÉNIN. Well? VOZNESÉNSKY. He has gone. KARÉNIN. Gone! And without signing the petition? VOZNESÉNSKY. The petition is not signed, but a letter was left for you and Elisabeth Andréyevna [Takes letter out of his pocket and gives it to Karénin] I went to his lodgings, and was told he was at the restaurant. I went there, and Mr. Protásov told me to return in an hour and I should then have his answer. I went back, and then ... KARÉNIN. Is it possible that this means another delay? More excuses! No, that would be downright wicked. How he has fallen! LISA. But do read the letter! [Karénin opens letter]. VOZNESÉNSKY. You do not require me any longer? KARÉNIN. Well, no. Good-bye! Thank you ... [Pauses in astonishment as he reads]. Exit Voznesénsky. LISA. What--what is it? KARÉNIN. This is awful! LISA [takes hold of letter] Read! KARÉNIN [reads] "Lisa and Victor, I address myself to you both. I won't lie and call you 'dear' or anything else. I cannot master the feeling of bitterness and reproach (I reproach myself, but all the same it is painful) when I think of you and of your love and happiness. I know everything. I know that though I was the husband, I have--by a series of accidents--been in your way. _C'est moi qui suis l'intrus._[22] But all the same, I cannot restrain a feeling of bitterness and coldness towards you. I love you both in theory, especially Lisa, Lisette! But actually I am more than cold towards you. I know I am wrong, but cannot change." [22] It is I who am the intruder. LISA. How can he ... KARÉNIN [continues reading] "But to business! This very feeling of discord within me forces me to fulfil your desire not in the way you wish. Lying, acting so disgusting a comedy, bribing the Consistorium, and all those horrors, are intolerably repulsive to me. Vile as I may be, I am vile in a different way, and cannot take part in those abominations--simply cannot! The solution at which I have arrived is the simplest: to be happy, you must marry. I am in the way; consequently I must destroy myself...." LISA [seizes Victor's hand] Victor! KARÉNIN [reads] "... must destroy myself. And I will do it. When you get this letter, I shall be no more. "_P.S._ What a pity you sent me money to pay for the divorce proceedings! It is unpleasant, and unlike you! But it can't be helped. I have so often made mistakes, why shouldn't you make one? I return the money. My way of escape is shorter, cheaper, and surer. All I ask is, don't be angry with me, and think kindly of me. And, one thing more--there is a clockmaker, Evgényev, here. Can't you help him, and set him on his feet? He's a good man, though weak.--Good-bye, "FÉDYA." LISA. He has taken his life! Yes ... KARÉNIN [rings, and runs out to the hall] Call Mr. Voznesénsky back! LISA. I knew it! I knew it! Fédya, dear Fédya! KARÉNIN. Lisa! LISA. It's not true, not true that I didn't love him and don't love him! I love only him! I love him! And I've killed him. Leave me! Enter Voznesénsky. KARÉNIN. Where is Mr. Protásov? What did they tell you? VOZNESÉNSKY. They told me he went out this morning, left this letter, and had not returned. KARÉNIN. We shall have to find out about it, Lisa. I must leave you. LISA. Forgive me, but I too can't lie! Go now--go, and find out ... Curtain. ACT V SCENE 1 A dirty room in a low-class restaurant. A table, at which people sit drinking tea and vódka. In the foreground a small table, at which sits Fédya, tattered, and much come down in the world. With him is Petushkóv, a gentle, mild man with long hair, of clerical appearance. Both are slightly drunk. PETUSHKÓV. I understand, I understand. That is true love! Yes? Go on. FÉDYA. Well, you know, if a woman of our class showed such feeling and sacrificed everything for the man she loved.... But she was a gipsy, brought up to money-hunting, and yet she had this self-sacrificing love! Gave everything, and wanted nothing herself! The contrast was so wonderful! PETUSHKÓV. Yes, in art we call it "value." You can only get quite bright red by putting green round it. But that's not to the point. I understand, quite understand. FÉDYA. Yes, and I believe the one good action of my life is that I never took advantage of her love. And do you know why? PETUSHKÓV. Pity. FÉDYA. Oh no! I never felt pity for her. What I felt for her was always rapturous admiration--and when she sang! Ah, how she sang--and perhaps still sings! I always regarded her as far above me. I did not ruin her, simply because I loved her; loved her truly. And now she's a good, happy memory! [Drinks]. PETUSHKÓV. Yes, I understand, I understand. It's ideal. FÉDYA. I'll tell you something. I have had my passions, and once I was in love with a lady--very handsome--and I loved her nastily, like a dog. She gave me a _rendezvous_. And I did not go, because I thought it was treating the husband shabbily. And it is strange that, even now, when I remember it I want to feel pleased and to approve of myself for having acted honourably, but I always repent as if I had committed a sin! But in the case of Másha, on the contrary, I am always pleased--pleased that I did not pollute that feeling of mine.... I may fall lower still, sell all I have on me, be covered with lice and sores--but this jewel ... no, not jewel, but ray of sunshine, is still with me and in me. PETUSHKÓV. I understand, I understand! And where is she now? FÉDYA. I don't know! And I'd rather not know. All _that_ belonged to a different life; and I don't want to mix it up with this.... A woman is heard screaming at a table behind. The manager and a policeman come in and take her out. Fédya and Petushkóv listen, and look on in silence. When all is quiet again, PETUSHKÓV. Yes, your life is astonishing. FÉDYA. No, it's most simple! You know, in the society in which I was born there are only three careers open to a man--only three. The first is to enter the civil or military service, to earn money and increase the abominations amid which we live. That was repulsive to me. Perhaps I had not the capacity for it; but above all it repelled me. Then the second is to destroy those abominations. To do that you must be a hero; and I am not a hero. And the third is to forget it all by going on the spree, drinking and singing. That is what I did. And this is what my singing has brought me to! [Drinks]. PETUSHKÓV. And what about family life? I should be happy if I had a wife. My wife ruined me. FÉDYA. Family life? Yes, my wife was an ideal woman. She is still living. But how shall I tell you? There was no yeast in it--you know, the yeast that makes the beer froth! Well, there was nothing of that in our life: it was flat, and I wanted something to help me to forget--and one can't forget when there's no sparkle in life. Then I began to do all sorts of nasty things. And you know, we love people for the good we do them, and dislike them for the harm we do them; and I did her much harm. She seemed to love me ... PETUSHKÓV. Why do you say "seemed"? FÉDYA. I say it because there was never anything about her that made her creep into my soul as Másha did. But that's not what I meant to say. When she was pregnant, or nursing her baby, I used to vanish, and come home drunk; and of course, just because of that, I loved her less and less. Yes, yes! [in ecstasy] I have it! The reason I love Másha is that I did her good and not harm. That's why I love her. The other one I tormented, and therefore I don't like her.... No, after all, I simply don't like her! Was I jealous? Yes, but that too is past.... Enter Artémyev, with a cockade on his cap, dyed moustaches, and old renovated clothes. ARTÉMYEV. Wish you a good appetite! [Bows to Fédya] I see you've made acquaintance with our painter, our artist. FÉDYA [coldly] Yes, we are acquainted. ARTÉMYEV [to Petushkóv] And have you finished the portrait? PETUSHKÓV. No, I lost the order. ARTÉMYEV [Sits down] I'm not in your way? Fédya and Petushkóv do not answer. PETUSHKÓV. Theodore Vasílyevich was telling me about his life. ARTÉMYEV. Secrets? Then I won't disturb you--go on? I'm sure I don't want you. Swine! [Goes to next table and calls for beer. He listens all the time to Fédya's conversation with Petushkóv, and leans towards them without their noticing it.] FÉDYA. I don't like that gentleman. PETUSHKÓV. He was offended. FÉDYA. Well, let him be! I can't stand him. He is such a fellow, my words won't come when he is there. Now with you I feel at ease, and comfortable. Well, what was I saying? PETUSHKÓV. You were speaking about your jealousy. And how was it you parted from your wife? FÉDYA. Ah! [Pauses and considers] It's a curious story. My wife is married ... PETUSHKÓV. How's that? Are you divorced? FÉDYA [smiles] No, I left her a widow. PETUSHKÓV. What do you mean? FÉDYA. I mean that she's a widow! I don't exist. PETUSHKÓV. Don't exist? FÉDYA. No, I'm a corpse! Yes ... [Artémyev leans over, listening] Well, you see--I _can_ tell _you_ about it; and besides, it happened long ago; and you don't know my real name. It was this way. When I had tired out my wife and had squandered everything I could lay my hands on, and had become unbearable, a protector turned up for her. Don't imagine that there was anything dirty or bad about it--no, he was my friend and a very good fellow--only in everything my exact opposite! And as there is far more evil than good in me, it follows that he was a good--a very good man: honourable, firm, self-restrained and, in a word, virtuous. He had known my wife from her childhood, and loved her. When she married me he resigned himself to his fate. But later, when I became horrid and tormented her, he began to come oftener to our house. I myself wished it. They fell in love with one another, and meanwhile I went altogether to the bad, and abandoned my wife of my own accord. And besides, there was Másha. I myself advised them to marry. They did not want to, but I became more and more impossible, and it ended in ... PETUSHKÓV. The usual thing? FÉDYA. No. I am sure; I know for certain that they remained pure. He is a religious man, and considers marriage without the Church's blessing a sin. So they began asking me to agree to a divorce. I should have had to take the blame on myself. It would have been necessary to tell all sorts of lies ... and I couldn't! Believe me, it would have been easier for me to take my life than to tell such lies--and I wished to do so. But then a kind friend came and said, "Why do it?" and arranged it all for me. I wrote a farewell letter, and next day my clothes, pocket-book and letters were found on the river bank. I can't swim. PETUSHKÓV. Yes, but how about the body? They did not find that! FÉDYA. They did! Fancy! A week later somebody's body was found. My wife was called to identify the decomposing body. She just glanced at it. "Is it he?" "It is." And so it was left. I was buried, and they married and are living in this town, happily. And I--here I am, living and drinking! Yesterday I passed their house. The windows were lit up, and someone's shadow crossed the blind. Sometimes it's horrid, and sometimes not. It's horrid when I've no money ... [Drinks]. ARTÉMYEV [approaches] Excuse me, but I heard your story. It's a very good story, and more than that--a very useful one! You say it's horrid when one has no money? There's nothing more horrid. But you, in your position, should always have money. Aren't you a corpse? Well then ... FÉDYA. Excuse me! I did not speak to you and don't want your advice. ARTÉMYEV. But I want to give it! You are a corpse; but suppose you come to life again? Then they, your wife and that gentleman, who are so happy--they would be bigamists, and at best would be sent to the less distant parts of Siberia. So why should you lack money? FÉDYA. I beg you to leave me alone. ARTÉMYEV. Simply write a letter. I'll write it for you if you like; only give me their address, and you'll be grateful to me. FÉDYA. Be off, I tell you! I have told you nothing! ARTÉMYEV. Yes, you have! Here's my witness. The waiter heard you say you were a corpse. WAITER. I know nothing about it. FÉDYA. You scoundrel! ARTÉMYEV. Am I a scoundrel? Eh, police! I'll give him in charge! Fédya rises to go, but Artémyev holds him. Enter policeman. Curtain. SCENE 2 The ivy-covered verandah of a bungalow in the country. Anna Dmítrievna Karénina. Lisa (pregnant), nurse, and boy. LISA. Now he's on his way from the station. BOY. Who is? LISA. Papa. BOY. Papa's coming from the station? LISA. _C'est étonnant comme il l'aime, tout-à-fait comme son père._[23] [23] It is surprising how he loves him--just as if he were his father. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. _Tant mieux! Se souvient-il de son père véritable?_[24] [24] So much the better! Does he remember his real father? LISA [sighs] I never speak to him about it. I say to myself, "Why confuse him?" Sometimes I think I ought to tell him. What is your opinion, _Maman_? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. I think it is a matter of feeling, Lisa, and if you obey your feelings your heart will tell you what to say and when to say it. What a wonderful conciliator death is! I confess there was a time when Fédya--whom I had known from a child--was repulsive to me; but now I only remember him as that nice lad, Victor's friend, and as the passionate man who sacrificed himself--illegally and irreligiously, but still sacrificed himself--for those he loved. _On aura beau dire, l'action est belle._[25]... I hope Victor will not forget to bring the wool: I've hardly any left. [Knits]. [25] Say what one likes--it is a fine action. LISA. I hear him coming. The sound of wheels and bells is heard. Lisa rises, and goes to the edge of the veranda. LISA. There's someone with him, a lady in a bonnet--It's Mother! I have not seen her for an age. [Goes to the door]. Enter Karénin and Anna Pávlovna. ANNA PÁVLOVNA [kisses Lisa and Anna Dmítrievna] Victor met me, and has brought me here. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. He has done well. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, certainly. I thought to myself, "When shall I see her again?" and kept putting it off. But now I've come, and if you don't turn me out I will stay till the last train. KARÉNIN [kisses his wife, mother, and the boy] D'you know what a piece of luck! Congratulate me--I have two days' holiday. They'll be able to get on without me to-morrow. LISA. Splendid! Two days! It's long since we had that! We'll drive to the Hermitage, shall we? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What a likeness! Isn't he a strapping fellow? If only he has not inherited everything--his father's heart ... ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. But not his weakness. LISA. No, everything! Victor agrees with me that if only he had been rightly guided in childhood ... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, I don't know about that; but I simply can't think of him without tears. LISA. No more can we. How much higher he stands now in our recollection! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, I am sure of it. LISA. How it all seemed insoluble at one time--and then everything suddenly came right. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. Well, Victor, did you get the wool? KARÉNIN. Yes, I did. [Brings a bag, and takes out parcels]. Here is the wool, and this is the eau-de-Cologne; and here are letters--one "On Government Service" for you, Lisa [hands her a letter]. Well Anna Pávlovna, if you want to wash your hands I will show you your room. I must make myself tidy too; it is almost dinner time. Lisa, Anna Pávlovna's room is the corner one downstairs, isn't it? Lisa is pale; holds the letter in trembling hands, and reads it. KARÉNIN. What's the matter? Lisa, what is it? LISA. He is alive!... Oh God! When will he release me! Victor, what does this mean? [Sobs]. KARÉNIN [Takes letter and reads] This is dreadful! ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. What is it? Why don't you tell me? KARÉNIN. It is dreadful! He's alive, she's a bigamist, and I a criminal! It's a notice from the Examining Magistrate--a summons for Lisa to appear before him. ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. What a dreadful man! Why has he done this? KARÉNIN. All lies, lies! LISA. Oh, how I hate him! I don't know what I am saying ... [Exit in tears. Karénin follows her]. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How is it he's alive? ANNA DMÍTRIEVNA. All I know is, that as soon as Victor came in contact with this world of mud--they were sure to draw him in too! And so they have. It's all fraud--all lies! Curtain. ACT VI SCENE 1 The room of an Examining Magistrate, who sits at a table talking to Mélnikov. At a side table a clerk is sorting papers. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. But I never said anything of the kind to her. She invented it, and now reproaches me. MÉLNIKOV. She does not reproach you, but is grieved. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. All right, I'll come to dinner. But now I have a very interesting case on. [To Clerk] Ask her in. CLERK. Shall I ask them both? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE [finishes his cigarette and hides it] No, only Mrs. Karénina, or rather--by her first husband--Protásova. MÉLNIKOV [going out] Ah, Karénina! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Yes, it's a nasty affair. It's true I am only beginning to look into it, but it's a bad business. Well, good-bye! [Exit Mélnikov]. Enter Lisa, in black and veiled. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Take a seat, please. [Points to a chair] Believe me, I much regret to have to question you, but we are under the necessity ... Please be calm, and remember that you need not answer my questions. Only, in my opinion, for your own sake--and in fact for everybody's sake--the truth is best. It is always best, even practically. LISA. I have nothing to conceal. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Well then [looks at paper]--your name, position, religion--all that I have put down. Is it correct? LISA. Yes. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. You are accused of contracting a marriage with another man, knowing your husband to be alive. LISA. I did not know it. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. And also of having persuaded your husband, and bribed him with money, to commit a fraud--a pretended suicide--in order to free yourself of him. LISA. That is all untrue. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Well then, allow me to put a few questions. Did you send him 1,200 roubles in July of last year? LISA. It was his own money, the proceeds of the sale of some things of his. At the time I parted from him, and when I was expecting a divorce, I sent him the money. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Just so! Very well. That money was sent to him on the 17th of July, two days before his disappearance? LISA. I think it was on the 17th, but I don't remember. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. And why was the application to the Consistorium for a divorce withdrawn, just at that time--and the lawyer told not to proceed with the case? LISA. I don't know. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Well, and when the police asked you to identify the body, how was it you recognised it as your husband's? LISA. I was so excited that I did not look at the body, and I felt so sure it was he, that when they asked me I answered, "I think it is he." EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Yes, you did not see well, in consequence of a very natural excitement. And now may I ask why you have sent a monthly remittance to Sarátov, the very town where your first husband was living? LISA. My husband sent that money, and I cannot say what it was for, as that is not my secret. But it was not sent to Theodore Vasílyevich, for we were firmly convinced of his death. That I can say for certain.[26] [26] Had Tolstoy lived to give a final revision to this play, he would probably have made it clearer that Karénin sent a monthly payment to the clockmaker Evgényev, in response to the request contained in the last letter Fédya addressed to Lisa and himself; and that this money found its way to Fédya. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Very well. Only allow me to remark, madam, that the fact of our being servants of the law does not prevent our being men; and believe me I quite understand your position and sympathise with you! You were tied to a man who squandered your property, was unfaithful--in short, brought misfortune.... LISA. I loved him. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Yes; but still the desire to free yourself was natural, and you chose this simpler way, without realising that it would lead you into what is considered a crime--bigamy! I quite understand it. The judges will understand too; and therefore I advise you to confess everything. LISA. I have nothing to confess. I have never lied. [Cries] Do you want me any longer? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I must ask you to remain here. I will not trouble you with any more questions. Only kindly read this over and sign it. It is your deposition. See whether your answers have been correctly taken down. Please take that seat. [Points to an armchair by the window. To Clerk] Ask Mr. Karénin to come in. Enter Karénin, stern and solemn. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Please take a seat. KARÉNIN. Thank you! [Remains standing] What do you want of me? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I have to take your deposition. KARÉNIN. In what capacity? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE [smiling] I, in the capacity of Examining Magistrate, am obliged to question you in the capacity of an accused person. KARÉNIN. Indeed! Accused of what? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Of marrying a woman whose husband was alive. However, allow me to question you properly. Kindly sit down. KARÉNIN. Thank you. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Your name? KARÉNIN. Victor Karénin. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Your calling? KARÉNIN. Chamberlain and Member of Council. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Age? KARÉNIN. Thirty-eight. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Religion? KARÉNIN. Orthodox; and I have never before been tried or questioned! Well? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Did you know that Theodore Vasílyevich Protásov was alive when you married his wife? KARÉNIN. I did not know it. We were both convinced that he was drowned. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. After Protásov's alleged death, to whom in Sarátov did you send a monthly remittance? KARÉNIN. I do not wish to reply to that question. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Very well. Why did you send money--1,200 roubles--to Mr. Protásov just before his pretended death on 17th July? KARÉNIN. That money was given to me by my wife ... EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. By Mrs. Protásova? KARÉNIN. ... by my wife, to send to her husband. She considered that money to be his, and having severed all connection with him, considered it unfair to keep it. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. One more question--why did you withdraw the application for divorce? KARÉNIN. Because Theodore Vasílyevich undertook to apply for a divorce, and wrote me about it. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Have you got his letter? KARÉNIN. It has been lost.[27] [27] Karénin does not produce Fédya's letter because it would have proved connivance in the divorce proceedings. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. It is strange that everything which might convince the Court of the truth of your evidence should either be lost or non-existent. KARÉNIN. Do you want anything more? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I want nothing, except to do my duty; but you'll have to exonerate yourselves, and I have just advised Mrs. Protásova, and I advise you also, not to try to hide what everyone can see, but to say what really happened. Especially as Mr. Protásov is in such a condition that he has already told everything just as it happened, and will probably do the same in Court, I should advise ... KARÉNIN. I request you to keep within the limits of your duty, and not to give me your advice! May we go? [Approaches Lisa, who rises and takes his arm]. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I am very sorry to be obliged to detain you ... [Karénin looks round in astonishment] Oh, I don't mean that I arrest you. Though that would make it easier to get at the truth, I shall not resort to such a measure. I only want to take Protásov's deposition in your presence, and to confront him with you--which will make it easier for you to detect any falsehood in what he says. Please take a seat. Call in Mr. Protásov! Enter Fédya, dirty and shabby. FÉDYA [addresses Lisa and Karénin] Lisa! Elisabeth Andréyevna! Victor! I am not guilty! I wished to act for the best. But if I am guilty ... forgive me, forgive me! [Bows low to them]. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Please to answer my questions. FÉDYA. Ask, then. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Your name? FÉDYA. Why, you know it! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Please answer. FÉDYA. Well then, Theodore Protásov. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Your calling, age and religion? FÉDYA [after a pause] Aren't you ashamed to ask such nonsense? Ask what you want to know, and not such rubbish! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I beg you to be more careful in your expressions, and to answer my questions! FÉDYA. Well, if you're not ashamed of it, here you are: Calling, graduate; age, forty; religion, Orthodox. What next! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Did Mr. Karénin and your wife know that you were alive when you left your clothes on the river bank and disappeared? FÉDYA. Certainly not! I wished really to commit suicide, but afterwards--but there's no need to go into that. The thing is, that they knew nothing about it. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. How is it that you gave a different account to the police officer? FÉDYA. What police officer? Oh, when he came to see me at the dosshouse? I was drunk, and was romancing. I don't remember what I said. All that was rubbish. Now I am not drunk, and am telling the whole truth! They knew nothing. They believed that I was no longer alive, and I was glad of it. And everything would have gone on as it was, but for that rascal, Artémyev! If anyone is guilty, it is I alone. EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I understand your wish to be magnanimous, but the law demands the truth. Why was money sent to you? Fédya is silent. You received through Semyónov the money sent to you in Sarátov? Fédya is silent. Why don't you answer? It will be put down in the depositions that the accused did not answer these questions, and this may harm you and them very much. Well then, how was it? FÉDYA [after a pause] Oh, Mr. Magistrate, how is it you are not ashamed! Why do you pry into other people's lives? You are glad to have power, and to show it, you torment not physically but morally--torment people a thousand times better than yourself! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I beg ... FÉDYA. You've nothing to beg! I shall say what I think, and you [to Clerk] write it down! At least for once there will be sensible human words in a police report! [Raises his voice] There are three people: I, he, and she. Our relations to one another are complex--a spiritual struggle such as you know nothing of, a struggle between good and evil goes on. That struggle ends in a manner which sets them free. They were all at peace. They were happy, and remembered me with affection. I, fallen as I was, was glad that I had acted as I ought, and that I, a good-for-nothing, had gone out of their lives, so as not to stand in the way of people who were good and who had life before them. And so we were all living, when suddenly a blackmailing scoundrel appears who wants me to take part in his rascality, and I send him about his business. Then he comes to you, to the champion of Justice! The guardian of Morality! And you, who receive each month a few pounds for doing your dirty work, put on your uniform, and calmly bully these people--bully people whose little finger is worth more than your whole body and soul! People who would not admit you to their anteroom! But you have got so far, and are pleased ... EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. I shall have you turned out! FÉDYA. I'm not afraid of anyone, because I'm a corpse and you can't do me any harm. No position could be worse than mine! So turn me out! KARÉNIN. May we go? EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Immediately, but first sign your deposition. FÉDYA. You'd be quite comic, if you weren't so vile! EXAMINING MAGISTRATE. Take him away! I arrest you. FÉDYA [to Lisa and Karénin] Forgive me! KARÉNIN [approaches and holds out his hand] It had to happen! Lisa passes by. Fédya bows low to her. Curtain. SCENE 2 A corridor of the Law Courts. In the background a door with glass panels, beside which stands an usher. Further to the right another door through which the accused are led. Iván Petróvich Alexándrov comes to the first door and wishes to enter. USHER. Where are you going? You mustn't! Shoving in like that! IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Why mustn't I? The law says the proceedings are public. [Applause is heard from inside the Court]. USHER. Anyhow, you mustn't, and that's all about it. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Ignorant fellow! You don't know whom you are speaking to! A Young Lawyer in a dress-suit enters from the Court. YOUNG LAWYER. Are you concerned in this case? IVÁN PETRÓVICH. No, I am the public, and this ignoramus--this Cerberus--won't let me in! YOUNG LAWYER. But this door is not for the public. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. I know, but I am a man who should be admitted. YOUNG LAWYER. Wait a bit--they'll adjourn in a minute. [Is just going, when he meets Prince Abrézkov]. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. May I ask how the case stands? YOUNG LAWYER. The Counsel are speaking--Petrúshin is addressing the Court. Applause from within. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. And how do the defendants bear their position? YOUNG LAWYER. With great dignity, especially Karénin and Elisabeth Andréyevna. It is as if not they were being indicted, but they were indicting society! That's what is felt, and on that Petrúshin is working. PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. Well, and Protásov? YOUNG LAWYER. He is terribly excited. He trembles all over; but that is natural, considering the life he leads. He is particularly irritable, and interrupted the Public Prosecutor and Counsel several times ... PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. What do you think the result will be? YOUNG LAWYER. It is hard to say. In any case they won't be found guilty of premeditation; but still ... [A gentleman comes out, and Prince Abrézkov moves towards the door] You wish to go in? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I should like to. YOUNG LAWYER. You are Prince Abrézkov? PRINCE ABRÉZKOV. I am. YOUNG LAWYER [to Usher] Let this gentleman pass. There is an empty chair just to the left. Usher lets Prince Abrézkov pass. As the door opens, Counsel is seen speaking. IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Aristocrats! I am an aristocrat of the soul, and that is higher! YOUNG LAWYER. Well, excuse me ... [Exit]. Petushkóv enters hurriedly, and approaches Iván Petróvich. PETUSHKÓV. Ah, how are you, Iván Petróvich? How are things going? IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Counsel are still speaking, but this fellow won't let me in. USHER. Don't make a noise here! This is not a public-house! Applause. The doors open. Lawyers, and the public--men and women--come out. A LADY. Splendid! He really moved me to tears. OFFICER. It's better than any novel. Only I don't understand how she could love him so. Dreadful object! The other door opens. The accused come out: first Lisa, then Karénin. They pass along the corridor. Fédya follows alone. LADY. Hush--here he is! Look how excited he seems! Lady and Officer pass on. FÉDYA [approaches Iván Petróvich] Have you brought it? IVÁN PETRÓVICH. Here it is. [Hands Fédya something]. FÉDYA [Hides it in his pocket, and wishes to pass out, but sees Petushkóv] Stupid! Vile! Dreary, dreary! Senseless. [Wishes to pass]. Enter Counsel Petrúshin; stout, red, and animated. He approaches Fédya. PETRÚSHIN. Well, friend! Our affairs are going well--only don't you go and spoil things for me in your last speech! FÉDYA. I won't speak. What is the use? I shan't do it. PETRÚSHIN. Yes, you must speak. But don't be excited. The whole matter is now in a nutshell! Only tell them what you told me--that if you are being tried, it is only for _not_ having committed suicide: that is, for not doing what is considered a crime both by civil and ecclesiastical law. FÉDYA. I shan't say anything! PETRÚSHIN. Why not? FÉDYA. I don't want to, and shan't. Tell me only, at the worst, what will it be? PETRÚSHIN. I have already told you--at worst, exile to Siberia. FÉDYA. Who will be exiled? PETRÚSHIN. You and your wife. FÉDYA. And at best? PETRÚSHIN. Church penance, and of course annulment of the second marriage. FÉDYA. Then they will again tie me to her--or rather, her to me? PETRÚSHIN. Yes, that must be so. But don't excite yourself, and please say what I told you, and above all, don't say anything superfluous. However [noticing that a circle of listeners has formed round them] I am tired, and will go and sit down; and you'd better take a rest. The chief thing is, not to lose courage! FÉDYA. No other sentence is possible? PETRÚSHIN [going] No other. Enter Attendant. ATTENDANT. Pass on! Pass on! No loitering in the corridor! FÉDYA. Directly! [Takes out revolver and shoots himself in the heart. Falls. All rush on him] All right, I think it is done.... Lisa!... The audience, judges, accused, and witnesses rush out from all the doors. In front of all is Lisa. Behind her Másha, Karénin, Iván Petróvich and Prince Abrézkov. LISA. Fédya, what have you done! Why? FÉDYA. Forgive me that I could not ... free you any other way.... It's not for you ... it's best for me. I have long ... been ready ... LISA. You will live! A Doctor bends over Fédya and listens. FÉDYA. I need no doctor to tell me ... Good-bye, Victor ... Ah, Másha!... it's too late this time ... [Weeps] How good ... how good! [Dies]. Curtain. END OF "THE LIVE CORPSE." [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. ELISABETH ANDRÉYEVNA PROTÁSOVA (LISA). His wife ELISABETH ANDRÉYEVNA PROTÁSOVA (LISA). His wife. PROTÁSOVS' NURSE. THE PROTÁSOVS' NURSE. PROTÁSOVS' MAID. THE PROTÁSOVS' MAID. LISA. I can't, I can't! Anything rather than . . I can't! LISA. I can't, I can't! Anything rather than ... I can't! ANNA PÁVLOVNA [passing through] Dunyásha! My trunk! ANNA PÁVLOVNA [passing through] Dounyásha! My trunk! Two weeks have passed since Act 1. Anna Pávlovna and Karénin are Two weeks have passed since Act I. Anna Pávlovna and Karénin are Fédya Stákhov (shaggy), Butkévich (close-shaven), and Korotkóv (a Fédya, Stákhov (shaggy), Butkévich (close-shaven), and Korotkóv (a plus._[12] It can't be helped!.. What can one do with him? plus._[12] It can't be helped!... What can one do with him? nice. But whatever he may be, _quels-que soient les torts qu'il a eu nice. But whatever he may be, _quels que soient les torts qu'il a eus that trespass against us." _Mais, c'est plus fort qui moi! that trespass against us." _Mais, c'est plus fort que moi!_[17] VICTOR. I am going. _Please_, Mother! [Exit. VICTOR. I am going. _Please_, Mother! [Exit.] [Awkward silence. Awkward silence. The Protasovs' drawing-room. The Protásovs' drawing-room. am more than cold towards you. I know I am wrong, but cannot change. am more than cold towards you. I know I am wrong, but cannot change." without their noticing it. without their noticing it.] ] 
52468	----	Archive and the University of Connecticut. THE LOWER DEPTHS BY MAXIM GORKY [Frontispiece: A SCENE IN ACT I OF MAXIM GORKY'S MASTERPIECE, "THE LOWER DEPTHS," AT THE MOSCOW ART THEATRE. STANISLAVSKY IN THE RÔLE OF SATINE SITS ON THE TABLE] THE MOSCOW ART THEATRE SERIES OF RUSSIAN PLAYS ----------------------- _Edited by_ OLIVER M. SAYLER THE LOWER DEPTHS _A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS_ BY MAXIM GORKY _English translation by_ JENNY COVAN NEW YORK BRENTANOS PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY MORRIS GEST All rights reserved INTRODUCTION _De profundis ad te clamavi._ In this phrase, with his penchant for epitome, the late James Huneker summarized the masterpiece of Russia's single living master of the drama, Maxim Gorky, as he saw it in Berlin under the German title of "Nachtasyl" or "Night Lodging." "Na Dnye" is the Russian--literally "On the Bottom." Partly because "The Lower Depths" is a more faithful rendering of the original than "Night Lodging" and partly because it implies so vividly the play's keynote as the shrewd Huneker detected it beneath a guise alien to both Russian and English, the title adopted by Laurence Irving for the British version has been preferred for its introduction to American audiences by the company which discovered it and first set it on its stage in Moscow, December 31 (our calendar), 1902. In "The Lower Depths" more than in any other single play throughout its history, the Moscow Art Theatre concentrates its dramatic ideals and methods, its esthetic theory and practice, and through the production of this play it most emphatically justifies its artistic faith in spiritual or psychological realism as a dramatic medium of expression. The plays of Tchekhoff, of course, serve the same ends, but no single one of them does so quite as richly as does Gorky's masterpiece. At the hands of Stanislavsky and his associates, "The Lower Depths" draws much of its convincing power from its unusual use of and dependence on the channels of expression which are peculiar to the art of the theatre. It is almost wholly independent of drama as literature. Less than any play I know, is it possible to imagine its potential effect in the theatre from a reading of its printed lines. In my book, "The Russian Theatre," I have thus analyzed this factor: "'The Lower Depths' is not so much a matter of utterable line and recountable gesture as it is of the intangible flow of human souls in endlessly shifting contact with one another. Awkward but eloquent pauses and emphases, the scarcely perceptible stress or dulling of word or gesture, the nuances and the shadings of which life is mostly made and by which it reveals its meaning--these, and the instinctive understanding of the vision of the playwright by those who seek to interpret him, are the incalculable and unrecordable channels through which 'The Lower Depths' becomes articulate at the Moscow Art Theatre." Just as this theatre discovered or, rather, rescued Tchekhoff as a dramatist, so it first stood sponsor for the author of "Foma Gordeyeff" as a playwright. During the first half of the season of 1902-1903, two of his plays were produced--"Smug Citizens" and "The Lower Depths." The latter was recognized at once as a work of supreme merit and moment. Tchekhoff himself had written to its youthful author five months before its première: "I have read your play. It is new and unmistakably fine. The second act is very good, it is the best, the strongest, and when I was reading it, especially the end, I almost danced with joy." At the première, the rival dramatist's verdict was publicly ratified, for Gorky was called before the curtain twenty times, and the press was unanimously enthusiastic. The play has held its place in the repertory of the Moscow Art Theatre ever since, and eight of its most important rôles are still played by those who created them, just two decades ago. Miss Covan's translation of this play, I believe, deserves particular attention. There have been numerous translations, differing only in the nature of their ineptitude. Here for the first time, the vigor, the virility, the humanity and the humor of the original survive the transfer from the Russian tongue to our own, without mysterious and vaguely symbolic "meanings" gratuitously appended. As nearly as it is possible with printed words to convey the impression which Gorky desires and obtains through the intangible media of the living stage, the following version succeeds. I realized for the first time, as I read it, that the overwhelming impression of the play at the hands of the Moscow Art Theatre is due as much to the genius of the playwright as to that of his interpreters. THE EDITOR. CAST OF CHARACTERS. MIKHAIL IVANOFF KOSTILYOFF--_Keeper of a night lodging._ VASSILISA KARPOVNA--_His wife._ NATASHA--_Her sister._ MIEDVIEDIEFF--_Her uncle, a policeman._ VASKA PEPEL--_A young thief._ ANDREI MITRITCH KLESHTCH--_A locksmith._ ANNA--_His wife._ NASTYA--_A street-walker._ KVASHNYA--_A vendor of meat-pies._ BUBNOFF--_A cap-maker._ THE BARON. SATINE. THE ACTOR. LUKA--_A pilgrim._ ALYOSHKA--_A shoemaker._ KRIVOY ZOB } } _Porters._ THE TARTAR } NIGHT LODGERS, TRAMPS AND OTHERS. The action takes place in a Night Lodging and in "The Waste," an area in its rear. ACT ONE. _A cellar resembling a cave. The ceiling, which merges into stone walls, is low and grimy, and the plaster and paint are peeling off. There is a window, high up on the right wall, from which comes the light. The right corner, which constitutes Pepel's room, is partitioned off by thin boards. Close to the corner of this room is Bubnoff's wooden bunk. In the left corner stands a large Russian stove. In the stone wall, left, is a door leading to the kitchen where live Kvashnya, the Baron, and Nastya. Against the wall, between the stove and the door, is a large bed covered with dirty chintz. Bunks line the walls. In the foreground, by the left wall, is a block of wood with a vise and a small anvil fastened to it, and another smaller block of wood somewhat further towards the back. Kleshtch is seated on the smaller block, trying keys into old locks. At his feet are two large bundles of various keys, wired together, also a battered tin samovar, a hammer, and pincers. In the centre are a large table, two benches, and a stool, all of which are of dirty, unpainted wood. Behind the table Kvashnya is busying herself with the samovar. The Baron sits chewing a piece of black bread, and Nastya occupies the stool, leans her elbows on the table, and reads a tattered book. In the bed, behind curtains, Anna lies coughing. Bubnoff is seated on his bunk, attempting to shape a pair of old trousers with the help of an ancient hat shape which he holds between his knees. Scattered about him are pieces of buckram, oilcloth, and rags. Satine, just awakened, lies in his bunk, grunting. On top of the stove, the Actor, invisible to the audience, tosses about and coughs._ _It is an early spring morning._ THE BARON. And then? KVASHNYA. No, my dear, said I, keep away from me with such proposals. I've been through it all, you see--and not for a hundred baked lobsters would I marry again! BUBNOFF [_to Satine_] What are you grunting about? [_Satine keeps on grunting_] KVASHNYA. Why should I, said I, a free woman, my own mistress, enter my name into somebody else's passport and sell myself into slavery--no! Why--I wouldn't marry a man even if he were an American prince! KLESHTCH. You lie! KVASHNYA. Wha-at? KLESHTCH. You lie! You're going to marry Abramka. . . . THE BARON [_snatching the book out of Nastya's hand and reading the title_] "Fatal Love" . . . [_Laughs_] NASTYA [_stretching out her hand_] Give it back--give it back! Stop fooling! [_The Baron looks at her and waves the book in the air_] KVASHNYA [_to Kleshtch_] You crimson goat, you--calling me a liar! How dare you be so rude to me? THE BARON [_hitting Nastya on the head with the book_] Nastya, you little fool! NASTYA [_reaching for the book_] Give it back! KLESHTCH. Oh--what a great lady . . . but you'll marry Abramka just the same--that's all you're waiting for . . . KVASHNYA. Sure! Anything else? You nearly beat your wife to death! KLESHTCH. Shut up, you old bitch! It's none of your business! KVASHNYA. Ho-ho! can't stand the truth, can you? THE BARON. They're off again! Nastya, where are you? NASTYA [_without lifting her head_] Hey--go away! ANNA [_putting her head through the curtains_] The day has started. For God's sake, don't row! KLESHTCH. Whining again! ANNA. Every blessed day . . . let me die in peace, can't you? BUBNOFF. Noise won't keep you from dying. KVASHNYA [_walking up to Anna_] Little mother, how did you ever manage to live with this wretch? ANNA. Leave me alone--get away from me. . . . KVASHNYA. Well, well! You poor soul . . . how's the pain in the chest--any better? THE BARON. Kvashnya! Time to go to market. . . . KVASHNYA. We'll go presently. [_To Anna_] Like some hot dumplings? ANNA. No, thanks. Why should I eat? KVASHNYA. You must eat. Hot food--good for you! I'll leave you some in a cup. Eat them when you feel like it. Come on, sir! [_To Kleshtch_] You evil spirit! [_Goes into kitchen_] ANNA [_coughing_] Lord, Lord . . . THE BARON [_painfully pushing forward Nastya's head_] Throw it away--little fool! NASTYA [_muttering_] Leave me alone--I don't bother you . . . [_The Baron follows Kvashnya, whistling._] SATINE [_sitting up in his bunk_] Who beat me up yesterday? BUBNOFF. Does it make any difference who? SATINE. Suppose they did--but why did they? BUBNOFF. Were you playing cards? SATINE. Yes! BUBNOFF. That's why they beat you. SATINE. Scoundrels! THE ACTOR [_raising his head from the top of the stove_] One of these days they'll beat you to death! SATINE. You're a jackass! THE ACTOR. Why? SATINE. Because a man can die only once! THE ACTOR [_after a silence_] I don't understand-- KLESHTCH. Say! You crawl from that stove--and start cleaning house! Don't play the delicate primrose! THE ACTOR. None of your business! KLESHTCH. Wait till Vassilisa comes--she'll show you whose business it is! THE ACTOR. To hell with Vassilisa! To-day is the Baron's turn to clean. . . . Baron! [_The Baron comes from the kitchen._] THE BARON. I've no time to clean . . . I'm going to market with Kvashnya. THE ACTOR. That doesn't concern me. Go to the gallows if you like. It's your turn to sweep the floor just the same--I'm not going to do other people's work . . . THE BARON. Go to blazes! Nastya will do it. Hey there--fatal love! Wake up! [_Takes the book away from Nastya_] NASTYA [_getting up_] What do you want? Give it back to me! You scoundrel! And that's a nobleman for you! THE BARON [_returning the book to her_] Nastya! Sweep the floor for me--will you? NASTYA [_goes to kitchen_] Not so's you'll notice it! KVASHNYA [_to the Baron through kitchen door_] Come on--you! They don't need you! Actor! You were asked to do it, and now you go ahead and attend to it--it won't kill you . . . THE ACTOR. It's always I . . . I don't understand why. . . . [_The Baron comes from the kitchen, across his shoulders a wooden beam from which hang earthen pots covered with rags._] THE BARON. Heavier than ever! SATINE. It paid you to be born a Baron, eh? KVASHNYA [_to Actor_] See to it that you sweep up! [_Crosses to outer door, letting the Baron pass ahead_] THE ACTOR [_climbing down from the stove_] It's bad for me to inhale dust. [_With pride_] My organism is poisoned with alcohol. [_Sits down on a bunk, meditating_] SATINE. Organism--organon. . . . ANNA. Andrei Mitritch. . . . KLESHTCH. What now? ANNA. Kvashnya left me some dumplings over there--you eat them! KLESHTCH [_coming over to her_] And you--don't you want any? ANNA. No. Why should I eat? You're a workman--you need it. KLESHTCH. Frightened, are you? Don't be! You'll get all right! ANNA. Go and eat! It's hard on me. . . . I suppose very soon . . . KLESHTCH [_walking away_] Never mind--maybe you'll get well--you can never tell! [_Goes into kitchen_] THE ACTOR [_loud, as if he had suddenly awakened_] Yesterday the doctor in the hospital said to me: "Your organism," he said, "is entirely poisoned with alcohol . . ." SATINE [_smiling_] Organon . . . THE ACTOR [_stubbornly_] Not organon--organism! SATINE. Sibylline. . . . THE ACTOR [_shaking his fist at him_] Nonsense! I'm telling you seriously . . . if the organism is poisoned . . . that means it's bad for me to sweep the floor--to inhale the dust . . . SATINE. Macrobistic . . . hah! BUBNOFF. What are you muttering? SATINE. Words--and here's another one for you--transcendentalistic . . . BUBNOFF. What does it mean? SATINE. Don't know--I forgot . . . BUBNOFF. Then why did you say it? SATINE. Just so! I'm bored, brother, with human words--all our words. Bored! I've heard each one of them a thousand times surely. THE ACTOR. In Hamlet they say: "Words, words, words!" It's a good play. I played the grave-digger in it once. . . . [_Kleshtch comes from the kitchen._] KLESHTCH. Will you start playing with the broom? THE ACTOR. None of your business. [_Striking his chest_] Ophelia! O--remember me in thy prayers! [_Back stage is heard a dull murmur, cries, and a police whistle. Kleshtch sits down to work, filing screechily._] SATINE. I love unintelligible, obsolete words. When I was a youngster--and worked as a telegraph operator--I read heaps of books. . . . BUBNOFF. Were you really a telegrapher? SATINE. I was. There are some excellent books--and lots of curious words . . . Once I was an educated man, do you know? BUBNOFF. I've heard it a hundred times. Well, so you were! That isn't very important! Me--well--once I was a furrier. I had my own shop--what with dyeing the fur all day long, my arms were yellow up to the elbows, brother. I thought I'd never be able ever to get clean again--that I'd go to my grave, all yellow! But look at my hands now--they're plain dirty--that's what! SATINE. Well, and what then? BUBNOFF. That's all! SATINE. What are you trying to prove? BUBNOFF. Oh, well--just matching thoughts--no matter how much dye you get on yourself, it all comes off in the end--yes, yes-- SATINE. Oh--my bones ache! THE ACTOR [_sits, nursing his knees_] Education is all rot. Talent is the thing. I knew an actor--who read his parts by heart, syllable by syllable--but he played heroes in a way that . . . why--the whole theatre would rock with ecstasy! SATINE. Bubnoff, give me five kopecks. BUBNOFF. I only have two-- THE ACTOR. I say--talent, that's what you need to play heroes. And talent is nothing but faith in yourself, in your own powers-- SATINE. Give me five kopecks and I'll have faith that you're a hero, a crocodile, or a police inspector--Kleshtch, give me five kopecks. KLESHTCH. Go to hell! All of you! SATINE. What are you cursing for? I know you haven't a kopeck in the world! ANNA. Andrei Mitritch--I'm suffocating--I can't breathe-- KLESHTCH. What shall I do? BUBNOFF. Open the door into the hall. KLESHTCH. All right. You're sitting on the bunk, I on the floor. You change places with me, and I'll let you open the door. I have a cold as it is. BUBNOFF [_unconcernedly_] I don't care if you open the door--it's your wife who's asking-- KLESHTCH [_morosely_] I don't care who's asking-- SATINE. My head buzzes--ah--why do people have to hit each other over the heads? BUBNOFF. They don't only hit you over the head, but over the rest of the body as well. [_Rises_] I must go and buy some thread--our bosses are late to-day--seems as if they've croaked. [_Exit_] [_Anna coughs; Satine is lying down motionless, his hands folded behind his head._] THE ACTOR [_looks about him morosely, then goes to Anna_] Feeling bad, eh? ANNA. I'm choking-- THE ACTOR. If you wish, I'll take you into the hallway. Get up, then, come! [_He helps her to rise, wraps some sort of a rag about her shoulders, and supports her toward the hall_] It isn't easy. I'm sick myself--poisoned with alcohol . . . [_Kostilyoff appears in the doorway._] KOSTILYOFF. Going for a stroll? What a nice couple--the gallant cavalier and the lady fair! THE ACTOR. Step aside, you--don't you see that we're invalids? KOSTILYOFF. Pass on, please! [_Hums a religious tune, glances about him suspiciously, and bends his head to the left as if listening to what is happening in Pepel's room. Kleshtch is jangling his keys and scraping away with his file, and looks askance at the other_] Filing? KLESHTCH. What? KOSTILYOFF. I say, are you filing? [_Pause_] What did I want to ask? [_Quick and low_] Hasn't my wife been here? KLESHTCH. I didn't see her. KOSTILYOFF [_carefully moving toward Pepel's room_] You take up a whole lot of room for your two rubles a month. The bed--and your bench--yes--you take up five rubles' worth of space, so help me God! I'll have to put another half ruble to your rent-- KLESHTCH. You'll put a noose around my neck and choke me . . . you'll croak soon enough, and still all you think of is half rubles-- KOSTILYOFF. Why should I choke you? What would be the use? God be with you--live and prosper! But I'll have to raise you half a ruble--I'll buy oil for the ikon lamp, and my offering will atone for my sins, and for yours as well. You don't think much of your sins--not much! Oh, Andrushka, you're a wicked man! Your wife is dying because of your wickedness--no one loves you, no one respects you--your work is squeaky, jarring on every one. KLESHTCH [_shouts_] What do you come here for--just to annoy me? [_Satine grunts loudly._] KOSTILYOFF [_with a start_] God, what a noise! [_The Actor enters._] THE ACTOR. I've put her down in the hall and wrapped her up. KOSTILYOFF. You're a kindly fellow. That's good. Some day you'll be rewarded for it. THE ACTOR. When? KOSTILYOFF. In the Beyond, little brother--there all our deeds will be reckoned up. THE ACTOR. Suppose you reward me right now? KOSTILYOFF. How can I do that? THE ACTOR. Wipe out half my debt. KOSTILYOFF. He-ho! You're always jesting, darling--always poking fun . . . can kindliness of heart be repaid with gold? Kindliness--it's above all other qualities. But your debt to me--remains a debt. And so you'll have to pay me back. You ought to be kind to me, an old man, without seeking for reward! THE ACTOR. You're a swindler, old man! [_Goes into kitchen_] [_Kleshtch rises and goes into the hall._] KOSTILYOFF [_to Satine_] See that squeaker--? He ran away--he doesn't like me! SATINE. Does anybody like you besides the Devil? KOSTILYOFF [_laughing_] Oh--you're so quarrelsome! But I like you all--I understand you all, my unfortunate down-trodden, useless brethren . . . [_Suddenly, rapidly_] Is Vaska home? SATINE. See for yourself-- KOSTILYOFF [_goes to the door and knocks_] Vaska! [_The Actor appears at the kitchen door, chewing something._] PEPEL. Who is it? KOSTILYOFF. It's I--I, Vaska! PEPEL. What do you want? KOSTILYOFF [_stepping aside_] Open! SATINE [_without looking at Kostilyoff_] He'll open--and she's there-- [_The Actor makes a grimace._] KOSTILYOFF [_in a low, anxious tone_] Eh? Who's there? What? SATINE. Speaking to me? KOSTILYOFF. What did you say? SATINE. Oh--nothing--I was just talking to myself-- KOSTILYOFF. Take care, brother. Don't carry your joking too far! [_Knocks loudly at door_] Vassily! PEPEL [_opening door_] Well? What are you disturbing me for? KOSTILYOFF [_peering into room_] I--you see-- PEPEL. Did you bring the money? KOSTILYOFF. I've something to tell you-- PEPEL. Did you bring the money? KOSTILYOFF. What money? Wait-- PEPEL. Why--the seven rubles for the watch--well? KOSTILYOFF. What watch, Vaska? Oh, you-- PEPEL. Look here. Yesterday, before witnesses, I sold you a watch for ten rubles, you gave me three--now let me have the other seven. What are you blinking for? You hang around here--you disturb people--and don't seem to know yourself what you're after. KOSTILYOFF. Sh-sh! Don't be angry, Vaska. The watch--it is-- SATINE. Stolen! KOSTILYOFF [_sternly_] I do not accept stolen goods--how can you imagine-- PEPEL [_taking him by the shoulder_] What did you disturb me for? What do you want? KOSTILYOFF. I don't want--anything. I'll go--if you're in such a state-- PEPEL. Be off, and bring the money! KOSTILYOFF. What ruffians! I--I--[_Exit_] THE ACTOR. What a farce! SATINE. That's fine--I like it. PEPEL. What did he come here for? SATINE [_laughing_] Don't you understand? He's looking for his wife. Why don't you beat him up once and for all, Vaska? PEPEL. Why should I let such trash interfere with my life? SATINE. Show some brains! And then you can marry Vassilisa--and become our boss-- PEPEL. Heavenly bliss! And you'd smash up my household and, because I'm a soft-hearted fool, you'll drink up everything I possess. [_Sits on a bunk_] Old devil--woke me up--I was having such a pleasant dream. I dreamed I was fishing--and I caught an enormous trout--such a trout as you only see in dreams! I was playing him--and I was so afraid the line would snap. I had just got out the gaff--and I thought to myself--in a moment-- SATINE. It wasn't a trout, it was Vassilisa-- THE ACTOR. He caught Vassilisa a long time ago. PEPEL [_angrily_] You can all go to the devil--and Vassilisa with you-- [_Kleshtch comes from the hall._] KLESHTCH. Devilishly cold! THE ACTOR. Why didn't you bring Anna back? She'll freeze, out there-- KLESHTCH. Natasha took her into the kitchen-- THE ACTOR. The old man will kick her out-- KLESHTCH [_sitting down to his work_] Well--Natasha will bring her in here-- SATINE. Vassily--give me five kopecks! THE ACTOR [_to Satine_] Oh, you--always five kopecks--Vassya--give us twenty kopecks-- PEPEL. I'd better give it to them now before they ask for a ruble. Here you are! SATINE. Gibraltar! There are no kindlier people in the world than thieves! KLESHTCH [_morosely_] They earn their money easily--they don't work-- SATINE. Many earn it easily, but not many part with it so easily. Work? Make work pleasant--and maybe I'll work too. Yes--maybe. When work's a pleasure, life's, too. When it's toil, then life is a drudge. [_To the Actor_] You, Sardanapalus! Come on! THE ACTOR. Let's go, Nebuchadnezzar! I'll get as drunk as forty thousand topers! [_They leave._] PEPEL [_yawning_] Well, how's your wife? KLESHTCH. It seems as if soon--[_Pause._] PEPEL. Now I look at you--seems to me all that filing and scraping of yours is useless. KLESHTCH. Well--what else can I do? PEPEL. Nothing. KLESHTCH. How can I live? PEPEL. People manage, somehow. KLESHTCH. Them? Call them people? Muck and dregs--that's what they are! I'm a workman--I'm ashamed even to look at them. I've slaved since I was a child. . . . D'you think I shan't be able to tear myself away from here? I'll crawl out of here, even if I have to leave my skin behind--but crawl out I will! Just wait . . . my wife'll die . . . I've lived here six months, and it seems like six years. PEPEL. Nobody here's any worse off than you . . . say what you like . . . KLESHTCH. No worse is right. They've neither honor nor conscience. PEPEL [_indifferently_] What good does it do--honor or conscience? Can you get them on their feet instead of on their uppers--through honor and conscience? Honor and conscience are needed only by those who have power and energy . . . BUBNOFF [_coming back_] Oh--I'm frozen . . . PEPEL. Bubnoff! Got a conscience? BUBNOFF. What? A conscience? PEPEL. Exactly! BUBNOFF. What do I need a conscience for? I'm not rich. PEPEL. Just what I said: honor and conscience are for the rich--right! And Kleshtch is upbraiding us because we haven't any! BUBNOFF. Why--did he want to borrow some of it? PEPEL. No--he has plenty of his own . . . BUBNOFF. Oh--are you selling it? You won't sell much around here. But if you had some old boxes, I'd buy them--on credit . . . PEPEL [_didactically_] You're a jackass, Andrushka! On the subject of conscience you ought to hear Satine--or the Baron . . . KLESHTCH. I've nothing to talk to them about! PEPEL. They have more brains than you--even if they're drunkards . . . BUBNOFF. He who can be drunk and wise at the same time is doubly blessed . . . PEPEL. Satine says every man expects his neighbor to have a conscience, but--you see--it isn't to any one's advantage to have one--that's a fact. [_Natasha enters, followed by Luka who carries a stick in his hand, a bundle on his back, a kettle and a teapot slung from his belt._] LUKA. How are you, honest folks? PEPEL [_twisting his mustache_] Aha--Natasha! BUBNOFF [_to Luka_] I was honest--up to spring before last. NATASHA. Here's a new lodger . . . LUKA. Oh, it's all the same to me. Crooks--I don't mind them, either. For my part there's no bad flea--they're all black--and they all jump-- . . . Well, dearie, show me where I can stow myself. NATASHA [_pointing to kitchen door_] Go in there, grand-dad. LUKA. Thanks, girlie! One place is like another--as long as an old fellow keeps warm, he keeps happy . . . PEPEL. What an amusing old codger you brought in, Natasha! NATASHA. A hanged sight more interesting than you! . . . Andrei, your wife's in the kitchen with us--come and fetch her after a while . . . KLESHTCH. All right--I will . . . NATASHA. And be a little more kind to her--you know she won't last much longer. KLESHTCH. I know . . . NATASHA. Knowing won't do any good--it's terrible--dying--don't you understand? PEPEL. Well--look at me--I'm not afraid . . . NATASHA. Oh--you're a wonder, aren't you? BUBNOFF [_whistling_] Oh--this thread's rotten . . . PEPEL. Honestly, I'm not afraid! I'm ready to die right now. Knife me to the heart--and I'll die without making a sound . . . even gladly--from such a pure hand . . . NATASHA [_going out_] Spin that yarn for some one else! BUBNOFF. Oh--that thread is rotten--rotten-- NATASHA [_at hallway door_] Don't forget your wife, Andrei! KLESHTCH. All right. PEPEL. She's a wonderful girl! BUBNOFF. She's all right. PEPEL. What makes her so curt with me? Anyway--she'll come to no good here . . . BUBNOFF. Through you--sure! PEPEL. Why through me? I feel sorry for her . . . BUBNOFF. As the wolf for the lamb! PEPEL. You lie! I feel very sorry for her . . . very . . . very sorry! She has a tough life here--I can see that . . . KLESHTCH. Just wait till Vassilisa catches you talking to her! BUBNOFF. Vassilisa? She won't give up so easily what belongs to her--she's a cruel woman! PEPEL [_stretching himself on the bunk_] You two prophets can go to hell! KLESHTCH. Just wait--you'll see! LUKA [_singing in the kitchen_] "In the dark of the night the way is black . . ." KLESHTCH. Another one who yelps! PEPEL. It's dreary! Why do I feel so dreary? You live--and everything seems all right. But suddenly a cold chill goes through you--and then everything gets dreary . . . BUBNOFF. Dreary? Hm-hm-- PEPEL. Yes--yes-- LUKA [_sings_] "The way is black . . ." PEPEL. Old fellow! Hey there! LUKA [_looking from kitchen door_] You call me? PEPEL. Yes. Don't sing! LUKA [_coming in_] You don't like it? PEPEL. When people sing well I like it-- LUKA. In other words--I don't sing well? PEPEL. Evidently! LUKA. Well, well--and I thought I sang well. That's always the way: a man imagines there's one thing he can do well, and suddenly he finds out that other people don't think so . . . PEPEL [_laughs_] That's right . . . BUBNOFF. First you say you feel dreary--and then you laugh! PEPEL. None of your business, raven! LUKA. Who do they say feels dreary? PEPEL. I do. [_The Baron enters._] LUKA. Well, well--out there in the kitchen there's a girl reading and crying! That's so! Her eyes are wet with tears . . . I say to her: "What's the matter, darling?" And she says: "It's so sad!" "What's so sad?" say I. "The book!" says she.--And that's how people spend their time. Just because they're bored . . . THE BARON. She's a fool! PEPEL. Have you had tea, Baron? THE BARON. Yes. Go on! PEPEL. Well--want me to open a bottle? THE BARON. Of course. Go on! PEPEL. Drop on all fours, and bark like a dog! THE BARON. Fool! What's the matter with you? Are you drunk? PEPEL. Go on--bark a little! It'll amuse me. You're an aristocrat. You didn't even consider us human formerly, did you? THE BARON. Go on! PEPEL. Well--and now I am making you bark like a dog--and you will bark, won't you? THE BARON. All right. I will. You jackass! What pleasure can you derive from it since I myself know that I have sunk almost lower than you. You should have made me drop on all fours in the days when I was still above you. BUBNOFF. That's right . . . LUKA. I say so, too! BUBNOFF. What's over, is over. Remain only trivialities. We know no class distinctions here. We've shed all pride and self-respect. Blood and bone--man--just plain man--that's what we are! LUKA. In other words, we're all equal . . . and you, friend, were you really a Baron? THE BARON. Who are you? A ghost? LUKA [_laughing_] I've seen counts and princes in my day--this is the first time I meet a baron--and one who's decaying--at that! PEPEL [_laughing_] Baron, I blush for you! THE BARON. It's time you knew better, Vassily . . . LUKA. Hey-hey--I look at you, brothers--the life you're leading . . . BUBNOFF. Such a life! As soon as the sun rises, our voices rise, too--in quarrels! THE BARON. We've all seen better days--yes! I used to wake up in the morning and drink my coffee in bed--coffee--with cream! Yes-- LUKA. And yet we're all human beings. Pretend all you want to, put on all the airs you wish, but man you were born, and man you must die. And as I watch I see that the wiser people get, the busier they get--and though from bad to worse, they still strive to improve--stubbornly-- THE BARON. Who are you, old fellow? Where do you come from? LUKA. I? THE BARON. Are you a tramp? LUKA. We're all of us tramps--why--I've heard said that the very earth we walk on is nothing but a tramp in the universe. THE BARON [_severely_] Perhaps. But have you a passport? LUKA [_after a short pause_] And what are you--a police inspector? PEPEL [_delighted_] You scored, old fellow! Well, Barosha, you got it this time! BUBNOFF. Yes--our little aristocrat got his! THE BARON [_embarrassed_] What's the matter? I was only joking, old man. Why, brother, I haven't a passport, either. BUBNOFF. You lie! THE BARON. Oh--well--I have some sort of papers--but they have no value-- LUKA. They're papers just the same--and no papers are any good-- PEPEL. Baron--come on to the saloon with me-- THE BARON. I'm ready. Good-bye, old man--you old scamp-- LUKA. Maybe I am one, brother-- PEPEL [_near doorway_] Come on--come on! [_Leaves, Baron following him quickly._] LUKA. Was he really once a Baron? BUBNOFF. Who knows? A gentleman--? Yes. That much he's even now. Occasionally it sticks out. He never got rid of the habit. LUKA. Nobility is like small-pox. A man may get over it--but it leaves marks . . . BUBNOFF. He's all right all the same--occasionally he kicks--as he did about your passport . . . [_Alyoshka comes in, slightly drunk, with a concertina in his hand, whistling._] ALYOSHKA. Hey there, lodgers! BUBNOFF. What are you yelling for? ALYOSHKA. Excuse me--I beg your pardon! I'm a well-bred man-- BUBNOFF. On a spree again? ALYOSHKA. Right you are! A moment ago Medyakin, the precinct captain, threw me out of the police station and said: "Look here--I don't want as much as a smell of you to stay in the streets--d'you hear?" I'm a man of principles, and the boss croaks at me--and what's a boss anyway--pah!--it's all bosh--the boss is a drunkard. I don't make any demands on life. I want nothing--that's all. Offer me one ruble, offer me twenty--it doesn't affect me. [_Nastya comes from the kitchen_] Offer me a million--I won't take it! And to think that I, a respectable man, should be ordered about by a pal of mine--and he a drunkard! I won't have it--I won't! [_Nastya stands in the doorway, shaking her head at Alyoshka._] LUKA [_good-naturedly_] Well, boy, you're a bit confused-- BUBNOFF. Aren't men fools! ALYOSHKA [_stretches out on the floor_] Here, eat me up alive--and I don't want anything. I'm a desperate man. Show me one better! Why am I worse than others? There! Medyakin said: "If you show yourself on the streets I smash your face!" And yet I shall go out--I'll go--and stretch out in the middle of the street--let them choke me--I don't want a thing! NASTYA. Poor fellow--only a boy--and he's already putting on such airs-- ALYOSHKA [_kneeling before her_] Lady! Mademoiselle! _Parlez français--? Prix courrant?_ I'm on a spree-- NASTYA [_in a loud whisper_] Vassilisa! VASSILISA [_opens door quickly; to Alyoshka_] You here again? ALYOSHKA. How do you do--? Come in--you're welcome-- VASSILISA. I told you, young puppy, that not a shadow of you should stick around here--and you're back--eh? ALYOSHKA. Vassilisa Karpovna . . . shall I tune up a funeral march for you? VASSILISA [_seizing him by the shoulders_] Get out! ALYOSHKA [_moving towards the door_] Wait--you can't put me out this way! I learned this funeral march a little while ago! It's refreshing music . . . wait--you can't put me out like that! VASSILISA. I'll show whether I can or not. I'll rouse the whole street against you--you foul-mouthed creature--you're too young to bark about me-- ALYOSHKA [_running out_] All right--I'll go-- VASSILISA. Look out--I'll get you yet! ALYOSHKA [_opens the door and shouts_] Vassilisa Karpovna--I'm not afraid of you--[_Hides_] [_Luka laughs._] VASSILISA. Who are you? LUKA. A passer-by--a traveler . . . VASSILISA. Stopping for the night or going to stay here? LUKA. I'll see. VASSILISA. Have you a passport? LUKA. Yes. VASSILISA. Give it to me. LUKA. I'll bring it over to your house-- VASSILISA. Call yourself a traveler? If you'd say a tramp--that would be nearer the truth-- LUKA [_sighing_] You're not very kindly, mother! [_Vassilisa goes to door that leads to Pepel's room, Alyoshka pokes his head through the kitchen door._] ALYOSHKA. Has she left? VASSILISA [_turning around_] Are you still here? [_Alyoshka disappears, whistling. Nastya and Luka laugh._] BUBNOFF [_to Vassilisa_] He isn't here-- VASSILISA. Who? BUBNOFF. Vaska. VASSILISA. Did I ask you about him? BUBNOFF. I noticed you were looking around-- VASSILISA. I am looking to see if things are in order, you see? Why aren't the floors swept yet? How often did I give orders to keep the house clean? BUBNOFF. It's the actor's turn to sweep-- VASSILISA. Never mind whose turn it is! If the health inspector comes and fines me, I'll throw out the lot of you-- BUBNOFF [_calmly_] Then how are you going to earn your living? VASSILISA. I don't want a speck of dirt! [_Goes to kitchen; to Nastya_] What are you hanging round here for? Why's your face all swollen up? Why are you standing there like a dummy? Go on--sweep the floor! Did you see Natalia? Was she here? NASTYA. I don't know--I haven't seen her . . . VASSILISA. Bubnoff! Was my sister here? BUBNOFF. She brought him along. VASSILISA. That one--was he home? BUBNOFF. Vassily? Yes--Natalia was here talking to Kleshtch-- VASSILISA. I'm not asking you whom she talked to. Dirt everywhere--filth--oh, you swine! Mop it all up--do you hear? [_Exit rapidly_] BUBNOFF. What a savage beast she is! LUKA. She's a lady that means business! NASTYA. You grow to be an animal, leading such a life--any human being tied to such a husband as hers . . . BUBNOFF. Well--that tie isn't worrying her any-- LUKA. Does she always have these fits? BUBNOFF. Always. You see, she came to find her lover--but he isn't home-- LUKA. I guess she was hurt. Oh-ho! Everybody is trying to be boss--and is threatening everybody else with all kinds of punishment--and still there's no order in life . . . and no cleanliness-- BUBNOFF. All the world likes order--but some people's brains aren't fit for it. All the same--the room should be swept--Nastya--you ought to get busy! NASTYA. Oh, certainly? Anything else? Think I'm your servant? [_Silence_] I'm going to get drunk to-night--dead-drunk! BUBNOFF. Fine business! LUKA. Why do you want to get drunk, girlie? A while ago you were crying--and now you say you'll get drunk-- NASTYA [_defiantly_] I'll drink--then I cry again--that's all there's to it! BUBNOFF. That's nothing! LUKA. But for what reason--tell me! Every pimple has a cause! [_Nastya remains silent, shaking her head_] Oh--you men--what's to become of you? All right--I'll sweep the place. Where's your broom? BUBNOFF. Behind the door--in the hall-- [_Luka goes into the hall._] Nastinka! NASTYA. Yes? BUBNOFF. Why did Vassilisa jump on Alyoshka? NASTYA. He told her that Vaska was tired of her and was going to get rid of her--and that he's going to make up to Natasha--I'll go away from here--I'll find another lodging-house-- BUBNOFF. Why? Where? NASTYA. I'm sick of this--I'm not wanted here! BUBNOFF [_calmly_] You're not wanted anywhere--and, anyway, all people on earth are superfluous-- [_Nastya shakes her head. Rises and slowly, quietly, leaves the cellar. Miedviedieff comes in. Luka, with the broom, follows him._] MIEDVIEDIEFF. I don't think I know you-- LUKA. How about the others--d'you know them all? MIEDVIEDIEFF. I must know everybody in my precinct. But I don't know you. LUKA. That's because, uncle, the whole world can't stow itself away in your precinct--some of it was bound to remain outside . . . [_Goes into kitchen_] MIEDVIEDIEFF [_crosses to Bubnoff_] It's true--my precinct is rather small--yet it's worse than any of the very largest. Just now, before getting off duty, I had to bring Alyoshka, the shoemaker, to the station house. Just imagine--there he was, stretched right in the middle of the street, playing his concertina and yelping: "I want nothing, nothing!" Horses going past all the time--and with all the traffic going on, he could easily have been run over--and so on! He's a wild youngster--so I just collared him--he likes to make mischief-- BUBNOFF. Coming to play checkers to-night? MIEDVIEDIEFF. Yes--I'll come--how's Vaska? BUBNOFF. Same as ever-- MIEDVIEDIEFF. Meaning--he's getting along--? BUBNOFF. Why shouldn't he? He's able to get along all right. MIEDVIEDIEFF [_doubtfully_] Why shouldn't he? [_Luka goes into hallway, carrying a pail_] M-yes--there's a lot of talk about Vaska. Haven't you heard? BUBNOFF. I hear all sorts of gossip . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. There seems to have been some sort of talk concerning Vassilisa. Haven't you heard about it? BUBNOFF. What? MIEDVIEDIEFF. Oh--why--generally speaking. Perhaps you know--and lie. Everybody knows--[_Severely_] You mustn't lie, brother! BUBNOFF. Why should I lie? MIEDVIEDIEFF. That's right. Dogs! They say that Vaska and Vassilisa . . . but what's that to me? I'm not her father. I'm her uncle. Why should they ridicule me? [_Kvashnya comes in_] What are people coming to? They laugh at everything. Aha--you here? KVASHNYA. Well--my love-sick garrison--? Bubnoff! He came up to me again on the marketplace and started pestering me about marrying him . . . BUBNOFF. Go to it! Why not? He has money and he's still a husky fellow. MIEDVIEDIEFF. Me--? I should say so! KVASHNYA. You ruffian! Don't you dare touch my sore spot! I've gone through it once already, darling. Marriage to a woman is just like jumping through a hole in the ice in winter. You do it once, and you remember it the rest of your life . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. Wait! There are different breeds of husbands . . . KVASHNYA. But there's only one of me! When my beloved husband kicked the bucket, I spent the whole day all by my lonely--just bursting with joy. I sat and simply couldn't believe it was true. . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. If your husband beat you without cause, you should have complained to the police. KVASHNYA. I complained to God for eight years--and he didn't help. MIEDVIEDIEFF. Nowadays the law forbids to beat your wife . . . all is very strict these days--there's law and order everywhere. You can't beat up people without due cause. If you beat them to maintain discipline--all right . . . LUKA [_comes in with Anna_] Well--we finally managed to get here after all. Oh, you! Why do you, weak as you are, walk about alone? Where's your bunk? ANNA [_pointing_] Thank you, grand-dad. KVASHNYA. There--she's married--look at her! LUKA. The little woman is in very bad shape . . . she was creeping along the hallway, clinging to the wall and moaning--why do you leave her by herself? KVASHNYA. Oh, pure carelessness on our part, little father--forgive us! Her maid, it appears, went out for a walk . . . LUKA. Go on--poke fun at me . . . but, all the same, how can you neglect a human being like that? No matter who or what, every human life has its worth . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. There should be supervision! Suppose she died suddenly--? That would cause a lot of bother . . . we must look after her! LUKA. True, sergeant! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Well--yes--though I'm not a sergeant--ah--yet! LUKA. No! But you carry yourself most martially! [_Noise of shuffling feet is heard in the hallway. Muffled cries._] MIEDVIEDIEFF. What now--a row? BUBNOFF. Sounds like it? KVASHNYA. I'll go and see . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. I'll go, too. It is my duty! Why separate people when they fight? They'll stop sooner or later of their own accord. One gets tired of fighting. Why not let them fight all they want to--freely? They wouldn't fight half as often--if they'd remember former beatings . . . BUBNOFF [_climbing down from his bunk_] Why don't you speak to your superiors about it? KOSTILYOFF [_throws open the door and shouts_] Abram! Come quick--Vassilisa is killing Natasha--come quick! [_Kvashnya, Miedviedieff, and Bubnoff rush into hallway; Luka looks after them, shaking his head._] ANNA. Oh God--poor little Natasha . . . LUKA. Who's fighting out there? ANNA. Our landladies--they're sisters . . . LUKA [_crossing to Anna_] Why? ANNA. Oh--for no reason--except that they're both fat and healthy . . . LUKA. What's your name? ANNA. Anna . . . I look at you . . . you're like my father--my dear father . . . you're as gentle as he was--and as soft. . . . LUKA. Soft! Yes! They pounded me till I got soft! [_Laughs tremulously_] CURTAIN. [Portrait: MAXIM GORKY: RUSSIA'S GREATEST LIVING PLAYWRIGHT] ACT TWO. _Same as Act I--Night._ _On the bunks near the stove Satine, the Baron, Krivoy Zob, and the Tartar play cards. Kleshtch and the Actor watch them. Bubnoff, on his bunk, is playing checkers with Miedviedieff. Luka sits on a stool by Anna's bedside. The place is lit by two lamps, one on the wall near the card players, the other is on Bubnoff's bunk._ THE TARTAR. I'll play one more game--then I'll stop . . . BUBNOFF. Zob! Sing! [_He sings_] "The sun rises and sets . . ." ZOB [_joining in_] "But my prison is dark, dark . . ." THE TARTAR [_to Satine_] Shuffle the cards--and shuffle them well. We know your kind-- ZOB AND BUBNOFF [_together_] "Day and night the wardens Watch beneath my window . . ." ANNA. Blows--insults--I've had nothing but that all my life long . . . LUKA. Don't worry, little mother! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Look where you're moving! BUBNOFF. Oh, yes--that's right . . . THE TARTAR [_threatening Satine with his fist_] You're trying to palm a card? I've seen you--you scoundrel . . . ZOB. Stop it, Hassan! They'll skin us anyway . . . come on, Bubnoff! ANNA. I can't remember a single day when I didn't go hungry . . . I've been afraid, waking, eating, and sleeping . . . all my life I've trembled--afraid I wouldn't get another bite . . . all my life I've been in rags--all through my wretched life--and why . . . ? LUKA. Yes, yes, child--you're tired--never you mind! THE ACTOR [_to Zob_] Play the Jack--the Jack, devil take you! THE BARON. And we play the King! KLESHTCH. They always win. SATINE. Such is our habit. MIEDVIEDIEFF. I have the Queen! BUBNOFF. And so have I! ANNA. I'm dying . . . KLESHTCH. Look, look! Prince, throw up the game--throw it up, I tell you! THE ACTOR. Can't he play without your assistance? THE BARON. Look out, Andrushka, or I'll beat the life out of you! THE TARTAR. Deal once more--the pitcher went after water--and got broke--and so did I! [_Kleshtch shakes his head and crosses to Bubnoff._] ANNA. I keep on thinking--is it possible that I'll suffer in the other world as I did in this--is it possible? There, too? LUKA. Nothing of the sort! Don't you disturb yourself! You'll rest there . . . be patient. We all suffer, dear, each in our own way. . . . [_Rises and goes quickly into kitchen_] BUBNOFF [_sings_] "Watch as long as you please . . ." ZOB. "I shan't run away . . ." BOTH [_together_] "I long to be free, free-- Alas! I cannot break my chains. . . ." THE TARTAR [_yells_] That card was up his sleeve! THE BARON [_embarrassed_] Do you want me to shove it up your nose? THE ACTOR [_emphatically_] Prince! You're mistaken--nobody--ever . . . THE TARTAR. I saw it! You cheat! I won't play! SATINE [_gathering up the cards_] Leave us alone, Hassan . . . you knew right along that we're cheats--why did you play with us? THE BARON. He lost forty kopecks and he yelps as if he had lost a fortune! And a Prince at that! THE TARTAR [_excitedly_] Then play honest! SATINE. What for? THE TARTAR. What do you mean "what for"? SATINE. Exactly. What for? THE TARTAR. Don't you know? SATINE. I don't. Do you? [_The Tartar spits out, furiously; the others laugh at him._] ZOB [_good-naturedly_] You're a funny fellow, Hassan! Try to understand this! If they should begin to live honestly, they'd die of starvation inside of three days. THE TARTAR. That's none of my business. You must live honestly! ZOB. They did you brown! Come and let's have tea. . . . [_Sings_] "O my chains, my heavy chains . . ." BUBNOFF [_sings_] "You're my steely, clanking wardens . . ." ZOB. Come on, Hassanka! [_Leaves the room, singing_] "I cannot tear you, cannot break you . . ." [_The Tartar shakes his fist threateningly at the Baron, and follows the other out of the room._] SATINE [_to Baron, laughing_] Well, Your Imperial Highness, you've again sat down magnificently in a mud puddle! You've learned a lot--but you're an ignoramus when it comes to palming a card. THE BARON [_spreading his hands_] The Devil knows how it happened. . . . THE ACTOR. You're not gifted--you've no faith in yourself--and without that you can never accomplish anything . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. I've one Queen--and you've two--oh, well . . . BUBNOFF. One's enough if she has brains--play! KLESHTCH. You lost, Abram Ivanovitch? MIEDVIEDIEFF. None of your business--see? Shut up! SATINE. I've won fifty-three kopecks. THE ACTOR. Give me three of them . . . though, what'll I do with them? LUKA [_coming from kitchen_] Well--the Tartar was fleeced all right, eh? Going to have some vodka? THE BARON. Come with us. SATINE. I wonder what you'll be like when you're drunk. LUKA. Same as when I'm sober. THE ACTOR. Come on, old man--I'll recite verses for you . . . LUKA. What? THE ACTOR. Verses. Don't you understand? LUKA. Verses? And what do I want with verses? THE ACTOR. Sometimes they're funny--sometimes sad. SATINE. Well, poet, are you coming? [_Exit with the Baron_] THE ACTOR. I'm coming. I'll join you. For instance, old man, here's a bit of verse--I forget how it begins--I forget . . . [_brushes his hand across his forehead_] BUBNOFF. There! Your Queen is lost--go on, play! MIEDVIEDIEFF. I made the wrong move. THE ACTOR. Formerly, before my organism was poisoned with alcohol, old man, I had a good memory. But now it's all over with me, brother. I used to declaim these verses with tremendous success--thunders of applause . . . you have no idea what applause means . . . it goes to your head like vodka! I'd step out on the stage--stand this way--[_Strikes a pose_]--I'd stand there and . . . [_Pause_] I can't remember a word--I can't remember! My favorite verses--isn't it ghastly, old man? LUKA. Yes--is there anything worse than forgetting what you loved? Your very soul is in the thing you love! THE ACTOR. I've drunk my soul away, old man--brother, I'm lost . . . and why? Because I had no faith. . . . I'm done with . . . LUKA. Well--then--cure yourself! Nowadays they have a cure for drunkards. They treat you free of charge, brother. There's a hospital for drunkards--where they're treated for nothing. They've owned up, you see, that even a drunkard is a human being, and they're only too glad to help him get well. Well--then--go to it! THE ACTOR [_thoughtfully_] Where? Where is it? LUKA. Oh--in some town or other . . . what do they call it--? I'll tell you the name presently--only, in the meanwhile, get ready. Don't drink so much! Take yourself in hand--and bear up! And then, when you're cured, you'll begin life all over again. Sounds good, brother, doesn't it, to begin all over again? Well--make up your mind! THE ACTOR [_smiling_] All over again--from the very beginning--that's fine . . . yes . . . all over again . . . [_Laughs_] Well--then--I can, can't I? LUKA. Why not? A human being can do anything--if he only makes up his mind. THE ACTOR [_suddenly, as if coming out of a trance_] You're a queer bird! See you anon! [_Whistles_] Old man--_au revoir!_ [_Exit_] ANNA. Grand-dad! LUKA. Yes, little mother? ANNA. Talk to me. LUKA [_close to her_] Come on--let's chat . . . [_Kleshtch, glancing around, silently walks over to his wife, looks at her, and makes queer gestures with his hands, as though he wanted to say something._] LUKA. What is it, brother? KLESHTCH [_quietly_] Nothing . . . [_Crosses slowly to hallway door, stands on the threshold for a few seconds, and exit._] LUKA [_looking after him_] Hard on your man, isn't it? ANNA. He doesn't concern me much . . . LUKA. Did he beat you? ANNA. Worse than that--it's he who's killed me-- BUBNOFF. My wife used to have a lover--the scoundrel--how clever he was at checkers! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Hm-hm-- ANNA. Grand-dad! Talk to me, darling--I feel so sick . . . LUKA. Never mind--it's always like this before you die, little dove--never mind, dear! Just have faith! Once you're dead, you'll have peace--always. There's nothing to be afraid of--nothing. Quiet! Peace! Lie quietly! Death wipes out everything. Death is kindly. You die--and you rest--that's what they say. It is true, dear! Because--where can we find rest on this earth? [_Pepel enters. He is slightly drunk, dishevelled, and sullen. Sits down on bunk near door, and remains silent and motionless._] ANNA. And how is it--there? More suffering? LUKA. Nothing of the kind! No suffering! Trust me! Rest--nothing else! They'll lead you into God's presence, and they'll say: "Dear God! Behold! Here is Anna, Thy servant!" MIEDVIEDIEFF [_sternly_] How do you know what they'll say up there? Oh, you . . . [_Pepel, on hearing Miedviedieff's voice, raises his head and listens._] LUKA. Apparently I do know, Mr. Sergeant! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_conciliatory_] Yes--it's your own affair--though I'm not exactly a sergeant--yet-- BUBNOFF. I jump two! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Damn--play! LUKA. And the Lord will look at you gently and tenderly and He'll say: "I know this Anna!" Then He'll say: "Take Anna into Paradise. Let her have peace. I know. Her life on earth was hard. She is very weary. Let Anna rest in peace!" ANNA [_choking_] Grandfather--if it were only so--if there were only rest and peace . . . LUKA. There won't be anything else! Trust me! Die in joy and not in grief. Death is to us like a mother to small children . . . ANNA. But--perhaps--perhaps I get well . . . ? LUKA [_laughing_] Why--? Just to suffer more? ANNA. But--just to live a little longer . . . just a little longer! Since there'll be no suffering hereafter, I could bear it a little longer down here . . . LUKA. There'll be nothing in the hereafter . . . but only . . . PEPEL [_rising_] Maybe yes--maybe no! ANNA [_frightened_] Oh--God! LUKA. Hey--Adonis! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Who's that yelping? PEPEL [_crossing over to him_] I! What of it? MIEDVIEDIEFF. You yelp needlessly--that's what! People ought to have some dignity! PEPEL. Block-head! And that's an uncle for you--ho-ho! LUKA [_to Pepel, in an undertone_] Look here--don't shout--this woman's dying--her lips are already grey--don't disturb her! PEPEL. I've respect for you, grand-dad. You're all right, you are! You lie well, and you spin pleasant yarns. Go on lying, brother--there's little fun in this world . . . BUBNOFF. Is the woman really dying? LUKA. You think I'm joking? BUBNOFF. That means she'll stop coughing. Her cough was very disturbing. I jump two! MIEDVIEDIEFF. I'd like to murder you! PEPEL. Abramka! MIEDVIEDIEFF. I'm not Abramka to you! PEPEL. Abrashka! Is Natasha ill? MIEDVIEDIEFF. None of your business! PEPEL. Come--tell me! Did Vassilisa beat her up very badly? MIEDVIEDIEFF. That's none of your business, either! It's a family affair! Who are you anyway? PEPEL. Whoever I am, you'll never see Natashka again if I choose! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_throwing up the game_] What's that? Who are you alluding to? My niece by any chance? You thief! PEPEL. A thief whom you were never able to catch! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Wait--I'll catch you yet--you'll see--sooner than you think! PEPEL. If you catch me, God help your whole nest! Do you think I'll keep quiet before the examining magistrate? Every wolf howls! They'll ask me: "Who made you steal and showed you where?" "Mishka Kostilyoff and his wife!" "Who was your fence?" "Mishka Kostilyoff and his wife!" MIEDVIEDIEFF. You lie! No one will believe you! PEPEL. They'll believe me all right--because it's the truth! And I'll drag you into it, too. Ha! I'll ruin the lot of you--devils--just watch! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_confused_] You lie! You lie! And what harm did I do to you, you mad dog? PEPEL. And what good did you ever do me? LUKA. That's right! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_to Luka_] Well--what are you croaking about? Is it any of your business? This is a family matter! BUBNOFF [_to Luka_] Leave them alone! What do we care if they twist each other's tails? LUKA [_peacefully_] I meant no harm. All I said was that if a man isn't good to you, then he's acting wrong . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF [_uncomprehending_] Now then--we all of us here know each other--but you--who are you? [_Frowns and exit_] LUKA. The cavalier is peeved! Oh-ho, brothers, I see your affairs are a bit tangled up! PEPEL. He'll run to complain about us to Vassilisa . . . BUBNOFF. You're a fool, Vassily. You're very bold these days, aren't you? Watch out! It's all right to be bold when you go gathering mushrooms, but what good is it here? They'll break your neck before you know it! PEPEL. Well--not as fast as all that! You don't catch us Yaroslavl boys napping! If it's going to be war, we'll fight . . . LUKA. Look here, boy, you really ought to go away from here-- PEPEL. Where? Please tell me! LUKA. Go to Siberia! PEPEL. If I go to Siberia, it'll be at the Tsar's expense! LUKA. Listen! You go just the same! You can make your own way there. They need your kind out there . . . PEPEL. My way is clear. My father spent all his life in prison, and I inherited the trait. Even when I was a small child, they called me thief--thief's son. LUKA. But Siberia is a fine country--a land of gold. Any one who has health and strength and brains can live there like a cucumber in a hot-house. PEPEL. Old man, why do you always tell lies? LUKA. What? PEPEL. Are you deaf? I ask--why do you always lie? LUKA. What do I lie about? PEPEL. About everything. According to you, life's wonderful everywhere--but you lie . . . why? LUKA. Try to believe me. Go and see for yourself. And some day you'll thank me for it. What are you hanging round here for? And, besides, why is truth so important to you? Just think! Truth may spell death to you! PEPEL. It's all one to me! If that--let it be that! LUKA. Oh--what a madman! Why should you kill yourself? BUBNOFF. What are you two jawing about, anyway? I don't understand. What kind of truth do you want, Vaska? And what for? You know the truth about yourself--and so does everybody else . . . PEPEL. Just a moment! Don't crow! Let him tell me! Listen, old man! Is there a God? [_Luka smiles silently._] BUBNOFF. People just drift along--like shavings on a stream. When a house is built--the shavings are thrown away! PEPEL. Well? Is there a God? Tell me. LUKA [_in a low voice_] If you have faith, there is; if you haven't, there isn't . . . whatever you believe in, exists . . . [_Pepel looks at Luka in staring surprise._] BUBNOFF. I'm going to have tea--come on over to the restaurant! LUKA [_to Pepel_] What are you staring at? PEPEL. Oh--just because! Wait now--you mean to say . . . BUBNOFF. Well--I'm off. [_Goes to door and runs into Vassilisa._] PEPEL. So--you . . . VASSILISA [_to Bubnoff_] Is Nastasya home? BUBNOFF. No. [_Exit_] PEPEL. Oh--you've come--? VASSILISA [_crossing to Anna_] Is she alive yet? LUKA. Don't disturb her! VASSILISA. What are you loafing around here for? LUKA. I'll go--if you want me to . . . VASSILISA [_turning towards Pepel's room_] Vassily! I've some business with you . . . [_Luka goes to hallway door, opens it, and shuts it loudly, then warily climbs into a bunk, and from there to the top of the stove._] VASSILISA [_calling from Pepel's room_] Vaska--come here! PEPEL. I won't come--I don't want to . . . VASSILISA. Why? What are you angry about? PEPEL. I'm sick of the whole thing . . . VASSILISA. Sick of me, too? PEPEL. Yes! Of you, too! [_Vassilisa draws her shawl about her, pressing her hands over her breast. Crosses to Anna, looks carefully through the bed curtains, and returns to Pepel._] Well--out with it! VASSILISA. What do you want me to say? I can't force you to be loving, and I'm not the sort to beg for kindness. Thank you for telling me the truth. PEPEL. What truth? VASSILISA. That you're sick of me--or isn't it the truth? [_Pepel looks at her silently. She turns to him_] What are you staring at? Don't you recognize me? PEPEL [_sighing_] You're beautiful, Vassilisa! [_She puts her arm about his neck, but he shakes it off_] But I never gave my heart to you. . . . I've lived with you and all that--But I never really liked you . . . VASSILISA [_quietly_] That so? Well--? PEPEL. What is there to talk, about? Nothing. Go away from me! VASSILISA. Taken a fancy to some one else? PEPEL. None of your business! Suppose I have--I wouldn't ask you to be my match-maker! VASSILISA [_significantly_] That's too bad . . . perhaps I might arrange a match . . . PEPEL [_suspiciously_] Who with? VASSILISA. You know--why do you pretend? Vassily--let me be frank. [_With lower voice_] I won't deny it--you've offended me . . . it was like a bolt from the blue . . . you said you loved me--and then all of a sudden . . . PEPEL. It wasn't sudden at all. It's been a long time since I . . . woman, you've no soul! A woman must have a soul . . . we men are beasts--we must be taught--and you, what have you taught me--? VASSILISA. Never mind the past! I know--no man owns his own heart--you don't love me any longer . . . well and good, it can't be helped! PEPEL. So that's over. We part peaceably, without a row--as it should be! VASSILISA. Just a moment! All the same, when I lived with you, I hoped you'd help me out of this swamp--I thought you'd free me from my husband and my uncle--from all this life--and perhaps, Vassya, it wasn't you whom I loved--but my hope--do you understand? I waited for you to drag me out of this mire . . . PEPEL. You aren't a nail--and I'm not a pair of pincers! I thought you had brains--you are so clever--so crafty . . . VASSILISA [_leaning closely towards him_] Vassa--let's help each other! PEPEL. How? VASSILISA [_low and forcibly_] My sister--I know you've fallen for her. . . . PEPEL. And that's why you beat her up, like the beast you are! Look out, Vassilisa! Don't you touch her! VASSILISA. Wait. Don't get excited. We can do everything quietly and pleasantly. You want to marry her. I'll give you money . . . three hundred rubles--even more than that . . . PEPEL [_moving away from her_] Stop! What do you mean? VASSILISA. Rid me of my husband! Take that noose from around my neck . . . PEPEL [_whistling softly_] So that's the way the land lies! You certainly planned it cleverly . . . in other words, the grave for the husband, the gallows for the lover, and as for yourself . . . VASSILISA. Vassya! Why the gallows? It doesn't have to be yourself--but one of your pals! And supposing it were yourself--who'd know? Natalia--just think--and you'll have money--you go away somewhere . . . you free me forever--and it'll be very good for my sister to be away from me--the sight of her enrages me. . . . I get furious with her on account of you, and I can't control myself. I tortured the girl--I beat her up--beat her up so that I myself cried with pity for her--but I'll beat her--and I'll go on beating her! PEPEL. Beast! Bragging about your beastliness? VASSILISA. I'm not bragging--I speak the truth. Think now, Vassa. You've been to prison twice because of my husband--through his greed. He clings to me like a bed-bug--he's been sucking the life out of me for the last four years--and what sort of a husband is he to me? He's forever abusing Natasha--calls her a beggar--he's just poison, plain poison, to every one . . . PEPEL. You spin your yarn cleverly . . . VASSILISA. Everything I say is true. Only a fool could be as blind as you. . . . [_Kostilyoff enters stealthily and comes forward noisily._] PEPEL [_to Vassilisa_] Oh--go away! VASSILISA. Think it over! [_Sees her husband_] What? You? Following me? [_Pepel leaps up and stares at Kostilyoff savagely._] KOSTILYOFF. It's I, I! So the two of you were here alone--you were--ah--conversing? [_Suddenly stamps his feet and screams_] Vassilisa--you bitch! You beggar! You damned hag! [_Frightened by his own screams which are met by silence and indifference on the part of the others_] Forgive me, O Lord . . . Vassilisa--again you've led me into the path of sin. . . . I've been looking for you everywhere. It's time to go to bed. You forgot to fill the lamps--oh, you . . . beggar! Swine! [_Shakes his trembling fist at her, while Vassilisa slowly goes to door, glancing at Pepel over her shoulder_] PEPEL [_to Kostilyoff_] Go away--clear out of here-- KOSTILYOFF [_yelling_] What? I? The Boss? I get out? You thief! PEPEL [_sullenly_] Go away, Mishka! KOSTILYOFF. Don't you dare--I--I'll show you. [_Pepel seizes him by the collar and shakes him. From the stove come loud noises and yawns. Pepel releases Kostilyoff who runs into the hallway, screaming._] PEPEL [_jumping on a bunk_] Who is it? Who's on the stove? LUKA [_raising his head_] Eh? PEPEL. You? LUKA [_undisturbed_] I--I myself--oh, dear Jesus! PEPEL [_shuts hallway door, looks for the wooden closing bar, but can't find it_] The devil! Come down, old man! LUKA. I'm climbing down--all right . . . PEPEL [_roughly_] What did you climb on that stove for? LUKA. Where was I to go? PEPEL. Why--didn't you go out into the hall? LUKA. The hall's too cold for an old fellow like myself, brother. PEPEL. You overheard? LUKA. Yes--I did. How could I help it? Am I deaf? Well, my boy, happiness is coming your way. Real, good fortune I call it! PEPEL [_suspiciously_] What good fortune--? LUKA. In so far as I was lying on the stove . . . PEPEL. Why did you make all that noise? LUKA. Because I was getting warm . . . it was your good luck . . . I thought if only the boy wouldn't make a mistake and choke the old man . . . PEPEL. Yes--I might have done it . . . how terrible . . . LUKA. Small wonder! It isn't difficult to make a mistake of that sort. PEPEL [_smiling_] What's the matter? Did you make the same sort of mistake once upon a time? LUKA. Boy, listen to me. Send that woman out of your life! Don't let her near you! Her husband--she'll get rid of him herself--and in a shrewder way than you could--yes! Don't you listen to that devil! Look at me! I am bald-headed--know why? Because of all these women. . . . Perhaps I knew more women than I had hair on the top of my head--but this Vassilisa--she's worse than the plague. . . . PEPEL. I don't understand . . . I don't know whether to thank you--or--well . . . LUKA. Don't say a word! You won't improve on what I said. Listen: take the one you like by the arm, and march out of here--get out of here--clean out . . . PEPEL [_sadly_] I can't understand people. Who is kind and who isn't? It's all a mystery to me . . . LUKA. What's there to understand? There's all breeds of men . . . they all live as their hearts tell them . . . good to-day, bad to-morrow! But if you really care for that girl . . . take her away from here and that's all there is to it. Otherwise go away alone . . . you're young--you're in no hurry for a wife . . . PEPEL [_taking him by the shoulder_] Tell me! Why do you say all this? LUKA. Wait. Let me go. I want a look at Anna . . . she was coughing so terribly . . . [_Goes to Anna's bed, pulls the curtains, looks, touches her. Pepel thoughtfully and distraught, follows him with his eyes_] Merciful Jesus Christ! Take into Thy keeping the soul of this woman Anna, new-comer amongst the blessed! PEPEL [_softly_] Is she dead? [_Without approaching, he stretches himself and looks at the bed._] LUKA [_gently_] Her sufferings are over! Where's her husband? PEPEL. In the saloon, most likely . . . LUKA. Well--he'll have to be told . . . PEPEL [_shuddering_] I don't like corpses! LUKA [_going to door_] Why should you like them? It's the living who demand our love--the living . . . PEPEL. I'm coming with you . . . LUKA. Are you afraid? PEPEL. I don't like it . . . [_They go out quickly. The stage is empty and silent for a few moments. Behind the door is heard a dull, staccato, incomprehensible noise. Then the Actor enters._] THE ACTOR [_stands at the open door, supporting himself against the jamb, and shouts_] Hey, old man--where are you--? I just remembered--listen . . . [_Takes two staggering steps forward and, striking a pose, recites_] "Good people! If the world cannot find A path to holy truth, Glory be to the madman who will enfold all humanity In a golden dream . . ." [_Natasha appears in the doorway behind the Actor_] Old man! [_recites_] "If to-morrow the sun were to forget To light our earth, To-morrow then some madman's thought Would bathe the world in sunshine. . . ." NATASHA [_laughing_] Scarecrow! You're drunk! THE ACTOR [_turns to her_] Oh--it's you? Where's the old man, the dear old man? Not a soul here, seems to me . . . Natasha, farewell--right--farewell! NATASHA [_entering_] Don't wish me farewell, before you've wished me how-d'you-do! THE ACTOR [_barring her way_] I am going. Spring will come--and I'll be here no longer-- NATASHA. Wait a moment! Where do you propose going? THE ACTOR. In search of a town--to be cured--And you, Ophelia, must go away! Take the veil! Just imagine--there's a hospital to cure--ah--organisms for drunkards--a wonderful hospital--built of marble--with marble floors . . . light--clean--food--and all gratis! And a marble floor--yes! I'll find it--I'll get cured--and then I shall start life anew. . . . I'm on my way to regeneration, as King Lear said. Natasha, my stage name is . . . Svertchkoff--Zavoloushski . . . do you realize how painful it is to lose one's name? Even dogs have their names . . . [_Natasha carefully passes the Actor, stops at Anna's bed and looks._] To be nameless--is not to exist! NATASHA. Look, my dear--why--she's dead. . . . THE ACTOR [_shakes his head_] Impossible . . . NATASHA [_stepping back_] So help me God--look . . . BUBNOFF [_appearing in doorway_] What is there to look at? NATASHA. Anna--she's dead! BUBNOFF. That means--she's stopped coughing! [_Goes to Anna's bed, looks, and returns to his bunk_] We must tell Kleshtch--it's his business to know . . . THE ACTOR. I'll go--I'll say to him--she lost her name--[_Exit_] NATASHA. [_in centre of room_] I, too--some day--I'll be found in the cellar--dead. . . . BUBNOFF [_spreading out some rags on his bunk_] What's that? What are you muttering? NATASHA. Nothing much . . . BUBNOFF. Waiting for Vaska, eh? Take care--Vassilisa'll break your head! NATASHA. Isn't it the same who breaks it? I'd much rather he'd do it! BUBNOFF [_lying down_] Well--that's your own affair . . . NATASHA. It's best for her to be dead--yet it's a pity . . . oh, Lord--why do we live? BUBNOFF. It's so with all . . . we're born, live, and die--and I'll die, too--and so'll you--what's there to be gloomy about? [_Enter Luka, the Tartar, Zob, and Kleshtch. The latter comes after the others, slowly, shrunk up._] NATASHA. Sh-sh! Anna! ZOB. We've heard--God rest her soul . . . THE TARTAR [_to Kleshtch_] We must take her out of here. Out into the hall! This is no place for corpses--but for the living . . . KLESHTCH [_quietly_] We'll take her out-- [_Everybody goes to the bed, Kleshtch looks at his wife ever the others' shoulders._] ZOB [_to the Tartar_] You think she'll smell? I don't think she will--she dried up while she was still alive . . . NATASHA. God! If they'd only a little pity . . . if only some one would say a kindly word--oh, you . . . LUKA. Don't be hurt, girl--never mind! Why and how should we pity the dead? Come, dear! We don't pity the living--we can't even pity our own selves--how can we? BUBNOFF [_yawning_] And, besides, when you're dead, no word will help you--when you're still alive, even sick, it may. . . . THE TARTAR [_stepping aside_] The police must be notified . . . ZOB. The police--must be done! Kleshtch! Did you notify the police? KLESHTCH. No--she's got to be buried--and all I have is forty kopecks-- ZOB. Well--you'll have to borrow then--otherwise we'll take up a collection . . . one'll give five kopecks, others as much as they can. But the police must be notified at once--or they'll think you killed her or God knows what not . . . [_Crosses to the Tartar's bunk and prepares to lie down by his side._] NATASHA [_going to Bubnoff's bunk_] Now--I'll dream of her . . . I always dream of the dead . . . I'm afraid to go out into the hall by myself--it's dark there . . . LUKA [_following her_] You better fear the living--I'm telling you . . . NATASHA. Take me across the hall, grandfather. LUKA. Come on--come on--I'll take you across-- [_They go away. Pause._] ZOB [_to the Tartar_] Oh-ho! Spring will soon be here, little brother, and it'll be quite warm. In the villages the peasants are already making ready their ploughs and harrows, preparing to till . . . and we . . . Hassan? Snoring already? Damned Mohammedan! BUBNOFF. Tartars love sleep! KLESHTCH [_in centre of room, staring in front of him_] What am I to do now? ZOB. Lie down and sleep--that's all . . . KLESHTCH [_softly_] But--she . . . how about . . . [_No one answers him. Satine and the Actor enter._] THE ACTOR [_yelling_] Old man! Come here, my trusted Duke of Kent! SATINE. Miklookha-Maklai is coming--ho-ho! THE ACTOR. It has been decided upon! Old man, where's the town--where are you? SATINE. Fata Morgana, the old man bilked you from top to bottom! There's nothing--no towns--no people--nothing at all! THE ACTOR. You lie! THE TARTAR [_jumping up_] Where's the boss? I'm going to the boss. If I can't sleep, I won't pay! Corpses--drunkards . . . [_Exit quickly_] [_Satine looks after him and whistles._] BUBNOFF [_in a sleepy voice_] Go to bed, boys--be quiet . . . night is for sleep . . . THE ACTOR. Yes--so--there's a corpse here. . . . "Our net fished up a corpse. . . ." Verses--by Béranger. . . . SATINE [_screams_] The dead can't hear . . . the dead do not feel--Scream!--Roar! . . . the dead don't hear! [_In the doorway appears Luka._] CURTAIN. ACT THREE. _"The Waste," a yard strewn with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. Back, a high brick wall which shuts out the sight of the sky. Near it are elder bushes. Right, the dark, wooden wall of some sort of house, barn or stable. Left, the grey, tumbledown wall of Kostilyoff's night asylum. It is built at an angle so that the further corner reaches almost to the centre of the yard. Between it and the wall runs a narrow passage. In the grey, plastered wall are two windows, one on a level with the ground, the other about six feet higher up and closer to the brick wall. Near the latter wall is a big sledge turned upside down and a beam about twelve feet long. Right of the wall is a heap of old planks. Evening. The sun is setting, throwing a crimson light on the brick wall. Early spring, the snow having only recently melted. The elder bushes are not yet in bud._ _Natasha and Nastya are sitting side by side on the beam. Luka and the Baron are on the sledge. Kleshtch is stretched on the pile of planks to the right. Bubnoff's face is at the ground floor window._ NASTYA [_with closed eyes, nodding her head in rhythm to the tale she is telling in a sing-song voice_] So then at night he came into the garden. I had been waiting for him quite a while. I trembled with fear and grief--he trembled, too . . . he was as white as chalk--and he had the pistol in his hand . . . NATASHA [_chewing sun-flower seeds_] Oh--are these students really such desperate fellows . . . ? NASTYA. And he says to me in a dreadful voice: "My precious darling . . ." BUBNOFF. Ho-ho! Precious--? THE BARON. Shut up! If you don't like it, you can lump it! But don't interrupt her. . . . Go on . . . NASTYA. "My one and only love," he says, "my parents," he says, "refuse to give their consent to our wedding--and threaten to disown me because of my love for you. Therefore," he says, "I must take my life." And his pistol was huge--and loaded with ten bullets . . . "Farewell," he says, "beloved comrade! I have made up my mind for good and all . . . I can't live without you . . ." and I replied: "My unforgettable friend--my Raoul. . . ." BUBNOFF [_surprised_] What? What? Krawl--did you call him--? THE BARON. Nastka! But last time his name was Gaston. . . . NASTYA [_jumping up_] Shut up, you bastards! Ah--you lousy mongrels! You think for a moment that you can understand love--true love? My love was real honest-to-God love! [_To the Baron_] You good-for-nothing! . . . educated, you call yourself--drinking coffee in bed, did you? LUKA. Now, now! Wait, people! Don't interfere! Show a little respect to your neighbors . . . it isn't the word that matters, but what's in back of the word. That's what matters! Go on, girl! It's all right! BUBNOFF. Go on, crow! See if you can make your feathers white! THE BARON. Well--continue! NATASHA. Pay no attention to them . . . what are they? They're just jealous . . . they've nothing to tell about themselves . . . NASTYA [_sits down again_] I'm going to say no more! If they don't believe me they'll laugh. [_Stops suddenly, is silent for a few seconds, then, shutting her eyes, continues in a loud and intense voice, swaying her hands as if to the rhythm of far music_] And then I replied to him: "Joy of my life! My bright moon! And I, too, I can't live without you--because I love you madly, so madly--and I shall keep on loving you as long as my heart beats in my bosom. But--" I say--"don't take your young life! Think how necessary it is to your dear parents whose only happiness you are. Leave me! Better that I should perish from longing for you, my life! I alone! I--ah--as such, such! Better that I should die--it doesn't matter . . . I am of no use to the world--and I have nothing, nothing at all--" [_Covers her face with her hand and weeps gently_] NATASHA [_in a low voice_] Don't cry--don't! [_Luka, smiling, strokes Nastya's head._] BUBNOFF [_laughs_] Ah--you limb of Satan! THE BARON [_also laughs_] Hey, old man? Do you think it's true? It's all from that book "Fatal Love" . . . it's all nonsense! Let her alone! NATASHA. And what's it to you? Shut up--or God'll punish you! NASTYA [_bitterly_] God damn your soul! You worthless pig! Soul--bah!--you haven't got one! LUKA [_takes Nastya's hand_] Come, dear! It's nothing! Don't be angry--I know--I believe you! You're right, not they! If you believe you had a real love affair, then you did--yes! And as for him--don't be angry with a fellow-lodger . . . maybe he's really jealous, and that's why he's laughing. Maybe he never had any real love--maybe not--come on--let's go! NASTYA [_pressing her hand against her breast_] Grandfather! So help me God--it happened! It happened! He was a student, a Frenchman--Gastotcha was his name--he had a little black beard--and patent leathers--may God strike me dead if I'm lying! And he loved me so--my God, how he loved me! LUKA. Yes, yes, it's all right. I believe you! Patent leathers, you said? Well, well, well--and you loved him, did you? [_Disappears with her around the corner_] THE BARON. God--isn't she a fool, though? She's good-hearted--but such a fool--it's past belief! BUBNOFF. And why are people so fond of lying--just as if they were up before the judge--really! NATASHA. I guess lying is more fun than speaking the truth--I, too . . . THE BARON. What--you, too? Go on! NATASHA. Oh--I imagine things--invent them--and I wait-- THE BARON. For what? NATASHA [_smiling confusedly_] Oh--I think that perhaps--well--to-morrow somebody will really appear--some one--oh--out of the ordinary--or something'll happen--also out of the ordinary. . . . I've been waiting for it--oh--always. . . . But, really, what is there to wait for? [_Pause_] THE BARON [_with a slight smile_] Nothing--I expect nothing! What is past, is past! Through! Over with! And then what? NATASHA. And then--well--to-morrow I imagine suddenly that I'll die--and I get frightened . . . in summer it's all right to dream of death--then there are thunder storms--one might get struck by lightning . . . THE BARON. You've a hard life . . . your sister's a wicked-tempered devil! NATASHA. Tell me--does anybody live happily? It's hard for all of us--I can see that . . . KLESHTCH [_who until this moment has sat motionless and indifferent, jumps up suddenly_] For all? You lie! Not for all! If it were so--all right! Then it wouldn't hurt--yes! BUBNOFF. What in hell's bit you? Just listen to him yelping! [_Kleshtch lies down again and grunts._] THE BARON. Well--I'd better go and make my peace with Nastinka--if I don't, she won't treat me to vodka . . . BUBNOFF. Hm--people love to lie . . . with Nastka--I can see the reason why. She's used to painting that mutt of hers--and now she wants to paint her soul as well . . . put rouge on her soul, eh? But the others--why do they? Take Luka for instance--he lies a lot . . . and what does he get out of it? He's an old fellow, too--why does he do it? THE BARON [_smiling and walking away_] All people have drab-colored souls--and they like to brighten them up a bit . . . LUKA [_appearing from round the corner_] You, sir, why do you tease the girl? Leave her alone--let her cry if it amuses her . . . she weeps for her own pleasure--what harm is it to you? THE BARON. Nonsense, old man! She's a nuisance. Raoul to-day, Gaston to-morrow--always the same old yarn, though! Still--I'll go and make up with her. [_Leaves_] LUKA. That's right--go--and be nice to her. Being nice to people never does them any harm . . . NATASHA. You're so good, little father--why are you so good? LUKA. Good, did you say? Well--call it that! [_Behind the brick wall is heard soft singing and the sounds of a concertina_] Some one has to be kind, girl--some one must pity people! Christ pitied everybody--and he said to us: "Go and do likewise!" I tell you--if you pity a man when he most needs it, good comes of it. Why--I used to be a watchman on the estate of an engineer near Tomsk--all right--the house was right in the middle of a forest--lonely place--winter came--and I remained all by myself. Well--one night I heard a noise-- NATASHA. Thieves? LUKA. Exactly! Thieves creeping in! I took my gun--I went out. I looked and saw two of them opening a window--and so busy that they didn't even see me. I yell: "Hey there--get out of here!" And they turn on me with their axes--I warn them to stand back, or I'd shoot--and as I speak, I keep on covering them with my gun, first the one, then the other--they go down on their knees, as if to implore me for mercy. And by that time I was furious--because of those axes, you see--and so I say to them: "I was chasing you, you scoundrels--and you didn't go. Now you go and break off some stout branches!"--and they did so--and I say: "Now--one of you lie down and let the other one flog him!" So they obey me and flog each other--and then they begin to implore me again. "Grandfather," they say, "for God's sake give us some bread! We're hungry!" There's thieves for you, my dear! [_Laughs_] And with an ax, too! Yes--honest peasants, both of them! And I say to them, "You should have asked for bread straight away!" And they say: "We got tired of asking--you beg and beg--and nobody gives you a crumb--it hurts!" So they stayed with me all that winter--one of them, Stepan, would take my gun and go shooting in the forest--and the other, Yakoff, was ill most of the time--he coughed a lot . . . and so the three of us together looked after the house . . . then spring came . . . "Good-bye, grandfather," they said--and they went away--back home to Russia . . . NATASHA. Were they escaped convicts? LUKA. That's just what they were--escaped convicts--from a Siberian prison camp . . . honest peasants! If I hadn't felt sorry for them--they might have killed me--or maybe worse--and then there would have been trial and prison and afterwards Siberia--what's the sense of it? Prison teaches no good--and Siberia doesn't either--but another human being can . . . yes, a human being can teach another one kindness--very simply! [_Pause_] BUBNOFF. Hm--yes--I, for instance, don't know how to lie . . . why--as far as I'm concerned, I believe in coming out with the whole truth and putting it on thick . . . why fuss about it? KLESHTCH [_again jumps up as if his clothes were on fire, and screams_] What truth? Where is there truth? [_Tearing at his ragged clothes_] Here's truth for you! No work! No strength! That's the only truth! Shelter--there's no shelter! You die--that's the truth! Hell! What do I want with the truth? Let me breathe! Why should I be blamed? What do I want with truth? To live--Christ Almighty!--they won't let you live--and that's another truth! BUBNOFF. He's mad! LUKA. Dear Lord . . . listen to me, brother-- KLESHTCH [_trembling with excitement_] They say: there's truth! You, old man, try to console every one . . . I tell you--I hate every one! And there's your truth--God curse it--understand? I tell you--God curse it! [_Rushes away round the corner, turning as he goes._] LUKA. Ah--how excited he got! Where did he run off to? NATASHA. He's off his head . . . BUBNOFF. God--didn't he say a whole lot, though? As if he was playing drama--he gets those fits often . . . he isn't used to life yet . . . PEPEL [_comes slowly round the corner_] Peace on all this honest gathering! Well, Luka, you wily old fellow--still telling them stories? LUKA. You should have heard how that fellow carried on! PEPEL. Kleshtch--wasn't it? What's wrong with him? He was running like one possessed! LUKA. You'd do the same if your own heart were breaking! PEPEL [_sitting down_] I don't like him . . . he's got such a nasty, bad temper--and so proud! [_Imitating Kleshtch_] "I'm a workman!" And he thinks everyone's beneath him. Go on working if you feel like it--nothing to be so damned haughty about! If work is the standard--a horse can give us points--pulls like hell and says nothing! Natasha--are your folks at home? NATASHA. They went to the cemetery--then to night service . . . PEPEL. So that's why you're free for once--quite a novelty! LUKA [_to Bubnoff, thoughtfully_] There--you say--truth! Truth doesn't always heal a wounded soul. For instance, I knew of a man who believed in a land of righteousness . . . BUBNOFF. In what? LUKA. In a land of righteousness. He said: "Somewhere on this earth there must be a righteous land--and wonderful people live there--good people! They respect each other, help each other, and everything is peaceful and good!" And so that man--who was always searching for this land of righteousness--he was poor and lived miserably--and when things got to be so bad with him that it seemed there was nothing else for him to do except lie down and die--even then he never lost heart--but he'd just smile and say: "Never mind! I can stand it! A little while longer--and I'll have done with this life--and I'll go in search of the righteous land!"--it was his one happiness--the thought of that land . . . PEPEL. Well? Did he go there? BUBNOFF. Where? Ho-ho! LUKA. And then to this place--in Siberia, by the way--there came a convict--a learned man with books and maps--yes, a learned man who knew all sorts of things--and the other man said to him: "Do me a favor--show me where is the land of righteousness and how I can get there." At once the learned man opened his books, spread out his maps, and looked and looked and he said--no--he couldn't find this land anywhere . . . everything was correct--all the lands on earth were marked--but not this land of righteousness . . . PEPEL [_in a low voice_] Well? Wasn't there a trace of it? [_Bubnoff roars with laughter._] NATASHA. Wait . . . well, little father? LUKA. The man wouldn't believe it. . . . "It must exist," he said, "look carefully. Otherwise," he says, "your books and maps are of no use if there's no land of righteousness." The learned man was offended. "My plans," he said, "are correct. But there exists no land of righteousness anywhere." Well, then the other man got angry. He'd lived and lived and suffered and suffered, and had believed all the time in the existence of this land--and now, according to the plans, it didn't exist at all. He felt robbed! And he said to the learned man: "Ah--you scum of the earth! You're not a learned man at all--but just a damned cheat!"--and he gave him a good wallop in the eye--then another one . . . [_After a moment's silence_] And then he went home and hanged himself! [_All are silent. Luka, smiling, looks at Pepel and Natasha._] PEPEL [_low-voiced_] To hell with this story--it isn't very cheerful . . . NATASHA. He couldn't stand the disappointment . . . BUBNOFF [_sullen_] Ah--it's nothing but a fairy-tale . . . PEPEL. Well--there is the righteous land for you--doesn't exist, it seems . . . NATASHA. I'm sorry for that man . . . BUBNOFF. All a story--ho-ho!--land of righteousness--what an idea! [_Exit through window_] LUKA [_pointing to window_] He's laughing! [_Pause_] Well, children, God be with you! I'll leave you soon . . . PEPEL. Where are you going to? LUKA. To the Ukraine--I heard they discovered a new religion there--I want to see--yes! People are always seeking--they always want something better--God grant them patience! PEPEL. You think they'll find it? LUKA. The people? They will find it! He who seeks, will find! He who desires strongly, will find! NATASHA. If only they could find something better--invent something better . . . LUKA. They're trying to! But we must help them girl--we must respect them . . . NATASHA. How can I help them? I am helpless myself! PEPEL [_determined_] Again--listen--I'll speak to you again, Natasha--here--before him--he knows everything . . . run away with me? NATASHA. Where? From one prison to another? PEPEL. I told you--I'm through with being a thief, so help me God! I'll quit! If I say so, I'll do it! I can read and write--I'll work--He's been telling me to go to Siberia on my own hook--let's go there together, what do you say? Do you think I'm not disgusted with my life? Oh--Natasha--I know . . . I see . . . I console myself with the thought that there are lots of people who are honored and respected--and who are bigger thieves than I! But what good is that to me? It isn't that I repent . . . I've no conscience . . . but I do feel one thing: One must live differently. One must live a better life . . . one must be able to respect one's own self . . . LUKA. That's right, friend! May God help you! It's true! A man must respect himself! PEPEL. I've been a thief from childhood on. Everybody always called me "Vaska--the thief--the son of a thief!" Oh--very well then--I am a thief-- . . . just imagine--now, perhaps, I'm a thief out of spite--perhaps I'm a thief because no one ever called me anything different. . . . Well, Natasha--? NATASHA [_sadly_] Somehow I don't believe in words--and I'm restless to-day--my heart is heavy . . . as if I were expecting something . . . it's a pity, Vassily, that you talked to me to-day . . . PEPEL. When should I? It isn't the first time I speak to you . . . NATASHA. And why should I go with you? I don't love you so very much--sometimes I like you--and other times the mere sight of you makes me sick . . . it seems--no--I don't really love you . . . when one really loves, one sees no fault. . . . But I do see . . . PEPEL. Never mind--you'll love me after a while! I'll make you care for me . . . if you'll just say yes! For over a year I've watched you . . . you're a decent girl . . . you're kind--you're reliable--I'm very much in love with you . . . [_Vassilisa, in her best dress, appears at window and listens._] NATASHA. Yes--you love me--but how about my sister . . . ? PEPEL [_confused_] Well, what of her? There are plenty like her . . . LUKA. You'll be all right, girl! If there's no bread, you have to eat weeds . . . PEPEL [_gloomily_] Please--feel a little sorry for me! My life isn't all roses--it's a hell of a life . . . little happiness in it . . . I feel as if a swamp were sucking me under . . . and whatever I try to catch and hold on to, is rotten . . . it breaks . . . Your sister--oh--I thought she was different . . . if she weren't so greedy after money . . . I'd have done anything for her sake, if she were only all mine . . . but she must have someone else . . . and she has to have money--and freedom . . . because she doesn't like the straight and narrow . . . she can't help me. But you're like a young fir-tree . . . you bend, but you don't break . . . LUKA. Yes--go with him, girl, go! He's a good lad--he's all right! Only tell him every now and then that he's a good lad so that he won't forget it--and he'll believe you. Just you keep on telling him "Vasya, you're a good man--don't you forget it!" Just think, dear, where else could you go except with him? Your sister is a savage beast . . . and as for her husband, there's little to say of him? He's rotten beyond words . . . and all this life here, where will it get you? But this lad is strong . . . NATASHA. Nowhere to go--I know--I thought of it. The only thing is--I've no faith in anybody--and there's no place for me to turn to . . . PEPEL. Yes, there is! But I won't let you go that way--I'd rather cut your throat! NATASHA [_smiling_] There--I'm not his wife yet--and he talks already of killing me! PEPEL [_puts his arms around her_] Come, Natasha! Say yes! NATASHA [_holding him close_] But I'll tell you one thing, Vassily--I swear it before God . . . the first time you strike me or hurt me any other way, I'll have no pity on myself . . . I'll either hang myself . . . or . . . PEPEL. May my hand wither if ever I touch you! LUKA. Don't doubt him, dear! He needs you more than you need him! VASSILISA [_from the window_] So now they're engaged! Love and advice! NATASHA. They've come back--oh, God--they saw--oh, Vassily . . . PEPEL. Why are you frightened? Nobody'll dare touch you now! VASSILISA. Don't be afraid, Natalia! He won't beat you . . . he don't know how to love or how to beat . . . I know! LUKA [_in a low voice_] Rotten old hag--like a snake in the grass . . . VASSILISA. He dares only with the word! KOSTILYOFF [_enters_] Natashka! What are you doing here, you parasite? Gossiping? Kicking about your family? And the samovar not ready? And the table not cleared? NATASHA [_going out_] I thought you were going to church . . . ? KOSTILYOFF. None of your business what we intended doing! Mind your own affairs--and do what you're told! PEPEL. Shut up, you! She's no longer your servant! Don't go, Natalia--don't do a thing! NATASHA. Stop ordering me about--you're commencing too soon! [_Leaves_] PEPEL [_to Kostilyoff_] That's enough. You've used her long enough--now she's mine! KOSTILYOFF. Yours? When did you buy her--and for how much? [_Vassilisa roars with laughter._] LUKA. Go away, Vasya! PEPEL. Don't laugh, you fools--or first thing you know I'll make you cry! VASSILISA. Oh, how terrible! Oh--how you frighten me! LUKA. Vassily--go away! Don't you see--she's goading you on . . . ridiculing you, don't you understand . . . ? PEPEL. Yes . . . You lie, lie! You won't get what you want! VASSILISA. Nor will I get what I don't want, Vasya! PEPEL [_shaking his fist at her_] We'll see . . . [_Exit_] VASSILISA [_disappearing through window_] I'll arrange some wedding for you . . . KOSTILYOFF [_crossing to Luka_] Well, old man, how's everything? LUKA. All right! KOSTILYOFF. You're going away, they say--? LUKA. Soon. KOSTILYOFF. Where to? LUKA. I'll follow my nose . . . KOSTILYOFF. Tramping, eh? Don't like stopping in one place all the time, do you? LUKA. Even water won't pass beneath a stone that's sunk too firmly in the ground, they say . . . KOSTILYOFF. That's true for a stone. But man must settle in one place. Men can't live like cockroaches, crawling about wherever they want. . . . A man must stick to one place--and not wander about aimlessly . . . LUKA. But suppose his home is wherever he hangs his hat? KOSTILYOFF. Why, then--he's a vagabond,--useless . . . a human being must be of some sort of use--he must work . . . LUKA. That's what you think, eh? KOSTILYOFF. Yes--sure . . . just look! What's a vagabond? A strange fellow . . . unlike all others. If he's a real pilgrim then he's some good in the world . . . perhaps he discovered a new truth. Well--but not every truth is worth while. Let him keep it to himself and shut up about it! Or else--let him speak in a way which no one can understand . . . don't let him interfere . . . don't let him stir up people without cause! It's none of his business how other people live! Let him follow his own righteous path . . . in the woods--or in a monastery--away from everybody! He mustn't interfere--nor condemn other people--but pray--pray for all of us--for all the world's sins--for mine--for yours--for everybody's. To pray--that's why he forsakes the world's turmoil! That's so! [_Pause_] But you--what sort of a pilgrim are you--? An honest person must have a passport . . . all honest people have passports . . . yes . . . ! LUKA. In this world there are people--and also just plain men . . . KOSTILYOFF. Don't coin wise sayings! Don't give me riddles! I'm as clever as you . . . what's the difference--people and men? LUKA. What riddle is there? I say--there's sterile and there's fertile ground . . . whatever you sow in it, grows . . . that's all . . . KOSTILYOFF. What do you mean? LUKA. Take yourself for instance . . . if the Lord God himself said to you: "Mikhailo, be a man!"--it would be useless--nothing would come of it--you're doomed to remain just as you are . . . KOSTILYOFF. Oh--but do you realize that my wife's uncle is a policeman, and that if I . . . VASSILISA [_coming in_] Mikhail Ivanitch--come and have your tea . . . KOSTILYOFF [_to Luka_] You listen! Get out! You leave this place--hear? VASSILISA. Yes--get out, old man! Your tongue's too long! And--who knows--you may be an escaped convict . . . KOSTILYOFF. If I ever see sign of you again after to-day--well--I've warned you! LUKA. You'll call your uncle, eh? Go on--call him! Tell him you've caught an escaped convict--and maybe uncle'll get a reward--perhaps all of three kopecks . . . BUBNOFF [_in the window_] What are you bargaining about? Three kopecks--for what? LUKA. They're threatening to sell me . . . VASSILISA [_to her husband_] Come . . . BUBNOFF. For three kopecks? Well--look out, old man--they may even do it for one! KOSTILYOFF [_to Bubnoff_] You have a habit of jumping up like a jack-in-the-box! VASSILISA. The world is full of shady people and crooks-- LUKA. Hope you'll enjoy your tea! VASSILISA [_turning_] Shut up! You rotten toadstool! [_Leaves with her husband._] LUKA. I'm off to-night. BUBNOFF. That's right. Don't outstay your welcome! LUKA. True enough. BUBNOFF. I know. Perhaps I've escaped the gallows by getting away in time . . . LUKA. Well? BUBNOFF. That's true. It was this way. My wife took up with my boss. He was great at his trade--could dye a dog's skin so that it looked like a raccoon's--could change cat's skin into kangaroo--muskrats, all sorts of things. Well--my wife took up with him--and they were so mad about each other that I got afraid they might poison me or something like that--so I commenced beating up my wife--and the boss beat me . . . we fought savagely! Once he tore off half my whiskers--and broke one of my ribs . . . well, then I, too, got enraged. . . . I cracked my wife over the head with an iron yard-measure--well--and altogether it was like an honest-to-God war! And then I saw that nothing really could come of it . . . they were planning to get the best of me! So I started planning--how to kill my wife--I thought of it a whole lot . . . but I thought better of it just in time . . . and got away . . . LUKA. That was best! Let them go on changing dogs into raccoons! BUBNOFF. Only--the shop was in my wife's name . . . and so I did myself out of it, you see? Although, to tell the truth, I would have drunk it away . . . I'm a hard drinker, you know . . . LUKA. A hard drinker--oh . . . BUBNOFF. The worst you ever met! Once I start drinking, I drink everything in sight, I'll spend every bit of money I have--everything except my bones and my skin . . . what's more, I'm lazy . . . it's terrible how I hate work! [_Enter Satine and the Actor, quarreling._] SATINE. Nonsense! You'll go nowhere--it's all a damned lie! Old man, what did you stuff him with all those fairy-tales for? THE ACTOR. You lie! Grandfather! Tell him that he lies!--I am going away. I worked to-day--I swept the streets . . . and I didn't have a drop of vodka. What do you think of that? Here they are--two fifteen kopeck pieces--and I'm sober! SATINE. Why--that's absurd! Give it to me--I'll either drink it up--or lose it at cards . . . THE ACTOR. Get out--this is for my journey . . . LUKA [_to Satine_] And you--why are you trying to lead him astray? SATINE. Tell me, soothsayer, beloved by the Gods, what's my future going to be? I've gone to pieces, brother--but everything isn't lost yet, grandfather . . . there are sharks in this world who got more brains than I! LUKA. You're cheerful, Constantine--and very agreeable! BUBNOFF. Actor, come over here! [_The Actor crosses to window, sits down on the sill before Bubnoff, and speaks in a low voice with him_] SATINE. You know, brother, I used to be a clever youngster. It's nice to think of it. I was a devil of a fellow . . . danced splendidly, played on the stage, loved to amuse people . . . it was awfully gay . . . LUKA. How did you get to be what you are? SATINE. You're inquisitive, old man! You want to know everything? What for? LUKA. I want to understand the ways of men--I look at you, and I don't understand. You're a bold lad, Constantine, and you're no fool . . . yet, all of a sudden . . . SATINE. It's prison, grandfather--I spent four years and seven months in prison . . . afterwards--where could I go? LUKA. Aha! What were you there for? SATINE. On account of a scoundrel--whom I killed in a fit of rage . . . and despair . . . and in prison I learned to play cards . . . LUKA. You killed--because of a woman? SATINE. Because of my own sister. . . . But look here--leave me alone! I don't care for these cross-examinations--and all this happened a long time ago. It's already nine years since my sister's death. . . . Brother, she was a wonderful girl . . . LUKA. You take life easily! And only a while ago that locksmith was here--and how he did yell! SATINE. Kleshtch? LUKA. Yes--"There's no work," he shouted; "there isn't anything . . ." SATINE. He'll get used to it. What could I do? LUKA [_softly_] Look--here he comes! [_Kleshtch walks in slowly, his head bowed low._] SATINE. Hey, widower! Why are you so down in the mouth? What are you thinking? KLESHTCH. I'm thinking--what'll I do? I've no food--nothing--the funeral ate up all . . . SATINE. I'll give you a bit of advice . . . do nothing! Just be a burden to the world at large! KLESHTCH. Go on--talk--I'd be ashamed of myself . . . SATINE. Why--people aren't ashamed to let you live worse than a dog. Just think . . . you stop work--so do I--so do hundreds, thousands of others--everybody--understand?--everybody'll quit working . . . nobody'll do a damned thing--and then what'll happen? KLESHTCH. They'll all starve to death . . . LUKA [_to Satine_] If those are your notions, you ought to join the order of Begunes--you know--there's some such organization . . . SATINE. I know--grandfather--and they're no fools . . . [_Natasha is heard screaming behind Kostilyoff's window: "What for? Stop! What have I done?"_] LUKA [_worried_] Natasha! That was she crying--oh, God . . . [_From Kostilyoff's room is heard noise, shuffling, breaking of crockery, and Kostilyoff's shrill cry: "Ah! Heretic! Bitch!"_] VASSILISA. Wait, wait--I'll teach her--there, there! NATASHA. They're beating me--killing me . . . SATINE [_shouts through the window_] Hey--you there--. . . LUKA [_trembling_] Where's Vassily--? Call Vaska--oh, God--listen, brothers . . . THE ACTOR [_running out_] I'll find him at once! BUBNOFF. They beat her a lot these days . . . SATINE. Come on, old man--we'll be witnesses . . . LUKA [_following Satine_] Oh--witnesses--what for? Vassily--he should be called at once! NATASHA. Sister--sister dear! Va-a-a . . . BUBNOFF. They've gagged her--I'll go and see . . . [_The noise in Kostilyoff's room dies down gradually as if they had gone into the hallway. The old man's cry: "Stop!" is heard. A door is slammed noisily, and the latter sound cuts off all the other noises sharply. Quiet on the stage. Twilight._] KLESHTCH [_seated on the sledge, indifferently, rubbing his hands; mutters at first indistinguishably, then:_] What then? One must live. [_Louder_] Must have shelter--well? There's no shelter, no roof--nothing . . . there's only man--man alone--no hope . . . no help . . . [_Exit slowly, his head bent. A few moments of ominous silence, then somewhere in the hallway a mass of sounds, which grows in volume and comes nearer. Individual voices are heard._] VASSILISA. I'm her sister--let go . . . KOSTILYOFF. What right have you . . . ? VASSILISA. Jail-bird! SATINE. Call Vaska--quickly! Zob--hit him! [_A police whistle. The Tartar runs in, his right hand in a sling._] THE TARTAR. There's a new law for you--kill only in daytime! [_Enter Zob, followed by Miedviedieff._] ZOB. I handed him a good one! MIEDVIEDIEFF. You--how dare you fight? THE TARTAR. What about yourself? What's your duty? MIEDVIEDIEFF [_running after_] Stop--give back my whistle! KOSTILYOFF [_runs in_] Abram! Stop him! Hold him! He's a murderer--he . . . [_Enter Kvashnya and Nastya supporting Natasha who is disheveled. Satine backs away, pushing away Vassilisa who is trying to attack her sister, while, near her, Alyoshka jumps up and down like a madman, whistles into her ear, shrieking, roaring. Also other ragged men and women._] SATINE [_to Vassilisa_] Well--you damned bitch! VASSILISA. Let go, you jail-bird! I'll tear you to pieces--if I have to pay for it with my own life! KVASHNYA [_leading Natasha aside_] You--Karpovna--that's enough--stand back--aren't you ashamed? Or are you crazy? MIEDVIEDIEFF [_seizes Satine_] Aha--caught at last! SATINE. Zob--beat them up! Vaska--Vaska . . . [_They all, in a chaotic mass, struggle near the brick wall. They lead Natasha to the right, and set her on a pile of wood. Pepel rushes in from the hallway and, silently, with powerful movements, pushes the crowd aside._] PEPEL. Natalia, where are you . . . you . . . KOSTILYOFF [_disappearing behind a corner_] Abram! Seize Vaska! Comrades--help us get him! The thief! The robber! PEPEL. You--you old bastard! [_Aiming a terrific blow at Kostilyoff. Kostilyoff falls so that only the upper part of his body is seen. Pepel rushes to Natasha_] VASSILISA. Beat Vaska! Brothers! Beat the thief! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_yells to Satine_] Keep out of this--it's a family affair . . . they're relatives--and who are you . . . PEPEL [_to Natasha_] What did she do to you? She used a knife? KVASHNYA. God--what beasts! They've scalded the child's feet with boiling water! NASTYA. They overturned the samovar . . . THE TARTAR. Maybe an accident--you must make sure--you can't exactly tell . . . NATASHA [_half fainting_] Vassily--take me away-- VASSILISA. Good people! Come! Look! He's dead! Murdered! [_All crowd into the hallway near Kostilyoff. Bubnoff leaves the crowd and crosses to Pepel._] BUBNOFF [_in a low voice, to Pepel_] Vaska--the old man is done for! PEPEL [_looks at him, as though he does not understand_] Go--for help--she must be taken to the hospital . . . I'll settle with them . . . BUBNOFF. I say--the old man--somebody's killed him . . . [_The noise on the stage dies out like a fire under water. Distinct, whispered exclamations: "Not really?" "Well--let's go away, brothers!" "The devil!" "Hold on now!" "Let's get away before the police comes!" The crowd disappears. Bubnoff, the Tartar, Nastya, and Kvashnya, rush up to Kostilyoff's body._] VASSILISA [_rises and cries out triumphantly_] Killed--my husband's killed! Vaska killed him! I saw him! Brothers, I saw him! Well--Vasya--the police! PEPEL [_moves away from Natasha_] Let me alone. [_Looks at Kostilyoff; to Vassilisa_] Well--are you glad? [_Touches the corpse with his foot_] The old bastard is dead! Your wish has been granted! Why not do the same to you? [_Throws himself at her_] [_Satine and Zob quickly overpower him, and Vassilisa disappears in the passage._] SATINE. Come to your senses! ZOB. Hold on! Not so fast! VASSILISA [_appearing_] Well, Vaska, dear friend? You can't escape your fate. . . . Police--Abram--whistle! MIEDVIEDIEFF. Those devils tore my whistle off! ALYOSHKA. Here it is! [_Whistles, Miedviedieff runs after him_] SATINE [_leading Pepel to Natasha_] Don't be afraid, Vaska! Killed in a row! That's nonsense--only manslaughter--you won't have to serve a long term . . . VASSILISA. Hold Vaska--he killed him--I saw it! SATINE. I, too, gave the old man a couple of blows--he was easily fixed . . . you call me as witness, Vaska! PEPEL. I don't need to defend myself . . . I want to drag Vassilisa into this mess--and I'll do it--she was the one who wanted it . . . she was the one who urged me to kill him--she goaded me on . . . NATASHA [_sudden and loud_] Oh--I understand--so that's it, Vassily? Good people! They're both guilty--my sister and he--they're both guilty! They had it all planned! So, Vassily, that's why you spoke to me a while ago--so that she should overhear everything--? Good people! She's his mistress--you know it--everybody knows it--they're both guilty! She--she urged him to kill her husband--he was in their way--and so was I! And now they've maimed me . . . PEPEL. Natalia! What's the matter with you? What are you saying? SATINE. Oh--hell! VASSILISA. You lie. She lies. He--Vaska killed him . . . NATASHA. They're both guilty! God damn you both! SATINE. What a mix-up! Hold on, Vassily--or they'll ruin you between them! ZOB. I can't understand it--oh--what a mess! PEPEL. Natalia! It can't be true! Surely you don't believe that I--with her-- SATINE. So help me God, Natasha! Just think . . . VASSILISA [_in the passage_] They've killed my husband--Your Excellency! Vaska Pepel, the thief, killed him. Captain! I saw it--everybody saw it . . . NATASHA [_tossing about in agony; her mind wandering_] Good people--my sister and Vaska killed him! The police--listen--this sister of mine--here--she urged, coaxed her lover--there he stands--the scoundrel! They both killed him! Put them in jail! Bring them before the judge! Take me along, too! To prison! Christ Almighty--take me to prison, too! CURTAIN. ACT FOUR. _Same as Act I. But Pepel's room is no longer there, and the partition has been removed. Furthermore, there is no anvil at the place where Kleshtch used to sit and work. In the corner, where Pepel's room used to be, the Tartar lies stretched out, rather restless, and groaning from time to time. Kleshtch sits at one end of the table, repairing a concertina and now and then testing the stops. At the other end of the table sit Satine, the Baron, and Nastya. In front of them stand a bottle of vodka, three bottles of beer, and a large loaf of black bread. The Actor lies on top of the stove, shifting about and coughing. It is night. The stage is lit by a lamp in the middle of the table. Outside the wind howls._ KLESHTCH. Yes . . . he disappeared during the confusion and noise . . . THE BARON. He vanished under the very eyes of the police--just like a puff of smoke . . . SATINE. That's how sinners flee from the company of the righteous! NASTYA. He was a dear old soul! But you--you aren't men--you're just--oh--like rust on iron! THE BARON [_drinks_] Here's to you, my lady! SATINE. He was an inquisitive old fellow--yes! Nastenka here fell in love with him . . . NASTYA. Yes! I did! Madly! It's true! He saw everything--understood everything . . . SATINE [_laughing_] Yes, generally speaking, I would say that he was--oh--like mush to those who can't chew. . . . THE BARON [_laughing_] Right! Like plaster on a boil! KLESHTCH. He was merciful--you people don't know what pity means . . . SATINE. What good can I do you by pitying you? KLESHTCH. You needn't have pity--but you needn't harm or offend your fellow-beings, either! THE TARTAR [_sits up on his bunk, nursing his wounded hand carefully_] He was a fine old man. The law of life was the law of his heart . . . and he who obeys this law, is good, while he who disregards it, perishes . . . THE BARON. What law, Prince? THE TARTAR. There are a number--different ones--you know . . . THE BARON. Proceed! THE TARTAR. Do not do harm unto others--such is the law! SATINE. Oh--you mean the Penal Code, criminal and correctional, eh? THE BARON. And also the Code of Penalties inflicted by Justices of the Peace! THE TARTAR. No. I mean the Koran. It is the supreme law--and your own soul ought to be the Koran--yes! KLESHTCH [_testing his concertina_] It wheezes like all hell! But the Prince speaks the truth--one must live abiding by the law--by the teachings of the Gospels . . . SATINE. Well--go ahead and do it! THE BARON. Just try it! THE TARTAR. The Prophet Mohammed gave to us the law. He said: "Here is the law! Do as it is written therein!" Later on a time will arrive when the Koran will have outlived its purpose--and time will bring forth its own laws--every generation will create its own . . . SATINE. To be sure! Time passed on--and gave us--the Criminal Code . . . It's a strong law, brother--it won't wear off so very soon! NASTYA [_banging her glass on the table_] Why--why do I stay here--with you? I'll go away somewhere--to the ends of the world! THE BARON. Without any shoes, my lady? NASTYA. I'll go--naked, if must be--creeping on all fours! THE BARON. That'll be rather picturesque, my lady--on all fours! NASTYA. Yes--and I'll crawl if I have to--anything at all--as long as I don't have to see your faces any longer--oh, I'm so sick of it all--the life--the people--everything! SATINE. When you go, please take the actor along--he's preparing to go to the very same place--he has learned that within a half mile's distance of the end of the world there's a hospital for diseased organons . . . THE ACTOR [_raising his head over the top of the stove_] A hospital for organisms--you fool! SATINE. For organons--poisoned with vodka! THE ACTOR. Yes! He will go! He will indeed! You'll see! THE BARON. Who is he, sir? THE ACTOR. I! THE BARON. Thanks, servant of the goddess--what's her name--? The goddess of drama--tragedy--whatever is her name--? THE ACTOR. The muse, idiot! Not the goddess--the muse! SATINE. Lachesis--Hera--Aphrodite--Atropos--oh! To hell with them all! You see--Baron--it was the old man who stuffed the actor's head full with this rot . . . THE BARON. That old man's a fool . . . THE ACTOR. Ignoramuses! Beasts! Melpomene--that's her name! Heartless brutes! Bastards! You'll see! He'll go! "On with the orgy, dismal spirits!"--poem--ah--by Béranger! Yes--he'll find some spot where there's no--no . . . THE BARON. Where there's nothing, sir? THE ACTOR. Right! Nothing! "This hole shall be my grave--I am dying--ill and exhausted . . ." Why do you exist? Why? THE BARON. You! God or genius or orgy--or whatever you are--don't roar so loud! THE ACTOR. You lie! I'll roar all I want to! NASTYA [_lifting her head from the table and throwing up her hands_] Go on! Yell! Let them listen to you! THE BARON. Where is the sense, my lady? SATINE. Leave them alone, Baron! To hell with the lot! Let them yell--let them knock their damned heads off if they feel like it! There's a method in their madness! Don't you go and interfere with people as that old fellow did! Yes--it's he--the damned old fool--he bewitched the whole gang of us! KLESHTCH. He persuaded them to go away--but failed to show them the road . . . THE BARON. That old man was a humbug! NASTYA. Liar! You're a humbug yourself! THE BARON. Shut up, my lady! KLESHTCH. The old man didn't like truth very much--as a matter of fact he strongly resented it--and wasn't he right, though? Just look--where is there any truth? And yet, without it, you can't breathe! For instance, our Tartar Prince over there, crushed his hand at his work--and now he'll have to have his arm amputated--and there's the truth for you! SATINE [_striking the table with his clenched fist_] Shut up! You sons of bitches! Fools! Not another word about that old fellow! [_To the Baron_] You, Baron, are the worst of the lot! You don't understand a thing, and you lie like the devil! The old man's no humbug! What's the truth? Man! Man--that's the truth! He understood man--you don't! You're all as dumb as stones! I understand the old man--yes! He lied--but lied out of sheer pity for you . . . God damn you! Lots of people lie out of pity for their fellow-beings! I know! I've read about it! They lie--oh--beautifully, inspiringly, stirringly! Some lies bring comfort, and others bring peace--a lie alone can justify the burden which crushed a workman's hand and condemns those who are starving! I know what lying means! The weakling and the one who is a parasite through his very weakness--they both need lies--lies are their support, their shield, their armor! But the man who is strong, who is his own master, who is free and does not have to suck his neighbors' blood--he needs no lies! To lie--it's the creed of slaves and masters of slaves! Truth is the religion of the free man! THE BARON. Bravo! Well spoken! Hear, hear! I agree! You speak like an honest man! SATINE. And why can't a crook at times speak the truth--since honest people at times speak like crooks? Yes--I've forgotten a lot--but I still know a thing or two! The old man? Oh--he's wise! He affected me as acid affects a dirty old silver coin! Let's drink to his health! Fill the glasses . . . [_Nastya fills a glass with beer and hands it to Satine, who laughs_] The old man lives within himself . . . he looks upon all the world from his own angle. Once I asked him: "Grand-dad, why do people live?" [_Tries to imitate Luka's voice and gestures_] And he replied: "Why, my dear fellow, people live in the hope of something better! For example--let's say there are carpenters in this world, and all sorts of trash . . . people . . . and they give birth to a carpenter the like of which has never been seen upon the face of the earth . . . he's way above everybody else, and has no equal among carpenters! The brilliancy of his personality was reflected on all his trade, on all the other carpenters, so that they advanced twenty years in one day! This applies to all other trades--blacksmiths and shoemakers and other workmen--and all the peasants--and even the aristocrats live in the hopes of a higher life! Each individual thinks that he's living for his own Self, but in reality he lives in the hope of something better. A hundred years--sometimes longer--do we expect, live for the finer, higher life . . ." [_Nastya stares intently into Satine's face. Kleshtch stops working and listens. The Baron bows his head very low, drumming softly on the table with his fingers. The Actor, peering down from the stove, tries to climb noiselessly into the bunk_] "Every one, brothers, every one lives in the hope of something better. That's why we must respect each and every human being! How do we know who he is, why he was born, and what he is capable of accomplishing? Perhaps his coming into the world will prove to be our good fortune . . . Especially must we respect little children! Children--need freedom! Don't interfere with their lives! Respect children!" [_Pause_] THE BARON [_thoughtfully_] Hm--yes--something better?--That reminds me of my family . . . an old family dating back to the time of Catherine . . . all noblemen, soldiers, originally French . . . they served their country and gradually rose higher and higher. In the days of Nicholas the First my grandfather, Gustave DeBille, held a high post--riches--hundreds of serfs . . . horses--cooks-- NASTYA. You liar! It isn't true! THE BARON [_jumping up_] What? Well--go on-- NASTYA. It isn't true. THE BARON [_screams_] A house in Moscow! A house in Petersburg! Carriages! Carriages with coats of arms! [_Kleshtch takes his concertina and goes to one side, watching the scene with interest._] NASTYA. You lie! THE BARON. Shut up!--I say--dozens of footmen . . . NASTYA [_delighted_] You lie! THE BARON. I'll kill you! NASTYA [_ready to run away_] There were no carriages! SATINE. Stop, Nastenka! Don't infuriate him! THE BARON. Wait--you bitch! My grandfather . . . NASTYA. There was no grandfather! There was nothing! [_Satine roars with laughter._] THE BARON [_worn out with rage, sits down on bench_] Satine! Tell that slut--what--? You, too, are laughing? You--don't believe me either? [_Cries out in despair, pounding the table with his fists_] It's true--damn the whole lot of you! NASTYA [_triumphantly_] So--you're crying? Understand now what a human being feels like when nobody believes him? KLESHTCH [_returning to the table_] I thought there'd be a fight . . . THE TARTAR. Oh--people are fools! It's too bad . . . THE BARON. I shall not permit any one to ridicule me! I have proofs--documents--damn you! SATINE. Forget it! Forget about your grandfather's carriages! You can't drive anywhere in a carriage of the past! THE BARON. How dare she--just the same--? NASTYA. Just imagine! How dare I--? SATINE. You see--she does dare! How is she any worse than you are? Although, surely, in her past there wasn't even a father and mother, let alone carriages and a grandfather . . . THE BARON [_quieting down_] Devil take you--you do know how to argue dispassionately--and I, it seems--I've no will-power . . . SATINE. Acquire some--it's useful . . . [_Pause_] Nastya! Are you going to the hospital? NASTYA. What for? SATINE. To see Natashka. NASTYA. Oh--just woke up, did you? She's been out of the hospital for some time--and they can't find a trace of her . . . SATINE. Oh--that woman's a goner! KLESHTCH. It's interesting to see whether Vaska will get the best of Vassilisa, or the other way around--? NASTYA. Vassilisa will win out! She's shrewd! And Vaska will go to the gallows! SATINE. For manslaughter? No--only to jail . . . NASTYA. Too bad--the gallows would have been better . . . that's where all of you should be sent . . . swept off into a hole--like filth . . . SATINE [_astonished_] What's the matter? Are you crazy? THE BARON. Oh--give her a wallop--that'll teach her to be less impertinent . . . NASTYA. Just you try to touch me! THE BARON. I shall! SATINE. Stop! Don't insult her! I can't get the thought of the old man out of my head! [_Roars with laughter_] Don't offend your fellow-beings! Suppose I were offended once in such a way that I'd remember it for the rest of my life? What then? Should I forgive? No, no! THE BARON [_to Nastya_] You must understand that I'm not your sort . . . you--ah--you piece of dirt! NASTYA. You bastard! Why--you live off me like a worm off an apple! [_The men laugh amusedly._] KLESHTCH. Fool! An apple--? THE BARON. You can't be angry with her--she's just an ass-- NASTYA. You laugh! Liars? Don't strike you as funny, eh? THE ACTOR [_morosely_] Give them a good beating! NASTYA. If I only could! [_Takes a cup from the table and throws it on the floor_] That's what I'd like to do to you all! THE TARTAR. Why break dishes--eh--silly girl? THE BARON [_rising_] That'll do! I'll teach her manners in half a second! NASTYA [_running toward door_] Go to hell! SATINE [_calling after her_] Hey! That's enough! Whom are you trying to frighten? What's all the row about, anyway? NASTYA. Dogs! I hope you'll croak! Dogs! [_Runs out_] THE ACTOR [_morosely_] Amen! THE TARTAR. Allah! Mad women, these Russians! They're bold, wilful; Tartar women aren't like that! They know the law and abide by it. . . . KLESHTCH. She ought to be given a sound hiding! THE BARON. The slut! KLESHTCH [_testing the concertina_] It's ready! But its owner isn't here yet--that young fellow is burning his life away . . . SATINE. Care for a drink--now? KLESHTCH. Thanks . . . it's time to go to bed . . . SATINE. Getting used to us? KLESHTCH [_drinks, then goes to his bunk_] It's all right . . . there are people everywhere--at first you don't notice it . . . but after a while you don't mind. . . . [_The Tartar spreads some rags over his bunk, then kneels on them and prays._] THE BARON [_to Satine, pointing at the Tartar_] Look! SATINE. Stop! He's a good fellow! Leave him alone! [_Roars with laughter_] I feel kindly to-day--the devil alone knows the reason why . . . THE BARON. You always feel kindly when you're drunk--you're even wiser at such times . . . SATINE. When I'm drunk? Yes--then I like everything--right--He prays? That's fine! A man may believe or not--that's his own affair--a man is free--he pays for everything himself--belief or unbelief--love--wisdom . . . a man pays for everything--and that's just why he's free! Man is--truth! And what is man? It's neither you nor I nor they--oh, no--it's you and they and I and the old man--and Napoleon--Mohammed--all in one! [_Outlines vaguely in the air the contour of a human being_] Do you understand? It's tremendous! It contains the beginning and the end of everything--everything is in man--and everything exists for him! Man alone exists--everything else is the creation of his hands and his brain! Man! It is glorious! It sounds--oh--so big! Man must be respected--not degraded with pity--but respected, respected! Let us drink to man, Baron! [_Rises_] It is good to feel that you are a man! I'm a convict, a murderer, a crook--granted!--When I'm out on the street people stare at me as if I were a scoundrel--they draw away from me--they look after me and often they say: "You dog! You humbug! Work!" Work? And what for? to fill my belly? [_Roars with laughter_] I've always despised people who worry too much about their bellies. It isn't right, Baron! It isn't! Man is loftier than that! Man stands above hunger! THE BARON. You--reason things out. . . . Well and good--it brings you a certain amount of consolation. . . . Personally I'm incapable of it . . . I don't know how. [_Glances around him and then, softly, guardedly_] Brother--I am afraid--at times. Do you understand? Afraid!--Because--what next? SATINE. Rot! What's a man to be afraid of? THE BARON [_pacing up and down_] You know--as far back as I can remember, there's been a sort of fog in my brain. I was never able to understand anything. Somehow I feel embarrassed--it seems to me that all my life I've done nothing but change clothes--and why? I don't understand! I studied--I wore the uniform of the Institute for the Sons of the Nobility . . . but what have I learned? I don't remember! I married--I wore a frock-coat--then a dressing-gown . . . but I chose a disagreeable wife . . . and why? I don't understand. I squandered everything that I possessed--I wore some sort of a grey jacket and brick-colored trousers--but how did I happen to ruin myself? I haven't the slightest idea. . . . I had a position in the Department of State. . . . I wore a uniform and a cap with insignia of rank. . . . I embezzled government funds . . . so they dressed me in a convict's garb--and later on I got into these clothes here--and it all happened as in a dream--it's funny . . . SATINE. Not very! It's rather--silly! THE BARON. Yes--silly! I think so, too. Still--wasn't I born for some sort of purpose? SATINE [_laughing_] Probably--a man is born to conceive a better man. [_Shaking his head_]--It's all right! THE BARON. That she-devil Nastka! Where did she run to? I'll go and see--after all, she . . . [_Exit; pause_] THE ACTOR. Tartar! [_Pause_] Prince! [_The Tartar looks round_] Say a prayer for me . . . THE TARTAR. What? THE ACTOR [_softly_] Pray--for me! THE TARTAR [_after a silence_] Pray for your own self! THE ACTOR [_quickly crawls off the stove and goes to the table, pours out a drink with shaking hands, drinks, then almost runs to passage_] All over! SATINE. Hey, proud Sicambrian! Where are you going? [_Satine whistles. Miedviedieff enters, dressed in a woman's flannel shirt-waist; followed by Bubnoff. Both are slightly drunk. Bubnoff carries a bunch of pretzels in one hand, a couple of smoked fish in the other, a bottle of vodka under one arm, another bottle in his coat pocket._] MIEDVIEDIEFF. A camel is something like a donkey--only it has no ears. . . . BUBNOFF. Shut up! You're a variety of donkey yourself! MIEDVIEDIEFF. A camel has no ears at all, at all--it hears through its nostrils . . . BUBNOFF [_to Satine_] Friend! I've looked for you in all the saloons and all the cabarets! Take this bottle--my hands are full . . . SATINE. Put the pretzels on the table--then you'll have one hand free-- BUBNOFF. Right! Hey--you donkey--look! Isn't he a clever fellow? MIEDVIEDIEFF. All crooks are clever--I know! They couldn't do a thing without brains. An honest man is all right even if he's an idiot . . . but a crook must have brains. But, speaking about camels, you're wrong . . . you can ride them--they have no horns . . . and no teeth either . . . BUBNOFF. Where's everybody? Why is there no one here? Come on out . . . I treat! Who's in the corner? SATINE. How soon will you drink up everything you have? Scarecrow! BUBNOFF. Very soon! I've very little this time. Zob--where's Zob? KLESHTCH [_crossing to table_] He isn't here . . . BUBNOFF. Waughrr! Bull-dog! Brr-zz-zz!--Turkey-cock! Don't bark and don't growl! Drink--make merry--and don't be sullen!--I treat everybody--Brother, I love to treat--if I were rich, I'd run a free saloon! So help me God, I would! With an orchestra and a lot of singers! Come, every one! Drink and eat--listen to the music--and rest in peace! Beggars--come, all you beggars--and enter my saloon free of charge! Satine--you can have half my capital--just like that! SATINE. You better give me all you have straight away! BUBNOFF. All my capital? Right now? Well--here's a ruble--here's twenty kopecks--five kopecks--sun flower seeds--and that's all! SATINE. That's splendid! It'll be safer with me--I'll gamble with it . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. I'm a witness--the money was given you for safe-keeping. How much is it? BUBNOFF. You? You're a camel--we don't need witnesses . . . ALYOSHKA [_comes in barefoot_] Brothers, I got my feet wet! BUBNOFF. Go on and get your throat wet--and nothing'll happen--you're a fine fellow--you sing and you play--that's all right! But it's too bad you drink--drink, little brother, is harmful, very harmful . . . ALYOSHKA. I judge by you! Only when you're drunk do you resemble a human being . . . Kleshtch! Is my concertina fixed? [_Sings and dances_] "If my mug were not so attractive, My sweetheart wouldn't love me at all . . ." Boys, I'm frozen--it's cold . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF. Hm--and may I ask who's this sweetheart? BUBNOFF. Shut up! From now on, brother, you are neither a policeman nor an uncle! ALYOSHKA. Just auntie's husband! BUBNOFF. One of your nieces is in jail--the other one's dying . . . MIEDVIEDIEFF [_proudly_] You lie! She's not dying--she disappeared--without trace . . . [_Satine roars._] BUBNOFF. All the same, brothers--a man without nieces isn't an uncle! ALYOSHKA. Your Excellency! Listen to the drummer of the retired billygoats' brigade! [_Sings_] "My sweetheart has money, I haven't a cent. But I'm a cheerful, Merry lad!" Oh--isn't it cold! [_Enter Zob. From now until the final curtain men and women drift in, undress, and stretch out on the bunks, grumbling._] ZOB. Bubnoff! Why did you run off? BUBNOFF. Come here--sit down--brother, let's sing my favorite ditty, eh? THE TARTAR. Night was made for sleep! Sing your songs in the daytime! SATINE. Well--never mind, Prince--come here! THE TARTAR. What do you mean--never mind? There's going to be a noise--there always is when people sing! BUBNOFF [_crossing to the Tartar_] Count--ah--I mean Prince--how's your hand? Did they cut it off? THE TARTAR. What for? We'll wait and see--perhaps it won't be necessary . . . a hand isn't made of iron--it won't take long to cut it off . . . ZOB. It's your own affair, Hassanka! You'll be good for nothing without your hand. We're judged by our hands and backs--without the pride of your hand, you're no longer a human being. Tobacco-carting--that's your business! Come on--have a drink of vodka--and stop worrying! KVASHNYA [_comes in_] Ah, my beloved fellow-lodgers! It's horrible outside--snow and slush . . . is my policeman here? MIEDVIEDIEFF. Right here! KVASHNYA. Wearing my blouse again? And drunk, eh? What's the idea? MIEDVIEDIEFF. In celebration of Bubnoff's birthday . . . besides, it's cold . . . KVASHNYA. Better look out--stop fooling about and go to sleep! MIEDVIEDIEFF [_goes to kitchen_] Sleep? I can--I want to--it's time--[_Exit_] SATINE. What's the matter? Why are you so strict with him? KVASHNYA. You can't be otherwise, friend. You have to be strict with his sort. I took him as a partner. I thought he'd be of some benefit to me--because he's a military man--and you're a rough lot . . . and I am a woman--and now he's turned drunkard--that won't do at all! SATINE. You picked a good one for partner! KVASHNYA. Couldn't get a better one. You wouldn't want to live with me . . . you think you're too fine! And even if you did it wouldn't last more than a week . . . you gamble me and all I own away at cards! SATINE [_roars with laughter_] That's true, landlady--I'd gamble . . . KVASHNYA. Yes, yes. Alyoshka! ALYOSHKA. Here he is--I, myself! KVASHNYA. What do you mean by gossiping about me? ALYOSHKA. I? I speak out everything--whatever my conscience tells me. There, I say, is a wonderful woman! Splendid meat, fat, bones--over four hundred pounds! But brains--? Not an ounce! KVASHNYA. You're a liar! I've lot of brains! What do you mean by saying I beat my policeman? ALYOSHKA. I thought you did--when you pulled him by the hair! KVASHNYA [_laughs_] You fool! You aren't blind, are you? Why wash dirty linen in public? And--it hurts his feelings--that's why he took to drink . . . ALYOSHKA. It's true, evidently, that even a chicken likes vodka . . . [_Satine and Kleshtch roar with laughter._] KVASHNYA. Go on--show your teeth! What sort of a man are you anyway, Alyoshka? ALYOSHKA. Oh--I am first-rate! Master of all trades! I follow my nose! BUBNOFF [_near the Tartar's bunk_] Come on! At all events--we won't let you sleep! We'll sing all night. Zob! ZOB. Sing--? All right . . . ALYOSHKA. And I'll play . . . SATINE. We'll listen! THE TARTAR [_smiling_] Well--Bubnoff--you devil--bring the vodka--we'll drink--we'll have a hell of a good time! The end will come soon enough--and then we'll be dead! BUBNOFF. Fill his glass, Satine! Zob--sit down! Ah--brothers--what does a man need after all? There, for instance, I've had a drink--and I'm happy! Zob! Start my favorite song! I'll sing--and then I'll cry. . . . ZOB [_begins to sing_] "The sun rises and sets . . ." BUBNOFF [_joining in_] "But my prison is all dark. . . ." [_Door opens quickly._] THE BARON [_on the threshold; yells_] Hey--you--come--come here! Out in the waste--in the yard . . . over there . . . The actor--he's hanged himself. . . . [_Silence. All stare at the Baron. Behind him appears Nastya, and slowly, her eyes wide with horror, she walks to the table._] SATINE [_in a matter-of-fact voice_] Damned fool--he ruined the song . . . ! CURTAIN. Transcriber's Note This transcription is based on images digitized by the University of Connecticut and posted by the Internet Archive at: https://archive.org/details/lowerdepthsdrama00gork In general, this transcription attempts to retain the formatting, punctuation and spelling of the source text. The following changes were noted: -- p. 8: I'm sick myself--poisoned with alchohol . . .--Changed "alchohol" to "alcohol". -- The portrait of Gorky originally between pages 26 and 27 was moved so that it appears after page 28, between Acts One and Two. -- p. 50: SATINE [_screams_] The dead can't hear . . . the dead do not feel--Scream!--Roar! . . . the deaf don't hear!--A hand-written note in the source images changed the word "deaf" to "dead". To verify the change, translations by David Magarshack, in _The Storm and Other Russian Plays_ (New York: Hill and Wang, 1960), Edwin Hopkins (first published in the Winter 1905 issue of _Poet Lore_ as "A Night's Lodging"), and Laurence Irving (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1912?) were checked. As a result, the line "the deaf don't hear!" was changed to "the dead don't hear!" -- p. 72: You can't escape your fate. . . . police--Abram--whistle!--Capitalized "police" for consistency. -- p. 75: The law of life was the law of his heart. . . . and he who obeys this law, is good--The period preceding the ellipsis was deleted for consistency. 
26665	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] THE CAUSE OF IT ALL A PLAY IN TWO ACTS CHARACTERS AKULÍNA. An old woman of seventy, brisk, dignified, old-fashioned. MICHAEL. Her son, thirty-five years old, passionate, self-satisfied, vain and strong. MARTHA. Her daughter-in-law, a grumbler, speaks much and rapidly. PARÁSHKA. Ten years old, daughter of Martha and Michael. TARÁS. The village elder's assistant, speaks slowly and gives himself airs. A TRAMP. Forty years old, restless, thin, speaks impressively; when drunk is particularly free and easy. IGNÁT. Forty years old, a buffoon, merry and stupid. THE CAUSE OF IT ALL ACT I Autumn. A peasant's hut, with a small room partitioned off. Akulína sits spinning; Martha the housewife is kneading bread; little Paráshka is rocking a cradle. MARTHA. Oh dear, my heart feels heavy! I know it means trouble; there's nothing to keep him there. It will again be like the other day, when he went to town to sell the firewood and drank nearly half of it. And he blames me for everything. AKULÍNA. Why look for trouble? It is still early, and the town is a long way off. For the present ... MARTHA. What do you mean by early? Akímych is back already. He started after Michael but Michael's not back yet! It's worry worry all day long; that's all the pleasure one gets. AKULÍNA. Akímych took his load straight to a customer; but our man took his to sell at the market. MARTHA. If he were alone I shouldn't worry, but Ignát is with him; and when he's with that lousy hound (God forgive me!), he's sure to get drunk. Early and late one toils and moils. Everything is on our shoulders! If one only got anything by it! But no! hustling about all day long is all the pleasure one gets. Door opens and Tarás enters with a ragged Tramp. TARÁS. Good day to you! I've brought a man who wants a night's lodging.[1] [1] It is customary for the village authorities to quarter tramps on each peasant household in a village in turn, or in such order as appears convenient. TRAMP [bows] My respects to you. MARTHA. Why do you bring them to us so often? We put up a tramp last Wednesday night; you always bring them to us. You should make Stepanída put them up; there are no children there. It's more than I can do to look after my own family, and you always bring these people to us. TARÁS. Everyone in turn has to put them up. MARTHA. It's all very well to say "everyone in turn," but I have children, and besides, the master is not at home to-day. TARÁS. Never mind, let the fellow sleep here to-night; he'll not wear out the place he lies on. AKULÍNA [to Tramp] Come in and sit down, and be our guest. TRAMP. I tender my gratitude. I should like a bite of something, if possible. MARTHA. You haven't had time to look round, and want to eat already. Didn't you beg anything in the village? TRAMP [sighs] I'm not in the habit of begging because of my position, and having no producks of my own ... Akulína rises, goes to the table, takes a loaf of bread, cuts a slice, and gives it to the Tramp. TRAMP [taking the bread] Merci.[2] [Sits down on the bench and eats greedily]. [2] The tramp, who has had some acquaintance with educated Revolutionaries, tries to introduce foreign words, or words not generally used by workmen, into his talk. In this instance he used the French word _merci_ instead of the plain "thank you." TARÁS. And where is Michael? MARTHA. Why, he took hay to the town. It's time he was back, but he's not here. Something must have happened. TARÁS. Why, what should happen? MARTHA. What indeed? Not anything good; it's only bad one has to expect. As soon as he's out of the house he forgets all about us! I expect he'll come back tipsy! AKULÍNA [sitting down to spin, points at Martha and says to Tarás] It's not in her to be quiet. As I always say, we women must find something to grumble about. MARTHA. If he were alone I should not be afraid, but he went with Ignát. TARÁS [smiling] Ah well, Ignát Ivánovich certainly is fond of a drop of vódka. AKULÍNA. Doesn't he know what Ignát is like! Ignát is one man, and our Michael's another. MARTHA. It's all very well for you to talk, mother; but I'm sick of his drinking. While he is sober it would be a sin to complain of him, but when he's drunk, you know what he is like. One can't say a word; everything is wrong. TARÁS. Yes, but look at you women too; a man has a drink. Well, he swaggers about a bit, and sleeps it off, and everything goes on all right; but then the likes of you keep on nagging at him. MARTHA. When he's drunk there's no pleasing him, do what you will. TARÁS. But you should understand that we can't help having a drop now and then. Your woman's business is at home, but the likes of us must have a drop when we're on business, or for company's sake. Well, so one drinks, and where is the harm? MARTHA. You may talk, but it's hard on us women. Oh, how hard it is! If one harnessed you men to our work just for a week, you would sing a different tune. Kneading, cooking, baking, spinning, weaving, and the cattle to look after, and all the rest of it, and the brats to keep washed and clothed and fed; it's all on our shoulders, and if anything is the least bit not to his fancy, there you are, especially when he's drunk. Oh dear, what a life ours is! TRAMP [chewing] That's quite correct. It's the cause of it all; I mean all the catastrophes of life proceed from alcoholic liquors. TARÁS. It seems to have bowled you over too! TRAMP. No, not exactly that, though I have suffered from that too. The career of my life might have been different but for the drink. TARÁS. Now, to my thinking, if you drink reasonably, there's no manner of harm in it. TRAMP. But I say that it is so strong that it may completely ruin a man. MARTHA. That's what I say: you worry and do your best, and the only comfort you get is to be scolded and beaten like a dog. TRAMP. And that's not all. There are some people, persons I mean, that are quite deprived of their reason through it and commit entirely inappropriate actions. While he does not drink, give him anything you like and he won't take what is not his; but when drunk, he grabs whatever comes handy. Many a time one gets beaten and put in prison. As long as I don't drink, all goes honestly and honourably, but as soon as I drink, I mean as soon as that same person drinks, he at once begins grabbing whatever comes his way. AKULÍNA. And I think it's all in oneself. TRAMP. Of course it's in oneself as long as one is well, but this is a kind of disease. TARÁS. A nice kind of disease. A good hiding would soon cure that disease. Well, goodbye for the present. [Exit]. MARTHA [wipes her hands and turns to go]. AKULÍNA [sees that the Tramp has finished his bread] Martha, I say, Martha! Cut him another piece. MARTHA. Bother him, I must get the samovár to boil. [Exit]. Akulína rises, goes to the table, cuts a chunk of bread and gives it to the Tramp. TRAMP. _Merci_, I have acquired a great appetite. AKULÍNA. Are you a workman? TRAMP. Who? I? I was a mechanic. AKULÍNA. And what wages did you get? TRAMP. I used to get fifty, and even seventy roubles, a month. AKULÍNA. That's a good lot! Then how have you come down so low? TRAMP. Come down! I'm not the only one. I've come down because the times are such that it is impossible for an honest man to live. MARTHA [brings in the samovár] Oh Lord! it's certain sure he'll come home drunk. I feel it in my heart. AKULÍNA. I'm afraid he must really have gone on the spree. MARTHA. There it is. One struggles and struggles and kneads and bakes and cooks and spins and weaves and tends the cattle; everything on one's own shoulders. [The baby in the cradle cries] Paráshka, rock the boy. Oh dear, what a life it is for us women. And when he is drunk, nothing is right!... If one only says a word he doesn't like ... AKULÍNA [making the tea] And this is the last of the tea. Did you tell him to get some? MARTHA. Of course. He said he would, but he'll have forgotten all about his home!... [She puts the samovár on the table]. The Tramp moves away. AKULÍNA. Why do you leave the table? We are going to drink tea. TRAMP. I tender my gratitude for the hearty hospitality. [Throws away the cheap cigar[3] he was smoking and comes to the table]. [3] The "cigar" will have probably consisted of some bad tobacco rolled up in a bit of newspaper. MARTHA. And what sort do you belong to? Peasants, or some other? TRAMP. Well, I'm not of the peasant class, nor of the aristocracy. I'm of the double-edged class. MARTHA. What's that? [hands him a cup of tea]. TRAMP. _Merci._ Why this; that my father was a Polish Count, and besides him I had many others; and I also had two mothers. In general my biography presents many difficulties. MARTHA. Have another cup? Well, did you get any learning? TRAMP. My learning has also been very uncircumstantial. Not my mother, but my godmother apprenticed me to a blacksmith. That blacksmith was my first perdagogue; and his perdagogy consisted in this--that he did not beat his anvil as often as he beat my unfortunate head. Nevertheless, however much he hit me, he could not deprive me of talent. Then I went to a locksmith's, and there I was appreciated, and became foreman. I made acquaintance with educated people, and belonged to a political faction. I was able to master intellectual literature; and my life might have been elevated for I possessed immense talent. AKULÍNA. Of course. TRAMP. But here came an upset. The despotic yoke oppressing the life of the people! I got into prison; I mean, I suffered the incarceration of freedom. MARTHA. What for? TRAMP. For our rights. MARTHA. What rights? TRAMP. What rights? Why the rights that the bourgeois should not feast continually, and that the labouring proletariat might reap the rewards of labour. AKULÍNA. And get back the land, I suppose? TRAMP. Well naturally. The Agromoric question too. AKULÍNA. May God and the Holy Queen of Heaven grant it. We are that pressed for land. Well, and how are things now? TRAMP. Now? I am off to Moscow. I shall go to an exploiter of labour. Can't be helped; I shall humble myself and say--give me what work you will, only take me. AKULÍNA. Well, have some more tea. TRAMP. Thank you; _merci_ I mean. Noise and talk in the passage outside. AKULÍNA. Here's Michael, just in time for tea. MARTHA [rises] Oh, my goodness, Ignát is with him! That means he's drunk. Michael and Ignát stagger in. IGNÁT. How are you all? [Crosses himself before the icon] Here we are, damn you, just in time for tea. We went to church, service was done; we went to dine, all eaten and gone; to the pub, we went in, just time to begin. Ha, ha, ha! You give us some tea and we'll give you some vódka. That's fair. [Laughs]. MICHAEL. Where has this swell come from? [Points to Tramp. Takes a bottle from the bosom of his coat and puts it on the table] Bring some cups. AKULÍNA. Well, did you get on all right? IGNÁT. Nothing could be better, damn you; drank, and had a spree, and have brought some home. MICHAEL [fills the cups with vódka, hands one to his mother and then one to the Tramp] Drink, you too! TRAMP [taking cup] I offer most heartfelt thanks. Your health. [Empties the cup]. IGNÁT. Fine fellow, how he swills, damn him! I should think hunger makes it run through all his veins. [Pours out some more]. TRAMP [drinks] I wish you success in all your undertakings. AKULÍNA. Well, did you get a good price for the hay? IGNÁT. Good or bad, we've drunk it all, damn you! Am I right, Michael? MICHAEL. Why, of course. It's not made to be looked at! One must have some fun once in a hundred years. MARTHA. What are you swaggering for? There's not much good in that. We've nothing to eat at home, and see what you're doing. MICHAEL [threateningly] Martha! MARTHA. Well, what of Martha? I know I'm Martha. Oh, it makes me sick to look at you. MICHAEL. Martha, look! MARTHA. There's nothing to see. I don't want to look. MICHAEL. Pour out the vódka and serve it round to our visitors. MARTHA. Faugh, you bleary-eyed hound. I don't want to speak to you. MICHAEL. You don't? Ah, you baggage, what did you say? MARTHA [rocks cradle. Paráshka is frightened and comes to her] What I said? I said I do not want to talk to you, that's all. MICHAEL. Have you forgotten? [Jumps up from the table, strikes her on the head and knocks off her kerchief] One! MARTHA. Oh! Oh! Oh! [Runs crying to the door]. MICHAEL. You'll not get away, you jade! [Rushes at her]. TRAMP [jumps up from the table and seizes his arm] You have no kind of complete right. MICHAEL [stops and looks at Tramp with surprise] Is it long since you had a thrashing? TRAMP. You have no complete right to subject the female sex to insults. MICHAEL. Oh, you son of a bitch! Do you see this? [Shows his fist]. TRAMP. I will not allow exploitations to be performed on the female sex. MICHAEL. I'll give you such an extolpation that you'll not know which end you stand on.... TRAMP. Go on, strike away! Why don't you? [Holds out his face]. MICHAEL [shrugs his shoulders and spreads out his arms] Suppose I really go for you? TRAMP. I tell you, strike! MICHAEL. Well, you are a rum chap, now I come to look at you. [Drops his arms and shakes his head]. IGNÁT [to Tramp] One sees at once that you're pretty sweet on the women, damn you! TRAMP. I stand up for their rights. MICHAEL [to Martha as, breathing heavily, he steps to the table] Well Martha, you must set a big candle before the saints for his sake. But for him, I'd have beaten you to a jelly. MARTHA. What else can one expect of you. One worries all one's life, baking and cooking; and as soon as ... MICHAEL. Now, have done, have done! [Offers vódka to the Tramp] Drink. [To his wife] And what are you slobbering for? Mayn't a fellow have his joke? There you are [gives her money], put it away. Here are two three-rouble notes and two twenty-copeck pieces. MARTHA. And the tea and sugar I wanted? MICHAEL [takes parcel from his pocket and hands it to his wife. Martha takes the money and the parcel and goes into the little room, silently arranging the kerchief on her head] What an unreasonable lot these women are. [He again offers vódka to the Tramp] There, drink. TRAMP [declining it] Drink it yourself. MICHAEL. Come now, don't fuss. TRAMP [drinking] Success to you. IGNÁT [to Tramp] You must have seen many a strange sight, I suppose. Oh, what a fine coat you've got! Latest fashion. Where did you get it from? [pointing to Tramp's tattered jacket]. Don't you mend it, it's fine as it is! It's getting on in years, I fancy. Well, it can't be helped. If I had one like it, the women would be sweet on me too! [To Martha] Ain't that true? AKULÍNA. You should not, Ignát Iványch. Before seeing anything of him, why go and hold up a man to laughter? TRAMP. It comes of his uneducatedness. IGNÁT. I'm doing it friendly-like. Drink [offers vódka]. AKULÍNA. He says himself--it's the cause of all evil--and he's been in prison because of it. MICHAEL. What were you in prison for? TRAMP [very drunk] I've suffered for expropriation. MICHAEL. What's that? TRAMP. Why, this way. Came up to a fat paunch: "Give up your money, else here's a levolver."[4] He tries this way and that, but forks out 2,300 roubles. [4] As usual he mispronounces his word and calls a "revolver" "a levolver." AKULÍNA. Oh Lord! TRAMP. We meant to dispose of it the proper way. Zembrikóf was our leader. Then those ravens swooped down on us. At once under arrest, and into prison. IGNÁT. And took the money away? TRAMP. Of course. Only they could not convict me. At the trial the procurator said these words to me: "You've stolen money" says he; and I answer him straight: "Thieves steal, but we have performed an expropriation for our Party." And he didn't know what to say. He tried this way and that, but couldn't answer me. "Lead him," says he, "to prison," that is--to the incarceration of free life. IGNÁT. Clever dog! A regular brick! [Offering vódka] Drink, damn you. AKULÍNA. Fie, how nastily you speak! IGNÁT. I, Grannie? I don't mean it for abuse; it's a manner of speech of mine. Damn you, damn you!... Your good health, Grannie. MARTHA [returns and stands at the table pouring out tea]. MICHAEL. That's right. Fancy taking offence! I say, it's thanks to him. [To Tramp] What do you think? [Embraces Martha] I cherish my old woman. See, how I cherish her. In a word, my old woman is first-rate. I would not change her for anybody. IGNÁT. There, that's good. Grannie, drink! I stand treat. TRAMP. What it means--the power of enershy! One was in a state of melancholy, and now there's nothing but pleasantness and friendly disposition. Grannie, I feel much love for you and for everybody. Brothers dear [sings revolutionary song]. MICHAEL. It has got right hold of him in his hunger. ACT II Same hut. Morning Martha and Akulína. Michael is asleep MARTHA [takes hatchet] I must go and chop some firewood. AKULÍNA [with a pail] He'd have beaten you black and blue yesterday, had it not been for that fellow. I don't see him. Has he gone? I suppose he has. [Exit one after the other]. MICHAEL [climbs down from the top of the oven] Just look, the sun's already quite high. [Puts on his boots] She must have gone to fetch water with mother. How my head aches! I won't do it again; the devil take it! [Crosses himself before the icon, prays, and then washes his hands and face] I'll go and harness. Enter Martha with firewood. MARTHA. And yesterday's beggar? Has he gone? MICHAEL. Must have gone. Can't see him. MARTHA. Oh well, let him go. He seemed a clever chap though. MICHAEL. He took your part! MARTHA. What of that! Michael puts on his coat. MARTHA. And the tea and sugar? Did you put them away last night, eh? MICHAEL. I thought you did. Enter Akulína with a pail of water. MARTHA [to Akulína] Mother, have you taken the parcel? AKULÍNA. No, I know nothing about it. I haven't seen it. MARTHA. Last night, I put it on the window-sill. AKULÍNA. Yes, I saw it there. MARTHA. Where can it be? [They look for it]. AKULÍNA. Dear me, what a shame! Enter Neighbour. NEIGHBOUR. Well Michael Tikhónych, are we to go for the wood? MICHAEL. Yes, of course. I'm just going to harness; but you see we've lost something. NEIGHBOUR. Dear me! What is it? MARTHA. Why, you see, my old man brought a parcel from town yesterday, with tea and sugar in it, and I put it down here on the window-sill and didn't remember to put it away; and now it's gone. MICHAEL. And we're committing the sin of suspecting a tramp who spent the night here. NEIGHBOUR. What sort of tramp? MARTHA. Well, he's rather thin and has no beard. MICHAEL. His coat's all in rags. NEIGHBOUR. Curly hair and rather hooked nose? MICHAEL. Yes, yes! NEIGHBOUR. I've just met him, and wondered why he was stepping out so fast. MICHAEL. It must be him. Where was he? NEIGHBOUR. I don't think he can have crossed the bridge yet. MICHAEL [snatches up his cap and goes out quickly, followed by the Neighbour] I'll catch the knave. It's him. MARTHA. Oh, what a shame, what a shame! It's surely him. AKULÍNA. And suppose it's not. It happened once, some twenty years ago, that they accused a man of having stolen a horse. A crowd collected. One says: "I myself saw him catching it." Another says he saw him leading it. It was a big piebald horse, easily noticed. All the people began searching for it, and in the forest they found the lad. "It's you," they say. He protests and swears it was not him. They say: "What's the good of listening to him; the women said quite certainly it's him." Then he said something rude. George Lapúshkin (he's dead now) was a hot-tempered man. He dashed at him slap bang, and struck him on the mouth. "It was you," said he, and hit out at him. Then all the others fell on him and began beating him with sticks and fists till they killed him. And what do you think!.... Next day the real thief was found. The lad they killed had only gone into the forest to choose a tree to cut down. MARTHA. Yes, of course, we may be sinning against him. He has come down very low, but seemed a good fellow. AKULÍNA. Yes, he has sunk very low. One can't expect much from the likes of him. MARTHA. They're shouting. I expect they're bringing him back. Enter Michael, Neighbour, an old man and a lad, pushing the Tramp before them. MICHAEL [with the parcel in his hands, excitedly to his wife] It was found on him. [To Tramp] You thief! You dog! AKULÍNA [to Martha] It's him, poor soul. See how he hangs his head. MARTHA. It seems it was himself he spoke about yesterday that grabs anything that's handy when he's had some drink. TRAMP. I'm not a thief; I'm an expropriator. I am a worker and must live. You can't understand it. Do what you like with me. NEIGHBOUR. Take him to the village Elder or straight to the police! TRAMP. I tell you, do whatever you like. I am not afraid, and am ready to suffer for my convictions. If you were educated you would understand. MARTHA [to her husband] Suppose we let him go, in God's name. We've got the parcel back. Let him go and let's not commit another sin. MICHAEL [repeating] "Another sin!" Taken to teaching? One wouldn't know what to do without you, eh? MARTHA. Why not let him go? MICHAEL. "Let him go!" One knows what to do without you, you fool. "Let him go!" Go he may, but he must hear a word or two so that he should feel. [To Tramp] Well then, listen, you sir, to what I have to say to you. Though you are in a very low state, still you have done very wrong--very wrong. Another man would have caved your ribs in, and have taken you to the police; but I will only say this. You've done wrong, as wrong as may be; only you are in a very bad way and I don't want to hurt you. [Pauses. Everyone is silent. Then he continues solemnly] Go, and God be with you, and do not do it again. [Looks at his wife] And you want to teach me! NEIGHBOUR. You shouldn't, Michael; oh, you should not. You're encouraging that sort of thing. MICHAEL [the parcel still in his hand] Whether I should or not is my business. [To his wife] And you tried to teach me! [Stops, looks at the parcel, then at his wife, and gives it to the Tramp with decision] Take it, you can drink it on the way. [To wife] And you wanted to teach me! [To Tramp] Go, you've been told to go. Then go, and no palavering. TRAMP [takes parcel. Silence] You think I don't understand. [His voice trembles] I fully understand. Had you beaten me like a dog, it would have felt less hard. Don't I understand what I am? I am a rascal, a degenerate, I mean. Forgive me for the Lord's sake. [Sobs, throws the parcel on the table, and goes out hurriedly]. MARTHA. A good thing he didn't take the tea, or we should have had none to drink. MICHAEL [to wife] And you wanted to teach me! NEIGHBOUR. How he cried, poor soul. AKULÍNA. He too was a man. [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. when he's with that lousey hound (God forgive me!), he's sure to get when he's with that lousy hound (God forgive me!), he's sure to get went to dine, all eaten and gone; to the pub. we went in, just time to went to dine, all eaten and gone; to the pub, we went in, just time to MICHAEL. It has got right hold of him in his hunger MICHAEL. It has got right hold of him in his hunger. ] 
26660	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book only contains the front matter of Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The individual plays have been posted as separate Project Gutenberg e-books; they are linked to from this book's HTML version. For reference, here is a list of their e-book numbers: 26661: The Power of Darkness 26662: The First Distiller 26663: Fruits of Culture 26664: The Live Corpse 26665: The Cause of it All 26666: The Light Shines in Darkness ] From LEO TOLSTOY concerning the translation of his works by LOUISE and AYLMER MAUDE:-- "Better translators, both for knowledge of the two languages and for penetration into the very meaning of the matter translated, could not be invented." [Illustration: Leo Tolstoy.] LEO TOLSTOY PLAYS Translated by LOUISE AND AYLMER MAUDE COMPLETE EDITION INCLUDING THE POSTHUMOUS PLAYS FOURTH IMPRESSION NEW YORK FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 1919 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS LEO TOLSTOY (Photogravure Portrait) Frontispiece MATRYÓNA GIVES ANÍSYA THE POWDERS Facing page 12 I'M NOT ASHAMED OF MY PARENT " " 51 HER BOX IS FULL AS IT IS " " 53 YOU TELL ME NOT TO FEAR MEN? " " 91 WELL, DEAR, AND WHAT PROGRESSION IS OUR BUSINESS MAKING? " " 174 THERE, YOU SEE! YOU ARE BEING MADE A FOOL OF " " 223 CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE ix Plays published during Tolstoy's life THE POWER OF DARKNESS (1886) 3 THE FIRST DISTILLER (1886) 97 FRUITS OF CULTURE (1889) 125 Posthumous Plays THE LIVE CORPSE 229 THE CAUSE OF IT ALL 303 THE LIGHT SHINES IN DARKNESS 321 PREFACE _The Power of Darkness_, Tolstoy's first and greatest play, was not written until he was fifty-eight years of age, and it was not allowed to be performed in Russia till some years later. Both there and elsewhere abroad it was highly successful on the stage, as was also the comedy, _Fruits of Culture_, which he wrote three years later, to be performed by his own family and their friends. The only other play published during his lifetime, _The First Distiller_, is a very slight piece of no particular dramatic importance. It was written in the cause of temperance. Besides these, he left three other plays finished, or nearly finished, when he died. _The Live Corpse_ (which in English has also been called _The Man who was Dead_) is the one best adapted for the stage. _The Cause of it All_ is, like _The First Distiller_, a short and unimportant piece dealing with the effects of drink. The most interesting, not dramatically but psychologically, of the three is _The Light Shines in Darkness_, which was left in an unfinished state. In it Tolstoy presents his own case, and deals with the contradiction that existed and has so often been commented on, between practice and theory in his own life and teaching. For the purpose of the play he greatly simplified his own highly complex personality, and, though many of the details and characters are drawn from life with extraordinary exactitude, the picture presented is not one which all the people concerned are disposed to regard as quite fair to themselves. The play presents the terrible clash which resulted from the calls Tolstoy made on himself and on others to abandon all customary ways of life and to start afresh in a new direction. In his own case he was never allowed to test the effects of a life of extreme poverty and manual labour, such as he advocated; nor did those of his followers who adopted such a life achieve much success therein. Tolstoy's artistic sincerity is indeed shown by the fact that, despite his spiritual fervour and his profound conviction that he had really found the road to salvation for mankind, he has not, in this play, minimised the failure of his efforts to carry convictions to those about him, or to achieve any other success than that of obtaining an inward assurance that he was fulfilling the will of God. This assurance would, no doubt, have been more fully indicated in the last act, had he lived to complete it. Tolstoy was well aware of the advantages a play possesses over a novel as a means of propaganda, and but for the existence of the Censorship he would have written more for the stage. When asked, in 1892, whether he would write any more plays, he replied: "I would do so with great pleasure, and I even feel a special need to express myself in that way; but I feel certain the Censor would not pass my plays. You would not believe how, from the very commencement of my activity, that horrible Censor question has tormented me! I wanted to write what I felt; but at the same time I felt that what I wrote would not be permitted; and involuntarily I abandoned the work. I abandoned, and went on abandoning, and meanwhile the years passed away." * * * * * There is one other matter of some importance on which I must here say a word. No accepted standard of transliteration for Russian names into English has hitherto existed. Each writer has been a law unto himself. Now, at last, the Liverpool School of Russian Studies has prepared and privately circulated a scheme, which deserves to be, and is likely to be, generally adopted. It differs in some particulars from the plan I have followed heretofore; but the advantage to Anglo-Russian literature of the general adoption of a uniform and authoritative rule will be so great that I hasten to put myself in accord with the Liverpool scheme, without even waiting for it to be publicly promulgated. The result of so doing however is that in the three earlier plays now reprinted from stereotype plates the transliteration does not quite coincide with the plan adopted in the three freshly translated plays. For this discrepancy I must ask the readers' kind indulgence. AYLMER MAUDE. Printed in Great Britain by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the University Press, Edinburgh 
49852	----	provided by the Internet Archive THE LIFE OF MAN A Play In Five Acts By Leonidas Andreyev Translated By C. J. Hogarth London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. New York: The Macmillan Company. 1915 DRAMATIS PERSONÆ The Being in Grey. The Father of the Man. The Man. The Man's Wife. First Doctor. Second Doctor. An Old Serving Woman. Old Women of a Semi-supernatural Character. Musicians; Friends, Enemies, and Relations of the Man; Guests at the Man's Ball, etc. PROLOGUE [_A Being, clad in Grey, is speaking. He is speaking of the Life of Man._ [_The stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey and misty. The ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same dull, monotonous, elusive colour. This light throws no shadows, nor is reflected back from any point._ [_Without a sound the Being in Grey detaches himself from the wall, with which he has almost seemed to mingle. He is clothed in a loose, grey, shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is veiled in a cowl of the all-pervading hue. This cowl throws the upper portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose, mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were hewn of grey stone. At first his lips are tightly compressed; until presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern, Cold voice--a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court of law._] Look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its mysterious close, the whole life of a Man. Hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,--the Man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. In the night of non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen hand. It is the life of that Man. Mark well its flame: for it is the life of that Man. Born, the Man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. Their hard lot becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come after him. Drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. Bounded in knowledge, it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. In blind nescience, in an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the sorry cycle of an iron destiny. First we see him a joyous youth. Mark how clearly the candle burns! Icy winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. Its flame may flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. Yet the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it--yet the wax is ever melting. Next we see him a happy man and father. Mark how dim, how strange, is now the candle's glimmer! Its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. For the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it--for the wax is ever melting. Lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. The rungs of the ladder have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering foot. The flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to a faint blue. It droops and quivers, it droops and quivers--and then softly goes out. Thus the Man dies. Come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time. There there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with men. And I, the Unknown, shall remain ever the fellow-traveller of that Man--through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings. Though unseen by him and his companions, I shall ever be by his side. Be he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy, when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he wages his great contest with the Inevitable,--I shall be with him, I shall ever be with him. And ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting life of a Man. [_Once more the Being in Grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness_. ] CURTAIN. ACT I--THE BIRTH OF THE MAN [_The stage is in deep shadow--nothing being visible amid the gloom save the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of a large and lofty chamber. Clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice. They are talking in low tones._] ~Dialogue of the Old Women.~~ I wish I knew which her baby is going to be--a boy or a girl. Whatever can it matter to _you?_ Nothing; except that I prefer boys. And _I_ prefer girls. They sit quietly at home, and make company when one wants a gossip. Oh, you are so fond of company! [_The Old Women give a chuckle._] The woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger. While they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to. fighting, and killing one another. Pooh! Does she think that _girls_ never get drowned? Many a drowned girl's corpse have I seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses do--wet and livid and swollen. And does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to her death? Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her! The doctor thinks she is going to die. No, no! What the doctor said was that the _child_ will be born dead, but the mother herself recover. But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things! Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are they not? [_The Old Women chuckle again._] Ah well, 'tis the way of the world--births and deaths, births and deaths. Yes; and then more births. [_For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony._] There! She is going to scream again! Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice. Yes, it is a good sign. That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of _his_ would grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps. When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she does. He grows absolutely livid in the face! A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but, after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home again empty-handed. [_The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into silence._] What ails her now? Surely she has not expired? Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a dead faint and been brought in here, and then _we_ should have had some work to do. No, no; she's not dead. Then why need we stay here longer? Oh, ask _Him_. How can _we_ tell what is going to happen? He never tells us _anything_--never! No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us--for ever pulling us out of our beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have come after all! Nevertheless, since we _are_ here, we may as well do something. There! She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we? No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough watching by now? Oh, I just sit quiet and wait--sit quiet and wait. What a patient old lady you are, to be sure! [_The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder._] How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out. Oh, we have all been through it in our time. Yes, but I doubt whether _she_ has before. Listen to that voice of hers! One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet and gentle one. Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a sort of a night sound in it. Yes. It puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter solitude and desolation. Yes; and of despair and a broken heart. But is there no one in the room with her? Why is it we hear no voices but hers--no voices but that terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers? Oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark their voices when she is screaming. Have you never noticed that a scream always appears to stand out from other sounds? No matter how many persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to it. Yes, once I heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. The street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have been the only one in it. But this is a stranger sound than any _man_ could utter. Perhaps it is a trifle more _shrill_. No, no, it is more prolonged. Perhaps you are right. It is a stranger sound than any man could utter. Besides, it has the ring of death in it. Well? Was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? He died, didn't he? Yes, yes; but never mind. We need not quarrel about it. [_For a moment there is silence. Then the screams begin again._] What a strange thing is a scream! If it is you yourself who are screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is some one else------ What throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? Surely it cannot be a woman's throat? No, no; I cannot believe it! The cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round. Or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest. Now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. Listen to the choking noise she is making! It sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest. Or as though she were being strangled. [_The screams suddenly cease._] There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was such a monotonous, ugly screaming. Did you expect to find it _beautiful_, then? [_The Old Women chuckle._] Hush! Is _He_ here? I do not know. I believe He is. He does not approve of laughter. They say He laughs Himself at times. Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about Him. Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us. [_The Old Women chuckle again._] What I want to know is--Will the baby be a boy or a girl? Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with. I hope it may die before birth. How kind of you! Not more so than of you. And _I_ trust it may grow up to be a general. [_The Old Women chuckle again._] Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it. And _I_ do not quite like your looking so gloomy. No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or gloomy; so let each be what she pleases. [_There is a pause_.] _Babies_ are merry enough things, if you like. Yes, and spoilt too. And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when they are dying. Then they grow less clamorous--they just stretch themselves out, and require rocking to sleep no more. But they are such _playful_ little dears! How I love to wash them just after they are born! And _I_ to wash them just after they are dead! No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead. That is all about it. But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they want? It does not seem to me the proper thing. They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis their stomach which does the asking. But 'tis _they_ who do the actual asking, is it not? Perhaps so; but they do not always get. [_The Old Women chuckle again. Presently the screams recommence behind the scenes._] There! She is screaming again! 'Tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than women do. Yes, and easier dying too--and easier living, into the bargain. You should see how sleek and contented my cat is! The same with my dog. Every day I say to him, '_Your_ turn too will come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as merrily as ever. Ah, but they are only animals. Well, and what else are women? [_Again the Old Women chuckle._] Dying, or about to be delivered, she has nearly come to the end of her strength now. You can tell that by the sound of her cries. I can see her eyes starting! And the cold sweat on her brow! [_Again the Old Women chuckle._] She is about to be delivered! No, she is dying! [_Suddenly the screams cease._] I tell you---- [_At this instant the Being in Grey stands out momentarily in clearer relief as he exclaims in a deep, sonorous voice:_] Silence ye! A man is being born into the world. [_And almost as he speaks the cry of a baby is heard behind the scenes, and the tall candle in the hand of the Being bursts into flame. At first weak and, fitful, the flame grows stronger by degrees; yet though the corner in which the Being is standing is in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene, the candle's yellow light is in minates only his tightly compressed lips, high cheekbones, and prominent chin, while the rest of his face remains hidden, as before, in the shadow of the cowl. In stature he is above the ordinary height of man, and the candle in his hand is proportionately tall and massive. Set in a candlestick of antique design (the green bronze of which causes the fingers encircling it to show up grey and stonelike as those of some statue'), the candle burns up with sufficient brightness to make the crouching forms of the Old Women stand out clearly from the obscurity. Also, the room is now seen to be a high and perfectly square apartment, with bare, colourless walls; while both in the back wall and in the wall to the right are curtainless casement windows, through which the outer night shows darkly. Ranged against the walls are a number of chairs with high, straight backs._] [_The Old Women begin to utter excited exclamations._] Hark! People are hurrying about! Presently they will be coming in here! How light it is growing! Let us go, let us go! See how clearly and steadily the candle burns! Yes, let us go, let us go! Quickly, quickly! Yes, let us go, let us go! [_Bursting into shrill laughter, they begin with weird, zigzag movements to shuffle away through the gloom. Yet, though, with their departure, the light grows stronger, there still remains a dim, cold, lifeless air about the scene._ [_Enter a Doctor, accompanied by the Father of the Man. The Doctor is clad in a white hospital overall, and wears a look at once wise and self-important. Contrariwise, the Father's face, though expressive of great relief, is deeply scored with anxiety. Also, his cheeks look sunken, his hair is dishevelled, and his clothes are in much disorder._] ~The Doctor.~~ Up to; the very last moment I was in doubt as to whether your wife would come safely through it. I brought all my knowledge and skill to bear upon her, but even the most skilful doctor is of little avail unless Nature herself come to his aid. Besides, I was feeling very nervous. Even yet my pulse is throbbing. Curiously enough, though I have helped to bring hundreds of babies into the world, I have never yet succeeded in overcoming a certain feeling of diffidence during the opera---- But you are not listening to me, sir? ~The Father.~~ Oh yes, I am listening to you, but I cannot altogether take in what you say. Her screams still ring in my ears, and have made me dull of comprehension. Poor woman, how she suffered! In my folly and conceit I was so anxious to have a child, but now I renounce that criminal wish for ever. ~The Doctor.~~ Oh, you will soon be sending for me again, when the next baby arrives. ~The Father.~~ No, never! I am almost ashamed to say it, but I actually _hate_ this child which has put her to such pain. I have not even seen it. What is it like? ~The Doctor.~~ It is a fine, strong, healthy boy, and greatly, resembles yourself, if I mistake not. ~The Father.~~ Oh, it resembles me, does it? Well, I am pleased at that! I begin to feel a little more drawn towards the child. It had always been my desire to have a boy--and especially one which resembled myself. You have seen the child. Has it, then, a nose like mine? ~The Doctor.~~ Yes, and eyes too. ~The Father.~~ _And_ eyes? Oh, that is capital! I feel as though I ought to pay you a trifle over your fee. ~The Doctor.~~ Well, let us call it an extra honorarium for the instruments which I had to use. [_The Father of the Man turns towards the corner wherein the figure of the Being in Grey stands motionless, and utters the following prayer:_] ~The Father.~~ O Lord and Creator of Life, I thank Thee for according me my heart's desire, and granting me a son like myself. I thank Thee also for watching over my beloved wife, and enabling her to bear the child in safety. I beseech Thee that the child may grow up wise and honourable, and that he may never at any time bring sorrow upon the heads of us, his father and mother. If Thou wilt grant me this my petition, I swear that I will trust in Thee for ever, and worship Thee in Thy Holy Temple. For I feel a great love arising in me for my son. [_Enter the Relations, to the number of six. First, there is a stout, elderly lady who has a double chin, small, puffy eyes, and a pompous, self-important manner. Next, there is her husband, who is so tall and thin that his clothes seem literally to hang on him, as on a clothes-peg. Also, he has spectacles, a short, pointed beard, smooth, damp-looking hair which straggles over his shoulders, and a manner which, though diffident, is also curiously didactic. In his hands he holds a black, low-crowned hat, and he appears to stand in awe of his wife. These two are accompanied by a young girl, their daughter, who has an impudently upturned nose, twinkling eyes, and a mouth perpetually half-open. Likewise there is a tall, thin lady, of sour, depressed mien, who at times wipes her lips with the handkerchief perpetually dangling from her hands. Finally, there are two youths, precisely identical in appearance, with long, thin necks encased in high collars, hair smoothly plastered over their foreheads, and an expression of bewilderment and vacuity on their faces which would seem to denote that their mental faculties are, as yet, but in the growing stage._ ] ~Elderly Lady.~~ Let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on the birth of a son. ~Her Husband.~~ Let me congratulate you, my dear brother-in-law, on the advent of this long-expected child. ~The Rest.~~ (_In unison._) We all of us congratulate you, our dear kinsman. ~The Father.~~ (_With much emotion._) I thank you--I thank you all! You are most kind, good, and charming people, and I am greatly beholden to you. True, hitherto I had felt a little doubtful concerning you; for I had thought that you, my dear sister, were too much taken up with yourself and your many estimable qualities; that you, my dear brother-in-law, were inclined to be a trifle pedantic; and, as regards the rest, that they cared less for myself than for what they could get to eat at my house. But now I see that I was wrong. I am very happy, not only because I have been granted a son who is like myself, but also, because the birth of this child has afforded me an opportunity of seeing here so many good people who love me. [_There is general embracing._] ~The Daughter.~~ What do you intend to _call_ your son, dear Uncle? I should so like him to have a beautiful, poetic name I It makes so much difference what one calls a boy. ~Elderly Lady.~~ _I_ should like him to have a plain, sensible: name. People with beautiful, poetic names are always light-minded, and seldom get on in life. ~Her Husband.~~ And _I_ think, my dear brother-in-law, that you ought to give him the name of one of his elder relatives. It is a custom which tends to continue and strengthen family ties. ~The Father.~~ Yes. But first my wife and I must think the matter over. We cannot come to a decision yet. So many new ideas and responsibilities arise with the advent of a baby! ~Elderly Lady.~~ It is an event which imparts a great _fulness_ to life. ~Her Husband.~~ Yes, and also a great sense of _purpose in life._ For, as we educate a child--removing out of its path those obstacles over which we ourselves, in early days, have stumbled, and strengthening its mind with the aid of our own matured experience--we, as it were, construct a new and better replica of ourselves, and thus enable the race to move slowly, but surely, forward towards the ultimate goal of existence--towards _perfection_. ~The Father.~~ You are quite right, most estimable brother-in-law. When I was a boy I used to torment dumb animals, and the practice bred in me cruelty: wherefore I shall never allow my son to be unkind to any living thing. Again, when I was grown up I fell into many, errors as regards the bestowal of my friendship and affections--I chose unworthy comrades, and loved deceitful women; but now I shall warn my son that---- [_Enter the Doctor hurriedly._] ~The Doctor.~~ Sir, your wife has taken a turn for the worse. You ought to go and see her at once. ~The Father.~~ My God! [_Exit with the Doctor, while the Relations seat themselves in a semicircle, and for a while preserve a solemn silence. Meanwhile the Being in Grey stands motionless as before, with his stony face turned towards the company,_] ~Dialogue of the Relations.~~ ~The Husband.~~ My dear wife, do you not think that our sister-in-law is going to die? ~Elderly Lady.~~ No, I do not. She was always a nervous, fidgety woman--a woman who made overmuch of her ailments. All of us have to go through childbed, and few of us die of it. Why, I myself have been through it six times! ~The Daughter.~~ But she screamed so dreadfully, mother dear? And she grew quite black in the face with it? ~Elderly Lady.~~ It was not with screaming; it was a mere nervous flush. You do not understand these things. _I_ used to turn quite black in the face, though I never uttered a single scream. Not long ago the wife of an engineer of my acquaintance had a baby, and she never uttered a sound from start to finish. I know. My brother should not grow so alarmed, but keep himself in hand, and take a saner, cooler view of things. I am afraid he will bring much indulgence and absurdity to bear upon the education of this child. Yes. He is a man much too easily influenced. Though anything but rich, he gives away money to the most undeserving people. Do you know how much he paid for this child's _layette?_ Do not speak of it! My brother's extravagance fairly sickens me! We have had many quarrels about it. They say it is a stork which brings the babies. What a funny stork it must be! [_The young people laugh._] Oh, do not talk such nonsense. I myself have brought six babies into the world, and _I_ am no stork. [_The young people laugh still more unrestrainedly, despite the fact that the Elderly Lady is regarding them with a fixed and stony stare._] Really, you children ought to know that that is a mere fable. Babies are born quite naturally, and in a way which is perfectly familiar to science. They have moved to another flat now. Who have? That engineer and his wife of whom I was speaking. They found their old quarters too damp and cold. They made many complaints to the landlord, but he took no notice of them. In my opinion a small, but warm, flat is preferable to a large, but cold, one. A cold flat can so easily give one one's death of influenza or rheumatism! I know some people who are living in a _terribly_ cold flat. And I too. What a number of cold flats there seem to be nowadays! Do you know, I have often wanted to hear of a good method for removing grease stains from light materials. Woollen materials? No, silken. Very well, then. Take a piece of clean glass, and rub the stains with it. Then, after plenty of friction, iron with a hot iron. Really? How simple! But I was told that turpentine is best? May we smoke now? Somehow I never felt a desire to smoke while we were waiting for the birth of that baby. We never had a chance to do so. How absurd! Of course one would not want to smoke at a _funeral_, but on such an occasion as this we really---- Smoking is a most pernicious habit. Both of you are young men, and ought to guard your health. There are so many occasions in after-life when health is everything. But tobacco gives one a stimulus? Believe me, it is a very unhealthy stimulus. I too used to smoke when I was young and foolish. Mamma, how the baby cries! How it does cry! Does it want milk? [_The young people burst into renewed laughter, while the Elderly Lady regards them with a stern air of reproval._] CURTAIN. ACT II--LOVE AND POVERTY [_The stage is in clear light, while the scene represents a large, lofty room with bare walls of a bright pink colour that is intersected, in places, with grey tracery fantastically designed. To the right are two curtainless casement windows through which the outer night shows darkly, while the furniture consists of a couple of bedsteads, two chairs, and a rough deal table, on the latter of which stands a broken water-jug, holding a bunch of wild flowers. In one corner (which is in deeper shadow than the rest of the apartment) stands the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is burnt away for a third of its length, yet its flame remains steady, bright, and tall, and throws the statuesque face of the Being into strong relief._] [_Enter a group of Neighbours, dressed in holiday attire, and carrying in their hands flowers, wild grasses, and sprigs of oak and birch. They disperse themselves about the room, looking cheerful, kindly, simple, and solicitous as they do so._] ~Dialogue of the Neighbours.~~ How poor they must be! See, they have not even a spare chair. Nor curtains to the windows! Nor pictures on the walls! Nor a morsel in their larder except some stale bread! Nor anything to drink but water--cold water from the well! Nor sufficient clothes to wear! For she is always to be seen in the same worn-out pink dress and frayed hair-riband--things only fit for a servant-girl to wear, and _he_ is never to be seen in anything but an artist's blouse with turned-down collar--a garment which makes him look like a tramp, and sets all the dogs barking at him. Yes, so much so that respectable people are afraid of him. Dogs never like poor people. Yesterday I saw no fewer than three dogs flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his stick: "Do not you dare to tear my trousers! They are the only ones I have left!" All the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth at him, and growling most furiously. And only to-day I saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid passing him. "I think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well. So they crossed over--eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a tight hold upon their pockets. But he only tossed his head and laughed. Yes, he is always in good spirits. Both of them are like that--always merry. Yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband! It is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and handsome. All the same, I feel very, very sorry for them. At times they are almost starving. To think of it!--starving! Yes, too true. Once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now they have nothing at all left. Yes, I remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses; but now those dresses have had to go for bread. And he used to wear a fine frockcoat--the one in which he got married; but that too has had to go. In fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their wedding-rings. What poverty, to be sure! Oh, they do not care, they do not care! I too have been young, and know how one takes things at that age. What do you say, Grandfather? I say that they do not care, they do not care. See, it almost makes Grandfather sing, even to think of them! Yes, and dance too! [_There is general laughter._] And her husband is _so_ kindhearted! One day he made my little boy a bow-and-arrows. And when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as I did. And when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no time. What a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure! Yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours. Their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their lightheartedness to drive away our care. But this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare. Nay. Say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright! See the flowers on the table! She ha's been plucking them as she walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded hair-riband. Here are some May lilies, with the dew not dry upon them. And a bright red pineflower. And violets. And field grasses. Do not touch them, dear children--do not touch the flowers. She has imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the ground. She has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not mingle our breath with hers. Do not touch them, dear children--do not touch them. She means him to see them the moment he enters the room. Yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them. And to scent her dear breath in theirs. Come! We must go now, we must go now. But surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these charming young neighbours of ours? That would be a sorry thing to do! I have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk. And I some sweet, fresh herbs. If we strew; the floor with them it will look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring. And I some flowers. And we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. If we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant arbour. And my present is a fine cigar. It did not cost very much, but it is mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over. And I have brought her a new pink hair-riband. When she has bound up her hair with it she will look so neat and charming! It was given me by my sweetheart, but _I_ have many ribands, whereas she has only one. And what have _you_ brought with you, little girl? Surely you have brought some present for our good neighbours? No, nothing--nothing. At least, I have brought my cough with me, but they would not care for _that_, would they, neighbour? No, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. Ah, dear child, who would care for crutches? But you leave good wishes behind you, Grandfather, do you not? Yes, yes, my dear. And so, I know, do you. Now we must go, good neighbours, for it is getting late. [_The Neighbours begin to leave the room--some of them yawning as they go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on crutches._] Yes, we must go now, we must go now. God grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly couple! Yes, God grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love: and may He see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring them evil luck! And may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread! [_Exeunt all._ [_Enter the Man's Wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. At the same time, her face is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:_] I have just returned from the town, where I have been looking for, I have been looking for--oh, I hardly know _what_ I have been looking for. We are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. Indeed, we find it a struggle even to live. We need money, money; yet I know not where to get it. If I were to go out into the streets and beg I feel sure that no one would give me anything. No, every one would refuse me. And, moreover, I have not the courage to do it. I have tried hard to get work for my husband, but it is not to be got. Every one to whom I apply says that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. I have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery; but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than I, had found the treasure first. Oh, I am so unhappy! Soon my husband will be coming home--tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once more he will find that I have nothing for him but my poor kisses! And kisses will not feed a starving man. Oh, I am so unhappy that I could weep for ever! To me it is nothing to have to go hungry--indeed, I scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to feed, and requires more food. When he has had to go hungry a little while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! He takes to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what he has said. But _I_ never mind; I love him too much for that. Oh, I am so unhappy! He is one of the cleverest architects in all the world. Indeed, I believe he is a veritable genius. Left, when quite an infant, to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. But, alas! his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. Yet still he continued his studies--maintaining himself the while by giving lessons, and often going hungry. Yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! Yet now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable, no one will accept them. Nay, some stupid people even laugh at them! To succeed in life one needs two things--influence and a lucky star: and he has neither. So he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance--any sort of a chance--to find work to do. It may even be that, like myself, he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind as well as in years. Of course, _some_ day we shall succeed: but the question is, When will that be? Meanwhile life is very hard for us; for although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared, what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons. _He_ is still sanguine of success, but I--well, sometimes I seem to lose all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. Even now my heart is aching to think that here is he coming home--only to find nothing for him but my poor kisses! [_She rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees._] O Lord God, be unto us a kind and pitying Father. Thou hast so much to give of what we need--of bread, of work, of money. Thy earth is so rich, it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields--it covers its meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! Thy sun's rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of Thy stars there is so much pensive and peaceful joy! Give us, then, but a little of that bounty--but a little, but so much as Thou bestowest upon Thy birds: a little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise his handsome head once more. And, I beseech Thee, be not angry with him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be grave and sober. [_She rises to her feet again._] There! Now that I have said a prayer I feel better--I begin to hope once more. Surely God must give _occasionally_ when He is entreated so often? Now I will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery. [_Exit._ ~The Being in Grey.~~ The woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. She knows not that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some designs submitted by the Man, and that finally they have decided to accept them. All this day those two noblemen have been seeking the Man in vain. Yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been seeking wealth. And early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to the Man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble chamber--bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. But, as yet, neither the Man nor his Wife knows of this, although good fortune is coming to the Man as surely as some day it will depart again. [_Enter the Man and his Wife. The former has a proud, handsome head, brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows--the latter springing from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small, clearly defined wings attached to that member. His wavy black hair is flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft, white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat. Although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human being._] ~The Man.~~ Once more nothing! Soon I shall have to take to lying in bed all day: so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to _me_, not I go to _him_. Yes, I will begin that mode of life to-morrow. ~His Wife.~~ Are you so tired, then, my darling? ~The Man.~~ Yes, tired and hungry; and though I could devour a whole ox, like one of Homer's heroes, I suppose I shall have to put up with a piece of dry bread! Yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the time his appetite craves to be sated--craves for something into which it can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled. ~His Wife.~~ I am so sorry for you, my dearest one! ~The Man.~~ As I am for you. Yet that makes me none the less ravenous. To-day I spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape at masterpieces of art, so did I gape at the fat pies and capons and sausages in the window. And oh, the signboard above them! Do you know, it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one could devour it, signboard and all. ~His Wife.~~ Yes--I too could eat something. ~The Man.~~ Of course. Who could not? But do you like lobsters? ~His Wife.~~ I simply adore them! ~The Man.~~ Then what a lobster I saw there! Though only a painted one, he was fairer even than the reality. Red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he looked fit for consecration. I believe I could eat _two_ such cardinals, and a reverend father carp into the bargain. ~His Wife.~~ (_Sadly._) But you have not noticed my flowers? The Man. Flowers, flowers? Do you expect me to eat _them!_ ~His Wife.~~ Ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus! ~The Man.~~ Forgive me, forgive me, but I am so hungry! See how my hand is trembling. I could not even throw a stone at a dog with it. ~His Wife.~~ (_Kissing his hand._) My poor darling! ~The Man.~~ But what is this parcel on the table? It seems to send forth a most unctuous smell. Did you put it there? ~His Wife.~~ No indeed! It must have been the neighbours. ~The Man.~~ What dear, goodhearted folks! But it is strange to think that, for all the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! Why should that be?--Ah! Look there! ~His Wife.~~ How you frighten me! How your eyes are staring! What is it you see? Surely it is something dreadful? ~The Man.~~ Yes. Even as I jested there uprose before me--there, in that dark corner--the terrible figure of Starvation! Do you not see it now? Its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice of childish agony--a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted wilds--"Help me, or I die! Help me, or I die!"--and there is none to hear! Look, my wife, look! See how those dark shadows quiver and float, like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading down to the pit of hell! See! see! I am being drawn into them! ~His Wife.~~ Oh, I am terrified! I dare not look into that corner!--But, nay, nay; 'twas only in the street you saw all this? ~The Man.~~ Yes, it was only in the street; but soon I shall be seeing it in this room. ~His Wife.~~ No, no! God would never permit it! ~The Man.~~ But why not? Does He not permit it to happen to _other_ people? ~His Wife.~~ Yes; but we are better than they. We are _good_ people, and have done no wrong. ~The Man.~~ Think you so? Then remember all my cruel scoldings of you. ~His Wife.~~ But you have never _really_ been cruel to me. ~The Man.~~ Yes, I have!--yes, many and many a time! Nor is that all; for no wild boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than I do as I wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we stand in such desperate need. Ah, how much money there is in the world that we have not got! Listen to me, little wife. This afternoon I was walking in the park--that beautiful park where the paths run straight as pistol-shots, and the beech-trees look like kings in crowns. ~His Wife.~~ And I too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops everywhere--such beautiful shops! ~The Man.~~ And people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing splendid clothes: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, _I_ have none of these things!" ~His Wife.~~ And I too was passed by rich people--by fine ladies in dainty boots which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, _I_ have no smart hats and silken petticoats!" ~The Man.~~ One dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but I just gave him a glimpse of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd. ~His Wife.~~ And I too was jostled by a fine lady; yet I could not bring myself even to look at her, I felt so miserable! ~The Man.~~ Also, I saw people riding in the park--riding fiery, spirited horses. Alas, _I_ have none such! ~His Wife.~~ One fine lady whom I met was wearing diamond earrings--earrings which I could actually have kissed! ~The Man.~~ Red and green motor-cars, with great, glaring eyes, were gliding along as silently as ghosts, and the people in them were laughing and jesting and looking indolently about them. Alas, _I_ have no motor-car! ~His Wife.~~ Nor I diamonds, nor emeralds, nor clear white pearls! ~The Man.~~ Up above the ornamental water there was a restaurant, blazing with lights like the firmament of heaven; and in it people were dining, while men in tail-coats who might have been ministers of State, and white-aproned women who looked like veritable winged angels, were carrying wine and dishes about. And every one was eating and drinking, eating and drinking. Ah, how I too could have eaten and drunk! My wife, my wife, I am so hungry! ~His Wife.~~ My poor darling, it is having to walk about so much that makes you hungry. But never mind. Sit down here, and I will climb on to your knee, and you shall take paper and pencil and draw me a beautiful, beautiful palace. ~The Man.~~ Ah, but my inspiration seems equally to be suffering from hunger; it cannot rise above pictures of eatables, and for a long while past I have been making my palaces look like pies filled with rich stuffing and my churches like pease-puddings. But I see tears in your eyes! What ails thee, little wife of mine? ~His Wife.~~ It hurts me so much to think that I can do nothing for you! ~The Man.~~ Is that it? Then am I filled with shame to think that I--I, a strong man, talented, educated, and in the prime of life--should sit here grumbling until I have seen my poor little wife--the good fairy of the legends--burst into tears! When a woman weeps it is a man's shame. I am overcome with remorse. ~His Wife.~~ But it is not _your_ fault that people do not appreciate you. ~The Man.~~ Nevertheless I blush to my ears. I feel that I deserve as sound a whipping as ever I received when I was a boy. To think that you too were hungry--as hungry as I am--and that I never noticed it! Oh, what a selfish egoist am I! It was shameful of me! ~His Wife.~~ My dearest one, I was not, I am not, hungry. ~The Man.~~ Oh, it was shameful and unmanly of me! The dandy who jostled me in the park did rightly, for he saw that it was a mere sensual pig that was passing him by--a wild boar of sharp tusks indeed, but most gross mind. ~His Wife.~~ If you go on scolding yourself so unjustly I shall weep again. ~The Man.~~ No, no, you must not weep. When I see tears in those pretty eyes I am seized with dread. Yes, I am afraid of those little crystal drops; for, whenever I behold them, I feel as though it were not you, but some stranger whom I know not, that were shedding them. No, you must not weep. We are poor, and have nothing, I know, but we can talk of what we shall surely have _some_ day, and I can tell you bright fairy tales, and wrap you round with shining fancies, my little queen. ~His Wife.~~ Ah, we have no cause to be afraid. You are too strong, and too great a genius, to be vanquished by life. The present time will pass away, and inspiration will once more spread its influence over your splendid head. [_The Man assumes a proud and daring attitude of challenge, and throws a sprig of oak towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey._] ~The Man.~~ See thou, whatsoever be thy name--whether Fate, Life, or Devil! I cast thee down my gauntlet, I challenge thee to battle! Men of faint heart may bow before thy mysterious power, thy face of stone may inspire them with dread, in thy unbroken silence they may discern the birth of calamity and an impending avalanche of woe. But _I_ am daring and strong, and I challenge thee to battle! Let us draw our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth and fight with me! ~His Wife.~~ (_With enthusiasm, as she leans upon the Man's shoulder._) More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet! ~The Man.~~ To thy vile laggardness I will oppose my swift and living strength--to thy dim mystery my open, ringing laughter! Ha! Parry thou my strokes if thou canst! At thy dull forehead of stone I will aim the whitehot bullets of my flashing intellect! Into thy pitiless heart of stone I will inject the burning poison of remorse for the agony which thou didst cause my mother at my birth! Of a surety there shall arise a sun which shall dispel the black thunderclouds of thy cruel enmity! Yea, the flashing of our swords shall illumine the darkness! Ha! Fend thou my passes if thou canst! ~His Wife.~~ More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet! Thy trusty armour-bearer stands beside thee, my valiant knight! ~The Man.~~ As I advance thou shalt hear me singing such songs as shall echo the wide world through! What though I fall beneath a blow of thine, I will yet utter no cry, but cast about how I may raise myself and renew the combat! In my armour there are weak spots--that I know full well; but though I be covered with wounds, though I be red with my own blood, I will yet summon my last remaining strength to cry, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, thou cruel enemy of man!" ~His Wife.~~ More boldly yet, my trusty knight! More boldly yet! I will bathe thy wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses! ~The Man.~~ What though I die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die; making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" In very truth it will be I who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for until my last faint breath shall have been drawn I shall have refused to own thy power! ~His Wife.~~ More boldly yet, my knight I More boldly yet! _I_ will die with thee! ~The Man.~~ Ha! Come forth to battle! Let us flash our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth, come forth! [_For a few seconds the Man and his Wife retain their respective attitudes. Then they turn to one another and em-brace._] ~The Man.~~ Thus will we deal with life, my little helpmeet. Will we not, eh? What though it blink at us like an owl that is blinded by the sun, we will yet force it to smile. ~His Wife.~~ Yes, and to dance to our singing, too. Together we will do it. ~The Man.~~ Yes, together, my paragon among wives, my trusty comrade, my brave little armour-bearer. So long as I have _thee_ by my side, nothing can make me fear. A fig for poverty! We may be poor to-day, but we shall be rich to-morrow. ~His Wife.~~ And what does hunger matter? To-day we may be without a crust, but to-morrow we shall be feasting. ~The Man.~~ Think you so? Well, 'tis very likely. But I shall require a great deal of satisfying. What think you of this for our daily _menu?_ First meal in the morning, tea, coffee, or chocolate, whichever we prefer; then a breakfast of three courses; then luncheon; then dinner; then supper; then---- ~His Wife.~~ Yes; and always as much fruit as possible. I adore fruit! ~The Man.~~ Very well. I will go out and buy it myself--buy it in the market-place, where it is cheapest and most fresh. Besides, we shall be having our own fruit garden before long. ~His Wife.~~ But we have no land yet? ~The Man.~~ No, but I shall soon be buying some. I have always wished to possess an estate, not only as a pleasure-ground, but also as a place where I may build a house from my own designs. The rascally world shall see what an architect I am! ~His Wife.~~ I should like the house to be in Italy, close to the sea: a villa of white marble, set in the midst of a grove of lime-trees and cypresses, with white marble steps leading down to the blue waters. ~The Man.~~ Yes, I see your idea. It would be capital. Yet _my_ plan, rather, is to build a castle on a Norwegian mountain, with a fjord below, and the castle parched on a peak above. Have we no paper? Well, never mind. I can show you on the wall what I mean. This is the fjord. Do you see? ~His Wife.~~ Yes. How beautiful! ~The Man.~~ And here are the deep, sparkling waters, reflecting the tender green of the grass above. Here, too, is a red, black, and cinnamon-coloured cliff. And there, in that gap (just where I have made that smudge), is a patch of blue sky, gleaming through a fleecy white cloud. ~His Wife.~~ Nay, it is not a cloud. Rather, it is a white boat, with its reflection in the water, like two white swans joined breast to breast. ~The Man.~~ And see, over all there rises a mountain, with sides of brilliant green, except just at the top, where it is more misty and rugged. Here, too, are sharp spurs, and dark shadows of clefts, and wisps of cloud. ~His Wife.~~ Oh, it looks like a ruined castle! ~The Man.~~ And _here_--on that "ruined castle," as you call it (just where I have put that mark in the centre)--I will build me a stately mansion. ~His Wife.~~ But it will be so cold up there--so windy? ~The Man.~~ Nay, I shall give the mansion stout walls and huge windows of plate-glass; and then at night, when the winter storms are raging and the fjord is tossing below, we shall draw the curtains over the windows, and heap up a roaring fire (I shall make enormous fireplaces, you know--large enough to hold whole trunks of trees, whole beams of pine). ~His Wife.~~ Ah! it will be warm enough _then_. ~The Man.~~ Yes, indeed; and the whole interior will be quiet and restful, for I mean to have soft carpets everywhere, and the walls lined with thousands and thousands of books, and everything looking snug and cheerful. And you and I will sit before the fire on a white bearskin; and when you say to me, "Shall we go and look at the storm?" I shall answer, "Yes," and we shall run to the largest of the great windows, and draw aside the curtains: and then, my God, what a night it will look like. ~His Wife.~~ Snowflakes whirling by! ~The Man.~~ Yes; like little white horses galloping, or myriads of tiny, frightened souls, pale with fear and seeking shelter in the night. And there will be such a howling and a roaring! ~His Wife.~~ And I shall say that I am cold, and give a shiver. ~The Man.~~ And then we shall scamper back to the fire, and I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring me the ancestral goblet--the one of pure gold from which Vikings have drunk--and fill it with aureate wine, and let us drain the soul-warming draught to the dregs!" Meanwhile we shall have had a chamois roasting on the spit, and again I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring hither the venison, that we may eat it!" Yes, and in about two seconds I shall be eating _you_, little wife, for I am as hungry as the devil. ~His Wife.~~ Well, suppose they have brought the roast chamois? Go on. What next? ~The Man.~~ What next? Well, once I have begun to eat it, there will soon be little of it left--and therefore nothing more to tell. But what are you doing to my head, little playmate? ~His Wife.~~ I am the Goddess of Fame. I have woven you a chaplet of the oak-leaves which the neighbours brought, and am crowning you with it. Thus shall fame--yes, real, resounding fame-some day be yours. [_She crowns him with the chaplet._] ~The Man.~~ Yes, fame, fame, resplendent fame! Look here on the wall as I draw. This is myself advancing. Do you see? But who is that with me? ~His Wife.~~ I! ~The Man.~~ Yes. And see how people are bowing down to us, and whispering about us, and pointing us out with their fingers. Here is a city father shedding tears of joy as he exclaims, "Happy is our town to have been the birthplace of such children!" Here, too, a certain young man turns pale with emotion as he gazes upon his handiwork; for fortune has smiled upon him at last, and he has built a City Hall that is the pride of all the land. ~His Wife.~~ Yes, even as you are _my_ pride. And even as I have placed this wreath of oak-leaves upon your head, so will the day come when you are accorded one of laurels. ~The Man.~~ But look again. Here are other magnates of my native town advancing to pay me their respects. They make low bows--yes, to the very ground--and say, "Our town rejoices at having been accorded the honour of----" ~His Wife.~~ Oh! ~The Man.~~ What is it? ~His Wife.~~ I have found a bottle of milk I ~The Man.~~ Surely not? ~His Wife.~~ And bread!--beautiful spiced bread!--and a cigar! ~The Man.~~ Impossible! You must be joking. Or you must have mistaken some of the damp from these accursed walls for milk. ~His Wife.~~ No, no. Indeed I have not. ~The Man.~~ And a cigar! Cigars do not grow on windowsills. They cost money, and have to be bought in shops. What you see is only a piece of black twig, or something of the kind. ~His Wife.~~ But look for yourself. I am sure it must be the neighbours who have left these things for us. ~The Man.~~ The neighbours? Well, of a truth they may have been the instruments, but the work has been the work of God himself. And even if it were devils who have brought the things here, it should not prevent you from coming and sitting on my knee, little wife. [_The Man's Wife seats herself upon his knee, and they proceed to eat; she breaking off little bits of bread, and placing them between his lips, while he feeds her with milk out of the bottle._] ~The Man.~~ I believe it is cream, it looks so good. ~His Wife.~~ No, it is milk. You must bite your bread more carefully, or you will choke. ~The Man.~~ No, no, I shall not. Let me have some more of the crust--of that nice brown crust. ~His Wife.~~ But I am _sure_ you will choke before you have finished. ~The Man.~~ No, no. See how easily I swallow. ~His Wife.~~ You are making the milk run down my neck! How dreadfully it tickles! ~The Man.~~ Then let me lick it up. Not a drop of it ought to be wasted. ~His Wife.~~ How thrifty you are growing! ~The Man.~~ Be ready. Now, then! Quick!--Ah, everything good comes to an end too soon. I believe that this bottle must have got a false bottom to it, to make it look deeper. What rascally fellows those bottlemakers are! [_The Man lights the cigar, and sinks back in the attitude of a blissfully tired man, while his wife ties her hair with the new riband, and goes to look at herself in the darkness of the window-panes._] ~The Man.~~ This cigar must have cost a fortune, it is so mellow and strong. In future I mean always to smoke this brand of cigars. ~His Wife.~~ But do you not see how nice I look? ~The Man.~~ Yes, I see. I see the new riband, and I see, too, that you wish me to kiss your pretty little neck. ~His Wife.~~ But I will not allow it, sir. You are getting much too free. Puff away at your cigar if you wish, but my neck---- ~The Man.~~ Eh what? Is it not mine too? Devil take me if I do not assert my proprietorship! [_She pretends to dart away, but he pursues and kisses her._] ~The Man.~~ There! I have asserted my rights. And now, little wifie, you must dance. Imagine this to be a splendid, a supernaturally beautiful palace. ~His Wife.~~ Very well. I have imagined it. ~The Man.~~ And that you are the queen of the ball. ~His Wife.~~ I am ready. ~The Man.~~ And that counts, marquises, and city magnates keep requesting the honour of your hand, but you persistently refuse them, and choose, instead, a man like--like--oh, a man in a beautiful gala dress, a real live prince. What did you say? ~His Wife.~~ That I do not like princes. ~The Man.~~ Good gracious! Whom _do_ you like, then? ~His Wife.~~ I like architects of genius. ~The Man.~~ Very well, then. Imagine such a man to have asked you to dance with him (for I suppose you would not care to have the empty air for a partner, would you?). ~His Wife.~~ I have imagined him. ~The Man.~~ Good! Imagine, too, A marvellous orchestra, with a Turkish drum beating pom, pom, pom. [_He begins to thump the table with his fist_] ~His Wife.~~ But, my dearest one, it is only in a _circus_ that they beat a drum like that, to attract the people--not in a palace. ~The Man.~~ What a fool I am! Very well, then. Never mind that part. Let us begin again. Imagine a fiddle pouring out its soul in melody, and a flute tootling tenderly, and a double-bass droning like a beetle. Thus:-- [_The Man hums a tune as he sits crowned with his chaplet of oak-leaves. The tune is the same as is played during Act III, on the occasion of the grand, ball given by the Man. His wife dances to his humming, looking comely and graceful as she does so._] ~The Man.~~ Ah, my little pet goat! ~His Wife.~~ Nay, I am' the queen of the ball. [_The tune and the dance grow merrier and merrier, until the Man rises to his feet, and dancing lightly where he stands, takes his wife round the waist, and dances with her--his chaplet slipping down to one side as he does so. Meanwhile the Being in Grey looks on imperturbably--the candle in his hand continuing to burn steadily with a clear light._] CURTAIN ACT III--THE BALL GIVEN BY THE MAN [_A grand ball is in progress in the salon of the mansion which the Man has built for himself. The scene is a large, square, lofty room with smooth, white walls and ceiling and a polished floor. Yet a certain discrepancy in the proportions of some of the minor features of the apartment conveys to the beholder a sort of vague, unsatisfactory impression, as though something were wanting, or discordant, or superfluous, or bizarre--one cannot exactly tell which. For instance, the doors are small as compared with the windows, and constitute, with the latter, the only features breaking the monotony of the apartment's outline. The windows, too, are of immense size. Reaching almost to the ceiling, they are placed only in the rear wall, and in close juxtaposition to one another, while their panes show black with the darkness of the outer night, and neither spot nor speck breaks the wall spaces between them. Eloquent testimony to the wealth of the Man is afforded by the superabundance of gilding on the cornices, chairs, and picture-frames; yet the pictures are but few in number, and confined to the side walls, of which they form the sole adornment. Light is furnished by hoop-shaped lustres and a few scattered electric globes. Nevertheless, though the ceiling is in brilliant relief, the rest of the room is in slight shadow--a circumstance which imparts a kind of greyish tinge to the walls. In general, the scene has about it an air of pallor and chill._ [_The ball is in full swing--the music being furnished by an orchestra of three players, each of whom bears a certain resemblance to his instrument. The fiddler has a long, thin neck and a small head ornamented on both sides with little tufts of hair. His body is grotesquely curved in outline, and he has a handkerchief neatly folded on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle. The flute player resembles his flute in that he is exceedingly tall and thin, with long, lean face and taper legs; while the man with the double-bass is short, with broad, rounded shoulders, a fat body, and baggy trousers. All three executants play with an energy which is manifested even in their faces as they grind out the tune and sway their heads and bodies to and fro to the rhythm. The tune in question (which is never once changed throughout the ball) consists of a short, polka-like air, made up of two separate parts, and charged with a sort of vapid, jaunty, staccato lilt. All the instruments are slightly out of tune with one another, and this sometimes causes the discrepancies in pitch and tempo to give rise to an extraordinary series of dissonances and gaps in the melody. The following is the tune:--_ [Illustration: 0080] _To these strains a number of young men and girls are dancing a legato measure in a graceful, refined manner. To the first phrase of the tune they advance and meet; to the second phrase they retire; to the third and fourth they advance and retire as before--all with a rather stately, old-fashioned demeanour._ [_Along the walls are seated a number of chaperons and other guests, in a variety of studiedly affected attitudes. Their movements are stiff and angular, and their remarks stilted and spasmodic. Never is the correctness of their tone lowered by, for instance, light laughter or whispering. Gazing straight in front of them, with their hands primly folded on their laps and their wrists stuck out so sharply as to convey the impression that those members have been fractured, these onlookers mouth their sentences in the sententious fashion of copybooks, and express, in their whole bearing, a sort of disdainful weariness. Indeed, so absolutely monotonous and uniform in expression are their fades that the latter would seem to have been turned out of one and the same mould--a mould which has stamped them with a stereotyped air of conceit and arrogance, coupled with a certain dull respect for the Man's wealth. The dancers are dressed in white, the musicians in black, and the remaining guests in white, black, or yellow. In the right-hand front corner of the stage (a corner in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene') stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now burnt away for two-thirds of its length, yet its flame is still strong and yellow, and continues to throw lurid gleams over the statuesque face and chin of the Being._] ~Dialogue of the Guests.~~ I feel it my bounden duty to remark that to be numbered among the guests at any ball given by the Man is indeed an honour! Yes; and to that you might have added that only a very limited circle of persons are permitted to attain to that honour. My husband, my sons, my daughters, and myself are profoundly sensible of the privilege which has been accorded us. I am truly sorry for those who have not had the good fortune to receive an invitation to the ball. Never this night, I fear, will they be able to close their eyes in sleep, by reason of the pangs of envy. Yet on the morrow they will not hesitate to speak in disparaging terms of the fêtes which the Man periodically gives. Ah, but never have they looked upon such brilliancy as we see here to-night! No, never! Nor, you might have added, upon such luxury and wealth! Nor upon such enchanting, such soul-emancipating gaiety! If this be not gaiety, then I know not what gaiety is. But let that pass. 'Tis ill quarrelling with persons who writhe in the pangs of envy. Yet I will venture to foretell that those same persons will presumptuously assert that these were not gilded chairs upon which we are now sitting--not gilded chairs! No; mere deteriorated articles, purchased, for a trifling sum, from some secondhand dealer! They will say, too, that those beautiful electric globes were tallow candles of the commonest quality! Yes--mere farthing dips! Or trashy oil lamps! Oh, tongues of envy! Peradventure they will have the effrontery to deny that the mansion has gilded cornices? Or that to the pictures on the walls there are the massive gilded frames which we see before us? For my part, I seem to hear the veritable chink of gold in this palace. Well, at all events we behold its glitter: and that, in my opinion, is as good. Seldom has it fallen to my lot to enjoy such ravishing strains as those which always greet our ears at balls given by the Man. They constitute the veritable music of the spheres, and waft the soul from earth to higher regions. Yes, in truth do they! Yet we have some reason to expect that the music should be of the finest quality, seeing that the Man is in a position to pay the immense fees demanded by the musicians. You must recollect that this is the most distinguished orchestra of the day, and plays at all the most _recherché_ functions. Ah, one could listen to such strains for ever! They simply _enchant_ one's sense of hearing! I may inform you that, for days and nights after one of these balls given by the Man, my sons and daughters never cease to hum the tunes which they have heard there. At times I seem to hear such divine music when I am walking in the streets. I gaze around me, but neither instrument nor player is to be seen. And _I_ hear it in my dreams. What appears to me so especially excellent about these musicians is that they play with such _abandon_. Though aware of the immense fees which they are entitled to demand for their services, they are yet good enough to refrain from giving nothing in return. That seems to me particularly right and proper. Yes. 'Tis as though the musicians completely-identified themselves with their instruments, so great is the verve with which they surrender themselves to their playing. Or, rather, as though their instruments identified themselves with them. How rich it all is! Flow sumptuous! How brilliant! How luxurious! [_And so on, for a considerable time, like a pack of dogs barking one against the other._] I would have you to know that, in addition to this _salon_, the mansion contains no fewer than fifteen magnificent apartments. I have seen them all. The dining-room is fitted with a fireplace which can accommodate whole trunks of trees. The drawing-room, too, and boudoir are simply _gorgeous_, while the state bedroom is not only an apartment of the most gigantic dimensions, but is actually furnished with bedsteads to which baldaquins are attached! Indeed? You surprise me! Baldaquins? Yes, I said _baldaquins_. Pray permit me to continue what I was saying. The son of the house lives in a beautiful, bright nursery, lined throughout with yellow wood and gilding, so that the sun seems for ever to be shining there. And the little fellow is so charming! He has curls like the rays of the sun himself. Yes, indeed! When one looks upon him one involuntarily exclaims, "The sun has just come out." And when one gazes into his eyes one involuntarily thinks, "Ah! Now are the chill autumn and winter passed, for there is blue sky to be seen." The Man loves the boy to distraction. He has just bought him a pony--a beautiful, pure white pony--to ride on. Now, _my_ children---- Well, as we were saying. Have I yet told you of the bathroom? No, you have not. It is a truly marvellous apartment. Ah! Is it indeed? Yes; with hot water always laid on. Then there is the Man's study, replete with books--endless books. He is said to be immensely clever--and of a truth you could tell that from the number of the books alone. I have seen the gardens. Have _you?_ Indeed? No, I have not. And I am not ashamed to confess that they simply astounded me. In them I saw the most marvellous lawns--all of an emerald green, and mown with surprising neatness, with little paths intersecting them, lined with the finest of red sand. And the flowers, too! And the palm-trees! _Palm-trees?_ Yes, I said _palm-trees_. Every shrub is pruned into a shape of some kind, such as a pyramid or a column of green foliage. Then there is a fountain with huge globes of glass, and, in the centre of the main lawn, a number of plaster gnomes and sirens. How splendid! How brilliant! How luxurious! [_And so on, as before._] The Man also did me the honour to show me his coach-houses and stables, until I found myself wholly unable to repress the admiration evoked in me by the spectacle of the horses and carriages which they contained. His motor-car, too, made a great impression upon me. And, to think of it, he has no fewer than _seventeen_ attendants for his person alone, in addition to the general staff of cooks, kitchen-maids, housemaids, gardeners, and so forth! And grooms, surely? Yes, and grooms. Of course, it is only right and proper that the Man and his Wife should have everything done for them, seeing that they are personages of such high degree. Yes; and for the same reason it is all the more an honour for us to be included among the number of their guests. But do you not find the music just a trifle--well, _monotonous?_ No, I do not, and I am surprised that _you_ should do so. Surely you know who the musicians are? Yes; I was but jesting. I could listen to such strains for ever. There is something in them which especially appeals to me. And to me also. It is delightful to be able to surrender oneself to their influence, and to become absorbed in dreams of ecstatic bliss. It is not too much to say that they waft one's soul to the very empyrean. How delightful it all is! How splendid! How luxurious! [_And so on, as before._] But I see a movement at that door. Probably the Man and his Wife are making their entry into the _salon_. See how the musicians are redoubling their efforts! There they come! There they come! Yes, there they come! There they come! [_The Man and his Wife appear at a low door on the right, accompanied by the Man's Friends and Enemies. They cross the salon obliquely to a door on the left, walking in solemn procession, and causing the dancers to divide and leave a clear space for them. The musicians play more loudly, and more extravagantly out of tune, than ever._ [_The Man looks much older than he did in Act II, and a sprinkling of grey is noticeable in his long hair and beard. Yet his face is still handsome and vigorous. He walks with a sort of calm dignity and aloofness, and gazes straight in front of him, as though he were not aware of the presence of the surrounding company. His Wife, too, looks older, but still beautiful, as she leans upon his arm. Like her husband, she seems to see none of the surrounding company, but gazes in front of her with a strange, half-apprehensive expression. They are both of them magnificently dressed._ [_Behind the Man and his Wife come the Man's Friends. The latter are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open foreheads, and candid eyes. They move with dignity--expanding their chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. They wear white buttonholes._ [_Following them at a respectful distance come the Man's Enemies. These also bear a strong general resemblance to one another--their faces being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their hands slender and apelike. They move as though ill at ease--jostling one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. They wear yellow buttonholes._ [_In this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without a word being spoken by any one of its members. The sound of their footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant din._ ~Acclamations of the Guests.~~ There they are! There they are! What an honour for us! How handsome he is! What a manly face! Look, look! Yet he does not deign us even a glance! No; although we are his guests! He has not so much as seen us! No matter. This is a great honour for us. And there is his Wife! Look, look! How lovely she is! But how proud! Look at her diamonds, her diamonds! Her diamonds, her diamonds! And her pearls, her pearls! And her rubies, her rubies! How splendid! We are indeed honoured! Yes, are we not? What an honour, what an honour! [_And so on, and so on._] And there come the Man's Friends! Look, look! What aristocratic faces! And what a haughty bearing! Yes, for they reflect his glory. And how attached to him they are! And what true friends to him! What an honour to be one of their number! They look at everything as though it were theirs. Yes; they are at home here. What an honour for us! What an honour! [_And so on, and so on._] And there come the Man's Enemies! Look, look! The Man's Enemies! They crouch like whipped dogs! Yes, for the Man has tamed them. Yes, he has muzzled them. See how they droop their tails between their legs! And how they slink along! And how they jostle one another! Booh! Booh! [_General laughter._] What vulgar faces! And what greedy looks! What a cowardly bearing! What an envious air! They are afraid to look at us. Yes. They know that we have a better right than they to be here. They need frightening a little more. The Man will thank us for doing it. Booh! Booh! [_The Guests receive the Man's Enemies with renewed jeers and laughter, while the Enemies crowd nervously upon one another, and throw sharp glances to right and left._] There! They are going now! They are going now! Truly an honour of the greatest kind has been done us! Yes, they are going now! Booh! Booh! They have gone! They have gone! [_The procession disappears through a doorway to the left, and the din dies down a little. The music plays less loudly than before, and the dancers spread themselves over the floor again._] Where have they gone to? To the great dining-room, I suppose, where supper is to be served. Then we may take it that we too will be invited presently? Yes. Has not a lackey come to summon us? I think it is high time we were sent for. If supper be served much later than this, we shall all of us sleep badly. Yes, I assure you I _always_ sup early. A late supper lies so heavily on one's stomach! The music still goes on. Yes, and so do the dancers. Yet I am surprised that they have not tired of it. How rich it is! How sumptuous! [_And so on, as before._] Did you see how many covers were laid for supper? No. I had barely time to begin counting them before the butler entered the room and I had to depart. Surely we have not been forgotten? My good madam, please remember that (in his own eyes, at least) the Man is a very great personage, and that we are personages of _small_ account. No matter. My husband often asserts that it is _we_ who do _the Man_ honour by accepting his invitations--not _the Man_ who does _us_ honour by according them. We are rich ourselves, for that matter. And if one should also take into account the reputation of his wife----! Has any one seen a footman, sent to summon us to supper? Perhaps he is looking for us in one of the other rooms? How rich the Man must be! Yet wealth may be acquired without dipping one's hands into other people's pockets. Hush! Only the Man's Enemies say that. Indeed? And do they not comprise among their number men of the highest honour? My husband is one of them. How late it is getting! I think there must have been some misunderstanding here. I can scarcely suppose that we have _purposely_ been forgotten. Well, if you cannot suppose that, I must say that your knowledge of life and men is grossly deficient. I am surprised. We ourselves are rich, but---- Hark! I think I heard some one call us. 'Twas only your fancy. _No one_ has called us. I feel it my bounden duty to remark that I cannot conceive how we ever came to permit ourselves to patronize a house which possesses such a dubious reputation. Of a surety we ought to pick and choose our acquaintances more carefully. [_Enter a footman, who cries aloud: "The Man and his Wife request the honour of their guests' company at supper." Upon this the Guests resume their conversation with a sigh of relief._] What a splendid livery! So the Man _has_ invited us, after all! I knew it was only a misunderstanding. The Man is _so_ goodhearted! In all probability he and his party themselves have not yet sat down to supper. I _told_ you a lackey would be sent to summon us. What a magnificent livery he wore! They say the supper is equally magnificent. Oh, nothing is ever badly done in the Man's house. What music! What an honour to be one of the guests at a ball given by the Man! How persons must envy us who have not been accorded that honour! How rich it all is! How sumptuous! [_Repeating these ejaculations over and over again, the Guests begin to depart. Only one couple of dancers continue dancing; the rest follow the Guests in silence. For a little while the last couple continue their diversion; then they hasten to overtake their companions. Nevertheless the musicians play with unabated vigour._ [_Presently a footman enters, and extinguishes all the lights save the furthest lustre. For a few moments afterwards the forms of the musicians are still distinguishable through the gloom as they sway themselves and their instruments to the music; but eventually nothing remains visible save the tall figure of the Being in Grey. The flame of the candle in his hand is now flickering heavily, yet its light remains strong and yellow, and throws the strong face and chin of the Being into sharp relief. Presently, without raising his head, he makes a slight turn towards the audience. Then, lit up by the glare of the candle's rays, he crosses the salon with slow and soundless footsteps, and disappears through the doorway by which the Guests and the dancers have made their exit._] CURTAIN ACT IV--RUIN AND BEREAVEMENT [_The scene is a large, square room of poverty-stricken, dilapidated appearance, with walls, floor, and ceiling dark in colour, and the back wall broken only by two lofty, curtainless windows through which the outer night shows darkly. Between the windows is a door leading out into the garden. The general effect of the room gives the beholder the impression that, however brilliantly it were lighted, the great, dark expanses of window-pane would still absorb the major portion of the light. To the left is a second door, giving entry to other portions of the Man's mansion. Near this second door there stands a sofa, upholstered in coarse horsehair, while beneath one of the windows there can be seen the Man's working-table--a perfectly plain piece of furniture. Upon it are mingled in careless confusion a dimly burning candle, a shaded lamp, a faded sketch-plan, and three child's toys--namely, a small pasteboard helmet, a wooden horse without a tail, and a red-nosed clown doll, holding cymbals in its hands. To the right is an old bookcase--empty, and almost falling to pieces, but showing, by the lines left in the dust with which its shelves are covered, that the books which it formerly contained have not long been removed. The room contains a single chair._ [_In one corner, darker than the rest of the scene, there stands the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now reduced to a stump, and even from this the wax is fast running down as it burns with a red, unsteady light and throws gleams of a ruddy hue over the stony face and chin of the Being._ [_Seated on the solitary chair which the room contains, and talking to herself, is discovered an old woman--the last remaining servant of the Man._] ~The Old Woman.~~ So once again the Man has sunk to poverty! Once upon a time he had many valuable possessions--horses, carriages, even a motor-car; but now he has nothing at all. Of his many servants I am the only one left. True, this room and two others still contain an odd piece or two of furniture, but in the other fifteen apartments there is nothing whatever; they stand dark and empty, and day and night the rats scamper and squeak in them. _Some_ people might be afraid of the rats, but I am not. Nothing matters much to me. For a long while now there has been a notice-board hanging on the entrance-gates, to say that the mansion is for sale; but no one seems to care to be a purchaser. The board has grown rusty with the rain, and the letters on it are fast being washed out, but no customer ever appears. _Who_ would want to buy a house in such repair? Still, some day some one _might_ do so, and then we shall be turned out of doors, I suppose, and have to seek another place in which to lay our heads. At first it will seem strange to us, but we shall soon get used to it. Sometimes my mistress weeps, and my master too, but _I_ never weep. Nothing matters much to me. Are you wondering what has become of all the Man's wealth? Nay, I do not know. Sometimes I too wonder, but I have lived a long life in service, and have seen more than one great fortune slip away into chinks and clefts, and vanish quietly. So it has been with my master and mistress. At first they had much, then little, then nothing at all. Once upon a time patrons and customers used to come and give my master commissions. Now they have ceased to come. That is all. One day I asked my mistress why things were so, and she replied: "What used to be fashionable is not so now. People no longer care for the styles in architecture which they used to affect." "But what has made the fashions change?" said I. She made no answer, but burst into tears. _I_ shed no tears. Nothing matters much to me, nothing matters much to me. So long as they pay me my wages I shall stop with them, and as soon as they cease paying those wages I shall go and take service elsewhere. For many years I have done their cooking for them, but I should leave them at once, and go and cook for some one else, if my wages were to cease. In any case I shall soon have to give up working, for I am growing old, and my sight is not what it was. Some day, perhaps, I shall be dismissed--yes, told to go about my business and make room for some one else. Ah, well, what will it matter? I shall just go--that is all. Nothing matters much to me. Sometimes people are surprised at me. "It must be lonely for you," they say, "in that kitchen--alone every evening while the wind howls in the chimney, and the rats scamper and squeak." I do not know. Perhaps it _is_ lonely, only I never think of it. Why should I? My master and mistress sit alone, the same as I do, and look at one another, and listen to the wind; and I sit in my kitchen and listen to the wind also. Once upon a time young folks used to come and visit my master's little son; and then there would be such singing and laughter and scampering about the empty rooms to scare the rats! Yet no one ever came to see _me_. No, I sat alone as I am sitting now--alone, quite alone: and since I have no one to talk to I talk to myself. Nothing matters much to me. Three days ago yet another misfortune came upon this house. The young master brushed his hair, and cocked his hat as young gentlemen will do, and went out for a walk. And some rascally villain picked up a stone, and threw it at him, and split the boy's head like a cocoa-nut. Well, he was lifted up, and brought home, and now lies upon his bed--though whether to live or to die the good God alone knows. My old master and mistress wept so bitterly over him! Then they took all the books out of that bookcase yonder, and piled them upon a cart, and sent them away to be sold: and with the money they have hired a nurse, and bought medicines and grapes for the boy. But he will not touch the grapes, nor look at them, and they lie unheeded on a plate by his bedside. [_Enter a Doctor, looking worried and fatigued._] ~The Doctor.~~ Old woman, can you tell me if I have come to the right house? I am a doctor with a large practice, and many patients to visit, so that I sometimes make mistakes. First I am called to one house, and then to another--only to find that the first house is empty, and the second one inhabited by a colony of idiots! Have I come to the right place _this_ time? ~The Old Woman.~~ I do not know. ~The Doctor.~~ Well, I will consult my memorandum-book. Have you a child with the croup and a sore throat? ~The Old Woman.~~ No. ~The Doctor.~~ Then have you a man with a broken leg? ~The Old Woman.~~ No. ~The Doctor.~~ Or a man who has gone out of his mind and attacked his wife and children with a hatchet--four patients in all? ~The Old Woman.~~ No.. ~The Doctor.~~ Then have you a young girl with palpitation of the heart? Do not lie to me, old woman, for I am almost sure that this is where I was to attend her. ~The Old Woman.~~ No. ~The Doctor.~~ No? Well, I believe you, for you speak with such conviction. Let me look in my book again. Have you a young gentleman who has had his head broken with a stone, and now lies at death's door? ~The Old Woman.~~ Yes. Step through that door on the left, and mind the rats don't eat you. ~The Doctor.~~ Very well, I will attend the young gentleman. Oh dear, oh dear! I am for ever being sent for, for ever being sent for--day and night alike! This time it is night, and though the street lamps have long ago been put out, I have to trot away all the same. Thus I often make mistakes, old woman. [_Exit through the door on the left._ ~The Old Woman.~~ Already one doctor has been to attend the boy, without doing him any good, and now here comes another one--to do him about as little, I reckon. Well, what of that? The boy will die, and we shall go on living without him--that is all. I shall go on sitting in my kitchen as before, without a soul to keep me company, and think; and one room the more will be left empty for the rats to scamper and squeak in. Well, _let_ them scamper, and _let_ them squeak: it is all one to me. Do you want to know why that ruffian flung the stone at the young master's head? Nay, I do not know. How should I know why men want to kill one another? All I know is that a man threw a stone, and then hid himself in a dark corner, and that a boy was struck by that stone, and now lies a-dying. They say that the young master was good and kind to poor people. Maybe. I do not know. It is all one to me. Kind or cruel, old or young, alive or dead--folk are all one to me. So long as I am paid my wages I shall stop where I am; and when those wages cease I shall move elsewhere and cook for some one else, or, maybe, give up working altogether, for I am growing old, and sometimes mistake salt for sugar. Or perhaps I shall be discharged, and told to go about my business, so that they may get another cook in my place. Well, what of that? I shall just go--that is all. Every place is the same to me--here, there, or anywhere; every place is the same to me. [_Re-enter the Doctor, accompanied by the Man and his Wife. Both the latter are now grown old and grey. Yet, though the Man walks with his body slightly bent, he holds his head (to which his shaggy, upstanding hair and long beard impart something of a leonine appearance) erect. Likewise, though he has to don a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles whenever he wishes to observe an object closely, his glance still flashes keenly and directly from under his grey eyebrows._] ~The Doctor.~~ Your son has fallen into a deep sleep, and you must not wake him. Perhaps it is the best sign at present. But you yourselves ought to take some rest. People who have time to sleep should _use_ it, and not waste the precious hours of the night in walking about and talking, as _I_ have to do. ~The Man's Wife.~~ We thank you, doctor. You have greatly reassured us. Are you coming again to-morrow? ~The Doctor.~~ Yes, and the next day as well. (_To the Old Woman_) You too ought to be in bed. Every one ought to be in bed at this time of night. Is that my way out--through that door there? I so often make mistakes! [_Exit with the Old Woman._ ~The Man.~~ (_Taking up the sketch-plan from his Worktable._) Look at this, my wife. It is something which I had begun upon just before our boy's accident happened. I remember stopping in the middle of that line and thinking, "I will take a little rest now, and continue it later." See how simple and easy that line was to draw! Yet how strange to look upon it and think, "Perhaps this may prove to have been the last line which I drew while our boy was yet alive!" With what an unconscious air of ill-omen do its very straightness and simplicity seem charged! ~His Wife.~~ Nay; do not fret yourself, my darling, but chase away these despondent thoughts from you. I feel sure now that the doctor spoke truth--that our boy, will recover. ~The Man.~~ Ah, but are not _you_ fretting a little, my dear one? Look at yourself in the mirror, and you will see that your face is as white as your hair, my poor old comrade. ~His Wife.~~ Oh, perhaps I _am_ worrying a little; but, none the less, I feel _sure_ that our boy will recover. ~The Man.~~ Ah, how you hearten my spirits, as always you have done! How you charm away my sorrows with your sincerity and goodness! O little armour-bearer, the never-failing keeper of my faltering sword, thy old knight is in pitiful case now--his trembling hand can scarce hold his weapon. But what see I here? My son's old toys! Who put them there? ~His Wife.~~ My dear one, you forget. You yourself put them there, long ago; for you said that you could work better if those innocent, childish toys lay beside you. ~The Man.~~ Yes, yes, I was forgetting. Yet I lean scarcely bear to look upon them now; even as a condemned criminal cannot bear to look upon the instruments of torture and death. When a son is dying his toys become things of horror to the father who is to be left behind. Wife, wife, I cannot bear to see them! ~His Wife.~~ Ah, it was in the far-off, early days when we were poor--as poor as we are now--that we bought them for him. I too feel hurt to see them there--poor darling little toys! ~The Man.~~ I cannot help it; I must take them in my hands once more. Here is the little horse without a tail. "Gee up, gee up, little horse! Where are you galloping to?" "Oh, a long way off, Papa--a long way off, to where there are fields and forests of green." "Will you take me with you on your little horse?" "Oh yes, oh yes, Papa! Climb on to his back, dearest Papa!---- ----" And here is the little pasteboard helmet which I tried on my own head the day that we bought it in the shop and made so merry over it. "Who are you?" "I am a knight, Papa--the most powerful, daring knight." "And where are you going to, little knight?" "To slay a dragon, dear Papa, and to set his prisoners free." "Go then, go then, little knight--------" [_The Man's Wife bursts into tears._] And here, too, is our old friend, the clown doll, with his dear, silly face. But how ragged he looks now!--as though he had been through a hundred fights! Yet he is as red-nosed and smiling as ever. Now, sound your cymbals, my little friend, as you were used to do. You cannot, eh? You say that you cannot?--that you have only one cymbal left? Very well, then. Down upon the floor you go! [_He throws down the doll._] ~His Wife.~~ Oh, what are you doing? Remember how often our boy has kissed its merry face. ~The Man.~~ Yes, I did wrong. Forgive me, my dear. And do you too pardon me, my little friend of old times. [_He stoops with some difficulty and picks up the doll._] So thou art still smiling? Ah well, I will lay thee aside awhile. Be not angry with me, but I cannot bear thy smiles just now--thou must go and smile elsewhere. ~His Wife.~~ Oh, how your words rend my heart I Believe me, our son will yet recover. How could it be right that youth should go to the grave before old age? ~The Man.~~ And how often have you known the "right" to happen, my wife? ~His Wife.~~ Nay, nay; speak not so, my old comrade, but, rather, let us go upon our knees and say a prayer to God. ~The Man.~~ Methinks it would be difficult for my old knees to bend now. ~His Wife.~~ Yet _try_ to bend them, dearest one. It is our duty. ~The Man.~~ Think you, then, that God would heed one who has never yet troubled His ear with prayer or praise? Do _you_ pray: you are the mother. ~His Wife.~~ Nay, but do you also: you are the father. If a father will not pray for his son, who else shall do it--to whom else shall it be left? And would my prayer alone avail as much as yours and mine together? ~The Man.~~ Be it so, then; and perhaps the Everlasting Goodness will yet hold His hand when He sees an aged couple on their knees. [_They kneel down, with their faces towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey, and clasp their hands in an attitude of prayer._] ~Prayer of the Mother.~~ O God, I beseech Thee to spare the life of our son. One thing, one thing only, can my tongue find to say unto Thee: Spare us our son, O God! Spare us our son! Nought but this can I ask of Thee, for all around me is dark--all around me is slipping beneath my feet, so that I am utterly bewildered and astray. In the agony of my soul I beseech Thee, O God--again, and yet again--to spare us our son, to spare us our son. Forgive me this poor prayer of mine, but indeed I can do no better. Thou Thyself knowest that I can do no better. Look down upon me, look down upon me! Dost thou not see my trembling head, my trembling hands--ah, my trembling hands, O God? Have mercy, then, upon our child. He is yet so young that the birthmark is not faded from his right hand. Suffer him, then, I beseech Thee, to live a little longer--just a little longer--just a little longer. Have mercy upon him, have mercy upon him! [_She breaks off into silent weeping, and covers her face with her hands. The Man does not glance at her, but gives utterance, in his turn, to the following prayer._] ~Prayer of the Father.~~ O God, dost Thou see me praying to Thee? Dost Thou see that I have bent my aged knees, and am crouching in the dust--that I am kissing the very earth in token of my supplication? Perchance at times I have offended Thee? If that be so, yet grant me Thy forgiveness. Perchance at times I have been insolent and presuming--I have blamed Thee for my misfortunes--I have demanded when I should have asked? Yet now, I pray Thee, forgive me these things. Punish me if Thou wilt--punish me howsoever Thou pleasest: only spare us the life of our son. Yea, spare him, I beseech Thee. I do not ask this of Thy mercy, nor of Thy pity, but of Thy _justice_: for Thou art old in years, as even am I, and wouldst the better comprehend me for that. Evil men have tried to kill our son--cruel, pitiless men who lurked in dark places and cast stones at him. Yea, they lurked in dark places, and cast stones at him, the cowardly villains! Yet suffer them not to have achieved their evil purpose, seeing that they are men who do offend Thee with their misdeeds, and pollute Thy earth with their abominations. Staunch Thou, rather, the blood of our beloved son, and preserve to us his life. When Thou didst take away from me my riches, did I beseech and importune Thee to give me back my possessions, my friends, my fame, my talents? Did I, O God? No, never did I. I asked not even that my talents should be restored to me; and Thou Thyself knowest that a man's talents are more to him than life itself. Perchance, thought I, these things must be; so I bore them--bore them ever without complaining. Yet now I beseech Thee--here on my knees, and kissing the very dust of earth before Thee--that Thou wilt restore to us our little son. Yea, I kiss the very earth in token of my supplication. [_The Man and his Wife rise to their feet again. The Being in Grey has listened to these prayers without making any sign._] ~The Man's Wife.~~ My dearest one, I cannot help fearing that your prayer was not sufficiently humble in tone. Methought there was too much of the note of pride in it. ~The Man.~~ No, no, my wife. I did but speak Him fair, as man would speak to man. Surely He cannot prefer flatterers to open, self-respecting men who speak the truth? No, wife; you do not understand Him. I feel quite confident again now, and my mind is at ease--it is even cheerful. I feel that I can still do a little to help our son, and the thought gives me comfort. Go now, and see if he is asleep. He ought to have a good, sound sleep. [The Man's Wife leaves the room, and the Man seems to throw a glance as of gratitude towards the Being in Grey; after which he takes up the doll again, and begins to play with it, and to kiss its long red nose. Presently his Wife returns.] ~The Man.~~ (_With cheerful animation_). Yes, I feel sure now that I am' forgiven for my late insult to this little friend of mine. And how is our dear boy? ~His Wife.~~ He looks so dreadfully pale! ~The Man.~~ Oh, that is nothing. That will soon pass away. You must remember that he has lost so much blood. ~His Wife.~~ Yet it hurts me to see his poor, pale face and close-cropped head. He used to have such beautiful curls! ~The Man.~~ Yes, I know, but the doctor was obliged to cut them off to dress the wound. But never mind, my wife; they will soon grow again, more beautiful than ever. Did you save the curls when they were cut off? They ought certainly to have been saved, for there was his dear blood upon them'. ~His Wife.~~ Yes, my beloved one; and I stored them in this casket here--the only, thing of value which we have left. ~The Man.~~ Then you did rightly. We have no cause to fret about our vanished riches, for the boy; will soon be grown up, and able to go and work for us all. Yes, he will soon recover for us what we have lost. I feel quite cheerful again, my wife--quite confident about the future. Do you remember our poor old room with the pink walls, and how the good neighbours brought us sprigs of oak and birch, and how you made a chaplet of leaves for my head, and swore that I was a genius? ~His Wife.~~ Yes; and I swear it now, my darling. Others may have ceased to, appreciate you, but not I. ~The Man.~~ Yet you are mistaken, little wife. If I were _really_ a genius my creations would have outlived this poor old relic which they call my body: yet _I_ am still alive, whereas my creations---- ~His Wife.~~ No, no! They have not perished, nor will they ever. Think of that great mansion at the corner of the street--the one which you designed ten years ago. I know well that you go to look at it every evening when the sun is setting. And, indeed, is there in all the world a more beautiful, a more stately mansion? ~The Man.~~ Yes, of set purpose I built it in such a way that the beams of the setting sun may fall upon it and make its windows flash. When all the rest of the city is in twilight my house is still bidding farewell to the sun. Yes, 'twas a fine piece of work; and perchance--who knows?--it will outlive me a little while. ~His Wife.~~ Of _course_ it will, my darling! ~The Man.~~ One thing, and one thing only, grieves me concerning that masterpiece of mine: and that is that people should so soon have forgotten its designer. They might have remembered him a _little_ longer, just a _little_ longer. ~His Wife.~~ Oh, in time people forget every one, just as they cease to care for fashions which they once adored. ~The Man.~~ Yet they might have remembered me just a little longer, just a little longer. ~His Wife.~~ One day I saw a young artist gazing at that mansion. He was studying; it carefully, and sketching it in a notebook. ~The Man.~~ Oh, you should have told me of that before, dear wife! It means a great deal, a very great deal. It means that my design will be handed down to future generations, and that, even if my personality be forgotten, my _work_ will live. Yes, it means a great deal, a very great deal. ~His Wife.~~ Ah! So you see that you are _not_ forgotten, my darling! Think, too, of the young man who saluted you so respectfully in the street the other day. ~The Man.~~ Yes, that is true, my wife. He was a nice-looking young man--a very nice-looking young man, and had such a distinguished face. I am glad to have been reminded of his bow that day. Well, I am almost bowing myself now; yes, bowing to sleep, for I am quite worn out. Yes, I am growing old, my little greyheaded wife. Do you not notice it? ~His Wife.~~ No, you are as handsome as ever. ~The Man.~~ But are not my eyes just a little less bright than they used to be? ~His Wife.~~ No. They flash as brilliantly as ever they did. ~The Man.~~ And my hair--is it as jet-black as before? ~His Wife.~~ No; but it is so snowily white that it looks even more beautiful. ~The Man~~ And have I no wrinkles? ~His Wife.~~ Oh, perhaps a _little_ one or two, but---- ~The Man.~~ Oh yes, I know! I am a perfect Adonis. I will buy a uniform to-morrow, and take service in the light cavalry. Will that do, eh? [_His Wife bursts out laughing._] ~His Wife.~~ Ah, now you are joking, just as you used to do. But lie down here, my darling, and take some sleep, while I go and sit by our boy. You may rest easy, for I shall not leave him, and when he wakes I will call you.--You will not mind kissing an old wrinkled hand, will you? ~The Man.~~ Silence, silence! You are still the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen. ~His Wife.~~ But are there no wrinkles on my face? ~The Man.~~ Wrinkles? What wrinkles? I see only a beautiful, dear, kind, clever face--beyond that, nothing. You will not be angry with me for chiding you thus? Now go to our boy, and watch over him; spreading around his bed the calm halo of your love and tenderness. And if he should be restless in his sleep, sing to him a little lullaby, as you were wont to do, and place the grapes near his bedside, so that he may be able to reach them with his hand when he awakes. [_Exit the Man's Wife, while the Man lies down upon the couch with his head at the end which is nearest to the corner occupied by the motionless figure of the Being in Grey: so near, indeed, that the hand of the Being seems almost to be resting upon the Man's grey, dishevelled locks. In a moment the Man is asleep._] ~The Being in Grey.~~ Thus in sound and happy slumber sleeps the Man--buoyed up with fond, delusive hopes. His breathing is as calm as that of a little child, and his aged heart beats evenly and quietly as he rests. He knows not that within a few seconds his son will have passed away for ever into the Infinite. Yet even as the Man lies there the shadowy mists of sleep are presenting to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. He dreams that he is with his son, and that together they are gliding in a fair white boat down a broad and peaceful river. It seems to him that it is a beautiful day in summer, and that he is gazing upon pure blue sky and water clear as crystal. He can hear the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat, and in his heart he is joyous and hopeful. For all his senses are deceiving the Man. Yet suddenly he grows uneasy. Some strange fancy has pierced the mists of sleep and seared his soul. "Why have thy golden locks been shorn, my boy? Why have they done that?" "My head was hurting me, Papa. That is why they have shorn my locks." And once again, in his fond delusion, the Man feels happy as he gazes at the blue sky and listens to the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat. No; he knows not that at this moment his son is dying. He knows not that his beloved child is calling to him with a last voiceless cry of the soul as, in the throes of delirium, the boy's childish instinct turns once more to its belief in the superior strength of his elders. "Papa, Papa! I am dying! Save me, Papa!" No; the Man sleeps on, in sound and happy slumber, while secret, fleeting dreams continue to present to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. Awake, Man, awake! Thy son is--_dead!_ [_The man lifts his head with a frightened gesturey and rises to his feet._] ~The Man.~~ I feel a sort of fear upon me. I thought I heard some one call. [_Almost at the same moment the sound of female voices in lamentation is heard behind the scenes, and the Man's Wife enters, looking as white as a sheet._] ~The Man.~~ Our--our son? Is--is he dead? ~His Wife.~~ Yes--he is _dead!_ ~The Man.~~ Did he call-to me just now? ~His Wife.~~ No; he never returned to consciousness; he never recognized any one. Yes, he is dead--our son, our darling son! [_She falls to the ground before the Man, sobbing violently, and clasping him round the knees. The Man lays his hand protectingly upon her head as he turns towards the Being in Grey and exclaims in a choking voice:_] Villain! Thou hast wounded a woman, and thou hast killed a child! [_His Wife still continues sobbing, while the Man silently strokes her head with a trembling hand._] ~The Man.~~ Do not weep, my darling; do not weep. Life only laughs at our tears, even as it has laughed at our prayers. [_Then, turning once more towards the Being in Grey, he exclaims:_] And for _thee_--Fate, Life, God, or Devil, whatsoever be thy name--I hereby curse thee! [_As the Man delivers the following curse he stands with one arm outstretched, as though shielding his Wife from danger, while the other arm he extends menacingly towards the Being in Grey._] ~The Man's Curse.~~ Hereby I curse thee, and all that thou hast given me! I curse the day whereon I was born, and the day whereon I shall die! I curse my whole life, its joys and its sorrows! I curse myself, my ears, my eyes, my heart, my tongue, my head! All those things which thou hast given me I fling back in thy face, thou Fate, thou Demon! Cursed be thou--aye, cursed for ever! Yet with this very curse will I vanquish thee at the last. For, in truth, what more canst thou do unto me? Strike me, if thou wilt--aye, strike me to the ground: I will yet laugh aloud in thy face, and cry, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Or fill my mouth full with the creeping worms of death: I will yet with my last breath gasp into thy obscene ears, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Seize thou my carcase, gnaw it like a dog, worry, it in the outer darkness of hell: what though my soul have left it and be fled to other regions, I will yet repeat, again and again, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Aye! By the head of this woman whom thou hast wounded, and by the body of this child whom thou hast slain, I curse thee, I curse thee--aye, I, the Man! [_For a little while he remains standing in silence, his arm raised in a menacing attitude. During the pronouncement of the curse the Being in Grey has made no sign. Only, the flame of the candle has flickered as with a breath of wind. Thus they stand facing one another--the Man and the Being in Grey; until gradually the sounds of lamentation behind the scenes grow louder, and merge into a concerted threnody as the curtain falls._] CURTAIN ACT V--THE DEATH OF THE MAN [_When the curtain rises the stage is discovered wrapped in a vague, dim, flickering light--the sort of light which makes it difficult to distinguish objects at the first glance. Gradually, however, as the eye grows accustomed to the gloom, the following picture begins to stand out from the obscurity._ [_The scene is a large, low hall or cellar, to which there are neither doors nor windows, but which is entered by a ladder leading down from a trapdoor in the ceiling. The walls are bare of ornamentation, and so thickly encrusted with dirt that almost they seem to be covered with leather made out of the hide of some gigantic wild beast. Along the back wall runs a rudely constructed drinking-bar, containing rows of bottles filled with variously-coloured liquids; and in front of this bar the proprietor of the den is seated on a low stool, with his hands clasped over his stomach. His face is pale, save for a pair of brilliantly red cheeks, and his head bald, while his neck and chin are covered with a large tawny beard. His whole expression denotes absolute lethargy and indifference, and he retains this attitude unchanged throughout the entire Act--never at any time making the least modification in his posture._ [_At a number of small tables persons of both sexes are seated drinking--the apparent number of these individuals being increased by the fantastic shadows which dart hither and thither over the walls and ceiling of the room. All have faces both horrible and repulsive, but in such infinite variety of ugliness that they resemble, rather, an assortment of hideous masks. Likewise, the majority of them have one or more features either grotesquely exaggerated or wholly absent, such, for instance, as a gigantic nose or no nose at all, eyes wildly protruding or shrunk to imperceptible slits, a throat horribly goitred or a chin receding to the point of deformity. Also, most of them have coarse, matted hair which covers the greater portion of their faces. Yet, despite this bizarre variety of feature, there is a marked similarity in the general appearance of these creatures--a similarity which finds its most distinctive characteristic in the greenish, corpselike hue with which their faces are overlaid, no matter whether the face be rudely jocular or convulsed with semi-maniacal fear and horror. As for the bodies of the drunkards, they are clad in the most miserable of rags, of a uniformly dull, monotonous colour, and disclosing here a livid, bony hand or knee, and there a deformed or concave chest. Indeed, some of the wretches are almost naked, whilst the Women are indistinguishable from the men, save for the fact that they are, if anything, the more uncouth. Men and women alike have tremulous hands and heads, and whenever a drunkard rises to walk about, he or she moves as though treading upon an exceedingly slippery, uneven, or unstable surface. Finally, the same timbre of voice--a sort of harsh and grating croak--is common to all, and they mouth their words as haltingly as they walk, with lips which seem frozen._ [_At a table a little apart from the rest there sits the Man. His white, dishevelled head is bowed upon his arms, and he maintains this attitude unchanged until the moment, towards the close of the Act, when he rises and speaks for the last time. Like the drunkards, he is very poorly clad._ [_In another corner of the room there stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. In the Beings hand a fast-expiring candle (its flame now grown thin and blue) is flickering heavily, as at one moment it droops downwards over the edge of the candlestick, and at another darts upwards into a fine point as it casts gleams of a lurid, deathlike hue over the statuesque face and chin of the Being._] ~Dialogue of the Drunkards.~~ O my God, my God! See how the room is heaving about! I can scarcely keep an eye fixed upon anything at all! It is shivering as though with ague--ceiling, tables, floor, and walls! It is as though we were at sea! Hark! Do you hear that strange sound--a sound as of iron wheels being rattled, or of great stones rolling down a hillside--showers of stones as thick as raindrops? Pooh! That sound is in your own ears. 'Tis the blood makes it. My blood too is playing me strange pranks, for it has turned all thick and black, and smells of _vodka_. It will scarce pass through the veins now, and when it draws near to the heart it dams itself up, and refuses to flow at all. I can see lightning flashing, lightning flashing! And I can see great funeral-piles, with men burning on them! I can smell the horrid smell of their roasting flesh I I can see black shadows dancing round them! Hi, shadows! Let me come and dance with you awhile! O my God, my God! I must have another dram. Who will join me? No one? Then a curse upon you all! I will drink alone. See! A lovely woman is kissing me on the lips! She smells of musk, and her teeth are like a crocodile's I Ugh! She will bite me, she will bite me! Away, harridan! I am no harridan. I am only an old serpent with young, and have been watching little serpents crawl out of my womb this hour past, or more. See the little devils, how they wriggle about! Hi, you! Do not you dare to tread upon my serpent brood! Where are you off to? Who is that going away? Sit down again. You make the whole room shake with your tread. No, I dare not stay; I dare not sit down again. Nor I. When I sit down I feel the horrors coming over me. Over me too. Let me pass, I say! [_A number of the drunkards rise, and go surging towards the entrance-ladder--overturning some of the tables during their staggering progress._] See what that monster is doing! For two hours past it has been trying to climb on to my lap, only it cannot succeed. I keep driving it away, yet it always returns. At what sort of a game is it playing? I feel as though a swarm of cockroaches were buzzing about, and nesting in my skull. And I as though my skull were splitting in two--as though the very brains were coming out of it. They must have turned all maggoty, those brains, for they smell like mouldy cheese. Or, rather, like carrion. O my God, my God! To-night I am going to creep up to her on my hands and knees, and slit her throat for her. Yes, her blood shall flow to-night; that nice red blood of hers shall soon be streaming down her breast. Three men keep following me about everywhere. Some day they mean to catch me alone in some dark, lonely spot, and murder me. At this very moment they are waiting for me outside. What sort of a creature is it keeps walking about over the walls and ceiling? O my God! They have come in! They are after me! Who are? Those three men! I cannot move hand or foot! Whatever shall I do? Whatever shall I do? See! My clothes are slipping off me! Soon I shall be turned inside out--and a fine sight I shall look then! Help, some one! Help! A monster is after me! It is seizing me by the hand! Help! Help! What is it? God be with us! 'Tis a! monstrous spider! Help! Help! [_For a few moments some of the drunkards continue reiterating these cries for help._] Oh, we are drunk; that is all. Go and call down the rest of the town. It is so cold and miserable up there. No, no; I dare not ascend into the street. If I were to do so I should find _her_ waiting for me, and raging like a wild beast. She would kill me, to a certainty. Well, there are enough of us here already, so let us have some more liquor, and be merry. No, no! It only gives me the horrors. I have been shaking with them this many an hour past. Better the horrors than real life. Who would want to be sober, and to go back to real life? Not I! Nor I! I would rather stay down here. No, I have no wish to go back to life. Nor has any one else. O my God, my God! Why does the Man come here? He drinks little, but he sits much. _We_ don't want his company. No, indeed! Let him go home, since he has a home to go to. 'Tis a home with sixteen rooms in it! Yes, but they are empty now. Only the rats scamper and squeak in them. But he has a wife? No, she is dead. [_Throughout this dialogue the Old Women seen in Act I have, one by one, been entering the drinking den. Clad in the same weird garments as before, they seat themselves silently in places vacated by departing revellers. Likewise they continue to enter during the dialogue which follows. Neither their entry nor the fact of their interjecting scattered remarks into the general conversation seems to excite surprise among the company present, nor even to be noticed._] ~Mingled Dialogue of Drunkards and Old Women.~~ The Man is near his end now. He can scarce stand for very weakness. Do you know, he has a mansion with sixteen rooms in it! Sixteen rooms! Listen to the beating of his heart, how irregular and feeble it is! Soon it will have stopped for ever. Hi, Man! Invite us to your mansion, since there are sixteen rooms in it. Yes, that heart will soon have stopped for ever. It is an old, weak, diseased heart now. He has gone to sleep, the drunken fool! This is a strange place to sleep in, but he seems able to do it. He might die in his sleep. Wake him up, some one. Hi, Man! Wake up I Think how that heart used to beat when it was young and strong. [_The Old Women chuckle,_] Who says more liquor? By the way, there seems to be a larger company present now. What do you mean? I see only the same company as before. I am going up into the street to raise the alarm! I have been robbed! I am nearly naked I See how my green skin is showing through! Well, go; and good luck to you! Do you remember the night when the Man was born? I think you were present on that occasion? I am dying, I am dying! O my God! Who will carry me to the grave, or lay me in it? My corpse will be left to cumber the streets like a dog's, to be trodden upon by passers-by, to be ridden over and crushed! O my God, my God! Do you remember the Relations saying, "Let us congratulate you, dear kinsman, on the birth of a son"? I am certain you are wrong when you say that the circle can be squared. I will prove to you how absurd it is. Well, you may be right. O my God, my God! Only an ignoramus in geometry would make such an assertion. I do not admit it--do you hear? I do not admit it. Do you remember how the Man's Wife looked, in her poor pink dress and shabby hair-riband? Yes; and the flowers, too--the May lilies with the dew not dry upon them, the violets, and the grasses? "Do not touch them, dear: children; do not touch the flowers." [_The Old yeomen chuckle._] O my God, my God! [_By this time the drunkards have all departed, and their places been taken by the Old Women. The light has been growing steadily fainter, until only the form of the Being in Grey and the white, drooping head of the Man stand out clearly under shafts of light fatting upon them from above._] ~Dialogue of the Old Women alone.~~ Good evening to you! And to you! What a glorious night it is! We are all here, are we not? How are _you?_ I have caught a little cold, I think. [_The Old Women chuckle._] This time we shall not have very long to wait. Death and the Man have nearly met. See the candle! See its thin, blue, ragged flame! It has almost no wax now--only wick. Yes; but it seems reluctant to go out? Well? Are not _all_ candles reluctant to go out? Come, come! No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Whether the candle chooses to go out or not, the Man's time is fast ebbing away. Do you remember his motor-car? Once it nearly ran me down. And his mansion, too, with the sixteen rooms in it? Yes. I was in them a short while ago. The rats nearly devoured me, and the draughts nearly blew me away, for some one had stolen the window-frames from their sockets, and the wind was tearing through the rooms. And you had a snooze on the very bed on which his Wife died, did you not? Oh, you sentimental old thing! I did. But I must confess that some queer thoughts passed through my mind as I wandered through those rooms. There used to be such a charming nursery in the mansion, and I felt hurt to see that its windows were all shattered, and that the wind was blowing the dust in clouds over the floor. And there used to be such a lovely little cradle in the room! Now the rats are making _their_ nests in that nursery, and rocking _their_ children to sleep in that cradle. Oh the dear little naked rat-children! [_The Old Women chuckle._] And on a table in the study, I saw some broken toys--a little horse without a tail, a pasteboard helmet, and a red-nosed clown doll. I played with them each in turn, and tried on the helmet. It would have suited me well enough if it had only been a trifle less mouldy and covered with dust. And surely you paid a visit to the grand _salon_ where the ball was given that night? What a gay scene it was! Yes, I went in there too. But judge of my surprise when I found it in darkness, with the windows broken, and the wind whistling round the cornices! Ah! That would serve as music. Yes, of course. And the walls were all lined with guests--with guests sitting there in the darkness! You should have seen how queer they looked! We can imagine it. And you should have heard them ejaculating with their old wheedling lips, "How rich it all is! How sumptuous!" Oh, you are joking! Yes, I am only joking. You know my playful disposition. How "rich" indeed, how "sumptuous," everything must have looked when you went in! Man, do you remember the tune that played at your ball? Ah! he is near his death now. Do you remember how the dancers surrounded you, and how tenderly, how bewitchingly, the music played? It played like this. [_The Old Women form a semicircle around the Man, and begin softly to hum the tune which was played at his ball._] Let us have a ball ourselves. It is so long since, I had a dance! Very well. "Imagine this to be a palace--a supernaturally beautiful palace." First of all we must call the musicians. One cannot have a proper ball without music. The musicians? Yes, certainly. Do you not remember them? [_The Old Women give a shrill cry, and instantly there are seen coming down the ladder the same three musicians who played at the Man's ball. The fiddler folds a handkerchief on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle, and they begin to play with extraordinary energy. Yet the music is soft and low, as in a dream._] Now we can have our ball! "How rich it all is!" "How sumptuous!" "How brilliant!" Do you remember it, Man? [_Softly humming to the music, the Old Women begin to circle round the Man--mouthing with their lips, and making, a horrible travesty of the movements of the white-robed dancers who danced at the Man's ball. To the first phrase of the tune they whirl themselves round; to the second they converge and retire; to the third and fourth they whirl themselves round in their places--stepping softly, and on tiptoe, as, at intervals, they whisper, in the Man's ear:_] Do you remember it, Man? You are going to die soon, but do you remember it? Do you remember it? Do you remember it? You are going to die soon, but do you remember it? [_The dance becomes swifter, the motions more abandoned, and strange, wailing notes begin to make themselves heard in the voices of the Old Women as they hum the tune, and reiterations of weird laughter to run softly round the circle like a ripple. Each time that the dancers pass before the Man they shoot into his ear such whispered ejaculations as:_] Do you remember it, Man? Do you remember it? How ravishing it all was--how voluptuous? How delightful to the soul? Do you remember it, Man? You are going to die soon! You are going to die soon! You are going to die soon! Do you remember it, Man? [_Still more swiftly the Old Women circle in the dance; still more wild and uncouth their antics become. Suddenly all become stricken to silence, and come to a dead stop--even the musicians standing arrested in the exact attitudes of playing, and remaining perfectly silent and motionless. The Man rises, and tries to stand upright, with his handsome grey head shaking tremulously. Lastly, in a startlingly loud voice--a voice charged with entreaty, wrath, and mortal agony--he cries out, with a pause between each several phrase:_] Where is my armour-bearer?--Where is my sword?--Where is my buckler?--I am without arms!--To my aid!--Speed!--Speed!--My curse be upon----- [_He falls back dead upon the chair, with his head bowed upon his breast. At the same moment the candle in the hand of the Being in Grey gives a last flicker and goes out. Instantly the scene becomes wrapped in deep shadow--a shadow which seems to come creeping, down the entrance-ladder, and gradually to envelop the whole. Finally, no light whatever is left upon the stage but a solitary shaft resting upon the head of the corpse. Only a low, vague murmuring can be heard proceeding from the Old Women--a sort of whispering and chuckling._] ~The Being in Grey.~~ Silence ye! A man is dead! [_Again there is silence; save that a cold, passionless voice is heard re-echoing as from a great distance, "Silence ye! A man is dead!" Slowly the gloom deepens, though the crouching, mouselike forms of the Old Women still remain faintly visible in the obscurity._ [_Presently they begin to circle around the corpse again--at first without a word or sound of any kind, but gradually with renewed humming of the refrain of the tune. Also, the musicians begin again to play, but With music that is soft and low like dream music; until, in proportion as the gloom deepens, the strains of the musicians and the humming of the Old Women grow louder, the dance recovers its former wildness and abandon, and the revelry becomes, not so much a dance, as a furious swirl and rush around the dead Man--a movement accompanied by stamping of feet, shrill yells, and frequent bursts of weird laughter. In time the darkness becomes complete, except for the shaft of light which is resting upon the head of the corpse; until this also is extinguished, and the scene becomes wrapped in a blackness of obscurity which the eye cannot pierce. From its depths come sounds of the dancers' wild movements, yells, bursts of laughter, and the now strident, discordant strains of the musicians. At length, when the combined din has attained the extreme pitch of pandemonium, the sounds are suddenly wafted away to, apparently, a great distance, and die away. Then again there is silence--absolute, unbroken silence._] CURTAIN 
26662	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] THE FIRST DISTILLER A COMEDY IN SIX ACTS (1886) CHARACTERS A PEASANT. { WIFE. HIS { MOTHER. { GRANDFATHER. { LITTLE DAUGHTER. A NEIGHBOUR. FOUR VILLAGE ELDERS. OLD WOMEN, WOMEN, GIRLS AND LADS. THE CHIEF OF THE DEVILS. HIS SECRETARY. A DANDY IMP. THE OFFICIALS' IMP. THE PEASANTS' IMP. SENTINELS, DOORKEEPERS AND IMPS. THE FIRST DISTILLER A COMEDY ACT I PEASANT [ploughing. Looks up] It's noon. Time to unharness. Gee up, get along! Fagged out? Poor old beast! One more turn and back again, that will be the last furrow, and then dinner. It was a good idea to bring that chunk of bread with me. I'll not go home, but sit down by the well and have a bite and a rest, and Peggy can graze awhile. Then, with God's help, to work again, and the ploughing will be done in good time. Enter Imp; hides behind a bush. IMP. See what a good fellow he is! Keeps calling on God. Wait a bit, friend,--you'll be calling on the Devil before long! I'll just take away his chunk. He'll miss it before long, and will begin to hunt for it. He'll be hungry, and then he'll swear and call on the Devil. Takes the chunk of bread and sits down behind the bush watching to see what the Peasant will do. PEASANT [unharnesses the horse] With God's blessing! [Lets the horse loose, and goes towards the place where his coat is lying] I'm awfully hungry. The wife cut a big chunk, but see if I don't eat it all. [Coming up to the coat] Gone! I must have put it under the coat. [Lifting the coat] No, it's not here either! What has happened? [Shakes the coat]. IMP [behind the bush] Go on, go on, search away! I've got it safe! PEASANT [moves the plough and shakes his coat again] This is strange! Very strange! No one was here, yet the chunk is gone! If the birds had been at it there would be some crumbs left, but there's not a single crumb! No one has been here, and yet some one has taken it! IMP [rises and looks out] Now he'll call on the Devil. PEASANT. Well, it seems there's no help for it! Never mind, I shan't starve to death. If some one has taken it, he's taken it; let him eat it, and may it do him good. IMP [spits] Oh, the damned peasant! Instead of swearing properly, he only says, "May it do him good." What can one do with such a fellow? Peasant lies down to rest, makes the sign of the cross, yawns, and falls asleep. IMP [comes out from behind the bush] It's all very well for the boss to talk. The boss keeps on saying, "You don't bring enough peasants to Hell! See what a lot of tradesmen, gentlefolk, and all sorts of people flock in every day, and how few peasants!" Now, how's one to get round this one? There's no way of getting hold of him. Haven't I stolen his last crust? What can I do better than that? And yet he didn't swear. I'm at my wits' end what to do! Well, I must go and report! Disappears into the ground. Curtain. ACT II Hell. The Chief of the Devils sits in the highest place. The Devil's Secretary sits lower down, at a table with writing materials. Sentinels stand at each side. To the right are five Imps of different kinds. To the left, by the door, the Doorkeeper. A dandified Imp stands before the Chief. THE DANDY IMP. The whole of my booty for the three years has been 220,005 men. They're all in my power now. THE CHIEF. All right. Thank you. Pass on. The Dandy Imp goes to the right. THE CHIEF [to the Secretary] I'm tired! Is there much business left? Whose reports have we had, and whose are still to come? THE SECRETARY [counts on his fingers and, as he counts, points to the Imps to the right. When he mentions any Imp, the one referred to bows] We've had the Gentlefolks' Devil's report. He's captured 1836 in all. And the Tradesmen's Devil's with 9643. From the Lawyers', 3423. The Women's we've also just had: 186,315 married women, and 17,438 maids. Only two Devils are left, the Officials' and the Peasants'. There are altogether 220,005 souls on the list. CHIEF. Well then, we'd better finish it all to-day. [To the Doorkeeper] Let them in! The Officials' Devil enters, and bows to the Chief. CHIEF. Well, how have you got on? OFFICIALS' IMP [laughing, and rubbing his hands] My affairs are all right, just as soot they are white! The booty is such that I don't remember anything like it since the creation of the world. CHIEF. What, have you captured a great many? OFFICIALS' IMP. It's not so much the quantity. Only 1350 men in all, but such splendid fellows! Such fellows, they might shame any Devil! They can embroil people better than we ourselves can. I've introduced a new fashion among them. CHIEF. What's that new fashion? OFFICIALS' IMP. Why, in former times lawyers were in attendance on the judges and deceived people. Now, I've arranged for them to do business also apart from the judges. Whoever pays most, is the one to whose business they attend. And they'll take such trouble over it that they'll make out a case where there is none! They and the officials between them embroil people far better than we Devils can. CHIEF. All right. I'll have a look at them. You may pass on. The Officials' Imp goes to the right. CHIEF [to Doorkeeper] Let in the last one. Enter the Peasants' Imp with the chunk of bread. He bows to the ground. PEASANTS' IMP. I can't live like this any longer! Give me another appointment! CHIEF. What appointment? What are you jabbering about? Get up and talk sense. Give in your report! How many peasants have you captured this week? PEASANTS' IMP [crying] Not one! CHIEF. What? Not one! What do you mean? What have you been doing? Where have you been loafing? PEASANTS' IMP [whimpering] I've not been loafing; I've been straining every nerve all the time, but I can't do anything! There now, I went and took his last crust from under the very nose of one of them, and, instead of swearing, he wished it might do me good! CHIEF. What?... What?... What are you mumbling there? Just blow your nose, and then speak sensibly! One can't make head or tail of what you're saying. PEASANTS' IMP. Why, there was a peasant ploughing; and I knew he had brought only a chunk of bread with him, and had nothing else to eat. I stole his crust. By rights he should have sworn; but what does he do? He says, "Let him who has taken it eat it, and may it do him good!" I've brought the chunk of bread away with me. Here it is! CHIEF. Well, and what of the others? PEASANTS' IMP. They're all alike. I could not manage to take a single one. CHIEF. How dare you appear before me with empty hands? And as if that were not enough, you must needs bring some stinking crust or other here! Do you mean to mock me? Do you mean to live in Hell and eat the bread of idleness? The others do their best, and work hard! Why, they [points to the Imps] have each supplied 10,000 or 20,000, or even 200,000. And you come with empty hands, and bring a miserable crust, and begin spinning your yarns. You chatter, but don't work; and that's why you've lost hold of them. But wait a bit, my friend, I'll teach you a thing or two! PEASANTS' IMP. Before you punish me, listen to what I'll tell you. It's all very well for those other Devils, who have to do with gentlefolk, with merchants, or with women. It's all plain sailing for them! Show a nobleman a coronet, or a fine estate, and you've got him, and may lead him where you like. It's the same with a tradesman. Show him some money and stir up his covetousness, and you may lead him as with a halter. And with the women it's also plain sailing. Give them finery and sweets--and you may do what you like with them. But as to the peasants--there's a long row to hoe with them! When he's at work from morn till night--sometimes even far into the night--and never starts without a thought of God, how's one to get at him? Master, remove me from these peasants! I'm tired to death of them, and have angered you into the bargain! CHIEF. You're humbugging, you idler! It's no use your talking about the others. They've got hold of the merchants, the nobles, and the women, because they knew how to treat them, and invented new traps for them! The official one there--he has made quite a new departure. You must think of something too! You've stolen a crust, and brag about it! What a clever thing to do! Surround them with snares, and they'll get caught in one or other of them. But loafing about as you do, and leaving the way open for them, those peasants of yours have gained strength. They begin not to care about their last crust. If they take to such ways, and teach their women the same, they'll get quite beyond us! Invent something! Get out of the hole as best you can. PEASANTS' IMP. I can't think how to set about it. Let me off! I can stand it no longer! CHIEF [angrily] Can't stand it! What do you think, then? Am I to do your work for you? PEASANTS' IMP. I can't! CHIEF. Can't? Wait a bit! Hollo, there! bring the switches; give him a thrashing. The Sentinels seize the Imp and whip him. PEASANTS' IMP. Oh! Oh! Oh!... CHIEF. Have you thought of something? PEASANTS' IMP. Oh, oh, I can't! CHIEF. Give him some more. [They whip] Well--thought of something? PEASANTS' IMP. Yes--yes, I have! CHIEF. Well, tell us what it is. PEASANTS' IMP. I've invented a dodge that will bring them all into my grasp, if you'll only let me take a labourer's place with that peasant. But I can't explain what it is beforehand. CHIEF. All right. Only remember, that if you don't atone for that crust within three years, I'll flay you alive! PEASANTS' IMP. They'll all be mine in three years' time. CHIEF. All right. When the three years are past, I shall come and see for myself! Curtain. ACT III A barn. Carts loaded with grain. The Imp as a Labourer. He is shovelling grain off the cart, and the Peasant is carrying it away in a measure. LABOURER. Seven! PEASANT. How many quarters? LABOURER [looks at the numbers marked on the barn door] Twenty-six quarters. And this is the seventh bushel of the twenty-seventh quarter. PEASANT. It won't all go in; the barn is nearly full! LABOURER. Shovel it nice and even. PEASANT. So I will. Exit with measure. LABOURER [alone, takes off his cap, his horns appear] It will be some time before he returns. I'll ease my horns a bit. [Horns rise] And I'll take my boots off too; I can't do it when he's here. [Takes his boots off, his hoofs appear. Sits on the threshold] It's the third year now. It's near the time of reckoning. There's more corn than there's room for. Only one more thing left to teach him, and then let the Chief come and see for himself. I'll have something worth showing him! He'll forgive me for that crust! Neighbour approaches. Labourer hides his horns and hoofs. NEIGHBOUR. Good day to you. LABOURER. The same to you. NEIGHBOUR. Where's your master? LABOURER. He's gone to spread the grain more even; it won't all go in. NEIGHBOUR. Dear me, what a run of luck your master is having! More than he has room for? We're all amazed at the harvests your master has had these two years. It's as if some one had told him what was coming. Last year was a dry season, and he had sown in the bog. Others had no harvest, but your threshing ground was covered with sheaves! This year we've a rainy summer, and he's been sharp enough to sow on the hill. Everybody's corn has rotted, but you have a splendid harvest. What grain! Ah, what grain! Takes some grain, weighs it in his hand, and chews it. PEASANT [enters with empty measure] How d'ye do, neighbour? NEIGHBOUR. Good day. I was saying to your man here, how well you managed to guess where to sow your corn. Every one envies you. What heaps, what heaps of corn you have got! You'll not eat it all in ten years. PEASANT. It's all thanks to Nicholas here. [Points to Labourer] It was his luck. Last year I sent him to plough, and what did he do but plough in the bog. I gave him a scolding, but he persuaded me to sow there. And so I did, and it turned out all for the best! And this year he again guessed right, and sowed on the hill! NEIGHBOUR. It's as if he knew what kind of season it would be. Yes, you have got corn enough and no mistake! [Silence] And I have come to ask you to lend me a sack of rye. Ours is all used up. I'll return it next year. PEASANT. All right, you may have it. LABOURER [nudging the Peasant] Don't give it! PEASANT. No more words about it. Take it. NEIGHBOUR. Thank you. I'll just run and fetch a sack. LABOURER [aside] He keeps to his old ways ... still goes on giving. He doesn't always obey me. But just wait a bit. He'll soon stop giving away. Exit Neighbour. PEASANT [sitting down on the threshold] Why should one not give to a good man? LABOURER. Giving is one thing, getting back another! You know-- "It's a good world to lend in, a good world to spend in, But to get back one's own, it's the worst world that's known." That's what the old folk say. PEASANT. Don't worry. We've plenty of corn. LABOURER. Well, what of that? PEASANT. We've enough, not only till next harvest but for two years ahead. What are we to do with it all? LABOURER. What are we to do with it? I could make such stuff of this corn as would make you rejoice all the days of your life. PEASANT. Why, what would you make of it? LABOURER. A kind of drink. Drink, that would give you strength when you are weak, satisfy you when you are hungry, give you sleep when you are restless, make you merry when you're sad, give you courage when you're afraid. That's the drink I'd make! PEASANT. Rubbish! LABOURER. Rubbish indeed! It was just the same when I told you to sow in the bog, and then on the hill. You did not believe me then, but now you know! You'll find out about the drink the same way. PEASANT. But what will you make it of? LABOURER. Why, of this same corn. PEASANT. But won't that be a sin? LABOURER. Just hear him! Why should it be a sin? Everything is given for a joy to man. PEASANT. And where did you get all your wisdom from, Nick? You seem a very ordinary man to look at, and hard-working too. Why, I don't remember you so much as ever taking your boots off all these two years you've been with me. And yet you seem to know everything. Where did you learn it? LABOURER. I've been about a good deal! PEASANT. And so you say this drink will give one strength? LABOURER. Just wait till you try it and see the good that comes of it. PEASANT. And how are we to make it? LABOURER. It's not hard to make when you know how! Only we shall want a copper and a couple of iron vessels. PEASANT. And does it taste nice? LABOURER. As sweet as honey. When once you've tasted it you'll never give it up. PEASANT. Is that so? Well, I'll go to the neighbour's; he used to have a copper. We'll have a try! Curtain. ACT IV A barn. In the middle a closed copper on the fire, with another vessel, under which is a tap. LABOURER [holds a tumbler under the tap and drinks the spirit] Well, master, it's ready now. PEASANT [sitting on his heels and looking on] What a queer thing. Here's water coming out of the mixture. Why are you letting this water off first? LABOURER. It's not water. It is the very stuff itself! PEASANT. Why is it so clear? I thought it would be yellow like grain. This is just like water. LABOURER. But you just smell it! PEASANT. Ah, what a scent! Well, well, let's see what it's like in the mouth. Let me taste! [Tries to take the tumbler out of the Labourer's hand]. LABOURER. Mind, you'll spill it! [Turns the tap off, drinks and smacks his lips] It's ready! Here you are. Drink it! PEASANT [drinks, first sipping, then taking more and more, till he empties the glass and gives it back] Now then, some more. One can't tell the taste from such a drop. LABOURER [laughing] Well, you seem to like it! [Draws some more]. PEASANT [drinks] Eh, that's the sort! Let's call the missis. Hey, Martha! Come along! It's ready! Come on there! Enter Wife and little girl. WIFE. What's the matter? Why are you kicking up such a row? PEASANT. You just taste what we've been distilling. [Hands her the glass] Smell! What does it smell of? WIFE [smells] Dear me! PEASANT. Drink! WIFE. But perhaps it may do one some harm? PEASANT. Drink, fool! WIFE. True. It is nice! PEASANT [a little tipsy] Nice indeed! You wait and see what'll happen. Nick says it drives all weariness out of one's bones. The young grow old. I mean, the old grow young. There now, I've only had two glasses of it, and all my bones have got easy. [Swaggers] You see? Wait a bit, when you and I drink it every day we'll grow young again! Come, Martha! [Embraces her]. WIFE. Get along. Why, it's made you quite silly. PEASANT. There, you see! You said Nick and I were wasting the corn, but just see what stuff we've concocted. Eh? It's good, ain't it? WIFE. Of course, it's good if it makes the old young again. Just see how jolly it has made you! And I feel jolly too! Now then, join in! Ah ... Ah ... Ah ... [Sings]. PEASANT. Yes, that's the way! We'll all be young, all young. WIFE. We must call mother-in-law, for she's always sad and grumbling. She needs renewing. When she's younger she'll get kinder. PEASANT [tipsy] Yes, call mother. Call her here, and grandfather too. I say, Mary, run and call your granny and great-grandfather. Tell him he must get down from the oven! We'll make him young again. Now then, quick! One, two, three, and away! Off like a shot! [Girl runs off. To Wife] We'll have another glass. Labourer fills and hands the glasses. PEASANT [drinks] At first we got young at the top, in the tongue; then it went down into the arms. Now it has reached the feet. I feel my feet getting younger. They're moving of themselves. [Starts dancing]. WIFE [drinks] You're a real clever 'un, Nick! Now then, strike up! Labourer takes a balaláyka[1] and plays. Peasant and Wife dance. [1] The balaláyka is an instrument (generally three-stringed) used by Russian peasants, and answering to the negroes' banjo. LABOURER [plays in the foreground of the scene, laughing and winking as he watches them. Then he leaves off playing, but they still continue to dance] You'll pay for that crust! You've done it now, my fine fellows. They'll never get out of it. The Chief can come when he likes now! Enter a fresh-looking elderly woman, and a very old white-haired man, the Peasant's Grandfather. GRANDFATHER. What's the matter? Have you gone mad? Dancing while every one else is at work! WIFE [dances and claps her hands] Oh--Oh--Oh-- [Sings] "That I'm sinning I will own, Free from sin is God alone!" OLD WOMAN. Oh, you wretch! The oven's not cleaned out yet, and here you are dancing! PEASANT. Wait a bit, mother. See what has been happening here. We can make old people young again! Here you are! Just drink this! [Passes tumbler]. OLD WOMAN. There's plenty of water in the well. [Smells it] But what have you put in? My--what a smell! PEASANT. You just drink it. OLD WOMAN [tastes] Dear me! But won't one die of it? WIFE. It will make you more alive. You'll grow young again! OLD WOMAN. Nonsense! [Drinks] But it's nice! Better than our drinks. Here, father, have some too. Grandfather sits down and shakes his head. LABOURER. Never mind him. But granny must have another glass. [Hands some to the old woman]. OLD WOMAN. If only no harm comes of it. Oh dear, it does burn! But it is nice. WIFE. Drink it! Then you'll feel it running through your veins. OLD WOMAN. Well, I suppose I'll have to try. [Drinks]. WIFE. Has it reached your feet yet? OLD WOMAN. True enough, it does run through you. I feel it here now! And it really makes one feel quite light. Come--give me some more. [Drinks again] Fine! Now I'm quite young again. PEASANT. Didn't I tell you? OLD WOMAN. Ah, it's a pity my old man is no longer here. He might have seen once more what I was like in my young days. Labourer plays. Peasant and Wife dance. OLD WOMAN [comes into the middle] Do you call that dancing? Let me show you. [Dances] That's the way! Then like this, and like that! Do you see? Grandfather goes up to the vessel and lets the spirit run out on to the ground. PEASANT [notices and rushes at his Grandfather] What are you up to, you old fool? Spilling such fine stuff! Oh, you old dotard! [Pushes him away and holds tumbler under tap] You've emptied it all! GRANDFATHER. It's evil and not good! God has sent you a good harvest for you to feed yourself and others, but you have turned the corn into devils' drink. No good will come of it. Give up this business. Else you'll perish and ruin others! You think this is drink? It's fire, and will burn you up! [Takes a brand from the fire and lights the spilt spirit. The spirit burns. They all look on with horror]. Curtain. ACT V Interior of hut. The Labourer alone, his horns and hoofs showing. LABOURER. There's lots of corn. More than there's room for, and he's now got a taste for it. We've been distilling again, and we've filled a barrel and hidden it away. We're not going to treat any one for nothing, but when we want to get something out of a fellow, then we'll treat him! So to-day I told him to invite the village elders and treat them, that they should divide up the property between him and his grandfather, and give everything to him and nothing to the old man! My three years are up to-day, and my work is finished. Let the Chief come and see for himself. I needn't be ashamed of his seeing it! Chief appears out of the ground. CHIEF. Time's up! Have you redeemed your bread-blunder? I told you I'd come and see for myself. Have you managed the Peasant? LABOURER. Done him completely! Judge for yourself. Some of them will meet here soon. Get into the oven, and see what they'll do. You'll be well satisfied! CHIEF [climbs into the oven] We'll see! Enter the Peasant and four old men. The Wife follows. The men sit down round the table. The Wife lays the cloth, sets ox-foot brawn and pies on the table. The old men exchange greetings with Labourer. FIRST ELDER. Well, have you made more of the drink? LABOURER. Yes, we've distilled as much as we need. Why let valuable stuff be wasted? SECOND ELDER. And is it a success? LABOURER. Better than the first lot. SECOND ELDER. But where did you learn to make it? LABOURER. Going about in the world one learns many things! THIRD ELDER. Yes, yes, you're a knowing fellow. Wife brings spirits and glasses. PEASANT. Have a drop! Wife takes a decanter and fills glasses. WIFE. Do us the honour! FIRST ELDER [drinks] Your health! Ah, that's good. It runs right through all one's joints. That's what I call proper drink! The other three Elders do the same. Chief gets out of the oven. Labourer goes and stands by him. LABOURER [to Chief] See what will happen now! I'll trip up the woman with my foot and she'll spill the liquor. Formerly he did not grudge his last crust, but now see what he'll do about a glass of spirits! PEASANT. Now then, wife, fill again and hand it round in due order--first to our friend here, then to Daddy Michael. Wife fills a glass and goes round the table. The Labourer trips her up; she stumbles and upsets the glass. WIFE. Gracious goodness, I've spilt it! Why do you get in my way, confound you? PEASANT [to Wife] There now, what a clumsy beast! Her fingers are all thumbs, and she goes swearing at others! See what fine stuff she goes spilling on the ground! WIFE. I didn't do it on purpose. PEASANT. On purpose indeed! Wait till I get up; I'll teach you how to pour spirits on the ground. [To Labourer] And you too, you confounded fool, what are you prancing round the table for? Go to the Devil! Wife again fills and hands the glasses round. LABOURER [goes back to the oven to the Chief] You see? Formerly he did not grudge his last crust, and now for a glass of spirits he nearly beat his wife and sent me to you--to the Devil! CHIEF. It's good, very good! I'm satisfied. LABOURER. You wait a bit. Let them empty the bottle--and you'll see what will happen. Even now they are giving each other smooth oily words; presently they'll start flattering each other,--as cunning as foxes. PEASANT. Well, old friends, what's your opinion of my business? My grandfather has been living with me, and I have been feeding him and feeding him, and now he's gone to live with my uncle, and wants to take his share of the property and give it to uncle! Consider it well; you are wise men. We could as well do without our own heads as without you. There's no one in the whole village to come near you. Take you for example, Iván Fedótitch--doesn't every one say you're first among men? And as for me, I'll tell you the truth, Iván Fedótitch, I'm fonder of you than of my own father or mother. As for Michael Stepánitch, he's an old friend. FIRST ELDER [to Peasant] It's good to talk with a good man. It's the way to get wisdom. It's just the same with you. One can't find any one to compare with you either. SECOND ELDER. Wise and affectionate--that's what I like you for. THIRD ELDER. You have my best sympathy. I can't find words to express it. I was saying to my old woman only to-day ... FOURTH ELDER. A friend, a real friend! LABOURER [nudges the Chief] Do you hear? All lies! They abuse one another behind their backs, but see how thick they are laying it on now,--like foxes wagging their tails! And it all comes from that drink. CHIEF. That drink is good, very good! If they take to lying like that, they'll all be ours. Very good; I'm satisfied! LABOURER. Wait a bit. When they've finished a second bottle it will be better still! WIFE [serves] Do have another glass. FIRST ELDER. Won't it be too much? Your health! [Drinks] It's pleasant to drink in the company of a good man. SECOND ELDER. How can one help drinking? Health to the host and hostess! THIRD ELDER. Friends, your health! FOURTH ELDER. This is a brew of the right sort! Let's be merry! We'll arrange things for you. 'Cos it all depends on me! FIRST ELDER. On you? No, not on you, but on what your seniors say. FOURTH ELDER. My seniors are greater fools. Go where you came from! SECOND ELDER. What are you up to now? You fool! THIRD ELDER. It's true what he's saying! 'Cos why? The host is not entertaining us for nothing. He means business. The business can be arranged. Only you must stand treat! Show us due respect. 'Cos it's you as wants me, and not I you! You're own brother to the pig! PEASANT. And you're itself! What are you yelling for? Think to surprise me? You are all good at stuffing yourselves! FIRST ELDER. What are you giving yourself airs for? See if I don't twist your nose to one side! PEASANT. We'll see whose nose will get twisted! SECOND ELDER. Think yourself such a marvel? Go to the Devil! I won't speak to you--I'll go away! PEASANT [holds him] What, will you break up the company? SECOND ELDER. Let me go, or I'll call for help! PEASANT. I won't! What right have you to ...? SECOND ELDER. This right! [Beats him]. PEASANT [to the other Elders] Help me! They fall on one another, and all speak at once. FIRST ELDER. That's why. 'Cos it means we're all having a spree-ee! SECOND ELDER. I can arrange everything! THIRD ELDER. Let's have some more! PEASANT [to Wife] Bring another bottle! All sit round the table again and drink. LABOURER [to Chief] Have you noticed? The wolf's blood in them was aroused, and they've turned as fierce as wolves. CHIEF. The drink is good! I'm satisfied! LABOURER. Wait a bit. Let them empty a third bottle. Things will be better still! Curtain. ACT VI The scene represents a village street. To the right some old women are sitting on logs of wood with the Grandfather. In the centre, is a ring of women, girls, and lads. Dance music is played and they dance. Noise is heard from the hut, and drunken screams. An old man comes out and shouts in a tipsy voice. The Peasant follows him and leads him back. GRANDFATHER. Ah, what doings! what doings! One would think, what more would any one want than to do his work on week days, and when Sunday comes round, to have a good wash, clean the harness, and rest a bit and sit with his family; or go outside and have a talk with the old folk about matters concerning the Commune. Or, if you're young, have a game. There they are playing,--and it's pleasant to look at them. It's all pleasant and good. [Screams inside the hut] But this sort of thing, what is it? It only leads men astray, and pleases the Devils. And it all comes of fat living! Tipsy men come tumbling out of the hut, shout, and catch hold of the girls. GIRLS. Leave off, Daddy Tom! What do you mean by it? LADS. Let's go into the lane. It's impossible to play here. Exeunt all who were playing in the ring. PEASANT [goes up to Grandfather] What have you got now? The Elders will allot everything to me! [Snaps his fingers at him] That's what you'll get! So there you are! It's all mine and you've nothing! They'll tell you so themselves! The four Elders speak all at once. FIRST ELDER. 'Cos I know what's what! SECOND ELDER. "'Fore all I'll be heard, 'Cos I'm an old bird!" THIRD ELDER. Friend! dear friend, dearest friend! FOURTH ELDER. "Jog along hut, jog along bed, The missis has nowhere to lay down her head!" Now then, come along! The Elders take each other's arms in couples and go off reeling, one couple following the other. The Peasant turns back to the hut, but stumbles before he reaches it,--falls down, and lies muttering incomprehensible words that sound like grunts. The Grandfather and those he was with, rise and exeunt. Enter Labourer and Chief of Devils. LABOURER. Did you see? Now the swine's blood has been roused in them, and from wolves they have turned into swine! [Points to Peasant] There he lies in the dirt and grunts like a hog! CHIEF. You have succeeded! First like foxes, then like wolves, and now like swine! Well, that is a drink! But tell me, how did you make it? I suppose it's made of a mixture of foxes', wolves', and swine's blood? LABOURER. Oh no! I only supplied him with too much corn! As long as he had only as much corn as he needed, he did not grudge his last crust, but when he had more than he knew what to do with, the fox's, the wolf's, and the swine's blood in him awoke. He always had beast's blood in him, only it could not get the upper hand. CHIEF. Well, you're a fine fellow! You've atoned for your crust-blunder. Now they only need to drink spirits, and they're altogether ours! Curtain. END OF "THE FIRST DISTILLER." [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. Curtain [at the ends of Acts III and V] Curtain. Wife again fills and hands the glasses round Wife again fills and hands the glasses round. ] 
26661	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] THE POWER OF DARKNESS OR IF A CLAW IS CAUGHT THE BIRD IS LOST A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS (1886) CHARACTERS PETER IGNÁTITCH. A well-to-do peasant, 42 years old, married for the second time, and sickly. ANÍSYA. His wife, 32 years old, fond of dress. AKOULÍNA. Peter's daughter by his first marriage, 16 years old, hard of hearing, mentally undeveloped. NAN (ANNA PETRÓVNA). His daughter by his second marriage, 10 years old. NIKÍTA. Their labourer, 26 years old, fond of dress. AKÍM. Nikíta's father, 50 years old, a plain-looking, God-fearing peasant. MATRYÓNA. His wife and Nikíta's mother, 50 years old. MARÍNA. An orphan girl, 22 years old. MARTHA. Peter's sister. MÍTRITCH. An old labourer, ex-soldier. SIMON. Marína's husband. BRIDEGROOM. Engaged to Akoulína. IVÁN. His father. A NEIGHBOUR. FIRST GIRL. SECOND GIRL. POLICE OFFICER. DRIVER. BEST-MAN. MATCHMAKER. VILLAGE ELDER. VISITORS, WOMEN, GIRLS, AND PEOPLE come to see the wedding. N.B.--The 'oven' mentioned is the usual large, brick, Russian baking-oven. The top of it outside is flat, so that more than one person can lie on it. THE POWER OF DARKNESS ACT I The Act takes place in autumn in a large village. The Scene represents Peter's roomy hut. Peter is sitting on a wooden bench, mending a horse-collar. Anísya and Akoulína are spinning, and singing a part-song. PETER [looking out of the window] The horses have got loose again. If we don't look out they'll be killing the colt. Nikíta! Hey, Nikíta! Is the fellow deaf? [Listens. To the women] Shut up, one can't hear anything. NIKÍTA [from outside] What? PETER. Drive the horses in. NIKÍTA. We'll drive 'em in. All in good time. PETER [shaking his head] Ah, these labourers! If I were well, I'd not keep one on no account. There's nothing but bother with 'em. [Rises and sits down again] Nikíta!... It's no good shouting. One of you'd better go. Go, Akoúl, drive 'em in. AKOULÍNA. What? The horses? PETER. What else? AKOULÍNA. All right. [Exit]. PETER. Ah, but he's a loafer, that lad ... no good at all. Won't stir a finger if he can help it. ANÍSYA. You're so mighty brisk yourself. When you're not sprawling on the top of the oven you're squatting on the bench. To goad others to work is all you're fit for. PETER. If one weren't to goad you on a bit, one'd have no roof left over one's head before the year's out. Oh what people! ANÍSYA. You go shoving a dozen jobs on to one's shoulders, and then do nothing but scold. It's easy to lie on the oven and give orders. PETER [sighing] Oh, if 'twere not for this sickness that's got hold of me, I'd not keep him on another day. AKOULÍNA [off the scene] Gee up, gee, woo. [A colt neighs, the stamping of horses' feet and the creaking of the gate are heard]. PETER. Bragging, that's what he's good at. I'd like to sack him, I would indeed. ANÍSYA [mimicking him] "Like to sack him." You buckle to yourself, and then talk. AKOULÍNA [enters] It's all I could do to drive 'em in. That piebald always will ... PETER. And where's Nikíta? AKOULÍNA. Where's Nikíta? Why, standing out there in the street. PETER. What's he standing there for? AKOULÍNA. What's he standing there for? He stands there jabbering. PETER. One can't get any sense out of her! Who's he jabbering with? AKOULÍNA [does not hear] Eh, what? Peter waves her off. She sits down to her spinning. NAN [running in to her mother] Nikíta's father and mother have come. They're going to take him away. It's true! ANÍSYA. Nonsense! NAN. Yes. Blest if they're not! [Laughing] I was just going by, and Nikíta, he says, "Good-bye, Anna Petróvna," he says, "you must come and dance at my wedding. I'm leaving you," he says, and laughs. ANÍSYA [to her husband] There now. Much he cares. You see, he wants to leave of himself. "Sack him" indeed! PETER. Well, let him go. Just as if I couldn't find somebody else. ANÍSYA. And what about the money he's had in advance? Nan stands listening at the door for awhile, and then exit. PETER [frowning] The money? Well, he can work it off in summer, anyhow. ANÍSYA. Well, of course you'll be glad if he goes and you've not got to feed him. It's only me as'll have to work like a horse all the winter. That lass of yours isn't over fond of work either. And you'll be lying up on the oven. I know you. PETER. What's the good of wearing out one's tongue before one has the hang of the matter? ANÍSYA. The yard's full of cattle. You've not sold the cow, and have kept all the sheep for the winter: feeding and watering 'em alone takes all one's time, and you want to sack the labourer. But I tell you straight, I'm not going to do a man's work! I'll go and lie on the top of the oven same as you, and let everything go to pot! You may do what you like. PETER [to Akoulína] Go and see about the feeding, will you? it's time. AKOULÍNA. The feeding? All right. [Puts on a coat and takes a rope]. ANÍSYA. I'm not going to work for you. You go and work yourself. I've had enough of it, so there! PETER. That'll do. What are you raving about? Like a sheep with the staggers! ANÍSYA. You're a crazy cur, you are! One gets neither work nor pleasure from you. Eating your fill, that's all you do, you palsied cur, you! PETER [spits and puts on coat] Faugh! The Lord have mercy! I'd better go myself and see what's up. [Exit]. ANÍSYA [after him] Scurvy long-nosed devil! AKOULÍNA. What are you swearing at dad for? ANÍSYA. Hold your noise, you idiot! AKOULÍNA [going to the door] I know why you're swearing at him. You're an idiot yourself, you bitch. I'm not afraid of you. ANÍSYA. What do you mean? [Jumps up and looks round for something to hit her with] Mind, or I'll give you one with the poker. AKOULÍNA [opening the door] Bitch! devil! that's what you are! Devil! bitch! bitch! devil! [Runs off]. ANÍSYA [ponders] "Come and dance at my wedding!" What new plan is this? Marry? Mind, Nikíta, if that's your intention, I'll go and ... No, I can't live without him. I won't let him go. NIKÍTA [enters, looks round, and seeing Anísya alone approaches quickly. In a low tone] Here's a go; I'm in a regular fix! That governor of mine wants to take me away,--tells me I'm to come home. Says quite straight I'm to marry and live at home. ANÍSYA. Well, go and marry! What's that to me? NIKÍTA. Is that it? Why, here am I reckoning how best to consider matters, and just hear her! She tells me to go and marry. Why's that? [Winking] Has she forgotten? ANÍSYA. Yes, go and marry! What do I care? NIKÍTA. What are you spitting for? Just see, she won't even let me stroke her.... What's the matter? ANÍSYA. This! That you want to play me false.... If you do,--why, I don't want you either. So now you know! NIKÍTA. That'll do, Anísya. Do you think I'll forget you? Never while I live! I'll not play you false, that's flat. I've been thinking that supposing they do go and make me marry, I'd still come back to you. If only he don't make me live at home. ANÍSYA. Much need I'll have of you, once you're married. NIKÍTA. There's a go now. How is it possible to go against one's father's will? ANÍSYA. Yes, I daresay, shove it all on your father. You know it's your own doing. You've long been plotting with that slut of yours, Marína. It's she has put you up to it. She didn't come here for nothing t'other day. NIKÍTA. Marína? What's she to me? Much I care about her!... Plenty of them buzzing around. ANÍSYA. Then what has made your father come here? It's you have told him to. You've gone and deceived me. [Cries]. NIKÍTA. Anísya, do you believe in a God or not? I never so much as dreamt of it. I know nothing at all about it. I never even dreamt of it--that's flat! My old dad has got it all out of his own pate. ANÍSYA. If you don't wish it yourself who can force you? He can't drive you like an ass. NIKÍTA. Well, I reckon it's not possible to go against one's parent. But it's not by my wish. ANÍSYA. Don't you budge, that's all about it! NIKÍTA. There was a fellow wouldn't budge, and the village elder gave him such a hiding.... That's what it might come to! I've no great wish for that sort of thing. They say it touches one up.... ANÍSYA. Shut up with your nonsense. Nikíta, listen to me: if you marry that Marína I don't know what I won't do to myself.... I shall lay hands on myself! I have sinned, I have gone against the law, but I can't go back now. If you go away I'll ... NIKÍTA. Why should I go? Had I wanted to go--I should have gone long ago. There was Iván Semyónitch t'other day--offered me a place as his coachman.... Only fancy what a life that would have been! But I did not go. Because, I reckon, I am good enough for any one. Now if you did not love me it would be a different matter. ANÍSYA. Yes, and that's what you should remember. My old man will die one of these fine days, I'm thinking; then we could cover our sin, make it all right and lawful, and then you'll be master here. NIKÍTA. Where's the good of making plans? What do I care? I work as hard as if I were doing it for myself. My master loves me, and his missus loves me. And if the wenches run after me, it's not my fault, that's flat. ANÍSYA. And you'll love me? NIKÍTA [embracing her] There, as you have ever been in my heart ... MATRYÓNA [enters, and crosses herself a long time before the icón. Nikíta and Anísya step apart] What I saw I didn't perceive, what I heard I didn't hearken to. Playing with the lass, eh? Well,--even a calf will play. Why shouldn't one have some fun when one's young? But your master is out in the yard a-calling you, sonnie. NIKÍTA. I only came to get the axe. MATRYÓNA. I know, sonnie, I know; them sort of axes are mostly to be found where the women are. NIKÍTA [stooping to pick up axe] I say, mother, is it true you want me to marry? As I reckon, that's quite unnecessary. Besides, I've got no wish that way. MATRYÓNA. Eh, honey! why should you marry? Go on as you are. It's all the old man. You'd better go, sonnie, we can talk these matters over without you. NIKÍTA. It's a queer go! One moment I'm to be married, the next, not. I can't make head or tail of it. [Exit]. ANÍSYA. What's it all about then? Do you really wish him to get married? MATRYÓNA. Eh, why should he marry, my jewel? It's all nonsense, all my old man's drivel. "Marry, marry." But he's reckoning without his host. You know the saying, "From oats and hay, why should horses stray?" When you've enough and to spare, why look elsewhere? And so in this case. [Winks] Don't I see which way the wind blows? ANÍSYA. Where's the good of my pretending to you, Mother Matryóna? You know all about it. I have sinned. I love your son. MATRYÓNA. Dear me, here's news! D'you think Mother Matryóna didn't know? Eh, lassie,--Mother Matryóna's been ground, and ground again, ground fine! This much I can tell you, my jewel: Mother Matryóna can see through a brick wall three feet thick. I know it all, my jewel! I know what young wives need sleeping draughts for, so I've brought some along. [Unties a knot in her handkerchief and brings out paper-packets] As much as is wanted, I see, and what's not wanted I neither see nor perceive! There! Mother Matryóna has also been young. I had to know a thing or two to live with my old fool. I know seventy-and-seven dodges. But I see your old man's quite seedy, quite seedy! How's one to live with such as him? Why, if you pricked him with a hay-fork it wouldn't fetch blood. See if you don't bury him before the spring. Then you'll need some one in the house. Well, what's wrong with my son? He'll do as well as another. Then where's the advantage of my taking him away from a good place? Am I my child's enemy? ANÍSYA. Oh, if only he does not go away. MATRYÓNA. He won't go away, birdie. It's all nonsense. You know my old man. His wits are always wool-gathering; yet sometimes he takes a thing into his pate, and it's as if it were wedged in, you can't knock it out with a hammer. ANÍSYA. And what started this business? MATRYÓNA. Well, you see, my jewel, you yourself know what a fellow with women the lad is,--and he's handsome too, though I say it as shouldn't. Well, you know, he was living at the railway, and they had an orphan wench there to cook for them. Well, that same wench took to running after him. ANÍSYA. Marína? MATRYÓNA. Yes, the plague seize her! Whether anything happened or not, anyhow something got to my old man's ears. Maybe he heard from the neighbours, maybe she's been and blabbed ... ANÍSYA. Well, she is a bold hussy! MATRYÓNA. So my old man--the old blockhead--off he goes: "Marry, marry," he says, "he must marry her and cover the sin," he says. "We must take the lad home," he says, "and he shall marry," he says. Well, I did my best to make him change his mind, but, dear me, no. So, all right, thinks I,--I'll try another dodge. One always has to entice them fools in this way, just pretend to be of their mind, and when it comes to the point one goes and turns it all one's own way. You know, a woman has time to think seventy-and-seven thoughts while falling off the oven, so how's such as he to see through it? "Well, yes," says I, "it would be a good job,--only we must consider well beforehand. Why not go and see our son, and talk it over with Peter Ignátitch and hear what he has to say?" So here we are. ANÍSYA. Oh dear, oh dear, how will it all end? Supposing his father just orders him to marry her? MATRYÓNA. Orders, indeed. Chuck his orders to the dogs! Don't you worry; that affair will never come off. I'll go to your old man myself, and sift and strain this matter clear--there will be none of it left. I have come here only for the look of the thing. A very likely thing! Here's my son living in happiness and expecting happiness, and I'll go and match him with a slut! No fear, I'm not a fool! ANÍSYA. And she--this Marína--came dangling after him here! Mother, would you believe, when they said he was going to marry, it was as if a knife had gone right through my heart. I thought he cared for her. MATRYÓNA. Oh, my jewel! Why, you don't think him such a fool, that he should go and care for a homeless baggage like that? Nikíta is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don't you go and fret, my jewel. We'll not take him away, and we won't marry him. No, we'll let him stay on, if you'll only oblige us with a little money. ANÍSYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikíta went away. MATRYÓNA. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours. ANÍSYA. Mother Matryóna, would you believe it? I'm that sick of him, that sick of this long-nosed cur of mine, I can hardly bear to look at him. MATRYÓNA. Yes, I see, it's one of them cases. Just look here, [looks round and whispers] I've been to see that old man, you know--he's given me simples of two kinds. This, you see, is a sleeping draught. "Just give him one of these powders," he says, "and he'll sleep so sound you might jump on him!" And this here, "This is that kind of simple," he says, "that if you give one some of it to drink it has no smell whatever, but its strength is very great. There are seven doses here, a pinch at a time. Give him seven pinches," he says, "and she won't have far to look for freedom," he says. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! What's that? MATRYÓNA. "No sign whatever," he says. He's taken a rouble for it. "Can't sell it for less," he says. Because it's no easy matter to get 'em, you know. I paid him, dearie, out of my own money. If she takes them, thinks I, it's all right; if she don't, I can let old Michael's daughter have them. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! But mayn't some evil come of them? I'm frightened! MATRYÓNA. What evil, my jewel? If your old man was hale and hearty, 'twould be a different matter, but he's neither alive nor dead as it is. He's not for this world. Such things often happen. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh, my poor head! I'm afeared, Mother Matryóna, lest some evil come of them. No. That won't do. MATRYÓNA. Just as you like. I might even return them to him. ANÍSYA. And are they to be used in the same way as the others? Mixed in water? MATRYÓNA. Better in tea, he says. "You can't notice anything," he says, "no smell nor nothing." He's a cute old fellow too. [Illustration: THE POWER OF DARKNESS. ACT I. MATRYÓNA GIVES ANÍSYA THE POWDERS.] ANÍSYA. [taking the powder] O-oh, my poor head! Could I have ever thought of such a thing if my life were not a very hell? MATRYÓNA. You'll not forget that rouble? I promised to take it to the old man. He's had some trouble, too. ANÍSYA. Of course? [Goes to her box and hides the powders]. MATRYÓNA. And now, my jewel, keep it as close as you can, so that no one should find it out. Heaven defend that it should happen, but _if_ any one notices it, tell 'em it's for the black-beetles. [Takes the rouble] It's also used for beetles. [Stops short]. Enter Akím, who crosses himself in front of the icón, and then Peter, who sits down. PETER. Well then, how's it to be, Daddy Akím? AKÍM. As it's best, Peter Ignátitch, as it's best ... I mean--as it's best. 'Cos why? I'm afeared of what d'you call 'ems, some tomfoolery, you know. I'd like to, what d'you call it ... to start, you know, start the lad honest, I mean. But supposing you'd rather, what d'you call it, we might, I mean, what's name? As it's best ... PETER. All right. All right. Sit down and let's talk it over. [Akím sits down] Well then, what's it all about? You want him to marry? MATRYÓNA. As to marrying, he might bide a while, Peter Ignátitch. You know our poverty, Peter Ignátitch. What's he to marry on? We've hardly enough to eat ourselves. How can he marry then?... PETER. You must consider what will be best. MATRYÓNA. Where's the hurry for him to get married? Marriage is not that sort of thing, it's not like ripe raspberries that drop off if not picked in time. PETER. If he were to get married, 'twould be a good thing in a way. AKÍM. We'd like to ... what d'you call it? 'Cos why, you see. I've what d'you call it ... a job. I mean, I've found a paying job in town, you know. MATRYÓNA. And a fine job too--cleaning out cesspools. The other day when he came home, I could do nothing but spew and spew. Faugh! AKÍM. It's true, at first it does seem what d'you call it ... knocks one clean over, you know,--the smell, I mean. But one gets used to it, and then it's nothing, no worse than malt grain, and then it's, what d'you call it, ... pays, pays, I mean. And as to the smell being, what d'you call it, it's not for the likes of us to complain. And one changes one's clothes. So we'd like to take what's his name ... Nikíta I mean, home. Let him manage things at home while I, what d'you call it,--earn something in town. PETER. You want to keep your son at home? Yes, that would be well: but how about the money he has had in advance? AKÍM. That's it, that's it! It's just as you say, Ignátitch, it's just what d'you call it. 'Cos why? If you go into service, it's as good as if you had sold yourself, they say. That will be all right. I mean he may stay and serve his time, only he must, what d'you call it, get married. I mean--so: you let him off for a little while, that he may, what d'you call it? PETER. Yes, we could manage that. MATRYÓNA. Ah, but it's not yet settled between ourselves, Peter Ignátitch. I'll speak to you as I would before God, and you may judge between my old man and me. He goes on harping on that marriage. But just ask--who it is he wants him to marry. If it were a girl of the right sort now-- I am not my child's enemy, but the wench is not honest. AKÍM. No, that's wrong! Wrong, I say. 'Cos why? She, that same girl--it's my son as has offended, offended the girl I mean. PETER. How offended? AKÍM. That's how. She's what d'you call it, with him, with my son, Nikíta. With Nikíta, what d'you call it, I mean. MATRYÓNA. You wait a bit, my tongue runs smoother--let me tell it. You know, this lad of ours lived at the railway before he came to you. There was a girl there as kept dangling after him. A girl of no account, you know, her name's Marína. She used to cook for the men. So now this same girl accuses our son, Nikíta, that he, so to say, deceived her. PETER. Well, there's nothing good in that. MATRYÓNA. But she's no honest girl herself; she runs after the fellows like a common slut. AKÍM. There you are again, old woman, and it's not at all what d'you call it, it's all not what d'you call it, I mean ... MATRYÓNA. There now, that's all the sense one gets from my old owl--"what d'you call it, what d'you call it," and he doesn't know himself what he means. Peter Ignátitch, don't listen to me, but go yourself and ask any one you like about the girl, everybody will say the same. She's just a homeless good-for-nothing. PETER. You know, Daddy Akím, if that's how things are, there's no reason for him to marry her. A daughter-in-law's not like a shoe, you can't kick her off. AKÍM [excitedly] It's false, old woman, it's what d'you call it, false; I mean, about the girl; false! 'Cos why? The lass is a good lass, a very good lass, you know. I'm sorry, sorry for the lassie, I mean. MATRYÓNA. It's an old saying: "For the wide world old Miriam grieves, and at home without bread her children she leaves." He's sorry for the girl, but not sorry for his own son! Sling her round your neck and carry her about with you! That's enough of such empty cackle! AKÍM. No, it's not empty. MATRYÓNA. There, don't interrupt, let me have my say. AKÍM [interrupts] No, not empty! I mean, you twist things your own way, about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better for yourself; but God, what d'you call it, turns them His way. That's how it is. MATRYÓNA. Eh! One only wears out one's tongue with you. AKÍM. The lass is hard-working and spruce, and keeps everything round herself ... what d'you call it. And in our poverty, you know, it's a pair of hands, I mean; and the wedding needn't cost much. But the chief thing's the offence, the offence to the lass, and she's a what d'you call it, an orphan, you know; that's what she is, and there's the offence. MATRYÓNA. Eh! they'll all tell you a tale of that sort ... ANÍSYA. Daddy Akím, you'd better listen to us women; we can tell you a thing or two. AKÍM. And God, how about God? Isn't she a human being, the lass? A what d'you call it,--also a human being I mean, before God. And how do you look at it? MATRYÓNA. Eh!... started off again?... PETER. Wait a bit, Daddy Akím. One can't believe all these girls say, either. The lad's alive, and not far away; send for him, and find out straight from him if it's true. He won't wish to lose his soul. Go and call the fellow, [Anísya rises] and tell him his father wants him. [Exit Anísya]. MATRYÓNA. That's right, dear friend; you've cleared the way clean, as with water. Yes, let the lad speak for himself. Nowadays, you know, they'll not let you force a son to marry; one must first of all ask the lad. He'll never consent to marry her and disgrace himself, not for all the world. To my thinking, it's best he should go on living with you and serving you as his master. And we need not take him home for the summer either; we can hire a help. If you would only give us ten roubles now, we'll let him stay on. PETER. All in good time. First let us settle one thing before we start another. AKÍM. You see, Peter Ignátitch, I speak. 'Cos why? you know how it happens. We try to fix things up as seems best for ourselves, you know; and as to God, we what d'you call it, we forget Him. We think it's best so, turn it our own way, and lo! we've got into a fix, you know. We think it will be best, I mean; and lo! it turns out much worse--without God, I mean. PETER. Of course one must not forget God. AKÍM. It turns out worse! But when it's the right way--God's way--it what d'you call it, it gives one joy; seems pleasant, I mean. So I reckon, you see, get him, the lad, I mean, get him to marry her, to keep him from sin, I mean, and let him what d'you call it at home, as it's lawful, I mean, while I go and get the job in town. The work is of the right sort--it's payin', I mean. And in God's sight it's what d'you call it--it's best, I mean. Ain't she an orphan? Here, for example, a year ago some fellows went and took timber from the steward,--thought they'd do the steward, you know. Yes, they did the steward, but they couldn't what d'you call it--do God, I mean. Well, and so ... Enter Nikíta and Nan. NIKÍTA. You called me? [Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch]. PETER [in a low, reproachful voice] What are you thinking about--have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up! Nikíta rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles. AKÍM. It seems there's a complaint, you know, about you, Nikíta--a complaint, I mean, a complaint. NIKÍTA. Who's been complaining? AKÍM. Complaining? It's a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It's her, you know--a complaint against you, from Marína, I mean. NIKÍTA [laughs] Well, that's a good one. What's the complaint? And who's told you--she herself? AKÍM. It's I am asking you, and you must now, what d'you call it, give me an answer. Have you got mixed up with the lass, I mean--mixed up, you know? NIKÍTA. I don't know what you mean. What's up? AKÍM. Foolin', I mean, what d'you call it? foolin'. Have you been foolin' with her, I mean? NIKÍTA. Never mind what's been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that? PETER. Don't shuffle, Nikíta, but answer your father straight out. AKÍM [solemnly] You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikíta. You, what d'you call it--think, I mean, and don't tell lies. She's an orphan; so, you see, any one is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what's rightest. NIKÍTA. But what if I have nothing to say? I have told you everything--because there isn't anything to tell, that's flat! [Getting excited] She can go and say anything about me, same as if she was speaking of one as is dead. Why don't she say anything about Fédka Mikíshin? Besides, how's this, that one mayn't even have a bit of fun nowadays? And as for her, well, she's free to say anything she likes. AKÍM. Ah, Nikíta, mind! A lie will out. Did anything happen? NIKÍTA [aside] How he sticks to it; it's too bad. [To Akím] I tell you, I know nothing more. There's been nothing between us. [Angrily] By God! and may I never leave this spot [crosses himself] if I know anything about it. [Silence. Then still more excitedly] Why! have you been thinking of getting me to marry her? What do you mean by it?--it's a confounded shame. Besides, nowadays you've got no such rights as to force a fellow to marry. That's plain enough. Besides, haven't I sworn I know nothing about it? MATRYÓNA [to her husband] There now, that's just like your silly pate, to believe all they tell you. He's gone and put the lad to shame all for nothing. The best thing is to let him live as he is living, with his master. His master will help us in our present need, and give us ten roubles, and when the time comes ... PETER. Well, Daddy Akím, how's it to be? AKÍM [looks at his son, clicking his tongue disapprovingly] Mind, Nikíta, the tears of one that's been wronged never, what d'you call it--never fall beside the mark but always on, what's name--the head of the man as did the wrong. So mind, don't what d'you call it. NIKÍTA [sits down] What's there to mind? mind yourself. NAN [aside] I must run and tell mother. [Exit]. MATRYÓNA [to Peter] That's always the way with this old mumbler of mine, Peter Ignátitch. Once he's got anything wedged in his pate there's no knocking it out. We've gone and troubled you all for nothing. The lad can go on living as he has been. Keep him; he's your servant. PETER. Well, Daddy Akím, what do you say? AKÍM. Why, the lad's his own master, if only he what d'you call it.... I only wish that, what d'you call it, I mean. MATRYÓNA. You don't know yourself what you're jawing about. The lad himself has no wish to leave. Besides, what do we want with him at home? We can manage without him. PETER. Only one thing, Daddy Akím--if you are thinking of taking him back in summer, I don't want him here for the winter. If he is to stay at all, it must be for the whole year. MATRYÓNA. And it's for a year he'll bind himself. If we want help when the press of work comes, we can hire help, and the lad shall remain with you. Only give us ten roubles now.... PETER. Well then, is it to be for another year? AKÍM. [sighing] Yes, it seems, it what d'you call it ... if it's so, I mean, it seems that it must be what d'you call it. MATRYÓNA. For a year, counting from St. Dimítry's day. We know you'll pay him fair wages. But give us ten roubles now. Help us out of our difficulties. [Gets up and bows to Peter]. Enter Nan and Anísya. The latter sits down at one side. PETER. Well, if that's settled we might step across to the inn and have a drink. Come, Daddy Akím, what do you say to a glass of vódka? AKÍM. No, I never drink that sort of thing. PETER. Well, you'll have some tea? AKÍM. Ah, tea! yes, I do sin that way. Yes, tea's the thing. PETER. And the women will also have some tea. Come. And you, Nikíta, go and drive the sheep in and clear away the straw. NIKÍTA. All right. [Exeunt all but Nikíta. Nikíta lights a cigarette. It grows darker] Just see how they bother one. Want a fellow to tell 'em how he larks about with the wenches! It would take long to tell 'em all those stories--"Marry her," he says. Marry them all! One would have a good lot of wives! And what need have I to marry? Am as good as married now! There's many a chap as envies me. Yet how strange it felt when I crossed myself before the icón. It was just as if some one shoved me. The whole web fell to pieces at once. They say it's frightening to swear what's not true. That's all humbug. It's all talk, that is. It's simple enough. AKOULÍNA [enters with a rope, which she puts down. She takes off her outdoor things and goes into closet] You might at least have got a light. NIKÍTA. What, to look at you? I can see you well enough without. AKOULÍNA. Oh, bother you! Nan enters and whispers to Nikíta. NAN. Nikíta, there's a person wants you. There is! NIKÍTA. What person? NAN. Marína from the railway; she's out there, round the corner. NIKÍTA. Nonsense! NAN. Blest if she isn't! NIKÍTA. What does she want? NAN. She wants you to come out. She says, "I only want to say a word to Nikíta." I began asking, but she won't tell, but only says, "Is it true he's leaving you?" And I say, "No, only his father wanted to take him away and get him to marry, but he won't, and is going to stay with us another year." And she says, "For goodness' sake send him out to me. I must see him," she says, "I must say a word to him somehow." She's been waiting a long time. Why don't you go? NIKÍTA. Bother her! What should I go for? NAN. She says, "If he don't come, I'll go into the hut to him." Blest if she didn't say she'd come in! NIKÍTA. Not likely. She'll wait a bit and then go away. NAN. "Or is it," she says, "that they want him to marry Akoulína?" Re-enter Akoulína, passing near Nikíta to take her distaff. AKOULÍNA. Marry whom to Akoulína? NAN. Why, Nikíta. AKOULÍNA. A likely thing! Who says it? NIKÍTA [looks at her and laughs] It seems people do say it. Would you marry me, Akoulína? AKOULÍNA. Who, you? Perhaps I might have afore, but I won't now. NIKÍTA. And why not now? AKOULÍNA. 'Cos you wouldn't love me. NIKÍTA. Why not? AKOULÍNA. 'Cos you'd be forbidden to. [Laughs]. NIKÍTA. Who'd forbid it? AKOULÍNA. Who? My step-mother. She does nothing but grumble, and is always staring at you. NIKÍTA [laughing] Just hear her! Ain't she cute? AKOULÍNA. Who? Me? What's there to be cute about? Am I blind? She's been rowing and rowing at dad all day. The fat-muzzled witch! [Goes into closet]. NAN [looking out of the window] Look, Nikíta, she's coming! I'm blest if she isn't! I'll go away. [Exit]. MARÍNA [enters] What are you doing with me? NIKÍTA. Doing? I'm not doing anything. MARÍNA. You mean to desert me. NIKÍTA [gets up angrily] What does this look like, your coming here? MARÍNA. Oh, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Well, you are strange! What have you come for? MARÍNA. Nikíta! NIKÍTA. That's my name. What do you want with Nikíta? Well, what next? Go away, I tell you! MARÍNA. I see, you do want to throw me over. NIKÍTA. Well, and what's there to remember? You yourself don't know. When you stood out there round the corner and sent Nan for me, and I didn't come, wasn't it plain enough that you're not wanted? It seems pretty simple. So there--go! MARÍNA. Not wanted! So now I'm not wanted! I believed you when you said you would love me. And now that you've ruined me, I'm not wanted. NIKÍTA. Where's the good of talking? This is quite improper. You've been telling tales to father. Now, do go away, will you? MARÍNA. You know yourself I never loved any one but you. Whether you married me or not, I'd not have been angry. I've done you no wrong, then why have you left off caring for me? Why? NIKÍTA. Where's the use of baying at the moon? You go away. Goodness me! what a duffer! MARÍNA. It's not that you deceived me when you promised to marry me that hurts, but that you've left off loving. No, it's not that you've stopped loving me either, but that you've changed me for another, that's what hurts. I know who it is! NIKÍTA [comes up to her viciously] Eh! what's the good of talking to the likes of you, that won't listen to reason? Be off, or you'll drive me to do something you'll be sorry for. MARÍNA. What, will you strike me, then? Well then, strike me! What are you turning away for? Ah, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Supposing some one came in. Of course, it's quite improper. And what's the good of talking? MARÍNA. So this is the end of it! What has been has flown. You want me to forget it? Well then, Nikíta, listen. I kept my maiden honour as the apple of my eye. You have ruined me for nothing, you have deceived me. You have no pity on a fatherless and motherless girl! [Weeping] You have deserted, you have killed me, but I bear you no malice. God forgive you! If you find a better one you'll forget me, if a worse one you'll remember me. Yes, you will remember, Nikíta! Good-bye, then, if it is to be. Oh, how I loved you! Good-bye for the last time. [Takes his head in her hands and tries to kiss him]. NIKÍTA [tossing his head back] I'm not going to talk with the likes of you. If you won't go away I will, and you may stay here by yourself. MARÍNA [screams] You are a brute. [In the doorway] God will give you no joy. [Exit, crying]. AKOULÍNA [comes out of closet] You're a dog, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. What's up? AKOULÍNA. What a cry she gave! [Cries]. NIKÍTA. What's up with you? AKOULÍNA. What's up? You've hurt her so. That's the way you'll hurt me also. You're a dog. [Exit into closet]. Silence. NIKÍTA. Here's a fine muddle. I'm as sweet as honey on the lasses, but when a fellow's sinned with 'em it's a bad look-out! Curtain. ACT II The scene represents the village street. To the left the outside of Peter's hut, built of logs, with a porch in the middle; to the right of the hut the gates and a corner of the yard buildings. Anísya is beating hemp in the street near the corner of the yard. Six months have elapsed since the First Act. ANÍSYA [stops and listens] Mumbling something again. He's probably got off the stove. Akoulína enters, carrying two pails on a yoke. ANÍSYA. He's calling. You go and see what he wants, kicking up such a row. AKOULÍNA. Why don't you go? ANÍSYA. Go, I tell you! [Exit Akoulína into hut] He's bothering me to death. Won't let out where the money is, and that's all about it. He was out in the passage the other day. He must have been hiding it there. Now, I don't know myself where it is. Thank goodness he's afraid of parting with it, so that at least it will stay in the house. If only I could manage to find it. He hadn't it on him yesterday. Now I don't know where it can be. He has quite worn the life out of me. Enter Akoulína, tying her kerchief over her head. ANÍSYA. Where are you off to? AKOULÍNA. Where? Why, he's told me to go for Aunt Martha. "Fetch my sister," he says. "I am going to die," he says. "I have a word to say to her." ANÍSYA [aside] Asking for his sister? Oh my poor head! Sure he wants to give it her. What shall I do? Oh! [To Akoulína] Don't go! Where are you off to? AKOULÍNA. To call Aunt. ANÍSYA. Don't go I tell you, I'll go myself. You go and take the clothes to the river to rinse. Else you'll not have finished by the evening. AKOULÍNA. But he told me to go. ANÍSYA. You go and do as you're bid. I tell you I'll fetch Martha myself. Take the shirts off the fence. AKOULÍNA. The shirts? But maybe you'll not go. He's given the order. ANÍSYA. Didn't I say I'd go? Where's Nan? AKOULÍNA. Nan? Minding the calves. ANÍSYA. Send her here. I dare say they'll not run away. [Akoulína collects the clothes, and exit]. ANÍSYA. If one doesn't go he'll scold. If one goes he'll give the money to his sister. All my trouble will be wasted. I don't myself know what I'm to do. My poor head's splitting. [Continues to work]. Enter Matryóna, with a stick and a bundle, in outdoor clothes. MATRYÓNA. May the Lord help you, honey. ANÍSYA [looks round, stops working, and claps her hands with joy] Well, I never expected this! Mother Matryóna, God has sent the right guest at the right time. MATRYÓNA. Well, how are things? ANÍSYA. Ah, I'm driven well-nigh crazy. It's awful! MATRYÓNA. Well, still alive, I hear? ANÍSYA. Oh, don't talk about it. He doesn't live and doesn't die! MATRYÓNA. But the money--has he given it to anybody? ANÍSYA. He's just sending for his sister Martha--probably about the money. MATRYÓNA. Well, naturally! But hasn't he given it to any one else? ANÍSYA. To no one. I watch like a hawk. MATRYÓNA. And where is it? ANÍSYA. He doesn't let out. And I can't find out in any way. He hides it now here, now there, and I can't do anything because of Akoulína. Idiot though she is, she keeps watch, and is always about. Oh my poor head! I'm bothered to death. MATRYÓNA. Oh, my jewel, if he gives the money to any one but you, you'll never cease regretting it as long as you live! They'll turn you out of house and home without anything. You've been worriting, and worriting all your life with one you don't love, and will have to go a-begging when you are a widow. ANÍSYA. No need to tell me, mother. My heart's that weary, and I don't know what to do. No one to get a bit of advice from. I told Nikíta, but he's frightened of the job. The only thing he did was to tell me yesterday it was hidden under the floor. MATRYÓNA. Well, and did you look there? ANÍSYA. I couldn't. The old man himself was in the room. I notice that sometimes he carries it about on him, and sometimes he hides it. MATRYÓNA. But you, my lass, must remember that if once he gives you the slip there's no getting it right again! [Whispering] Well, and did you give him the strong tea? ANÍSYA. Oh! oh!... [About to answer, but sees neighbour and stops]. The neighbour (a woman) passes the hut, and listens to a call from within. NEIGHBOUR [to Anísya] I say, Anísya! Eh, Anísya! There's your old man calling, I think. ANÍSYA. That's the way he always coughs,--just as if he were screaming. He's getting very bad. NEIGHBOUR [approaches Matryóna] How do you do, granny? Have you come far? MATRYÓNA. Straight from home, dear. Come to see my son. Brought him some shirts--can't help thinking of these things, you see, when it's one's own child. NEIGHBOUR. Yes, that's always so. [To Anísya] And I was thinking of beginning to bleach the linen, but it is a bit early, no one has begun yet. ANÍSYA. Where's the hurry? MATRYÓNA. Well, and has he had communion? ANÍSYA. Oh dear yes, the priest was here yesterday. NEIGHBOUR. I had a look at him yesterday. Dearie me! one wonders his body and soul keep together. And, O Lord, the other day he seemed just at his last gasp, so that they laid him under the holy icóns.[1] They started lamenting and got ready to lay him out. [1] It is customary to place a dying person under the icón. One or more icóns hang in the hut of each Orthodox peasant. ANÍSYA. He came to, and creeps about again. MATRYÓNA. Well, and is he to have extreme unction? ANÍSYA. The neighbours advise it. If he lives till to-morrow we'll send for the priest. NEIGHBOUR. Oh, Anísya dear, I should think your heart must be heavy. As the saying goes, "Not he is sick that's ill in bed, but he that sits and waits in dread." ANÍSYA. Yes, if it were only over one way or other! NEIGHBOUR. Yes, that's true, dying for a year, it's no joke. You're bound hand and foot like that. MATRYÓNA. Ah, but a widow's lot is also bitter. It's all right as long as one's young, but who'll care for you when you're old? Oh yes, old age is not pleasure. Just look at me. I've not walked very far, and yet am so footsore I don't know how to stand. Where's my son? ANÍSYA. Ploughing. But you come in and we'll get the samovár ready; the tea'll set you up again. MATRYÓNA [sitting down] Yes, it's true, I'm quite done up, my dears. As to extreme unction, that's absolutely necessary. Besides, they say it's good for the soul. ANÍSYA. Yes, we'll send to-morrow. MATRYÓNA. Yes, you had better. And we've had a wedding down in our parts. NEIGHBOUR. What, in spring?[2] [2] Peasant weddings are usually in autumn. They are forbidden in Lent, and soon after Easter the peasants become too busy to marry till harvest is over. MATRYÓNA. Ah, now if it were a poor man, then, as the saying is, it's always unseasonable for a poor man to marry. But it's Simon Matvéyitch, he's married that Marína. ANÍSYA. What luck for her! NEIGHBOUR. He's a widower. I suppose there are children? MATRYÓNA. Four of 'em. What decent girl would have him! Well, so he's taken her, and she's glad. You see, the vessel was not sound, so the wine trickled out. NEIGHBOUR. Oh my! And what do people say to it? And he, a rich peasant! MATRYÓNA. They are living well enough so far. NEIGHBOUR. Yes, it's true enough. Who wants to marry where there are children? There now, there's our Michael. He's such a fellow, dear me ... PEASANT'S VOICE. Hullo, Mávra. Where the devil are you? Go and drive the cow in. Exit Neighbour. MATRYÓNA [while the Neighbour is within hearing speaks in her ordinary voice] Yes, lass, thank goodness, she's married. At any rate my old fool won't go bothering about Nikíta. Now [suddenly changing her tone], she's gone! [Whispers] I say, did you give him the tea? ANÍSYA. Don't speak about it. He'd better die of himself. It's no use--he doesn't die, and I have only taken a sin on my soul. O-oh, my head, my head! Oh, why did you give me those powders? MATRYÓNA. What of the powders? The sleeping powders, lass,--why not give them? No evil can come of them. ANÍSYA. I am not talking of the sleeping ones, but the others, the white ones. MATRYÓNA. Well, honey, those powders are medicinal. ANÍSYA [sighs] I know, yet it's frightening. Though he's worried me to death. MATRYÓNA. Well, and did you use many? ANÍSYA. I gave two doses. MATRYÓNA. Was anything noticeable? ANÍSYA. I had a taste of the tea myself--just a little bitter. And he drank them with the tea and says, "Even tea disgusts me," and I say, "Everything tastes bitter when one's sick." But I felt that scared, mother. MATRYÓNA. Don't go thinking about it. The more one thinks the worse it is. ANÍSYA. I wish you'd never given them to me and led me into sin. When I think of it something seems to tear my heart. Oh dear, why did you give them to me? MATRYÓNA. What do you mean, honey? Lord help you! Why are you turning it on to me? Mind, lass, don't go twisting matters from the sick on to the healthy. If anything were to happen, I stand aside! I know nothing! I'm aware of nothing! I'll kiss the cross on it; I never gave you any kind of powders, never saw any, never heard of any, and never knew there were such powders. You think about yourself, lass. Why, we were talking about you the other day. "Poor thing, what torture she endures. The step-daughter an idiot; the old man rotten, sucking her life-blood. What wouldn't one be ready to do in such a case!" ANÍSYA. I'm not going to deny it. A life such as mine could make one do worse than that. It could make you hang yourself or throttle him. Is this a life? MATRYÓNA. That's just it. There's no time to stand gaping; the money must be found one way or other, and then he must have his tea. ANÍSYA. O-oh, my head, my head! I can't think what to do. I am so frightened; he'd better die of himself. I don't want to have it on my soul. MATRYÓNA [viciously] And why doesn't he show the money? Does he mean to take it along with him? Is no one to have it? Is that right? God forbid such a sum should be lost all for nothing. Isn't that a sin? What's he doing? Is he worth considering? ANÍSYA. I don't know anything. He's worried me to death. MATRYÓNA. What is it you don't know? The business is clear. If you make a slip now, you'll repent it all your life. He'll give the money to his sister and you'll be left without. ANÍSYA. O-oh dear! Yes, and he did send for her--I must go. MATRYÓNA. You wait a bit and light the samovár first. We'll give him some tea and search him together--we'll find it, no fear. ANÍSYA. Oh dear, oh dear; supposing something were to happen. MATRYÓNA. What now? What's the good of waiting? Do you want the money to slip from your hand when it's just in sight? You go and do as I say. ANÍSYA. Well, I'll go and light the samovár. MATRYÓNA. Go, honey, do the business so as not to regret it afterwards. That's right! [Anísya turns to go. Matryóna calls her back]. MATRYÓNA. Just a word. Don't tell Nikíta about the business. He's silly. God forbid he should find out about the powders. The Lord only knows what he would do. He's so tender-hearted. D'you know, he usen't to be able to kill a chicken. Don't tell him. 'Twould be a fine go, he wouldn't understand things. [Stops horror-struck as Peter appears in the doorway]. PETER [holding on to the wall, creeps out into the porch and calls with a faint voice] How's it one can't make you hear? Oh, oh, Anísya! Who's there? [Drops on the bench]. ANÍSYA [steps from behind the corner] Why have you come out? You should have stayed where you were lying. PETER. Has the girl gone for Martha? It's very hard.... Oh, if only death would come quicker! ANÍSYA. She had no time. I sent her to the river. Wait a bit, I'll go myself when I'm ready. PETER. Send Nan. Where's she? Oh, I'm that bad! Oh, death's at hand! ANÍSYA. I've sent for her already. PETER. Oh dear! Then where is she? ANÍSYA. Where's she got to, the plague seize her! PETER. Oh, dear! I can't bear it. All my inside's on fire. It's as if a gimlet were boring me. Why have you left me as if I were a dog?... no one to give me a drink.... Oh ... send Nan to me. ANÍSYA. Here she is. Nan, go to father. Nan runs in. Anísya goes behind the corner of the house. PETER. Go you. Oh ... to Aunt Martha, tell her father wants her; say she's to come, I want her. NAN. All right. PETER. Wait a bit. Tell her she's to come quick. Tell her I'm dying. O-oh! NAN. I'll just get my shawl and be off. [Runs off]. MATRYÓNA [winking] Now then, mind and look sharp, lass. Go into the hut, hunt about everywhere, like a dog that's hunting for fleas: look under everything, and I'll search him. ANÍSYA [to Matryóna] I feel a bit bolder, somehow, now you're here. [Goes up to porch. To Peter] Hadn't I better light the samovár? Here's Mother Matryóna come to see her son; you'll have a cup of tea with her? PETER. Well then, light it. [Anísya goes into the house. Matryóna comes up to the porch]. PETER. How do you do? MATRYÓNA [bowing] How d'you do, my benefactor; how d'you do, my precious ... still ill, I see. And my old man, he's that sorry! "Go," says he, "see how he's getting on." He sends his respects to you. [Bows again]. PETER. I'm dying. MATRYÓNA. Ah yes, Peter Ignátitch, now I look at you I see, as the saying has it, "Sickness lives where men live." You've shrivelled, shrivelled, all to nothing, poor dear, now I come to look at you. Seems illness does not add to good looks. PETER. My last hour has come. MATRYÓNA. Oh well, Peter Ignátitch, it's God's will you know, you've had communion, and you'll have unction, God willing. Your missus is a wise woman, the Lord be thanked; she'll give you a good burial, and have prayers said for your soul, all most respectable! And my son, he'll look after things meanwhile. PETER. There'll be no one to manage things! She's not steady. Has her head full of folly--why, I know all about it, I know. And my girl is silly and young. I've got the homestead together, and there's no one to attend to things. One can't help feeling it. [Whimpers]. MATRYÓNA. Why, if it's money, or something, you can leave orders. PETER [to Anísya inside the house] Has Nan gone? MATRYÓNA [aside] There now, he's remembered! ANÍSYA [from inside] She went then and there. Come inside, won't you? I'll help you in. PETER. Let me sit here a bit for the last time. The air's so stuffy inside. Oh, how bad I feel! Oh, my heart's burning.... Oh, if death would only come. MATRYÓNA. If God don't take a soul, the soul can't go out. Death and life are in God's will, Peter Ignátitch. You can't be sure of death either. Maybe you'll recover yet. There was a man in our village just like that, at the very point of death ... PETER. No, I feel I shall die to-day, I feel it. [Leans back and shuts his eyes]. ANÍSYA [enters] Well now, are you coming in or not? You do keep one waiting. Peter! eh, Peter! MATRYÓNA [steps aside and beckons to Anísya with her finger] Well? ANÍSYA [comes down the porch steps] Not there. MATRYÓNA. But have you searched everywhere? Under the floor? ANÍSYA. No, it's not there either. In the shed perhaps; he was rummaging there yesterday. MATRYÓNA. Go, search, search for all you're worth. Go all over everywhere, as if you licked with your tongue! But I see he'll die this very day, his nails are turning blue and his face looks earthy. Is the samovár ready? ANÍSYA. Just on the boil. NIKÍTA [comes from the other side, if possible on horseback, up to the gate, and does not see Peter. To Matryóna] How d'you do, mother, is all well at home? MATRYÓNA. The Lord be thanked, we're all alive and have a crust to bite. NIKÍTA. Well, and how's master? MATRYÓNA. Hush, there he sits. [Points to porch]. NIKÍTA. Well, let him sit. What's it to me? PETER [opens his eyes] Nikíta, I say, Nikíta, come here! [Nikíta approaches. Anísya and Matryóna whisper together]. PETER. Why have you come back so early? NIKÍTA. I've finished ploughing. PETER. Have you done the strip beyond the bridge? NIKÍTA. It's too far to go there. PETER. Too far? From here it's still farther. You'll have to go on purpose now. You might have made one job of it. [Anísya, without showing herself, stands and listens]. MATRYÓNA [approaches] Oh, sonnie, why don't you take more pains for your master? Your master is ill and depends on you; you should serve him as you would your own father, straining every muscle just as I always tell you to. PETER. Well then--o-oh!... Get out the seed potatoes, and the women will go and sort them. ANÍSYA [aside] No fear, I'm not going. He's again sending every one away; he must have the money on him now, and wants to hide it somewhere. PETER. Else ... o-oh! when the time comes for planting, they'll all be rotten. Oh, I can't stand it! [Rises]. MATRYÓNA [runs up into the porch and holds Peter up] Shall I help you into the hut? PETER. Help me in. [Stops] Nikíta! NIKÍTA [angrily] What now? PETER. I shan't see you again ... I'll die to-day.... Forgive me,[3] for Christ's sake, forgive me if I have ever sinned against you ... If I have sinned in word or deed ... There's been all sorts of things. Forgive me! [3] A formal request for forgiveness is customary among Russians, but it is often no mere formality. Nikíta's first reply is evasive; his second reply, "God will forgive you," is the correct one sanctioned by custom. NIKÍTA. What's there to forgive? I'm a sinner myself. MATRYÓNA. Ah, sonnie, have some feeling. PETER. Forgive me, for Christ's sake. [Weeps]. NIKÍTA [snivels] God will forgive you, Daddy Peter. I have no cause to complain of you. You've never done me any wrong. You forgive me; maybe I've sinned worse against you. [Weeps]. Peter goes in whimpering, Matryóna supporting him. ANÍSYA. Oh, my poor head! It's not without some reason he's hit on that. [Approaches Nikíta] Why did you say the money was under the floor? It's not there. NIKÍTA [does not answer, but cries] I have never had anything bad from him, nothing but good, and what have I gone and done! ANÍSYA. Enough now! Where's the money? NIKÍTA [angrily] How should I know? Go and look for it yourself! ANÍSYA. What's made you so tender? NIKÍTA. I am sorry for him,--that sorry. How he cried! Oh dear! ANÍSYA. Look at him,--seized with pity! He has found someone to pity too! He's been treating you like a dog, and even just now was giving orders to have you turned out of the house. You'd better show me some pity! NIKÍTA. What are you to be pitied for? ANÍSYA. If he dies, and the money's been hidden away ... NIKÍTA. No fear, he'll not hide it ... ANÍSYA. Oh, Nikíta darling! he's sent for his sister, and wants to give it to her. It will be a bad lookout for us. How are we going to live, if he gives her the money? They'll turn me out of the house! You try and manage somehow! You said he went to the shed last night. NIKÍTA. I saw him coming from there, but where he's shoved it to, who can tell? ANÍSYA. Oh, my poor head! I'll go and have a look there. [Nikíta steps aside]. MATRYÓNA [comes out of the hut and down the steps of the porch to Anísya and Nikíta] Don't go anywhere. He's got the money on him. I felt it on a string round his neck. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my head! MATRYÓNA. If you don't keep wide awake now, then you may whistle for it. If his sister comes--then good-bye to it! ANÍSYA. That's true. She'll come and he'll give it her. What's to be done? Oh my poor head! MATRYÓNA. What is to be done? Why, look here; the samovár is boiling, go and make the tea and pour him out a cup, and then [whispers] put in all that's left in the paper. When he's drunk the cup, then just take it. He'll not tell, no fear. ANÍSYA. Oh! I'm afeared! MATRYÓNA. Don't be talking now, but look alive, and I'll keep his sister off if need be. Mind, don't make a blunder! Get hold of the money and bring it here, and Nikíta will hide it. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my head! I don't know how I'm going to ... MATRYÓNA. Don't talk about it I tell you, do as I bid you. Nikíta! NIKÍTA. What is it? MATRYÓNA. You stay here--sit down--in case something is wanted. NIKÍTA [waves his hand] Oh these women, what won't they be up to? Muddle one up completely. Bother them! I'll really go and fetch out the potatoes. MATRYÓNA [catches him by the arm] Stay here, I tell you. Nan enters. ANÍSYA. Well? NAN. She was down in her daughter's vegetable plot--she's coming. ANÍSYA. Coming! What shall we do? MATRYÓNA. There's plenty of time if you do as I tell you. ANÍSYA. I don't know what to do; I know nothing, my brain's all in a whirl. Nan! Go, daughter, and see to the calves, they'll have run away, I'm afraid.... Oh dear, I haven't the courage. MATRYÓNA. Go on! I should think the samovár's boiling over. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my poor head! [Exit]. MATRYÓNA [approaches Nikíta] Now then, sonnie. [Sits down beside him] Your affairs must also be thought about, and not left anyhow. NIKÍTA. What affairs? MATRYÓNA. Why, this affair--how you're to live your life. NIKÍTA. How to live my life? Others live, and I shall live! MATRYÓNA. The old man will probably die to-day. NIKÍTA. Well, if he dies, God give him rest! What's that to me? MATRYÓNA [keeps looking towards the porch while she speaks] Eh, sonnie! Those that are alive have to think about living. One needs plenty of sense in these matters, honey. What do you think? I've tramped all over the place after your affairs, I've got quite footsore bothering about matters. And you must not forget me when the time comes. NIKÍTA. And what's it you've been bothering about? MATRYÓNA. About your affairs, about your future. If you don't take trouble in good time you'll get nothing. You know Iván Moséitch? Well, I've been to him too. I went there the other day. I had something else to settle, you know. Well, so I sat and chatted awhile and then came to the point. "Tell me, Iván Moséitch," says I, "how's one to manage an affair of this kind? Supposing," says I, "a peasant as is a widower married a second wife, and supposing all the children he has is a daughter by the first wife, and a daughter by the second. Then," says I, "when that peasant dies, could an outsider get hold of the homestead by marrying the widow? Could he," says I, "give both the daughters in marriage and remain master of the house himself?" "Yes, he could," says he, "but," says he, "it would mean a deal of trouble; still the thing could be managed by means of money, but if there's no money it's no good trying." NIKÍTA [laughs] That goes without saying, only fork out the money. Who does not want money? MATRYÓNA. Well then, honey, so I spoke out plainly about the affair. And he says, "First and foremost, your son will have to get himself on the register of that village--that will cost something. The elders will have to be treated. And they, you see, they'll sign. Everything," says he, "must be done sensibly." Look, [unwraps her kerchief and takes out a paper] he's written out this paper; just read it, you're a scholar, you know. [Nikíta reads]. NIKÍTA. This paper's only a decision for the elders to sign. There's no great wisdom needed for that. MATRYÓNA. But you just hear what Iván Moséitch bids us do. "Above all," he says, "mind and don't let the money slip away, dame. If she don't get hold of the money," he says, "they'll not let her do it. Money's the great thing!" So look out, sonnie, things are coming to a head. NIKÍTA. What's that to me? The money's hers--so let her look out. MATRYÓNA. Ah, sonnie, how you look at it! How can a woman manage such affairs? Even if she does get the money, is she capable of arranging it all? One knows what a woman is! You're a man anyhow. You can hide it, and all that. You see, you've after all got more sense, in case of anything happening. NIKÍTA. Oh, your woman's notions are all so inexpedient! MATRYÓNA. Why inexpedient? You just collar the money, and the woman's in your hands. And then should she ever turn snappish you'd be able to tighten the reins! NIKÍTA. Bother you all,--I'm going. ANÍSYA [quite pale, runs out of the hut and round the corner to Matryóna] So it was, it was on him! Here it is! [Shows that she has something under her apron]. MATRYÓNA. Give it to Nikíta, he'll hide it. Nikíta, take it and hide it somewhere. NIKÍTA. All right, give here! ANÍSYA. O-oh, my poor head! No, I'd better do it myself. [Goes towards the gate]. MATRYÓNA [seizing her by the arm] Where are you going to? You'll be missed. There's the sister coming; give it him; he knows what to do. Eh, you blockhead! ANÍSYA [stops irresolutely] Oh, my head, my head! NIKÍTA. Well, give it here. I'll shove it away somewhere. ANÍSYA. Where will you shove it to? NIKÍTA [laughing] Why, are you afraid? Enter Akoulína, carrying clothes from the wash. ANÍSYA. O-oh, my poor head! [Gives the money] Mind, Nikíta. NIKÍTA. What are you afraid of? I'll hide it so that I'll not be able to find it myself. [Exit]. ANÍSYA [stands in terror] Oh dear, and supposing he ... MATRYÓNA. Well, is he dead? ANÍSYA. Yes, he seems dead. He did not move when I took it. MATRYÓNA. Go in, there's Akoulína. ANÍSYA. Well there, I've done the sin and he has the money.... MATRYÓNA. Have done and go in! There's Martha coming! ANÍSYA. There now, I've trusted him. What's going to happen now? [Exit]. MARTHA [enters from one side, Akoulína enters from the other. To Akoulína] I should have come before, but I was at my daughter's. Well, how's the old man? Is he dying? AKOULÍNA [puts down the clothes] Don't know, I've been to the river. MARTHA [pointing to Matryóna] Who's that? MATRYÓNA. I'm from Zoúevo. I'm Nikíta's mother from Zoúevo, my dearie. Good afternoon to you. He's withering, withering away, poor dear--your brother, I mean. He came out himself. "Send for my sister," he said, "because," said he ... Dear me, why, I do believe, he's dead! ANÍSYA [runs out screaming. Clings to a post, and begins wailing][4] Oh, oh, ah! who-o-o-m have you left me to, why-y-y have you dese-e-e-e-rted me--a miserable widow ... to live my life alone ... Why have you closed your bright eyes ... [4] Loud public wailing of this kind is customary, and considered indispensable, among the peasants. Enter Neighbour. Matryóna and Neighbour catch hold of Anísya under the arms to support her. Akoulína and Martha go into the hut. A crowd assembles. A VOICE IN THE CROWD. Send for the old women to lay out the body. MATRYÓNA [rolls up her sleeves] Is there any water in the copper? But I daresay the samovár is still hot. I'll also go and help a bit. Curtain. ACT III The same hut. Winter. Nine months have passed since Act II. Anísya, plainly dressed, sits before a loom weaving. Nan is on the oven. MÍTRITCH [an old labourer, enters, and slowly takes off his outdoor things] Oh Lord, have mercy! Well, hasn't the master come home yet? ANÍSYA. What? MÍTRITCH. Nikíta isn't back from town, is he? ANÍSYA. No. MÍTRITCH. Must have been on the spree. Oh Lord! ANÍSYA. Have you finished in the stackyard? MÍTRITCH. What d'you think? Got it all as it should be, and covered everything with straw! I don't like doing things by halves! Oh Lord! holy Nicholas! [Picks at the corns on his hands] But it's time he was back. ANÍSYA. What need has he to hurry? He's got money. Merry-making with that girl, I daresay ... MÍTRITCH. Why shouldn't one make merry if one has the money? And why did Akoulína go to town? ANÍSYA. You'd better ask her. How do I know what the devil took her there! MÍTRITCH. What! to town? There's all sorts of things to be got in town if one's got the means. Oh Lord! NAN. Mother, I heard myself. "I'll get you a little shawl," he says, blest if he didn't; "you shall choose it yourself," he says. And she got herself up so fine; she put on her velveteen coat and the French shawl. ANÍSYA. Really, a girl's modesty reaches only to the door. Step over the threshold and it's forgotten. She is a shameless creature. MÍTRITCH. Oh my! What's the use of being ashamed? While there's plenty of money make merry. Oh Lord! It is too soon to have supper, eh? [Anísya does not answer] I'll go and get warm meanwhile. [Climbs on the stove] Oh Lord! Blessed Virgin Mother! holy Nicholas! NEIGHBOUR [enters] Seems your goodman's not back yet? ANÍSYA. No. NEIGHBOUR. It's time he was. Hasn't he perhaps stopped at our inn? My sister, Thekla, says there's heaps of sledges standing there as have come from the town. ANÍSYA. Nan! Nan, I say! NAN. Yes? ANÍSYA. You run to the inn and see! Mayhap, being drunk, he's gone there. NAN [jumps down from the oven and dresses] All right. NEIGHBOUR. And he's taken Akoulína with him? ANÍSYA. Else he'd not have had any need of going. It's because of her he's unearthed all the business there. "Must go to the bank," he says; "it's time to receive the payments," he says. But it's all her fooling. NEIGHBOUR [shakes her head] It's a bad look-out. [Silence]. NAN [at the door] And if he's there, what am I to say? ANÍSYA. You only see if he's there. NAN. All right. I'll be back in a winking. [Long silence]. MÍTRITCH [roars] Oh Lord! merciful Nicholas! NEIGHBOUR [starting] Oh, how he scared me? Who is it? ANÍSYA. Why, Mítritch, our labourer. NEIGHBOUR. Oh dear, oh dear, what a fright he did give me! I had quite forgotten. But tell me, dear, I've heard someone's been wooing Akoulína? ANÍSYA [gets up from the loom and sits down by the table] There was some one from Dédlovo; but it seems the affair's got wind there too. They made a start, and then stopped; so the thing fell through. Of course, who'd care to? NEIGHBOUR. And the Lizounófs from Zoúevo? ANÍSYA. They made some steps too, but it didn't come off either. They won't even see us. NEIGHBOUR. Yet it's time she was married. ANÍSYA. Time and more than time! Ah, my dear, I'm that impatient to get her out of the house; but the matter does not come off. He does not wish it, nor she either. He's not yet had enough of his beauty, you see. NEIGHBOUR. Eh, eh, eh, what doings! Only think of it. Why, he's her step-father! ANÍSYA. Ah, friend, they've taken me in completely. They've done me so fine it's beyond saying. I, fool that I was, noticed nothing, suspected nothing, and so I married him. I guessed nothing, but they already understood one another. NEIGHBOUR. Oh dear, what goings on! ANÍSYA. So it went on from bad to worse, and I see they begin hiding from me. Ah, friend, I was that sick--that sick of my life! It's not as if I didn't love him. NEIGHBOUR. That goes without saying. ANÍSYA. Ah, how hard it is to bear such treatment from him! Oh, how it hurts! NEIGHBOUR. Yes, and I've heard say he's becoming too free with his fists? ANÍSYA. And that too! There was a time when he was gentle when he'd had a drop. He used to hit out before, but of me he was always fond! But now when he's in a temper he goes for me and is ready to trample me under his feet. The other day he got both hands entangled in my hair so that I could hardly get away. And the girl's worse than a serpent; it's a wonder the earth bears such furies. NEIGHBOUR. Ah, ah, my dear, now I look at you, you are a sufferer! To suffer like that is no joke. To have given shelter to a beggar, and he to lead you such a dance! Why don't you pull in the reins? ANÍSYA. Ah, but my dear, if it weren't for my heart! Him as is gone was stern enough, still I could twist him about any way I liked; but with this one I can do nothing. As soon as I see him all my anger goes. I haven't a grain of courage before him; I go about like a drowned hen. NEIGHBOUR. Ah, neighbour, you must be under a spell. I've heard that Matryóna goes in for that sort of thing. It must be her. ANÍSYA. Yes, dear; I think so myself sometimes. Gracious me, how hurt I feel at times! I'd like to tear him to pieces. But when I set eyes on him, my heart won't go against him. NEIGHBOUR. It's plain you're bewitched. It don't take long to blight a body. There now, when I look at you, what you have dwindled to! ANÍSYA. Growing a regular spindle-shanks. And just look at that fool Akoulína. Wasn't the girl a regular untidy slattern, and just look at her now! Where has it all come from? Yes, he has fitted her out. She's grown so smart, so puffed up, just like a bubble that's ready to burst. And, though she's a fool, she's got it into her head, "I'm the mistress," she says; "the house is mine; it's me father wanted him to marry." And she's that vicious! Lord help us, when she gets into a rage she's ready to tear the thatch off the house. NEIGHBOUR. Oh dear, what a life yours is, now I come to look at you. And yet there's people envying you: "They're rich," they say; but it seems that gold don't keep tears from falling. ANÍSYA. Much reason for envy indeed! And the riches, too, will soon be made ducks and drakes of. Dear me, how he squanders money! NEIGHBOUR. But how's it, dear, you've been so simple to give up the money? It's yours. ANÍSYA. Ah, if you knew all! The thing is that I've made one little mistake. NEIGHBOUR. Well, if I were you, I'd go straight and have the law of him. The money's yours; how dare he squander it? There's no such rights. ANÍSYA. They don't pay heed to that nowadays. NEIGHBOUR. Ah, my dear, now I come to look at you, you've got that weak. ANÍSYA. Yes, quite weak, dear, quite weak. He's got me into a regular fix. I don't myself know anything. Oh, my poor head! NEIGHBOUR [listening] There's someone coming, I think. [The door opens and Akím enters]. AKÍM [crosses himself, knocks the snow off his feet, and takes off his coat] Peace be to this house! How do you do? Are you well, daughter? ANÍSYA. How d'you do, father? Do you come straight from home? AKÍM. I've been a-thinking, I'll go and see what's name, go to see my son, I mean,--my son. I didn't start early--had my dinner, I mean; I went, and it's so what d'you call it--so snowy, hard walking, and so there I'm what d'you call it--late, I mean. And my son--is he at home? At home? My son, I mean. ANÍSYA. No; he's gone to the town. AKÍM [sits down on a bench] I've some business with him, d'you see, some business, I mean. I told him t'other day, told him I was in need--told him, I mean, that our horse was done for, our horse, you see. So we must what d'ye call it, get a horse, I mean, some kind of a horse, I mean. So there, I've come, you see. ANÍSYA. Nikíta told me. When he comes back you'll have a talk. [Goes to the oven] Have some supper now, and he'll soon come. Mítritch, eh Mítritch, come have your supper. MÍTRITCH. Oh Lord! merciful Nicholas! ANÍSYA. Come to supper. NEIGHBOUR. I shall go now. Good-night. [Exit]. MÍTRITCH [gets down from the oven] I never noticed how I fell asleep. Oh Lord! gracious Nicholas! How d'you do, Daddy Akím? AKÍM. Ah, Mítritch! What are you, what d'ye call it, I mean?... MÍTRITCH. Why, I'm working for your son, Nikíta. AKÍM. Dear me! What d'ye call ... working for my son, I mean. Dear me! MÍTRITCH. I was living with a tradesman in town, but drank all I had there. Now I've come back to the village. I've no home, so I've gone into service. [Gapes] Oh Lord! AKÍM. But how's that, what d'you call it, or what's name, Nikíta, what does he do? Has he some business, I mean besides, that he should hire a labourer, a labourer I mean, hire a labourer? ANÍSYA. What business should he have? He used to manage, but now he's other things on his mind, so he's hired a labourer. MÍTRITCH. Why shouldn't he, seeing he has money? AKÍM. Now that's what d'you call it, that's wrong, I mean, quite wrong, I mean. That's spoiling oneself. ANÍSYA. Oh, he has got spoilt, that spoilt, it's just awful. AKÍM. There now, what d'you call it, one thinks how to make things better, and it gets worse I mean. Riches spoil a man, spoil, I mean. MÍTRITCH. Fatness makes even a dog go mad; how's one not to get spoilt by fat living? Myself now; how I went on with fat living. I drank for three weeks without being sober. I drank my last breeches. When I had nothing left, I gave it up. Now I've determined not to. Bother it! AKÍM. And where's what d'you call, your old woman? MÍTRITCH. My old woman has found her right place, old fellow. She's hanging about the gin-shops in town. She's a swell too; one eye knocked out, and the other black, and her muzzle twisted to one side. And she's never sober; drat her! AKÍM. Oh, oh, oh, how's that? MÍTRITCH. And where's a soldier's wife to go? She has found her right place. [Silence]. AKÍM [to Anísya] And Nikíta,--has he what d'you call it, taken anything up to town? I mean, anything to sell? ANÍSYA [laying the table and serving up] No, he's taken nothing. He's gone to get money from the bank. AKÍM [sitting down to supper] Why? D'you wish to put it to another use, the money I mean? ANÍSYA. No, we don't touch it. Only some twenty or thirty roubles as have come due; they must be taken. AKÍM. Must be taken. Why take it, the money I mean? You'll take some to-day I mean, and some to-morrow; and so you'll what d'you call it, take it all, I mean. ANÍSYA. We get this besides. The money is all safe. AKÍM. All safe? How's that, safe? You take it, and it what d'you call it, it's all safe. How's that? You put a heap of meal into a bin, or a barn, I mean, and go on taking meal, will it remain there what d'you call it, all safe I mean? That's, what d'you call it, it's cheating. You'd better find out, or else they'll cheat you. Safe indeed! I mean you what d'ye call ... you take it and it remains all safe there? ANÍSYA. I know nothing about it. Iván Moséitch advised us at the time. "Put the money in the bank," he said, "the money will be safe, and you'll get interest," he said. MÍTRITCH [having finished his supper] That's so. I've lived with a tradesman. They all do like that. Put the money in the bank, then lie down on the oven and it will keep coming in. AKÍM. That's queer talk. How's that--what d'ye call, coming in, how's that coming in, and they, who do they get it from I mean, the money I mean? ANÍSYA. They take the money out of the bank. MÍTRITCH. Get along! 'Tain't a thing a woman can understand! You look here, I'll make it all clear to you. Mind and remember. You see, suppose you've got some money, and I, for instance, have spring coming on, my land's idle, I've got no seeds, or I have to pay taxes. So, you see, I go to you. "Akím," I say, "give us a ten-rouble note, and when I've harvested in autumn I'll return it, and till two acres for you besides, for having obliged me!" And you, seeing I've something to fall back on--a horse say, or a cow--you say, "No, give two or three roubles for the obligation," and there's an end of it. I'm stuck in the mud, and can't do without. So I say, "All right!" and take a tenner. In the autumn, when I've made my turnover, I bring it back, and you squeeze the extra three roubles out of me. AKÍM. Yes, but that's what peasants do when they what d'ye call it, when they forget God. It's not honest, I mean, it's no good, I mean. MÍTRITCH. You wait. You'll see it comes just to the same thing. Now don't forget how you've skinned me. And Anísya, say, has got some money lying idle. She does not know what to do with it, besides, she's a woman, and does not know how to use it. She comes to you. "Couldn't you make some profit with my money too?" she says. "Why not?" say you, and you wait. Before the summer I come again and say, "Give me another tenner, and I'll be obliged." Then you find out if my hide isn't all gone, and if I can be skinned again you give me Anísya's money. But supposing I'm clean shorn,--have nothing to eat,--then you see I can't be fleeced any more, and you say, "Go your way, friend," and you look out for another, and lend him your own and Anísya's money and skin him. That's what the bank is. So it goes round and round. It's a cute thing, old fellow! AKÍM [excitedly] Gracious me, whatever is that like? It's what d'ye call it, it's filthy! The peasants--what d'ye call it, the peasants do so I mean, and know it's, what d'ye call it, a sin! It's what d'you call, not right, not right, I mean. It's filthy! How can people as have learnt ... what d'ye call it ... MÍTRITCH. That, old fellow, is just what they're fond of! And remember, them that are stupid, or the women folk, as can't put their money into use themselves, they take it to the bank, and they there, deuce take 'em, clutch hold of it, and with this money they fleece the people. It's a cute thing! AKÍM [sighing] Oh dear, I see, what d'ye call it, without money it's bad, and with money it's worse! How's that? God told us to work, but you, what d'ye call ... I mean you put money into the bank and go to sleep, and the money will what d'ye call it, will feed you while you sleep. It's filthy, that's what I call it; it's not right. MÍTRITCH. Not right? Eh, old fellow, who cares about that nowadays? And how clean they pluck you, too! That's the fact of the matter. AKÍM [sighs] Ah yes, seems the time's what d'ye call it, the time's growing ripe. There, I've had a look at the closets in town. What they've come to! It's all polished and polished I mean, it's fine, it's what d'ye call it, it's like inside an inn. And what's it all for? What's the good of it? Oh, they've forgotten God. Forgotten, I mean. We've forgotten, forgotten God, God I mean! Thank you, my dear, I've had enough. I'm quite satisfied. [Rises. Mítritch climbs on to the oven]. ANÍSYA [eats, and collects the dishes] If his father would only take him to task! But I'm ashamed to tell him. AKÍM. What d'you say? ANÍSYA. Oh! it's nothing. Enter Nan. AKÍM. Here's a good girl, always busy! You're cold, I should think? NAN. Yes, I am, terribly. How d'you do, grandfather? ANÍSYA. Well? Is he there? NAN. No. But Andriyán is there. He's been to town, and he says he saw them at an inn in town. He says Dad's as drunk as drunk can be! ANÍSYA. Do you want anything to eat? Here you are. NAN [goes to the oven] Well, it _is_ cold. My hands are quite numb. [Akím takes off his leg-bands and bast-shoes. Anísya washes up]. ANÍSYA. Father! AKÍM. Well, what is it? ANÍSYA. And is Marína living well? AKÍM. Yes, she's living all right. The little woman is what d'ye call it, clever and steady; she's living, and what d'ye call it, doing her best. She's all right; the little woman's of the right sort I mean; painstaking and what d'ye call it, submissive; the little woman's all right I mean, all right, you know. ANÍSYA. And is there no talk in your village that a relative of Marína's husband thinks of marrying our Akoulína? Have you heard nothing of it? AKÍM. Ah; that's Mirónof. Yes, the women did chatter something. But I didn't pay heed, you know. It don't interest me I mean, I don't know anything. Yes, the old women did say something, but I've a bad memory, bad memory, I mean. But the Mirónofs are what d'ye call it, they're all right, I mean they're all right. ANÍSYA. I'm that impatient to get her settled. AKÍM. And why? NAN [listens] They've come! ANÍSYA. Well, don't you go bothering them. [Goes on washing the spoons without turning her head]. NIKÍTA [enters] Anísya! Wife! who has come? [Anísya looks up and turns away in silence]. NIKÍTA [severely] Who has come? Have you forgotten? ANÍSYA. Now don't humbug. Come in! NIKÍTA [still more severely] Who's come? ANÍSYA [goes up and takes him by the arm] Well then, husband has come. Now then, come in! NIKÍTA [holds back] Ah, that's it! Husband! And what's husband called? Speak properly. ANÍSYA. Oh bother you! Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Where have you learnt manners? The full name. ANÍSYA. Nikíta Akímitch! Now then! NIKÍTA [still in the doorway] Ah, that's it! But now--the surname? ANÍSYA [laughs and pulls him by the arm] Tchilíkin. Dear me, what airs! NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it. [Holds on to the door-post] No, now say with which foot Tchilíkin steps into this house! ANÍSYA. That's enough! You're letting the cold in! NIKÍTA. Say with which foot he steps? You've got to say it,--that's flat. ANÍSYA [aside] He'll go on worrying. [To Nikíta] Well then, with the left. Come in! NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it. ANÍSYA. You look who's in the hut! NIKÍTA. Ah, my parent! Well, what of that? I'm not ashamed of my parent. I can pay my respects to my parent. How d'you do, father? [Bows and puts out his hand] My respects to you. [Illustration: THE POWER OF DARKNESS. ACT III. ANÍSYA. Come in! NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it. ANÍSYA. You look who's in the hut! NIKÍTA. Ah, my parent! Well, what of that? I'm not ashamed of my parent.] AKÍM [does not answer] Drink, I mean drink, what it does! It's filthy! NIKÍTA. Drink, what's that? I've been drinking? I'm to blame, that's flat! I've had a glass with a friend, drank his health. ANÍSYA. Go and lie down, I say. NIKÍTA. Wife, say where am I standing? ANÍSYA. Now then, it's all right, lie down! NIKÍTA. No, I'll first drink a samovár with my parent. Go and light the samovár. Akoulína, I say, come here! Enter Akoulína, smartly dressed and carrying their purchases. AKOULÍNA. Why have you thrown everything about? Where's the yarn? NIKÍTA. The yarn? The yarn's there. Hullo, Mítritch, where are you? Asleep? Asleep? Go and put the horse up. AKÍM [not seeing Akoulína but looking at his son] Dear me, what is he doing? The old man's what d'ye call it, quite done up, I mean,--been thrashing,--and look at him, what d'ye call it, putting on airs! Put up the horse! Faugh, what filth! MÍTRITCH [climbs down from the oven, and puts on felt boots] Oh, merciful Lord! Is the horse in the yard? Done it to death, I dare say. Just see how he's been swilling, the deuce take him. Up to his very throat. Oh Lord, holy Nicholas! [Puts on sheepskin, and exit]. NIKÍTA [sits down] You must forgive me, father. It's true I've had a drop; well, what of that? Even a hen will drink. Ain't it true? So you must forgive me. Never mind Mítritch, he doesn't mind, he'll put it up. ANÍSYA. Shall I really light the samovár? NIKÍTA. Light it! My parent has come. I wish to talk to him, and shall drink tea with him. [To Akoulína] Have you brought all the parcels? AKOULÍNA. The parcels? I've brought mine, the rest's in the sledge. Hi, take this, this isn't mine! Throws a parcel on the table and puts the others into her box. Nan watches her while she puts them away. Akím does not look at his son, but puts his leg-bands and bast-shoes on the oven. ANÍSYA [going out with the samovár] Her box is full as it is, and still he's bought more! [Illustration: THE POWER OF DARKNESS. ACT III. NIKÍTA. Have you brought all the parcels? AKOULÍNA. The parcels? I've brought mine, the rest's in the sledge. ANÍSYA. Her box is full as it is, and still he's bought more!] NIKÍTA [pretending to be sober] You must not be cross with me, father. You think I'm drunk? I am all there, that's flat! As they say, "Drink, but keep your wits about you." I can talk with you at once, father. I can attend to any business. You told me about the money; your horse is worn-out,--I remember! That can all be managed. That's all in our hands. If it was an enormous sum that's wanted, then we might wait; but as it is I can do everything. That's the case. AKÍM [goes on fidgeting with the leg-bands] Eh, lad, "It's ill sledging when the thaw has set in." NIKÍTA. What d'you mean by that? "And it's ill talking with one who is drunk"? But don't you worry, let's have some tea. And I can do anything; that's flat! I can put everything to rights. AKÍM [shakes his head] Eh, eh, eh! NIKÍTA. The money, here it is. [Puts his hand in his pocket, pulls out pocket-book, handles the notes in it and takes out a ten-rouble note] Take this to get a horse; I can't forget my parent. I shan't forsake him, that's flat. Because he's my parent! Here you are, take it! Really now, I don't grudge it. [Comes up and pushes the note towards Akím who won't take it. Nikíta catches hold of his father's hand] Take it, I tell you. I don't grudge it. AKÍM. I can't, what d'you call it, I mean, can't take it! And can't what d'ye call it, talk to you, because you're not yourself, I mean. NIKÍTA. I'll not let you go! Take it! [Puts the money into Akím's hand]. ANÍSYA [enters, and stops] You'd better take it, he'll give you no peace! AKÍM [takes it, and shakes his head] Oh! that liquor. Not like a man, I mean! NIKÍTA. That's better! If you repay it you'll repay it, if not I'll make no bother. That's what I am! [Sees Akoulína] Akoulína, show your presents. AKOULÍNA. What? NIKÍTA. Show your presents. AKOULÍNA. The presents, what's the use of showing 'em? I've put 'em away. NIKÍTA. Get them, I tell you. Nan will like to see 'em. Undo the shawl. Give it here. AKÍM. Oh, oh! It's sickening! [Climbs on the oven]. AKOULÍNA [gets out the parcels and puts them on the table] Well, there you are,--what's the good of looking at 'em? NAN. Oh how lovely! It's as good as Stepanída's. AKOULÍNA. Stepanída's? What's Stepanída's compared to this? [Brightening up and undoing the parcels] Just look here,--see the quality! It's a French one. NAN. The print _is_ fine! Mary has a dress like it, only lighter on a blue ground. This _is_ pretty. NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it! Anísya passes angrily into the closet, returns with a tablecloth and the chimney of the samovár, and goes up to the table. ANÍSYA. Drat you, littering the table! NIKÍTA. You look here! ANÍSYA. What am I to look at? Have I never seen anything? Put it away! [Sweeps the shawl on to the floor with her arm]. AKOULÍNA. What are you pitching things down for? You pitch your own things about! [Picks up the shawl]. NIKÍTA. Anísya! Look here! ANÍSYA. Why am I to look? NIKÍTA. You think I have forgotten you? Look here! [Shows her a parcel and sits down on it] It's a present for you. Only you must earn it! Wife, where am I sitting? ANÍSYA. Enough of your humbug. I'm not afraid of you. Whose money are you spreeing on and buying your fat wench presents with? Mine! AKOULÍNA. Yours indeed? No fear! You wished to steal it, but it did not come off! Get out of the way! [Pushes her while trying to pass]. ANÍSYA. What are you shoving for? I'll teach you to shove! AKOULÍNA. Shove me? You try! [Presses against Anísya]. NIKÍTA. Now then, now then, you women. Have done now! [Steps between them]. AKOULÍNA. Comes shoving herself in! You ought to keep quiet and remember your doings! You think no one knows! ANÍSYA. Knows what? Out with it, out with it! What do they know? AKOULÍNA. I know something about you! ANÍSYA. You're a slut who goes with another's husband! AKOULÍNA. And you did yours to death! ANÍSYA [throwing herself on Akoulína] You're raving! NIKÍTA [holding her back] Anísya, you seem to have forgotten! ANÍSYA. Want to frighten me! I'm not afraid of you! NIKÍTA [turns Anísya round and pushes her out] Be off! ANÍSYA. Where am I to go? I'll not go out of my own house! NIKÍTA. Be off, I tell you, and don't dare to come in here! ANÍSYA. I won't go! [Nikíta pushes her, Anísya cries and screams and clings to the door] What! am I to be turned out of my own house by the scruff of the neck? What are you doing, you scoundrel? Do you think there's no law for you? You wait a bit! NIKÍTA. Now then! ANÍSYA. I'll go to the Elder! To the policeman! NIKÍTA. Off, I tell you! [Pushes her out]. ANÍSYA [behind the door] I'll hang myself! NIKÍTA. No fear! NAN. Oh, oh, oh! Mother, dear, darling! [Cries]. NIKÍTA. Me frightened of her! A likely thing! What are you crying for? She'll come back, no fear. Go and see to the samovár. [Exit Nan]. AKOULÍNA [collects and folds her presents] The mean wretch, how she's messed it up. But wait a bit, I'll cut up her jacket for her! Sure I will! NIKÍTA. I've turned her out, what more do you want? AKOULÍNA. She's dirtied my new shawl. If that bitch hadn't gone away, I'd have torn her eyes out! NIKÍTA. That's enough. Why should you be angry? Now if I loved her ... AKOULÍNA. Loved her? She's worth loving, with her fat mug! If you'd have given her up, then nothing would have happened. You should have sent her to the devil. And the house was mine all the same, and the money was mine! Says she is the mistress, but what sort of mistress is she to her husband? She's a murderess, that's what she is! She'll serve you the same way! NIKÍTA. Oh dear, how's one to stop a woman's jaw? You don't yourself know what you're jabbering about! AKOULÍNA. Yes, I do. I'll not live with her! I'll turn her out of the house! She can't live here with me. The mistress indeed! She's not the mistress,--that jailbird! NIKÍTA. That's enough! What have you to do with her? Don't mind her. You look at me! I am the master! I do as I like. I've ceased to love her, and now I love you. I love who I like! The power is mine, she's under me. That's where I keep her. [Points to his feet] A pity we've no concertina. [Sings]. "We have loaves on the stoves, We have porridge on the shelf. So we'll live and be gay, Making merry every day, And when death comes, Then we'll die! We have loaves on the stoves, We have porridge on the shelf ..." Enter Mítritch. He takes off his outdoor things and climbs on the oven. MÍTRITCH. Seems the women have been fighting again! Tearing each other's hair. Oh Lord, gracious Nicholas! AKÍM [sitting on the edge of the oven, takes his leg-bands and shoes and begins putting them on] Get in, get into the corner. MÍTRITCH. Seems they can't settle matters between them. Oh Lord! NIKÍTA. Get out the liquor, we'll have some with our tea. NAN [to Akoulína] Sister, the samovár is just boiling over. NIKÍTA. And where's your mother? NAN. She's standing and crying out there in the passage. NIKÍTA. Oh, that's it! Call her, and tell her to bring the samovár. And you, Akoulína, get the tea things. AKOULÍNA. The tea things? All right. [Brings the things]. NIKÍTA [unpacks spirits, rusks, and salt herrings] That's for myself. This is yarn for the wife. The paraffin is out there in the passage, and here's the money. Wait a bit, [takes a counting-frame] I'll add it up. [Adds] Wheat-flour, 80 kopéykas, oil ... Father, 10 roubles.... Father, come let's have some tea! Silence. Akím sits on the oven and winds the bands round his legs. Enter Anísya with samovár. ANÍSYA. Where shall I put it? NIKÍTA. Here on the table. Well! have you been to the Elder? Ah, that's it! Have your say and then eat your words. Now then, that's enough. Don't be cross, sit down and drink this. [Fills a wine-glass for her] And here's your present. [Gives her the parcel he had been sitting on. Anísya takes it silently and shakes her head]. AKÍM [gets down and puts on his sheepskin, then comes up to the table and puts down the money] Here, take your money back! Put it away. NIKÍTA [does not see the money] Why have you put on your things? AKÍM. I'm going, going I mean; forgive me for the Lord's sake. [Takes up his cap and belt]. NIKÍTA. My gracious! Where are you going to at this time of night? AKÍM. I can't, I mean what d'ye call 'em, in your house, what d'ye call 'em, can't stay I mean, stay, can't stay, forgive me. NIKÍTA. But are you going without having any tea? AKÍM [fastens his belt] Going, because, I mean, it's not right in your house, I mean, what d'you call it, not right, Nikíta, in the house, what d'ye call it, not right! I mean, you are living a bad life, Nikíta, bad,--I'll go. NIKÍTA. Eh now! Have done talking! Sit down and drink your tea! ANÍSYA. Why, father, you'll shame us before the neighbours. What has offended you? AKÍM. Nothing what d'ye call it, nothing has offended me, nothing at all! I mean only, I see, what d'you call it, I mean, I see my son, to ruin I mean, to ruin, I mean my son's on the road to ruin, I mean. NIKÍTA. What ruin? Just prove it! AKÍM. Ruin, ruin; you're in the midst of it! What did I tell you that time? NIKÍTA. You said all sorts of things! AKÍM. I told you, what d'ye call it, I told you about the orphan lass. That you had wronged an orphan--Marína, I mean, wronged her! NIKÍTA. Eh! he's at it again. Let bygones be bygones ... All that's past! AKÍM [excited] Past! No, lad, it's not past. Sin, I mean, fastens on to sin--drags sin after it, and you've stuck fast, Nikíta, fast in sin! Stuck fast in sin! I see you're fast in sin. Stuck fast, sunk in sin, I mean! NIKÍTA. Sit down and drink your tea, and have done with it! AKÍM. I can't, I mean can't what d'ye call it, can't drink tea. Because of your filth, I mean; I feel what d'ye call it, I feel sick, very sick! I can't what d'ye call it, I can't drink tea with you. NIKÍTA. Eh! There he goes rambling! Come to the table. AKÍM. You're in your riches same as in a net--you're in a net, I mean. Ah, Nikíta, it's the soul that God needs! NIKÍTA. Now really, what right have you to reprove me in my own house? Why do you keep on at me? Am I a child that you can pull by the hair? Nowadays those things have been dropped! AKÍM. That's true. I have heard that nowadays, what d'ye call it, that nowadays children pull their fathers' beards, I mean! But that's ruin, that's ruin, I mean! NIKÍTA [angrily] We are living without help from you, and it's you who came to us with your wants! AKÍM. The money? There's your money! I'll go begging, begging I mean, before I'll take it, I mean. NIKÍTA. That's enough! Why be angry and upset the whole company! [Holds him by the arm]. AKÍM [shrieks] Let go! I'll not stay. I'd rather sleep under some fence than in the midst of your filth! Faugh! God forgive me! [Exit]. NIKÍTA. Here's a go! AKÍM [reopens the door] Come to your senses, Nikíta! It's the soul that God wants! [Exit]. AKOULÍNA [takes cups] Well, shall I pour out the tea? [Takes a cup. All are silent]. MÍTRITCH [roars] Oh Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! [All start]. NIKÍTA [lies down on the bench] Oh, it's dull, it's dull! [To Akoulína] Where's the concertina? AKOULÍNA. The concertina? He's bethought himself of it. Why, you took it to be mended. I've poured out your tea. Drink it! NIKÍTA. I don't want it! Put out the light ... Oh, how dull I feel, how dull! [Sobs]. Curtain. ACT IV Autumn. Evening. The moon is shining. The stage represents the interior of courtyard. The scenery at the back shows, in the middle, the back porch of the hut. To the right the winter half of the hut and the gate; to the left the summer half and the cellar. To the right of the stage is a shed. The sound of tipsy voices and shouts are heard from the hut.[5] Second Neighbour Woman comes out of the hut and beckons to First Neighbour Woman. [5] Where not otherwise mentioned in the stage directions, it is always the winter half of the hut that is referred to as "the hut." The summer half is not heated, and not used in winter under ordinary circumstances. SECOND NEIGHBOUR. How's it Akoulína has not shown herself? FIRST NEIGHBOUR. Why hasn't she shown herself? She'd have been glad to; but she's too ill, you know. The suitor's relatives have come, and want to see the girl; and she, my dear, she's lying in the cold hut and can't come out, poor thing! SECOND NEIGHBOUR. But how's that? FIRST NEIGHBOUR. They say she's been bewitched by an evil eye! She's got pains in the stomach! SECOND NEIGHBOUR. You don't say so? FIRST NEIGHBOUR. What else could it be? [Whispers]. SECOND NEIGHBOUR. Dear me! There's a go! But his relatives will surely find it out? FIRST NEIGHBOUR. They find it out! They're all drunk! Besides, they are chiefly after her dowry. Just think what they give with the girl! Two furs, my dear, six dresses, a French shawl, and I don't know how many pieces of linen, and money as well,--two hundred roubles, it's said! SECOND NEIGHBOUR. That's all very well, but even money can't give much pleasure in the face of such a disgrace. FIRST NEIGHBOUR. Hush!... There's his father, I think. They cease talking, and go into the hut. The Suitor's Father comes out of the hut hiccoughing. THE FATHER. Oh, I'm all in a sweat. It's awfully hot! Will just cool myself a bit. [Stands puffing] The Lord only knows what--something is not right. I can't feel happy.--Well, it's the old woman's affair. Enter Matryóna from hut. MATRYÓNA. And I was just thinking, where's the father? Where's the father? And here you are, dear friend.... Well, dear friend, the Lord be thanked! Everything is as honourable as can be! When one's arranging a match one should not boast. And I have never learnt to boast. But as you've come about the right business, so with the Lord's help, you'll be grateful to me all your life! She's a wonderful girl! There's no other like her in all the district! THE FATHER. That's true enough, but how about the money? MATRYÓNA. Don't you trouble about the money! All she had from her father goes with her. And it's more than one gets easily, as things are nowadays. Three times fifty roubles! THE FATHER. We don't complain, but it's for our own child. Naturally we want to get the best we can. MATRYÓNA. I'll tell you straight, friend: if it hadn't been for me, you'd never have found anything like her! They've had an offer from the Karmílins, but I stood out against it. And as for the money, I'll tell you truly: when her father, God be merciful to his soul, was dying, he gave orders that the widow should take Nikíta into the homestead--of course I know all about it from my son,--and the money was to go to Akoulína. Why, another one might have thought of his own interests, but Nikíta gives everything clean! It's no trifle. Fancy what a sum it is! THE FATHER. People are saying, that more money was left her? The lad's sharp too! MATRYÓNA. Oh, dear soul alive! A slice in another's hand always looks big; all she had will be handed over. I tell you, throw doubts to the wind and make all sure! What a girl she is! as fresh as a daisy! THE FATHER. That's so. But my old woman and I were only wondering about the girl; why has she not come out? We've been thinking, suppose she's sickly? MATRYÓNA. Oh, ah.... Who? She? Sickly? Why, there's none to compare with her in the district. The girl's as sound as a bell; you can't pinch her. But you saw her the other day! And as for work, she's wonderful! She's a bit deaf, that's true, but there are spots on the sun, you know. And her not coming out, you see, it's from an evil eye! A spell's been cast on her! And I know the bitch who's done the business! They know of the betrothal and they bewitched her. But I know a counter-spell. The girl will get up to-morrow. Don't you worry about the girl! THE FATHER. Well, of course, the thing's settled. MATRYÓNA. Yes, of course! Don't you turn back. And don't forget me, I've had a lot of trouble. Don't forget ... A woman's voice from the hut. VOICE. If we are to go, let's go. Come along, Iván! THE FATHER. I'm coming. [Exeunt. Guests crowd together in the passage and prepare to go away]. NAN [runs out of the hut and calls to Anísya] Mother! ANÍSYA [from inside] What d'you want? NAN. Mother, come here, or they'll hear. Anísya enters and they go together to the shed. ANÍSYA. Well? What is it? Where's Akoulína? NAN. She's gone into the barn. It's awful what's she's doing there! I'm blest! "I can't bear it," she says. "I'll scream," she says, "I'll scream out loud." Blest if she didn't. ANÍSYA. She'll have to wait. We'll see our visitors off first. NAN. Oh mother! She's so bad! And she's angry too. "What's the good of their drinking my health?" she says. "I shan't marry," she says. "I shall die," she says. Mother, supposing she does die! It's awful. I'm so frightened! ANÍSYA. No fear, she'll not die. But don't you go near her. Come along. [Exit Anísya and Nan]. MÍTRITCH [comes in at the gate and begins collecting the scattered hay] Oh Lord! Merciful Nicholas! What a lot of liquor they've been and swilled, and the smell they've made! It smells even out here! But no, I don't want any, drat it! See how they've scattered the hay about. They don't eat it, but only trample it under foot. A truss gone before you know it. Oh, that smell, it seems to be just under my nose! Drat it! [Yawns] It's time to go to sleep! But I don't care to go into the hut. It seems to float just round my nose! It has a strong scent, the damned stuff! [The guests are heard driving off] They're off at last. Oh Lord! Merciful Nicholas! There they go, binding themselves and gulling one another. And it's all gammon! Enter Nikíta. NIKÍTA. Mítritch, you get off to sleep and I'll put this straight. MÍTRITCH. All right, you throw it to the sheep. Well, have you seen 'em all off? NIKÍTA. Yes, they're off! But things are not right! I don't know what to do! MÍTRITCH. It's a fine mess. But there's the Foundlings'[6] for that sort of thing. Whoever likes may drop one there; they'll take 'em all. Give 'em as many as you like, they ask no questions, and even pay--if the mother goes in as a wet-nurse. It's easy enough nowadays. [6] The Foundlings' Hospital in Moscow, where 80 to 90 per cent. of the children die. NIKÍTA. But mind, Mítritch, don't go blabbing. MÍTRITCH. It's no concern of mine. Cover the tracks as you think best. Dear me, how you smell of liquor! I'll go in. Oh Lord! [Exit, yawning]. Nikíta is long silent. Sits down on a sledge. NIKÍTA. Here's a go! Enter Anísya. ANÍSYA. Where are you? NIKÍTA. Here. ANÍSYA. What are you doing there? There's no time to be lost! We must take it out directly! NIKÍTA. What are we to do? ANÍSYA. I'll tell you what you are to do. And you'll have to do it! NIKÍTA. You'd better take it to the Foundlings'--if anything. ANÍSYA. Then you'd better take it there yourself if you like! You've a hankering for smut, but you're weak when it comes to settling up, I see! NIKÍTA. What's to be done? ANÍSYA. Go down into the cellar, I tell you, and dig a hole! NIKÍTA. Couldn't you manage, somehow, some other way? ANÍSYA [imitating him] "Some other way?" Seems we can't "some other way!" You should have thought about it a year ago. Do what you're told to! NIKÍTA. Oh dear, what a go! Enter Nan. NAN. Mother! Grandmother's calling! I think sister's got a baby! I'm blest if it didn't scream! ANÍSYA. What are you babbling about? Plague take you! It's kittens whining there. Go into the hut and sleep, or I'll give it you! NAN. Mammy dear, truly, I swear ... ANÍSYA [raising her arm as if to strike] I'll give it you! You be off and don't let me catch sight of you! [Nan runs into hut. To Nikíta] Do as you're told, or else mind! [Exit]. NIKÍTA [alone. After a long silence] Here's a go! Oh these women! What a fix! Says you should have thought of it a year ago. When's one to think beforehand? When's one to think? Why, last year this Anísya dangled after me. What was I to do? Am I a monk? The master died; and I covered my sin as was proper, so I was not to blame there. Aren't there lots of such cases? And then those powders. Did I put her up to that? Why, had I known what the bitch was up to, I'd have killed her! I'm sure I should have killed her! She's made me her partner in these horrors--that jade! And she became loathsome to me from that day! She became loathsome, loathsome to me as soon as mother told me about it. I can't bear the sight of her! Well then, how could I live with her? And then it begun.... That wench began hanging round. Well, what was I to do! If I had not done it, someone else would. And this is what comes of it! Still I'm not to blame in this either. Oh, what a go! [Sits thinking] They are bold, these women! What a plan to think of! But I won't have a hand in it! Enter Matryóna with a lantern and spade, panting. MATRYÓNA. Why are you sitting there like a hen on a perch? What did your wife tell you to do? You just get things ready! NIKÍTA. What do you mean to do? MATRYÓNA. We know what to do. You do your share! NIKÍTA. You'll be getting me into a mess! MATRYÓNA. What? You're not thinking of backing out, are you? Now it's come to this, and you back out! NIKÍTA. Think what a thing it would be! It's a living soul. MATRYÓNA. A living soul indeed! Why, it's more dead than alive. And what's one to do with it? Go and take it to the Foundlings'--it will die just the same, and the rumour will get about, and people will talk, and the girl be left on our hands. NIKÍTA. And supposing it's found out? MATRYÓNA. Not manage to do it in one's own house? We'll manage it so that no one will have an inkling. Only do as I tell you. We women can't do it without a man. There, take the spade, and get it done there,--I'll hold the light. NIKÍTA. What am I to get done? MATRYÓNA [in a low voice] Dig a hole; then we'll bring it out and get it out of the way in a trice! There, she's calling again. Now then, get in, and I'll go. NIKÍTA. Is it dead then? MATRYÓNA. Of course it is. Only you must be quick, or else people will notice! They'll see or they'll hear! The rascals must needs know everything. And the policeman went by this evening. Well then, you see [gives him the spade], you get down into the cellar and dig a hole right in the corner; the earth is soft there, and you'll smooth it over. Mother earth will not blab to any one; she'll keep it close. Go then; go, dear. NIKÍTA. You'll get me into a mess, bother you! I'll go away! You do it alone as best you can! ANÍSYA [through the doorway] Well? Has he dug it? MATRYÓNA. Why have you come away? What have you done with it? ANÍSYA. I've covered it with rags. No one can hear it. Well, has he dug it? MATRYÓNA. He doesn't want to! ANÍSYA [springs out enraged] Doesn't want to! How will he like feeding vermin in prison! I'll go straight away and tell everything to the police! It's all the same if one must perish. I'll go straight and tell! NIKÍTA [taken aback] What will you tell? ANÍSYA. What? Everything! Who took the money? You! [Nikíta is silent] And who gave the poison? I did! But you knew! You knew! You knew! We were in agreement! MATRYÓNA. That's enough now. Nikíta dear, why are you obstinate? What's to be done now? One must take some trouble. Go, honey. ANÍSYA. See the fine gentleman! He doesn't like it! You've put upon me long enough! You've trampled me under foot! Now it's my turn! Go, I tell you, or else I'll do what I said.... There, take the spade; there, now go! NIKÍTA. Drat you! Can't you leave a fellow alone! [Takes the spade, but shrinks] If I don't choose to, I'll not go! ANÍSYA. Not go? [Begins to shout] Neighbours! Heh! heh! MATRYÓNA [closes her mouth] What are you about? You're mad! He'll go.... Go, sonnie; go, my own. ANÍSYA. I'll cry murder! NIKÍTA. Now stop! Oh what people! You'd better be quick.... As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb! [Goes towards the cellar]. MATRYÓNA. Yes, that's just it, honey. If you know how to amuse yourself, you must know how to hide the consequences. ANÍSYA [still excited] He's trampled on me ... he and his slut! But it's enough! I'm not going to be the only one! Let him also be a murderer! Then he'll know how it feels! MATRYÓNA. There, there! How she flares up! Don't you be cross, lass, but do things quietly little by little, as it's best. You go to the girl, and he'll do the work. [Follows Nikíta to the cellar with a lantern. He descends into the cellar]. ANÍSYA. And I'll make him strangle his dirty brat! [Still excited] I've worried myself to death all alone, with Peter's bones weighing on my mind! Let him feel it too! I'll not spare myself; I've said I'll not spare myself! NIKÍTA [from the cellar] Show a light! MATRYÓNA [holds up the lantern to him. To Anísya] He's digging. Go and bring it. ANÍSYA. You stay with him, or he'll go away, the wretch! And I'll go and bring it. MATRYÓNA. Mind, don't forget to baptize it, or I will if you like. Have you a cross? ANÍSYA. I'll find one. I know how to do it. [Exit]. See at end of Act, Variation, which may be used instead of the following. MATRYÓNA. How the woman bristled up! But one must allow she's been put upon. Well, but with the Lord's help, when we've covered this business, there'll be an end of it. We'll shove the girl off without any trouble. My son will live in comfort. The house, thank God, is as full as an egg. They'll not forget me either. Where would they have been without Matryóna? They'd not have known how to contrive things. [Peering into the cellar] Is it ready, sonnie? NIKÍTA [puts out his head] What are you about there? Bring it quick! What are you dawdling for? If it is to be done, let it be done. MATRYÓNA [goes towards door of the hut and meets Anísya. Anísya comes out with a baby wrapped in rags] Well, have you baptized it? ANÍSYA. Why, of course! It was all I could do to take it away--she wouldn't give it up! [Comes forward and hands it to Nikíta]. NIKÍTA [does not take it] You bring it yourself! ANÍSYA. Take it, I tell you! [Throws the baby to him]. NIKÍTA [catches it] It's alive! Gracious me, it's moving! It's alive! What am I to ... ANÍSYA [snatches the baby from him and throws it into the cellar] Be quick and smother it, and then it won't be alive! [Pushes Nikíta down] It's your doing, and you must finish it. MATRYÓNA [sits on the doorstep of the hut] He's tender-hearted. It's hard on him, poor dear. Well, what of that? Isn't it also his sin? Anísya stands by the cellar. MATRYÓNA [sits looking at her and discourses] Oh, oh, oh! How frightened he was: well, but what of that? If it _is_ hard, it's the only thing to be done. Where was one to put it? And just think, how often it happens that people pray to God to have children! But no, God gives them none; or they are all still-born. Look at our priest's wife now.... And here, where it's not wanted, here it lives. [Looks towards the cellar] I suppose he's finished. [To Anísya] Well? ANÍSYA [looking into the cellar] He's put a board on it and is sitting on it. It must be finished! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh! One would be glad not to sin, but what's one to do? Re-enter Nikíta from cellar, trembling all over. NIKÍTA. It's still alive! I can't! It's alive! ANÍSYA. If it's alive, where are you off to? [Tries to stop him]. NIKÍTA [rushes at her] Go away! I'll kill you! [Catches hold of her arms; she escapes, he runs after her with the spade. Matryóna runs towards him and stops him. Anísya runs into the porch. Matryóna tries to wrench the spade from him. To his mother] I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Go away! [Matryóna runs to Anísya in the porch. Nikíta stops] I'll kill you! I'll kill you all! MATRYÓNA. That's because he's so frightened! Never mind, it will pass! NIKÍTA. What have they made me do? What have they made me do? How it whimpered.... How it crunched under me! What have they done with me?... And it's really alive, still alive! [Listens in silence] It's whimpering ... There, it's whimpering. [Runs to the cellar]. MATRYÓNA [to Anísya] He's going; it seems he means to bury it. Nikíta, you'd better take the lantern! NIKÍTA [does not heed her, but listens by the cellar door] I can hear nothing! I suppose it was fancy! [Moves away, then stops] How the little bones crunched under me. Krr ... kr ... What have they made me do? [Listens again] Again whimpering! It's really whimpering! What can it be? Mother! Mother, I say! [Goes up to her]. MATRYÓNA. What is it, sonnie? NIKÍTA. Mother, my own mother, I can't do any more! Can't do any more! My own mother, have some pity on me! MATRYÓNA. Oh dear, how frightened you are, my darling! Come, come, drink a drop to give you courage! NIKÍTA. Mother, mother! It seems my time has come! What have you done with me? How the little bones crunched, and how it whimpered! My own mother! What have you done with me? [Steps aside and sits down on the sledge]. MATRYÓNA. Come, my own, have a drink! It certainly does seem uncanny at night-time. But wait a bit. When the day breaks, you know, and one day and another passes, you'll forget even to think of it. Wait a bit; when the girl's married we'll even forget to think of it. But you go and have a drink; have a drink! I'll go and put things straight in the cellar myself. NIKÍTA [rouses himself] Is there any drink left? Perhaps I can drink it off! [Exit]. Anísya, who has stood all the time by the door, silently makes way for him. MATRYÓNA. Go, go, honey, and I'll set to work! I'll go down myself and dig! Where has he thrown the spade to? [Finds the spade, and goes down into the cellar] Anísya, come here! Hold the light, will you? ANÍSYA. And what of him? MATRYÓNA. He's so frightened! You've been too hard with him. Leave him alone, he'll come to his senses. God help him! I'll set to work myself. Put the lantern down here. I can see. Matryóna disappears into the cellar. ANÍSYA [looking towards the door by which Nikíta entered the hut] Well, have you had enough spree? You've been puffing yourself up, but now you'll know how it feels! You'll lose some of your bluster! NIKÍTA [rushes out of the hut towards the cellar] Mother! mother, I say! MATRYÓNA [puts out her head] What is it, sonnie? NIKÍTA [listening] Don't bury it, it's alive! Don't you hear? Alive! There--it's whimpering! There ... quite plain! MATRYÓNA. How can it whimper? Why, you've flattened it into a pancake! The whole head is smashed to bits! NIKÍTA. What is it then? [Stops his ears] It's still whimpering! I am lost! Lost! What have they done with me?... Where shall I go? [Sits down on the step]. Curtain. VARIATION Instead of the end of Act IV. (from the words, "ANÍSYA. I'll find one. I know how to do it. [Exit]") the following variation may be read, and is the one usually acted. SCENE 2. The interior of the hut as in Act I. Nan lies on the bench, and is covered with a coat. Mítritch is sitting on the oven smoking. MÍTRITCH. Dear me! How they've made the place smell! Drat 'em! They've been spilling the fine stuff. Even tobacco don't get rid of the smell! It keeps tickling one's nose so. Oh Lord! But it's bedtime, I guess. [Approaches the lamp to put it out]. NAN [jumps up, and remains sitting up] Daddy dear,[7] don't put it out! [7] Nan calls Mítritch "daddy" merely as a term of endearment. MÍTRITCH. Not put it out? Why? NAN. Didn't you hear them making a row in the yard? [Listens] D'you hear, there in the barn again now? MÍTRITCH. What's that to you? I guess no one's asked you to mind! Lie down and sleep! And I'll turn down the light. [Turns down lamp]. NAN. Daddy darling! Don't put it right out; leave a little bit if only as big as a mouse's eye, else it's so frightening! MÍTRITCH [laughs] All right, all right. [Sits down by her] What's there to be afraid of? NAN. How can one help being frightened, daddy! Sister did go on so! She was beating her head against the box! [Whispers] You know, I know ... a little baby is going to be born.... It's already born, I think.... MÍTRITCH. Eh, what a little busybody it is! May the frogs kick her! Must needs know everything. Lie down and sleep! [Nan lies down] That's right! [Tucks her up] That's right! There now, if you know too much you'll grow old too soon. NAN. And you are going to lie on the oven? MÍTRITCH. Well, of course! What a little silly you are, now I come to look at you! Must needs know everything. [Tucks her up again, then stands up to go] There now, lie still and sleep! [Goes up to the oven]. NAN. It gave just one cry, and now there's nothing to be heard. MÍTRITCH. Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! What is it you can't hear? NAN. The baby. MÍTRITCH. There is none, that's why you can't hear it. NAN. But I heard it! Blest if I didn't hear it! Such a thin voice! MÍTRITCH. Heard indeed! Much you heard! Well, if you know,--why then it was just such a little girl as you that the bogey popped into his bag and made off with. NAN. What bogey? MÍTRITCH. Why, just his very self! [Climbs up on to the oven] The oven is beautifully warm to-night. Quite a treat! Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! NAN. Daddy! are you going to sleep? MÍTRITCH. What else? Do you think I'm going to sing songs? Silence. NAN. Daddy! Daddy, I say! They are digging! they're digging--don't you hear? Blest if they're not, they're digging! MÍTRITCH. What are you dreaming about? Digging! Digging in the night! Who's digging? The cow's rubbing herself, that's all. Digging indeed! Go to sleep I tell you, else I'll just put out the light! NAN. Daddy darling, don't put it out! I won't ... truly, truly, I won't. It's so frightful! MÍTRITCH. Frightful? Don't be afraid and then it won't be frightful. Look at her, she's afraid, and then says it's frightful. How can it help being frightful if you are afraid? Eh, what a stupid little girl! Silence. The cricket chirps. NAN [whispers] Daddy! I say, daddy! Are you asleep? MÍTRITCH. Now then, what d'you want? NAN. What's the bogey like? MÍTRITCH. Why, like this! When he finds such a one as you, who won't sleep, he comes with a sack and pops the girl into it, then in he gets himself, head and all, lifts her dress, and gives her a fine whipping! NAN. What with? MÍTRITCH. He takes a birch-broom with him. NAN. But he can't see there--inside the sack! MÍTRITCH. He'll see, no fear! NAN. But I'll bite him. MÍTRITCH. No, friend, him you can't bite! NAN. Daddy, there's some one coming! Who is it? Oh gracious goodness! Who can it be? MÍTRITCH. Well, if some one's coming, let them come! What's the matter with you? I suppose it's your mother! Enter Anísya. ANÍSYA. Nan! [Nan pretends to be asleep] Mítritch! MÍTRITCH. What? ANÍSYA. What's the lamp burning for? We are going to sleep in the summer-hut. MÍTRITCH. Why, you see I've only just got straight. I'll put the light out all right. ANÍSYA [rummages in her box and grumbles] When a thing's wanted one never can find it! MÍTRITCH. Why, what is it you are looking for? ANÍSYA. I'm looking for a cross. Suppose it were to die unbaptized! It would be a sin, you know! MÍTRITCH. Of course it would! Everything in due order.... Have you found it? ANÍSYA. Yes, I've found it. [Exit]. MÍTRITCH. That's right, else I'd have lent her mine. Oh Lord! NAN [jumps up trembling] Oh, oh, daddy! Don't go to sleep; for goodness' sake, don't! It's so frightful! MÍTRITCH. What's frightful? NAN. It will die--the little baby will! At Aunt Irene's the old woman also baptized the baby, and it died! MÍTRITCH. If it dies, they'll bury it! NAN. But maybe it wouldn't have died, only old Granny Matryóna's there! Didn't I hear what granny was saying? I heard her! Blest if I didn't! MÍTRITCH. What did you hear? Go to sleep, I tell you. Cover yourself up, head and all, and let's have an end of it! NAN. If it lived, I'd nurse it! MÍTRITCH [roars] Oh Lord! NAN. Where will they put it? MÍTRITCH. In the right place! It's no business of yours! Go to sleep I tell you, else mother will come; she'll give it you! [Silence]. NAN. Daddy! Eh, daddy! That girl, you know, you were telling about--they didn't kill her? MÍTRITCH. That girl? Oh yes. That girl turned out all right! NAN. How was it? You were saying you found her? MÍTRITCH. Well, we just found her! NAN. But where did you find her? Do tell! MÍTRITCH. Why, in their own house; that's where! We came to a village, the soldiers began hunting about in the house, when suddenly there's that same little girl lying on the floor, flat on her stomach. We were going to give her a knock on the head, but all at once I felt that sorry, that I took her up in my arms; but no, she wouldn't let me! Made herself so heavy, quite a hundredweight, and caught hold where she could with her hands, so that one couldn't get them off! Well, so I began stroking her head. It was so bristly,--just like a hedgehog! So I stroked and stroked, and she quieted down at last. I soaked a bit of rusk and gave it her. She understood that, and began nibbling. What were we to do with her? We took her; took her, and began feeding and feeding her, and she got so used to us that we took her with us on the march, and so she went about with us. Ah, she was a fine girl! NAN. Yes, and not baptized? MÍTRITCH. Who can tell! They used to say, not altogether. 'Cos why, those people weren't our own. NAN. Germans? MÍTRITCH. What an idea! Germans! Not Germans, but Asiatics. They are just the same as Jews, but still not Jews. Polish, yet Asiatics. Curls ... or, Curdlys is their name.... I've forgotten what it is![8] We called the girl Sáshka. She was a fine girl, Sáshka was! There now, I've forgotten everything I used to know! But that girl--the deuce take her--seems to be before my eyes now! Out of all my time of service, I remember how they flogged me, and I remember that girl. That's all I remember! She'd hang round one's neck, and one 'ud carry her so. That was a girl,--if you wanted a better you'd not find one! We gave her away afterwards. The captain's wife took her to bring up as her daughter. So--she was all right! How sorry the soldiers were to let her go! [8] Probably Kurds. NAN. There now, daddy, and I remember when father was dying,--you were not living with us then. Well, he called Nikíta and says, "Forgive me, Nikíta!" he says, and begins to cry. [Sighs] That also felt very sad! MÍTRITCH. Yes; there now, so it is ... NAN. Daddy! Daddy, I say! There they are again, making a noise in the cellar! Oh gracious heavens! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh, daddy! They'll do something to it! They'll make away with it, and it's so little! Oh, oh! [Covers up her head and cries]. MÍTRITCH [listening] Really they're up to some villainy, blow them to shivers! Oh, these women are vile creatures! One can't say much for men either; but women!... They are like wild beasts, and stick at nothing! NAN [rising] Daddy; I say, daddy! MÍTRITCH. Well, what now? NAN. The other day a traveller stayed the night; he said that when an infant died its soul goes up straight to heaven. Is that true? MÍTRITCH. Who can tell. I suppose so. Well? NAN. Oh, it would be best if I died too. [Whimpers]. MÍTRITCH. Then you'd be off the list! NAN. Up to ten one's an infant, and maybe one's soul would go to God. Else one's sure to go to the bad! MÍTRITCH. And how to the bad? How should the likes of you not go to the bad? Who teaches you? What do you see? What do you hear? Only vileness! I, though I've not been taught much, still know a thing or two. I'm not quite like a peasant woman. A peasant woman, what is she? Just mud! There are many millions of the likes of you in Russia, and all as blind as moles--knowing nothing! All sorts of spells: how to stop the cattle-plague with a plough, and how to cure children by putting them under the perches in the hen-house! That's what they know! NAN. Yes, mother also did that! MÍTRITCH. Yes,--there it is,--just so! So many millions of girls and women, and all like beasts in a forest! As she grows up, so she dies! Never sees anything; never hears anything. A peasant,--he may learn something at the pub, or maybe in prison, or in the army,--as I did. But a woman? Let alone about God, she doesn't even know rightly what Friday it is! Friday! Friday! But ask her what's Friday? She don't know! They're like blind puppies, creeping about and poking their noses into the dung-heap.... All they know are their silly songs. Ho, ho, ho, ho! But what they mean by ho-ho, they don't know themselves! NAN. But I, daddy, I do know half the Lord's Prayer! MÍTRITCH. A lot you know! But what can one expect of you? Who teaches you? Only a tipsy peasant--with the strap perhaps! That's all the teaching you get! I don't know who'll have to answer for you. For a recruit, the drill-sergeant or the corporal has to answer; but for the likes of you there's no one responsible! Just as the cattle that have no herdsman are the most mischievous, so with you women--you are the stupidest class! The most foolish class is yours! NAN. Then what's one to do? MÍTRITCH. That's what one has to do.... You just cover up your head and sleep! Oh Lord! Silence. The cricket chirps. NAN [jumps up] Daddy! Some one's screaming awfully! Blest if some one isn't screaming! Daddy darling, it's coming here! MÍTRITCH. Cover up your head, I tell you! Enter Nikíta, followed by Matryóna. NIKÍTA. What have they done with me? What have they done with me? MATRYÓNA. Have a drop, honey; have a drop of drink! What's the matter? [Fetches the spirits and sets the bottle before him]. NIKÍTA. Give it here! Perhaps the drink will help me! MATRYÓNA. Mind! They're not asleep! Here you are, have a drop! NIKÍTA. What does it all mean? Why did you plan it? You might have taken it somewhere! MATRYÓNA [whispers] Sit still a bit and drink a little more, or have a smoke. It will ease your thoughts! NIKÍTA. My own mother! My turn seems to have come! How it began to whimper, and how the little bones crunched ... krr ... I'm not a man now! MATRYÓNA. Eh, now, what's the use of talking so silly! Of course it does seem fearsome at night, but wait till the daylight comes, and a day or two passes, and you'll forget to think of it! [Goes up to Nikíta and puts her hand on his shoulder]. NIKÍTA. Go away from me! What have you done with me? MATRYÓNA. Come, come, sonnie! Now really, what's the matter with you? [Takes his hand]. NIKÍTA. Go away from me! I'll kill you! It's all one to me now! I'll kill you! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh, how frightened he's got! You should go and have a sleep now! NIKÍTA. I have nowhere to go; I'm lost! MATRYÓNA [shaking her head] Oh, oh, I'd better go and tidy things up. He'll sit and rest a bit, and it will pass! [Exit]. Nikíta sits with his face in his hands. Mítritch and Nan seem stunned. NIKÍTA. It's whining! It's whining! It is really--there, there, quite plain! She'll bury it, really she will! [Runs to the door] Mother, don't bury it, it's alive.... Enter Matryóna. MATRYÓNA [whispers] Now then, what is it? Heaven help you! Why won't you get to rest? How can it be alive? All its bones are crushed! NIKÍTA. Give me more drink! [Drinks]. MATRYÓNA. Now go, sonnie. You'll fall asleep now all right. NIKÍTA [stands listening] Still alive ... there ... it's whining! Don't you hear?... There! MATRYÓNA [whispers] No! I tell you! NIKÍTA. Mother! My own mother! I've ruined my life! What have you done with me? Where am I to go? [Runs out of the hut; Matryóna follows him]. NAN. Daddy dear, darling, they've smothered it! MÍTRITCH [angrily] Go to sleep, I tell you! Oh dear, may the frogs kick you! I'll give it to you with the broom! Go to sleep, I tell you! NAN. Daddy, my treasure! Something is catching hold of my shoulders, something is catching hold with its paws! Daddy dear ... really, really ... I must go! Daddy, darling! let me get up on the oven with you! Let me, for Heaven's sake! Catching hold ... catching hold! Oh! [Runs to the stove]. MÍTRITCH. See how they've frightened the girl.... What vile creatures they are! May the frogs kick them! Well then, climb up. NAN [climbs on oven] But don't you go away! MÍTRITCH. Where should I go to? Climb up, climb up! Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! Holy Mother!... How they have frighted the girl. [Covers her up] There's a little fool--really a little fool! How they've frighted her; really, they are vile creatures! The deuce take 'em! Curtain. ACT V SCENE 1. In front of scene a stack-stand, to the left a thrashing ground, to the right a barn. The barn doors are open. Straw is strewn about in the doorway. The hut with yard and out-buildings is seen in the background, whence proceed sounds of singing and of a tambourine. Two Girls are walking past the barn towards the hut. FIRST GIRL. There, you see we've managed to pass without so much as getting our boots dirty! But to come by the street is terribly muddy! [Stop and wipe their boots on the straw. First Girl looks at the straw and sees something] What's that? SECOND GIRL [looks where the straw lies and sees some one] It's Mítritch, their labourer. Just look how drunk he is! FIRST GIRL. Why, I thought he didn't drink. SECOND GIRL. It seems he didn't, until it was going around. FIRST GIRL. Just see! He must have come to fetch some straw. Look! he's got a rope in his hand, and he's fallen asleep. SECOND GIRL [listening] They're still singing the praises.[9] So I s'pose the bride and bridegroom have not yet been blessed! They say Akoulína didn't even lament![10] [9] This refers to the songs customary at the wedding of Russian peasants, praising the bride and bridegroom. [10] It is etiquette for a bride to bewail the approaching loss of her maidenhood. FIRST GIRL. Mammie says she is marrying against her will. Her stepfather threatened her, or else she'd not have done it for the world! Why, you know what they've been saying about her? MARÍNA [catching up the Girls] How d'you do, lassies? GIRLS. How d'you do? MARÍNA. Going to the wedding, my dears? FIRST GIRL. It's nearly over! We've come just to have a look. MARÍNA. Would you call my old man for me? Simon, from Zoúevo; but surely you know him? FIRST GIRL. To be sure we do; he's a relative of the bridegroom's, I think? MARÍNA. Of course; he's my old man's nephew, the bridegroom is. SECOND GIRL. Why don't you go yourself? Fancy not going to a wedding! MARÍNA. I have no mind for it, and no time either. It's time for us to be going home. We didn't mean to come to the wedding. We were taking oats to town. We only stopped to feed the horse, and they made my old man go in. FIRST GIRL. Where did you put up then? At Fyódoritch's? MARÍNA. Yes. Well then, I'll stay here and you go and call him, my dear--my old man. Call him, my pet, and say "Your missis, Marína, says you must go now!" His mates are harnessing. FIRST GIRL. Well, all right--if you won't go in yourself. The Girls go away towards the house along a footpath. Sounds of songs and tambourine. MARÍNA [alone, stands thinking] I might go in, but I don't like to, because I have not met him since that day he threw me over. It's more than a year now. But I'd have liked to have a peep and see how he lives with his Anísya. People say they don't get on. She's a coarse woman, and with a character of her own. I should think he's remembered me more than once. He's been caught by the idea of a comfortable life and has changed me for it. But, God help him, I don't cherish ill-will! Then it hurt! Oh dear, it was pain! But now it's worn away and been forgotten. But I'd like to have seen him. [Looks towards hut and sees Nikíta] Look there! Why, he is coming here! Have the girls told him? How's it he has left his guests? I'll go away! [Nikíta approaches, hanging his head down, swinging his arms, and muttering] And how sullen he looks! NIKÍTA [sees and recognises Marína] Marína, dearest friend, little Marína, what do you want? MARÍNA. I have come for my old man. NIKÍTA. Why didn't you come to the wedding? You might have had a look round, and a laugh at my expense! MARÍNA. What have I to laugh at? I've come for my husband. NIKÍTA. Ah, Marína dear! [Tries to embrace her]. MARÍNA [steps angrily aside] You'd better drop that sort of thing, Nikíta! What has been, is past! I've come for my husband. Is he in your house? NIKÍTA. So I must not remember the past? You won't let me? MARÍNA. It's no use recalling the past! What used to be is over now! NIKÍTA. And can never come back, you mean? MARÍNA. And will never come back! But why have you gone away? You, the master,--and to go away from the feast! NIKÍTA [sits down on the straw] Why have I gone away? Eh, if you knew, if you had any idea ... I'm dull, Marína, so dull that I wish my eyes would not see! I rose from the table and left them, to get away from the people. If I could only avoid seeing any one! MARÍNA [coming nearer to him] How's that? NIKÍTA. This is how it is: when I eat, it's there! When I drink, it's there! When I sleep, it's there! I'm so sick of it--so sick! But it's chiefly because I'm all alone that I'm so sick, little Marína. I have no one to share my trouble. MARÍNA. You can't live your life without trouble, Nikíta. However, I've wept over mine and wept it away. NIKÍTA. The former, the old trouble! Ah, dear friend, you've wept yours away, and I've got mine up to there! [Puts his hand to his throat]. MARÍNA. But why? NIKÍTA. Why, I'm sick of my whole life! I am sick of myself! Ah, Marína, why did you not know how to keep me? You've ruined me, and yourself too! Is this life? MARÍNA [stands by the barn crying, but restrains herself] I do not complain of my life, Nikíta! God grant every one a life like mine. I do not complain. I confessed to my old man at the time, and he forgave me. And he does not reproach me. I'm not discontented with my life. The old man is quiet, and is fond of me, and I keep his children clothed and washed! He is really kind to me. Why should I complain? It seems God willed it so. And what's the matter with your life? You are rich ... NIKÍTA. My life!... It's only that I don't wish to disturb the wedding feast, or I'd take this rope here [takes hold of the rope on the straw] and throw it across that rafter there. Then I'd make a noose and stretch it out, and I'd climb on to that rafter and jump down with my head in the noose! That's what my life is! MARÍNA. That's enough! Lord help you! NIKÍTA. You think I'm joking? You think I'm drunk? I'm not drunk! To-day even drink takes no hold on me! I'm devoured by misery! Misery is eating me up completely, so that I care for nothing! Oh, little Marína, it's only with you I ever lived! Do you remember how we used to while away the nights together at the railway? MARÍNA. Don't you rub the sores, Nikíta! I'm bound legally now, and you too. My sin has been forgiven, don't disturb ... NIKÍTA. What shall I do with my heart? Where am I to turn to? MARÍNA. What's there to be done? You've got a wife. Don't go looking at others, but keep to your own! You loved Anísya, then go on loving her! NIKÍTA. Oh, that Anísya, she's gall and wormwood to me, but she's round my feet like rank weeds! MARÍNA. Whatever she is, still she's your wife.... But what's the use of talking; you'd better go to your visitors, and send my husband to me. NIKÍTA. Oh dear, if you knew the whole business ... but there's no good talking! Enter Marína's husband, red and tipsy, and Nan. MARÍNA'S HUSBAND. Marína! Missis! My old woman! are you here? NIKÍTA. There's your husband calling you. Go! MARÍNA. And you? NIKÍTA. I? I'll lie down here for a bit! [Lies down on the straw]. HUSBAND. Where is she then? NAN. There she is, near the barn. HUSBAND. What are you standing there for? Come to the feast! The hosts want you to come and do them honour! The wedding party is just going to start, and then we can go too. MARÍNA [going towards her husband] I didn't want to go in. HUSBAND. Come on, I tell you! You'll drink a glass to our nephew Peter's health, the rascal! Else the hosts might take offence! There's plenty of time for our business. [Marína's husband puts his arm around her, and goes reeling out with her]. NIKÍTA [rises and sits down on the straw] Ah, now that I've seen her, life seems more sickening than ever! It was only with her that I ever really lived! I've ruined my life for nothing! I've done for myself! [Lies down] Where can I go? If mother earth would but open and swallow me! NAN [sees Nikíta, and runs towards him] Daddy, I say, daddy! They're looking for you! Her godfather and all of them have already blessed her. Truly they have, they're getting cross! NIKÍTA [aside] Where can I go to? NAN. What? What are you saying? NIKÍTA. I'm not saying anything! Don't bother! NAN. Daddy! Come, I say! [Nikíta is silent, Nan pulls him by the hand] Dad, go and bless them! My word, they're angry, they're grumbling! NIKÍTA [drags away his hand] Leave me alone! NAN. Now then! NIKÍTA [threatens her with the rope] Go, I say! I'll give it you! NAN. Then I'll send mother! [Runs away]. NIKÍTA [rises] How can I go? How can I take the holy icón in my hands? How am I to look her in the face! [Lies down again] Oh, if there were a hole in the ground, I'd jump in! No one should see me, and I should see no one! [Rises again] No, I shan't go ... May they all go to the devil, I shan't go! [Takes the rope and makes a noose, and tries it on his neck] That's the way! Enter Matryóna. Nikíta sees his mother, takes the rope off his neck, and again lies down in the straw. MATRYÓNA [comes in hurriedly] Nikíta! Nikíta, I say! He don't even answer! Nikíta, what's the matter? Have you had a drop too much? Come, Nikíta dear; come, honey! The people are tired of waiting. NIKÍTA. Oh dear, what have you done with me? I'm a lost man! MATRYÓNA. But what is the matter then? Come, my own; come, give them your blessing, as is proper and honourable, and then it'll all be over! Why, the people are waiting! NIKÍTA. How can I give blessings? MATRYÓNA. Why, in the usual way! Don't you know? NIKÍTA. I know, I know! But who is it I am to bless? What have I done to her? MATRYÓNA. What have you done? Eh, now he's going to remember it! Why, who knows anything about it? Not a soul! And the girl is going of her own accord. NIKÍTA. Yes, but how? MATRYÓNA. Because she's afraid, of course. But still she's going. Besides, what's to be done now? She should have thought sooner! Now she can't refuse. And his kinsfolk can't take offence either. They saw the girl twice, and get money with her too! It's all safe and sound! NIKÍTA. Yes, but what's in the cellar? MATRYÓNA [laughs] In the cellar? Why, cabbages, mushrooms, potatoes, I suppose! Why remember the past? NIKÍTA. I'd be only too glad to forget it; but I can't! When I let my mind go, it's just as if I heard.... Oh, what have you done with me? MATRYÓNA. Now, what are you humbugging for? NIKÍTA [turns face downward] Mother! Don't torment me! I've got it up to there! [Puts his hand to his throat]. MATRYÓNA. Still it has to be done! As it is, people are talking. "The master's gone away and won't come; he can't make up his mind to give his blessing." They'll be putting two and two together. As soon as they see you're frightened they'll begin guessing. "The thief none suspect who walks bold and erect!" But you'll be getting out of the frying-pan into the fire! Above all, lad, don't show it; don't lose courage, else they'll find out all the more! NIKÍTA. Oh dear! You have snared me into a trap! MATRYÓNA. That'll do, I tell you; come along! Come in and give your blessing, as is right and honourable;--and there's an end of the matter! NIKÍTA [lies face down] I can't! MATRYÓNA [aside] What has come over him? He seemed all right, and suddenly this comes over him! It seems he's bewitched! Get up, Nikíta! See! There's Anísya coming; she's left her guests! Anísya enters, dressed up, red and tipsy. ANÍSYA. Oh, how nice it is, mother! So nice, so respectable! And how the people are pleased.... But where is he? MATRYÓNA. Here, honey, he's here; he's laid down on the straw and there he lies! He won't come! NIKÍTA [looking at his wife] Just see, she's tipsy too! When I look at her my heart seems to turn! How can one live with her? [Turns on his face] I'll kill her some day! It'll be worse then! ANÍSYA. Only look, how he's got all among the straw! Is it the drink? [Laughs] I'd not mind lying down there with you, but I've no time! Come, I'll lead you! It is so nice in the house! It's a treat to look on! A concertina! And the women singing so well! All tipsy! Everything so respectable, so nice! NIKÍTA. What's nice? ANÍSYA. The wedding--such a jolly wedding! They all say it's quite an uncommon fine wedding! All so respectable, so nice! Come along! We'll go together! I have had a drop, but I can give you a hand yet! [Takes his hand]. NIKÍTA [pulls it back with disgust] Go alone! I'll come! ANÍSYA. What are you humbugging for? We've got rid of all the bother, we've got rid of her as came between us; now we have nothing to do but to live and be merry! And all so respectable, and quite legal! I'm so pleased! I have no words for it! It's just as if I were going to marry you over again! And oh, the people, they _are_ pleased! They're all thanking us! And the guests are all of the best: Iván Moséitch is there, and the Police Officer; they've also been singing songs of praise! NIKÍTA. Then you should have stayed with them! What have you come for? ANÍSYA. True enough, I must go back! Else what does it look like! The hosts both go and leave the visitors! And the guests are all of the best! NIKÍTA [gets up and brushes the straw off himself] Go, and I'll come at once! MATRYÓNA. Just see! He listens to the young bird, but wouldn't listen to the old one! He would not hear me, but he follows his wife at once! [Matryóna and Anísya turn to go] Well, are you coming? NIKÍTA. I'll come directly! You go and I'll follow! I'll come and give my blessing! [The women stop] Go on! I'll follow! Now then, go! [Exit women. Sits down and takes his boots off] Yes, I'm going! A likely thing! No, you'd better look at the rafter for me! I'll fix the noose and jump with it from the rafter, then you can look for me! And the rope is here just handy. [Ponders] I'd have got over it, over any sorrow--I'd have got over that. But this now--here it is, deep in my heart, and I can't get over it! [Looks towards the yard] Surely she's not coming back? [Imitates Anísya] "So nice, so nice. I'd lie down here with you." Oh, the baggage! Well then, here I am! Come and cuddle when they've taken me down from the rafter! There's only one way! [Takes the rope and pulls it]. Mítritch, who is tipsy, sits up and won't let go of the rope. MÍTRITCH. Shan't give it up! Shan't give it to no one! I'll bring it myself! I said I'd bring the straw--and so I will! Nikíta, is that you? [Laughs] Oh, the devil! Have you come to get the straw? NIKÍTA. Give me the rope! MÍTRITCH. No, you wait a bit! The peasants sent me! I'll bring it ... [Rises to his feet and begins getting the straw together, but reels for a time, then falls] It has beaten me. It's stronger ... NIKÍTA. Give me the rope! MÍTRITCH. Didn't I say I won't! Oh, Nikíta, you're as stupid as a hog! [Laughs] I love you, but you're a fool! You see that I'm drunk ... devil take you! You think I need you?... You just look at me; I'm a Non ... fool, can't say it--Non-commissioned Officer of Her Majesty's very First Regiment of Grenadier Guards! I've served Tsar and country, loyal and true! But who am I? You think I'm a warrior? No, I'm not a warrior; I'm the very least of men, a poor lost orphan! I swore not to drink, and now I had a smoke, and ... Well then, do you think I'm afraid of you? No fear; I'm afraid of no man! I've taken to drink, and I'll drink! Now I'll go it for a fortnight; I'll go it hard! I'll drink my last shirt; I'll drink my cap; I'll pawn my passport; and I'm afraid of no one! They flogged me in the army to stop me drinking! They switched and switched! "Well," they say, "will you leave off?" "No," says I! Why should I be afraid of them? Here I am! Such as I am, God made me! I swore off drinking, and didn't drink. Now I've took to drink, and I'll drink! And I fear no man! 'Cos I don't lie; but just as ... Why should one mind them--such muck as they are! "Here you are," I say; that's me. A priest told me, the devil's the biggest bragger! "As soon," says he, "as you begin to brag, you get frightened; and as soon as you fear men, then the hoofed one just collars you and pushes you where he likes!" But as I don't fear men, I'm easy! I can spit in the devil's beard, and at the sow his mother! He can't do me no harm! There, put that in your pipe! NIKÍTA [crossing himself] True enough! What was I about? [Throws down the rope]. MÍTRITCH. What? NIKÍTA [rises] You tell me not to fear men? MÍTRITCH. Why fear such muck as they are? You look at 'em in the bath-house! All made of one paste! One has a bigger belly, another a smaller; that's all the difference there is! Fancy being afraid of 'em! Deuce take 'em! [Illustration: THE POWER OF DARKNESS. ACT V. NIKÍTA. True enough! What was I about? MÍTRITCH. What? NIKÍTA. You tell me not to fear men? MÍTRITCH. Why fear such muck as they are? You look at 'em in the bath-house!] MATRYÓNA [from the yard] Well, are you coming? NIKÍTA. Ah! Better so! I'm coming! [Goes towards yard]. SCENE 2. Interior of hut, full of people, some sitting round tables and others standing. In the front corner Akoulína and the Bridegroom. On one of the tables an Icón and a loaf of rye-bread. Among the visitors are Marína, her husband, and a Police Officer, also a Hired Driver, the Matchmaker, and the Best Man. The women are singing. Anísya carries round the drink. The singing stops. THE DRIVER. If we are to go, let's go! The church ain't so near. THE BEST MAN. All right; you wait a bit till the step-father has given his blessing. But where is he? ANÍSYA. He is coming--coming at once, dear friends! Have another glass all of you; don't refuse! THE MATCHMAKER. Why is he so long? We've been waiting such a time! ANÍSYA. He's coming; coming directly, coming in no time! He'll be here before one could plait a girl's hair who's had her hair cropped! Drink, friends! [Offers the drink] Coming at once! Sing again, my pets, meanwhile! THE DRIVER. They've sung all their songs, waiting here! The women sing. Nikíta and Akím enter during the singing. NIKÍTA [holds his father's arm and pushes him in before him] Go, father; I can't do without you! AKÍM. I don't like--I mean what d'ye call it ... NIKÍTA [to the women] Enough! Be quiet! [Looks round the hut] Marína, are you there? THE MATCHMAKER. Go, take the icón, and give them your blessing! NIKÍTA. Wait a while! [Looks round] Akoulína, are you there? MATCHMAKER. What are you calling everybody for? Where should she be? How queer he seems! ANÍSYA. Gracious goodness! Why, he's barefoot! NIKÍTA. Father, you are here! Look at me! Christian Commune, you are all here, and I am here! I am ... [Falls on his knees]. ANÍSYA. Nikíta darling, what's the matter with you? Oh my head, my head! MATCHMAKER. Here's a go! MATRYÓNA. I did say he was taking too much of that French wine! Come to your senses; what are you about? They try to lift him; he takes no heed of them, but looks in front of him. NIKÍTA. Christian Commune! I have sinned, and I wish to confess! MATRYÓNA [shakes him by the shoulder] Are you mad? Dear friends, he's gone crazy! He must be taken away! NIKÍTA [shakes her off] Leave me alone! And you, father, hear me! And first, Marína, look here! [Bows to the ground to her and rises] I have sinned towards you! I promised to marry you, I tempted you, and forsook you! Forgive me, in Christ's name! [Again bows to the ground before her]. ANÍSYA. And what are you drivelling about? It's not becoming! No one wants to know! Get up! It's like your impudence! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh, he's bewitched! And however did it happen? It's a spell! Get up! what nonsense are you jabbering? [Pulls him]. NIKÍTA [shakes his head] Don't touch me! Forgive me my sin towards you, Marína! Forgive me, for Christ's sake! Marína covers her face with her hands in silence. ANÍSYA. Get up, I tell you! Don't be so impudent! What are you thinking about--to recall it? Enough humbug! It's shameful! Oh my poor head! He's quite crazy! NIKÍTA [pushes his wife away and turns to Akoulína] Akoulína, now I'll speak to you! Listen, Christian Commune! I'm a fiend, Akoulína! I have sinned against you! Your father died no natural death! He was poisoned! ANÍSYA [screams] Oh my head! What's he about? MATRYÓNA. The man's beside himself! Lead him away! The folk come up and try to seize him. AKÍM [motions them back with his arms] Wait! You lads, what d'ye call it, wait, I mean! NIKÍTA. Akoulína, I poisoned him! Forgive me, in Christ's name! AKOULÍNA [jumps up] He's telling lies! I know who did it! MATCHMAKER. What are you about? You sit still! AKÍM. Oh Lord, what sins, what sins! POLICE OFFICER. Seize him, and send for the Elder! We must draw up an indictment and have witnesses to it! Get up and come here! AKÍM [to Police Officer] Now you--with the bright buttons--I mean, you wait! Let him, what d'ye call it, speak out, I mean! POLICE OFFICER. Mind, old man, and don't interfere! I have to draw up an indictment! AKÍM. Eh, what a fellow you are; wait, I say! Don't talk, I mean, about, what d'ye call it, 'ditements! Here God's work is being done.... A man is confessing, I mean! And you, what d'ye call it ... 'ditements! POLICE OFFICER. The Elder! AKÍM. Let God's work be done, I mean, and then you, I mean, you do your business! NIKÍTA. And, Akoulína, my sin is great towards you; I seduced you; forgive me in Christ's name! [Bows to the ground before her]. AKOULÍNA [leaves the table] Let me go! I shan't be married! He told me to, but I shan't now! POLICE OFFICER. Repeat what you have said. NIKÍTA. Wait, sir, let me finish! AKÍM [with rapture] Speak, my son! Tell everything--you'll feel better! Confess to God, don't fear men! God--God! It is He! NIKÍTA. I poisoned the father, dog that I am, and I ruined the daughter! She was in my power, and I ruined her, and her baby! AKOULÍNA. True, that's true! NIKÍTA. I smothered the baby in the cellar with a board! I sat on it and smothered it--and its bones crunched! [Weeps] And I buried it! I did it, all alone! AKOULÍNA. He raves! I told him to! NIKÍTA. Don't shield me! I fear no one now! Forgive me, Christian Commune! [Bows to the ground]. Silence. POLICE OFFICER. Bind him! The marriage is evidently off! Men come up with their belts. NIKÍTA. Wait, there's plenty of time! [Bows to the ground before his father] Father, dear father, forgive me too,--fiend that I am! You told me from the first, when I took to bad ways, you said then, "If a claw is caught, the bird is lost!" I would not listen to your words, dog that I was, and it has turned out as you said! Forgive me, for Christ's sake! AKÍM [rapturously] God will forgive you, my own son! [Embraces him] You have had no mercy on yourself, He will show mercy on you! God--God! It is He! Enter Elder. ELDER. There are witnesses enough here. POLICE OFFICER. We will have the examination at once. Nikíta is bound. AKOULÍNA [goes and stands by his side] I shall tell the truth! Ask me! NIKÍTA [bound] No need to ask! I did it all myself. The design was mine, and the deed was mine. Take me where you like. I will say no more! Curtain. END OF "THE POWER OF DARKNESS." [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. about the lass or about yourself Twist them, I mean, to make it better about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better daresay the samovár is still hot I'll also go and help a bit. daresay the samovár is still hot. I'll also go and help a bit. NIKÍTA. I don't want it! Put out the light . . Oh, how dull I feel, how NIKÍTA. I don't want it! Put out the light ... Oh, how dull I feel, how SCENE 1 SCENE 1. thanking us! And the guests are all of the best: Ivan Moséitch is there, thanking us! And the guests are all of the best: Iván Moséitch is there, MÍTRICH. What? MÍTRITCH. What? NIKÍTA. You tell me not to fear men. NIKÍTA. You tell me not to fear men? MÍTRICH. Why fear such muck as they are? You look at 'em in the MÍTRITCH. Why fear such muck as they are? You look at 'em in the ANÍSYA. Nikíta darling, what's the matter with you. Oh my head, my head! ANÍSYA. Nikíta darling, what's the matter with you? Oh my head, my head! ] 
9792	----	REDEMPTION AND TWO OTHER PLAYS By LEO TOLSTOY Introduction By ARTHUR HOPKINS CONTENTS INTRODUCTION BY ARTHUR HOPKINS REDEMPTION THE POWER OF DARKNESS FRUITS OF CULTURE INTRODUCTION After making a production of _Redemption_, the chief feeling of the producer is one of deep regret that Tolstoi did not make more use of the theatre as a medium. His was the rare gift of vitalization: the ability to breathe life into word-people which survives in them so long as there is any one left to turn up the pages they have made their abode. In the world of writing, many terms that should be illuminative have become meaningless. So often has the barren been called "pregnant," the chill of death "the breath of life," the atrophied "pulsating," that when we really come upon a work with beating heart we find it difficult to give it place that has not already been stuffed to suffocation with misplaced dummies. We seat it at table with staring wax figures and bid it to join the feast. There is no exclusion act in art, no passport bureau, not even hygienic segregation. In writing the briefest introduction to Tolstoi's work, I am appointed by the publisher, a sort of reception committee of one to escort the work to some fitting place where it may enjoy the surroundings and deference it deserves. The place to which I escort it is built of words, but what words have been left me by the long procession of previous committees? Where they have been truthfully used they have been glorified, and offer all the rarer material for my structure, but how often have they been subjected to base use. Perhaps some day we will learn the proper respect of such simple words as love and truth and life, and then when we meet them in books we shall know how to greet them. The study of _Redemption_ is so simple that it needs no illumination from me. The characters may walk in strange lands without introduction. They are part of us. Fédya is in all of us. His one cry "There has always been so much lacking between what I felt and what I could do" instantly makes him brother to all mankind. His simultaneous physical degeneration and spiritual regeneration is the glory that all people have invested in death. Tolstoi's cry against convention that disregards spiritual struggle, and system that ignores human growth, will find answering cries in many breasts in many lands. Utterly disregarding effect, technique or method, Tolstoi has explored his own soul and there touched hands with countless other souls, and since he has trod the path of countless millions who will come after him, the mementos of his journey will long be sought. ARTHUR HOPKINS. The translation of _Redemption_ here published is the one produced by Mr. Arthur Hopkins at the Plymouth Theatre, New York, in the season of 1918-1919. The part of FÉDYA was played by Mr. John Barrymore. REDEMPTION CHARACTERS THEODORE VASÍLYEVICH PROTOSOV (FÉDYA). ELISABETH ANDRÉYEVNA PROTOSOVA (LISA). His wife. MÍSHA. Their son. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Lisa's mother. SASHA. Lisa's younger, unmarried sister. VICTOR MICHAELOVITCH KARÉNIN. SOPHIA DMÍTRIEVNA KARÉNINA. PRINCE SERGIUS DMÍTRIEVICH ABRÉSKOV. MASHA. A gypsy girl. IVÁN MAKÁROVICH. An old gypsy man. Masha's parent. NASTASÏA IVÁNOVNA. An old gypsy woman. Masha's parent. OFFICER. MUSICIAN. FIRST GYPSY MAN. SECOND GYPSY MAN. GYPSY WOMAN. GYPSY CHOIR. DOCTOR. MICHAEL ALEXÁNDROVICH AFRÉMOV. STÁKHOV. One of Fédya's boon companions. BUTKÉVICH. One of Fédya's boon companions. KOROTKÓV. One of Fédya's boon companions. IVÁN PETROVICH ALEXÁNDROV. VOZNESÉNSKY. Karénin's secretary. PETUSHKÓV. An artist. ARTIMIEV. WAITER IN THE PRIVATE ROOM AT THE RESTAURANT. WAITER IN A LOW-CLASS RESTAURANT. MANAGER OF THE SAME. POLICEMAN. INVESTIGATING MAGISTRATE. MÉLNIKOV. CLERK. USHER. YOUNG LAWYER. PETRÚSHIN. A lawyer. LADY. ANOTHER OFFICER. ATTENDANT AT LAW COURTS. PROTOSOVS' NURSE. PROTOSOVS' MAID. AFRÉMOV'S FOOTMAN. KARÉNINS' FOOTMAN. ACT I SCENE I Protosovs' flat in Moscow. The scene represents a small dining room. ANNA PÁVLOVNA, a stout, gray-haired lady, tightly laced, is sitting alone at the tea-table on which is a samovár. Enter NURSE carrying a tea-pot. NURSE (enters R. I, over to table C.). Please, Madam, may I have some water? ANNA PÁVLOVNA (sitting R. of table C.). Certainly. How is the baby now? NURSE. Oh, restless, fretting all the time. There's nothing worse than for a lady to nurse her child. She has her worries and the baby suffers for them. What sort of milk could she have, not peeping all night, and crying and crying? [SASHA enters R. I, strolls to L. of table C. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. But I thought she was more calm now? NURSE. Fine calm! It makes me sick to look at her. She's just been writing something and crying all the time. SASHA (to nurse). Lisa's looking for you. [Sits in chair L. of table C. NURSE. I'm going. [Exits R. I. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Nurse says she's always crying. Why can't she try and calm herself a little? SASHA. Well, really, Mother, you're amazing. How can you expect her to behave as if nothing had happened when she's just left her husband and taken her baby with her? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, I don't exactly, but that's all over. If I approve of my daughter's having left her husband, if I'm ever glad, well, you may be quite sure he deserved it. She has no reason to be miserable--on the contrary, she ought to be delighted at being freed from such a wretch. SASHA. Mother! Why do you go on like this? It's not the truth and you know it. He's not a wretch, he's wonderful. Yes, in spite of all his weakness. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I suppose you'd like her to wait till he'd spent every kopec they had, and smile sweetly when be brought his gypsy mistresses home with him. SASHA. He hasn't any mistresses. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. There you go again. Why, the man's simply bewitched you, but I can see through him, and he knows it. If I'd been Lisa, I'd left him a year ago. SASHA. Oh, how easily you speak of these serious things. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not easily, not easily at all. Do you suppose it's agreeable for me to have my daughter admit her marriage a failure? But anything's better than for her to throw away her life in a lie. Thank God, she's made up her mind to finish with him for good. SASHA. Maybe it won't be for good. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It would be if only he'd give her a divorce. SASHA. To what end? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Because she's young and has the right to look for happiness. SASHA. It's awful to listen to you. How could she love some one else? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why not? There are thousands better than your Fédya, and they'd be only too happy to marry Lisa. SASHA. Oh, it's not nice of you. I feel, I can tell, you're thinking about Victor Karénin. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why not? He loved her for ten years, and she him, I believe. SASHA. Yes, but she doesn't love him as a husband. They grew up together; they've just been friends. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Ah, those friendships! How should you know what keeps them warm! If only they were both free! [Enter a MAID L. U. Well? MAID. The porter's just come back with an answer to the note. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What note? MAID. The note Elizaveta Protosova sent to Victor Karénin. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well? What answer? MAID. Victor Karénin told the porter he'd be here directly. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Very well. [MAID exits L. U. [To SASHA. Why do you suppose she sent for him? Do you know? SASHA. Maybe I do and maybe I don't. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You're always so full of secrets. SASHA. Ask Lisa, she'll tell you. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Just as I thought! She sent for him at once. SASHA. Yes, but maybe not for the reason you think. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then what for? SASHA. Why, Mother, Lisa cares just about as much for Victor Karénin as she does for her old nurse. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You'll see. She wants consolation, a special sort of consolation. SASHA. Really, it shows you don't know Lisa at all to talk like this. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You'll see. Sasha. Yes, I shall see. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (alone to herself). And I am very glad. I'm very, very glad. [Enter MAID. MAID. Victor Karénin. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Show him here and tell your mistress. [MAID shows in KARÉNIN and exits door R. I. KARÉNIN (goes C. and stands behind table C.). (Shaking hands with Anna Pávlovna.) Elizaveta Andreyevna sent me a note to come at once. I should have been here to-night anyway. How is she? Well, I hope. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not very. The baby has been upset again. However, she'll be here in a minute. Will you have some tea? KARÉNIN. No, thank you. [Sits chair R. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Tell me, do you know that he and she--. KARÉNIN. Yes, I was here two days ago when she got this letter. Is she positive now about their separating? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, absolutely. It would be impossible to begin it all over again. KARÉNIN. Yes. To cut into living things and then draw back the knife is terrible. But are you sure she knows her mind? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I should think so. To come to this decision has caused her much pain. But now it's final, and he understands perfectly that his behavior has made it impossible for him to come back on any terms. KARÉNIN. Why? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. After breaking every oath he swore to decency, how could he come back? And so why shouldn't he give her her freedom? KARÉNIN. What freedom is there for a woman still married? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Divorce. He promised her a divorce and we shall insist upon it. KARÉNIN. But your daughter was so in love with him? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Her love has been tried out of existence. Remember she had everything to contend with: drunkenness, gambling, infidelity-- what was there to go on loving in such a person? KARÉNIN. Love can do anything. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How can one love a rag torn by every wind? Their affairs were in dreadful shape; their estate mortgaged; no money anywhere. Finally his uncle sends them two thousand rubles to pay the interest on the estate. He takes it, disappears, leaves Lisa home and the baby sick--when suddenly she gets a note asking her to send him his linen. KARÉNIN. I know. [Enter LISA R.I. KARÉNIN crosses to LISA. I'm sorry to have been a little detained. [Shakes hands with LISA. LISA. Oh, thank you so much for coming. I have a great favor to ask of you. Something I couldn't ask of anybody else. KARÉNIN. I'll do everything I can. [LISA moves away a few steps down R. LISA. You know all about this. [Sits chair R. KARÉNIN. Yes, I know. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, I think I'll leave you two young people to yourselves. (To SASHA.) Come along, dear, you and I will be just in the way. [Exit L. U. ANNA PÁVLOVNA and SASHA. LISA. Fédya wrote to me saying it was all over between us. (She begins to cry.) That hurt me so, bewildered me so, that--well, I agreed to separate. I wrote to him saying I was willing to give him up if he wanted me to. KARÉNIN. And now you're sorry? LISA (nodding). I feel I oughtn't to have said yes. I can't. Anything is better than not to see him again. Victor dear, I want you to give him this letter and tell him what I've told you, and--and bring him back to me. [Gives VICTOR a letter. KARÉNIN. I'll do what I can. [Takes letter, turns away and sits chair R. of table C. LISA. Tell him I will forget everything if only he will come back. I thought of mailing this, only I know him: he'd have a good impulse, first thwarted by some one, some one who would finally make him act against himself. [Pause. Are you--are you surprised I asked you? KARÉNIN. No. (He hesitates.) But--well, candidly, yes. I am rather surprised. LISA. But you are not angry? KARÉNIN. You know I couldn't be angry with you. LISA. I ask you because I know you're so fond of him. KARÉNIN. Of him--and of you too. Thank you for trusting me. I'll do all I can. LISA. I know you will. Now I'm going to tell you everything. I went to-day to Afrémov's, to find out where he was. They told me he was living with the gypsies. Of course that's what I was afraid of. I know he'll be swept off his feet if he isn't stopped in time. So you'll go, won't you? KARÉNIN. Where's the place? LISA. It's that big tenement where the gypsy orchestra lives, on the left bank below the bridge. I went there myself. I went as far as the door, and was just going to send up the letter, but somehow I was afraid. I don't know why. And then I thought of you. Tell him, tell him I've forgotten everything and that I'm here waiting for him to come home. (Crosses to KARÉNIN--a little pause.) Do it out of love for him, Victor, and out of friendship for me. [Another pause. KARÉNIN. I'll do all I can. [He bows to her and goes out L.U. Enter SASHA L.U., goes L. over near table C. SASHA. Has the letter gone? (LISA nods.) He had no objections to taking it himself? [LISA, R. C., shakes head. SASHA (L.C.). Why did you ask him? I don't understand it. LISA. Who else was there? SASHA. But you know he's in love with you. LISA. Oh, that's all past. (Over to table C.) Do you think Fédya will come back? SASHA. I'm sure he will, but-- [Enter ANNA PÁVLOVNA. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Where's Victor Karénin? LISA. Gone. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Gone? LISA. I've asked him to do something for me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What was it? Another secret? LISA. No, not a secret. I simply asked him to take a letter to Fédya. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. To Fedor Protosov? LISA. Oh, to Fédya, Fédya. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then it's not going to be over? LISA. I can't let him leave me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, so we shall commence all over again? LISA. I'll do anything you like, but I can't give him up. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You don't mean you want him to come back? LISA. Yes, yes. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Let that reptile into the house again! LISA. Please don't talk like that. He's my husband. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Was your husband. LISA. No. He's still my husband. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Spendthrift. Drunkard. Reprobate. And you'll not part from him! LISA. Oh, Mother, why do you keep on hurting me! You seem to enjoy it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Hurt you, do I? Enjoy it, do I? Very well, then, if that's the case, I'd better go. [Pause. I see I'm in your way. You want me to go. Well, all I can say is I can't make you out. I suppose you're being "modern" and all that. But to me, it's just plain disgusting. First, you make up your mind to separate from your husband, and then you up and send for another man who's in love with you-- LISA. Mother, he's not. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You know Karénin proposed to you, and he's the man you pick out to bring back your husband. I suppose you do it just to make him jealous. LISA. Oh, Mother, stop it. Leave me alone. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. That's right. Send off your mother. Open the door to that awful husband. Well, I can't stand by and see you do it. I'll go. I'm going. And God be with you and your extraordinary ways. [Exit L. U. with suppressed rage. LISA (sinking into a chair R. of table C.). That's the last straw. SASHA. Oh, she'll come back. We'll make her understand. (Going to the door and following after her mother.) Now, Mother darling, listen-- listen-- [Exit L. U. [All lights dim to black out. CURTAIN SCENE II A room at the gypsies', dark but beautifully lit. The actual room is scarcely seen, and although at first it appears squalid, there are flaring touches of Byzantine luxury. Gypsies are singing. FÉDYA is lying on the sofa, his eyes closed, coat off. An OFFICER sits at the table, on which there are bottles of champagne and glasses. Beside him sits a musician taking down the song. AFRÉMOV (standing L. U.). Asleep? FÉDYA (on couch L. Raising his hand warningly). Sh! Don't talk! Now let's have "No More at Evening." GYPSY LEADER. Impossible, Fedor Protosov. Masha must have her solo first. FÉDYA. Afterwards. Now let's have "No More at Evening." [Gypsies sing. GYPSY WOMAN (R. C., when they finish singing, turning to Musician who is sitting at table R., with his back to audience). Have you got it? MUSICIAN. It's impossible to take it down correctly. They change the tune each time, and they seem to have a different scale, too. (He calls a gypsy woman.) Is this it? [He hums a bar or two. GYPSY WOMAN (clapping her hands). Splendid! Wonderful! How can you do it? FÉDYA (rising. Goes to table L. back of couch and pours out glass of wine). He'll never get it. And even if he did and shovelled it into an opera, he'd make it seem absolutely meaningless. AFRÉMOV. Now we'll have "The Fatal Hour." [Gypsies sing quartette. During this song, FÉDYA is standing down R., keeping time with the wine glass from which he has drunk. When they finish he returns to the couch and falls into MASHA'S arms. FÉDYA. God! That's it! That's it! That's wonderful. What lovely things that music says. And where does it all come from, what does it all mean? [Another pause. To think that men can touch eternity like that, and then--nothing-- nothing at all. MUSICIAN. Yes, it's very original. [Taking notes. FÉDYA. Original be damned. It's real. MUSICIAN. It's all very simple, except the rhythm. That's very strange. FÉDYA. Oh, Masha, Masha! You turn my soul inside out. [Gypsies hum a song softly. MASHA (sitting on couch L. with FÉDYA). Do I? But what was it I asked you for? FÉDYA. What? Oh, money. Voilà, mademoiselle. [He takes money front his trousers pocket. MASHA laughs, takes the money, counts it swiftly, and hides it in her dress. FÉDYA. Look at this strange creature. When she sings she rushes me into the sky and all she asks for is money, little presents of money for throwing open the Gates of Paradise. You don't know yourself, at all, do you? MASHA. What's the use of me wondering about myself? I know when I'm in love, and I know that I sing best when my love is singing. FÉDYA. Do you love me? MASHA (murmuring). I love you. FÉDYA. But I am a married man, and you belong to this gypsy troupe. They wouldn't let you leave it, and-- MASHA (interrupting). The troupe's one thing, and my heart's another. I love those I love, and I hate those I hate. FÉDYA. Oh, you must be happy to be like that. MASHA. I'm always happy when handsome gentlemen come and say nice things to me. (Gypsies stop singing.) [A GYPSY entering speaks to FÉDYA. GYPSY. Some one asking for you. FÉDYA. Who? Gypsy. Don't know. He's rich, though. Fur coat. FÉDYA. Fur coat? O my God, show him in. AFRÉMOV. Who the devil wants to see you here? FÉDYA (carelessly). God knows, I don't. (Begins to hum a song.) [KARÉNIN comes in, looking around the room. (Exclaiming). Ha! Victor! You're the last man in the world I expected to break into this enchanting milieu. Take off your coat, and they'll sing for you. KARÉNIN. Je voudrais vous parler sans témoins. [MASHA rises and joins the group R. FÉDYA. Oh.... What about? KARÉNIN. Je viens de chez vous. Votre femme ma chargé de cette lettre, et puis-- [FÉDYA takes the letter, opens it, reads. He frowns, then smiles affectionately at KARÉNIN. FÉDYA. You know what's in this letter, Victor? [He is smiling gently all the time. KARÉNIN (looking at FÉDYA rather severely). Yes, I know. But really, Fédya, you're in no-- FÉDYA (interrupting). Please, please don't think I'm drunk and don't realize what I'm saying. Of course I'm drunk, but I see everything very clearly. Now go ahead. What were you told to tell me? KARÉNIN (is standing L. C. Shrugging his shoulders). Your wife asked me to find you and to tell you she's waiting for you. She wants you to forget everything and come back. [Pause. KARÉNIN (stiffly). Elizaveta Protosova sent for me and suggested that I-- FÉDYA (as he hesitates). Yes. KARÉNIN (finishing rather lamely). But I ask you not so much for her as for myself--Fédya, come home. FÉDYA (looking up at him, smiling rather whimsically). You're a much finer person than I am, Victor. Of course that's not saying much. I'm not very much good, am I? (Laughing gently.) But that's exactly why I'm not going to do what you want me to. It's not the only reason, though. The real reason is that I just simply can't. How could I? KARÉNIN (persuasively). Come along to my rooms, Fédya, and I'll tell her you'll be back to-morrow. FÉDYA (wistfully). To-morrows can't change what we are. She'll still be she, and I will still be I to-morrow. (Goes to the table and drinks.) No, it's better to have the tooth out in one pull. Didn't I say that if I broke my word she was to leave me? Well, I've broken it, and that's enough. KARÉNIN. Yes. For you, but not for her. FÉDYA (down L. Politely insolent). You know ... it's rather odd, that you, of all men, should take so much trouble to keep our marriage from going to pieces. KARÉNIN (revolted). Good God, Fédya! You don't think-- [MASHA crosses L., goes to FÉDYA. FÉDYA interrupting him with a return of his former friendliness. FÉDYA. Come now, my dear Victor, you shall hear them sing. MASHA (whispering to FÉDYA). What's his name? We must honor him with a song. FÉDYA (laughing). O good God, yes! Honor him by all means. His name is Victor Michaelovitch. (Saluting Karénin.) Victor, my lord! son of Michael! [The gypsies sing a song of greeting and laudation. As they begin to sing, MASHA and FÉDYA sit on couch L. (When song is finished.) KARÉNIN (in an imploring tone). Fédya! [Exits quietly L. U. FÉDYA (business with MASHA). Where's the fur coat? Gone, eh? All right. May the devil go with it. FÉDYA. Do you know who that was? MASHA. I heard his name. FÉDYA. Ah, he's a splendid fellow. He came to take me home to my wife. You see she loves even a fool like me, (caressing her hair) and look what I'm doing. MASHA. You should go back to her and be very sorry. FÉDYA. Do you think I should? (He kisses her.) Well, I think I shouldn't. MASHA. Of course, you needn't go back to her if you don't love her. Love is all that counts. FÉDYA (smiling). How do you know that? MASHA (looking at him timidly). I don't know, but I do. FÉDYA. Now, let's have "No More at Evening." (As the gypsies sing, MASHA lies on her back across his lap, looking up into his face, which she draws down to her, and they kiss until the music begins to cease.) That's wonderful! Divine! If I could only lie this way forever, with my arms around the heart of joy, and sleep ... and die.... (He closes his eyes; his voice trails away.) [Lights dim and out, then the CURTAIN SCENE III SOPHIA KARÉNINA'S boudoir. SOPHIA KARÉNINA, VICTOR'S mother, is reading a book. She is a great lady, over fifty, but tries to look younger. She likes to interlard her conversation with French words. A servant enters. SERVANT (enters R., announcing). Prince Sergius Abréskov. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (on sofa over L.). Show him in, please. [She turns and picks up hand mirror from table back of couch, arranging her hair. PRINCE SERGIUS (enters R. I. Entering). J'espère que je ne force pas la consigne. [Crossing to sofa L. He kisses her hand. He is a charming old diplomat of seventy. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Ah, you know well que vous êtes toujours le bien venu.... Tell me, you have received my letter? PRINCE SERGIUS. I did. Me voilà. (Sits L. on sofa L.) Sophia Karénina (working up to distress). Oh, my dear friend, I begin to lose hope. She's bewitched him, positively bewitched him. Il est ensorcelé. I never knew he could be so obstinate, so heartless, and so indifferent to me. He's changed completely since that woman left her husband. PRINCE SERGIUS. How do matters actually stand? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Well, he's made up his mind to marry her at any cost. PRINCE SERGIUS. And her husband? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. He agrees to a divorce. PRINCE SERGIUS. Really? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. And Victor is willing to put up with all the sordidness, the vulgarity of the divorce court, the lawyers, evidences of guilt ... tout ça est dégoûtant. I can't understand his sensitive nature not being repelled by it. PRINCE SERGIUS (smiling). He's in love, and when a man's really in love-- SOPHIA KARÉNINA (interrupting). In our time love could remain pure, coloring one's whole life with a romantic friendship. Such love I understand and value. PRINCE SERGIUS (sighing). However, the present generation refuses to live on dreams. (He coughs delicately.) La possession de l'âme ne leur suffit plus. So what is the alternative? But tell me more of Victor. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. There's not very much to say. He seems bewitched, hardly my son. Did you know I'd called upon her? Victor pressed me so it was impossible to refuse. But Dieu merci, I found her out. So I merely left my card, and now she has asked me if I could receive her to-day, and I am expecting her (she glances at her watch) any moment now. I am doing all this to please Victor, but conceive my feelings. I know you always can. Really, really, I need your help. PRINCE SERGIUS (bowing). Thank you for the honor you do me. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. You realize this visit decides Victor's fate. I must refuse my consent, or---- But that's impossible. PRINCE SERGIUS. Have you met her? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. I've never seen her, but I'm afraid of her. No good woman leaves her husband, especially when there's nothing obviously intolerable about him. Why, I've seen Protosov often with Victor, and found him even quite charming. PRINCE SERGIUS (murmurs). So I've heard. So I've heard. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (continuing). She should bear her cross without complaint. And Victor must cease trying to persuade himself that his happiness lies in defying his principles. What I don't understand is how Victor, with his religious views, can think of marrying a divorced woman. I've heard him say over and over again--once quite lately-- that divorce is totally inconsistent with true Christianity. If she's been able to fascinate him to that point, I am afraid of her.--But how stupid of me to talk all the time! Have you spoken to him at all? What does he say? And don't you thoroughly agree with me? PRINCE SERGIUS. Yes, I've spoken to Victor. I think he really loves her, has grown accustomed to the idea of loving her, pour ainsi dire. (Shaking his head.) I don't believe he could ever now care for another woman. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (sighing). And Varia Casanzeva would have made him such a charming wife. She's so devoted already. PRINCE SERGIUS (smiling). I am afraid I hardly see her in the present ... tableau. (Earnestly.) Why not submit to Victor's wish and help him? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. To marry a divorcée? And afterwards have him running into his wife's husband? How can you calmly suggest that a mother accept such a situation for her son? PRINCE SERGIUS. But, chère amie, why not approve of the inevitable? And you might console yourself by regarding the dangers he'll avoid by marrying this gentle, lovely woman. After all, suppose he conceived a passion for some one---- [Convey the word "disreputable". SOPHIA KARÉNINA. How can a good woman leave her husband? PRINCE SERGIUS. Ah, that's not like you. You're unkind and you're harsh. Her husband is the sort of man--well, he's his own worst enemy. A weakling, a ne'er-do-well--he's spent all his money and hers too. She has a child. Do you think you can condemn her for leaving him? As a matter of fact she didn't leave him, he left her. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (faintly). Oh what a mud-pen I'm slipping into! PRINCE SERGIUS (amused). Could your religion aid you? SOPHIA KARÉNINA (smelling her salts). In this instance, religion would require of me the impossible. C'est plus fort que moi. PRINCE SERGIUS. Fédya himself--you know what a charming clever creature he is when he's in his senses--he advised her to leave him. [Enter VICTOR who kisses his mother's hand and greets PRINCE SERGIUS. KARÉNIN. Ah, Prince Sergius! (Shakes hands with Prince--formally.) Maman, I've come to tell you that Elizaveta Protosova will be here directly. There's only one thing I ask you: do you still refuse your consent to my marriage---- SOPHIA KARÉNINA (interrupting). And I most assuredly do. KARÉNIN (continuing. Frowning). In that case all I ask is for you not to speak to her about it. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. I don't suppose we shall even mention the subject. I certainly shan't. KARÉNIN (standing at head of sofa L.). If you don't, she won't. (Pleadingly.) Mother dear, I just want you to know her. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. One thing I can't understand. How is it you want to marry Lisa Protosova, a woman with a living husband, and at the same time believe divorce is a crime against Christianity? KARÉNIN. Oh, Maman, that's cruel of you. Life is far too complex to be managed by a few formulas. Why are you so bitter about it all? SOPHIA KARÉNINA (honestly). I love you. I want you to be happy. KARÉNIN (imploringly to PRINCE SERGIUS) Sergius Abréskov! PRINCE SERGIUS (to SOPHIA KARÉNINA). Naturally you want him happy. But it's difficult for our hearts, wearied from the weight of years, to feel the pulse of youth and sympathize, especially is it difficult for you, my friend, who have schooled yourself to view Victor's happiness in a single way.... SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Oh, you're all against me. Do as you like. Vous êtes majeur. (Sniffing into her pocket handkerchief.) But you'll kill me. KARÉNIN (deeply distressed). Ah, Mother, please. It's worse than cruel to say things like that. PRINCE SERGIUS (smiling to VICTOR). Come, come, Victor, you know your mother speaks more severely than she could ever act. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. I shall tell her exactly what I think and feel, and I hope I can do it without offending her. PRINCE SERGIUS. I am sure of it. [Enter FOOTMAN. Here she is. KARÉNIN. I'll go. (Goes to back of sofa.) FOOTMAN (announcing). Elizaveta Andreyevna Protosova. KARÉNIN (warningly). Now, Mother. [He goes out L. PRINCE SERGIUS rises. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (majestically). Show her in. (To PRINCE SERGIUS.) Please remain. PRINCE SERGIUS. I thought you might prefer a tête-à-tête? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. No, no. I rather dread it. And if I want to be left alone in the room with her, I'll drop my handkerchief. Ça dépendra. PRINCE SERGIUS. I'm sure you're going to like her immensely. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Oh you're all against me. [Enter LISA R. and crosses to R. C. (Rising) How do you do? I was so sorry not to find you at home and it is most kind of you to come to see me. LISA (R.C.). I never expected the honor of your visit, and I am so grateful that you permit me to come and see you. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (C.). You know Prince Sergius Abréskov? PRINCE SERGIUS (L.--Heartily). Yes, I have had the pleasure. (Crossing to her, he shakes hands.) My niece Nellie has spoken often of you to me. [Goes to L.C. LISA. Yes, we were great friends. (She glances shyly around her.) And still are. (To SOPHIA.) I never hoped that you would wish to see me. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. I knew your husband quite well. He was a great friend of Victor's and used frequently to visit us in Tambov, (politely) where you were married, I believe. LISA (looking down). Yes. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. But when you returned to Moscow we were deprived of the pleasure of his visit. LISA. Yes, then he stopped going anywhere. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Ah, that explains our missing him. [Awkward pause. PRINCE SERGIUS (to LISA). The last time I'd the pleasure of seeing you was in those tableaux at the Dennishovs. You were charming in your part. LISA. How good of you to think so! Yes, I remember perfectly. [Another awkward silence. (To SOPHIA KARÉNINA.) Sophia Karénina, please forgive me if what I am going to say offends you, but I don't know how to cover up what's in my heart. I came here to-day because Victor Karénin said--because he said that--because he--I mean because you wanted to see me. (With a catch in her voice.) It's rather difficult--but you're so sweet. PRINCE SERGIUS (very sympathetic). There, there, my dear child, I assure you there's nothing in the world to---- (He breaks off when he sees SOPHIA KARÉNINA pointing impatiently to the floor. She has dropped her handkerchief.) Permit me. (He picks it up, presenting it to her with a smile and a bow; then looks casually at his watch.) Ah, five o'clock already. (To SOPHIA KARÉNINA.) Madame, in your salon pleasure destroys the memory of time. You will excuse me. [He kisses her hand. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (smiling). Au revoir, mon ami. PRINCE SERGIUS (bowing and shaking hands with LISA). Elizaveta Protosova, au revoir. [He goes out R. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Now listen, my child. Please believe how truly sorry for you I am and that you are most sympathetique to me. But I love my son alone in this world, and I know his soul as I do my own. He's very proud--oh I don't mean of his position and money--but of his high ideals, his purity. It may sound strange to you, but you must believe me when I tell you that at heart he is as pure as a young girl. LISA. I know. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. He's never loved a woman before. You're the first. I don't say I'm not a little jealous. I am. But that's something we mothers have to face. Oh, but your son's still a baby, you don't know. I was ready to give him up, though--but I wanted his wife to be as pure as himself. LISA (flushing hotly). And I, am I not---- SOPHIA KARÉNINA (interrupting her kindly). Forgive me, my dear. I know it's not your fault and that you've been most unhappy. And also I know my son. He will bear anything, and he'll bear it without saying a word, but his hurt pride will suffer and bring you infinite remorse. You must know how strongly he has always felt that the bond of marriage is indissoluble. LISA. Yes. I've thought of all that. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Lisa, my dear, you're a wise woman and you're a good woman too. If you love him, you must want his happiness more than you want your own. You can't want to cripple him so that he'll be sorry all his life--yes, sorry even though he never says a word. LISA. I've thought about it so much. I've thought about it and I've talked to him about it. But what can I do when he says he can't live without me? I said to him only the other day, "Victor, let's just be friends. Don't spoil your life. Don't ruin yourself by trying to help me." And do you know what he did? He laughed. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Of course he would, at the time. LISA. If you could persuade him not to marry me, you know I'll agree, don't you? I just want him to be happy. I don't care about myself. Only please help me. Please don't hate me. Let's do all we can for him, because, after all, we both love him. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Yes, I know. And I think I love you too. I really do. (She kisses her. LISA begins to cry.) Oh, it's all so dreadful. If only he had fallen in love with you before you were married! LISA (sobbing). He--he says he did--but he had to be loyal to his friend. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Alas, it's all very heart-breaking. But let us love each other, and God will help us to find what we are seeking. KARÉNIN (entering L. I). Mother darling. I've heard what you just said. I knew you'd love her. And now everything must come right. SOPHIA KARÉNINA (hastily). But nothing's decided. All I can say is, had things been different, I should have been very glad. (Tenderly.) So very glad. [She kisses LISA. KARÉNIN (smiling). Please don't change. That's all I ask. [Lights down and out. CURTAIN SCENE IV A plainly furnished room, bed, table and stove. FÉDYA alone writing. At rise MASHA is heard outside calling "FÉDYA! FÉDYA!" MASHA enters R. I, crosses to FÉDYA on bed C. and embraces him. FÉDYA. Ah, thank Heaven you've come. I was wasting away in boredom. MASHA. Then why didn't you come over to us? (Sees wine glass on chair near bed.) So, you've been drinking again? And after all your promises! FÉDYA (embarrassed). I didn't come over because I had no money. MASHA. Oh, why is it I love you so. FÉDYA. Masha! MASHA (imitating him). Masha! Masha! What's that mean? If you loved me, by now you'd have your divorce. You say you don't love your wife. (FÉDYA winces.) But you stick to her like grim death. FÉDYA (interrupting her). You know why I don't want to. MASHA. Nonsense. They're right when they say you're no good. It's your mind that you can never make up comfortably causing you all the worry. FÉDYA. You know perfectly well that the only joy I've got in life is being in love with you. MASHA. Oh, it's always "My joy," "Your love." Where's your love and my joy? FÉDYA (a little wearily). Well, Masha, after all, you've got all I can give, the best I've ever had to give, perhaps, because you're so strong, so beautiful, that sometimes you've made me know how to make you glad. So why torture yourself? MASHA (kneels and puts her arms around his neck). I won't if you're sure you love me. FÉDYA (coming closer to her). My beautiful young Masha. MASHA (tearfully, searching his face). You do love me? FÉDYA. Of course, of course. MASHA. Only me, only me? FÉDYA (kissing her). Darling, only you. MASHA (with a return to brightness). Now read me what you've written. FÉDYA. It may bore you. MASHA (reproachfully). How could it? FÉDYA (reads). "The snow was flooded in moonlight and the birch trees wavered their stark shadows across it like supplicating arms. Suddenly I heard the soft padded sound of snow falling upon snow, to slowly perceive a figure, the slender figure of a young child attempting to arouse itself almost at my feet--I----" [Enter IVÁN and NASTASÏA. They are two old gypsies, MASHA'S parents. NASTASÏA (stepping up to MASHA). So here you are--you cursed little stray sheep. No disrespect to you, sir. (To MASHA.) You black-hearted, ungrateful little snake. How dare you treat us like this, how dare you, eh? Iván (to FÉDYA). It's not right, sir, what you've done, bringing to her ruin our only child. It's against God's law. NASTASÏA (to MASHA). Come and get out of here with me. You thought you'd skip, didn't you? And what was I supposed to tell the troupe while you dangled around here with this tramp? What can you get out of him, tell me that? Did you know he hasn't got a kopek to his name, didn't you? [During scene with parents, FÉDYA sits dumbly on the bed, bewildered. He puts his forehead against MASHA'S face and clings to her like a child. MASHA (sullenly). I haven't done anything wrong. I love this gentleman, that's all. I didn't leave the troupe either. I'll go on singing just the same. Iván. If you talk any more, I'll pull your hair all out for you, you loose little beast, you. (To FÉDYA, reproachfully.) And you, sir, when we were so fond of you--why, often and often we used to sing for you for nothing and this is how you pay us back. NASTASÏA (rocking herself to and fro). You've ruined our daughter, our very own, our only one, our best beloved, our diamond, our precious one, (with sudden fury). You've stamped her into the dirt, you have. Where's your fear of God? FÉDYA. Nastasïa, Nastasïa, you've made a mistake. Your daughter is like a sister to me. I haven't harmed her at all. I love her, that's true. But how can I help it? IVÁN. Well, why didn't you love her when you had some money? If you'd paid us ten thousand rubles, you could have owned her, body and soul. That's what respectable gentlemen do. But you--you throw away every kopek you've got and then you steal her like you'd steal a sack of meal. You ought to be ashamed, sir. MASHA (rising, puts her arm around his neck). He didn't steal me. I went to him myself, and if you take me away now, I'll come right back. If you take me away a thousand times, I'll come back to him. I love him and that's enough. My love will break through anything--through anything. Through anything in the whole damn world. NASTASÏA (trying to soothe her). Now, Mashenka darling, don't get cross. You know you haven't behaved well to your poor old parents. There, there, come along with us now. [With greedy fingers that pretend to caress, NASTASÏA seizes her savagely and suddenly at the end of this speech and draws her to the door. MASHA cries out "FÉDYA! FÉDYA!" as she exits R. IVÁN (alongside). You open your mouth again and I'll smash you dumb. (To FÉDYA.) Good-bye, your worship. [All exit R. I. [FÉDYA sits as though stupefied. The gypsies exit noisily. There is a pause. He drinks; then PRINCE SERGIUS appears, very quiet and dignified, at the door. PRINCE. Excuse me. I'm afraid I'm intruding upon a rather painful scene. FÉDYA (getting up). With whom have I the honor---- (recognizing the Prince). Ah, Prince Sergius, how do you do? [They shake hands. PRINCE (in a distinguished manner). I repeat that I am afraid to be most inopportune. I would rather not have heard, but since I have, it's my duty to say so. When I arrived I knocked several times, but I presume you could not have heard through such uproar. FÉDYA. Do sit down. (PRINCE sits chair R.C.) Thanks for telling me you heard. (Sits on bed up C.) It gives me a chance to explain it all. Forgive me for saying your opinion of me can't concern me, but I want to tell you that the way her parents talked to that young girl, that gypsy singer, was absolutely unjust. She's as pure as your own mother. My relations with her are simply friendly ones. Possibly there is a ray of poetry in them, but that could hardly degrade her. However, what can I do for you? PRINCE SERGIUS. Well, to begin---- FÉDYA (interrupting). Excuse me, Prince, but my present social position hardly warrants a visit from you. [Smiling. PRINCE SERGIUS. I know that, but I ask you to believe that your changed position does not influence me in what I am about to tell you. FÉDYA (interrogatively). Then? PRINCE SERGIUS. To be as brief as possible, Victor Karénin, the son of my old friend, Sophia Karénina, and she herself, have asked me to discover from you personally what your present relations are with your wife, and what intentions you have regarding them. FÉDYA. My relations with my wife--I should say my former wife--are several. PRINCE SERGIUS. As I thought, and for this reason accepted my somewhat difficult mission. FÉDYA (quickly). I wish to say first of all that the fault was entirely mine. She is, just as she always was, absolutely stainless, faultless. PRINCE SERGIUS. Victor Karénin and especially his mother are anxious to know your exact intentions regarding the future. FÉDYA. I've got no intentions. I've given her full freedom. I know she loves Victor Karénin, let her. Personally, I think he is a bore, but he is a good bore. So they'll probably be very happy together, at least in the ordinary sense and que le bon Dieu les bénisse. PRINCE SERGIUS. Yes, but we---- FÉDYA (rising, goes L., leans on table). Please don't think I'm jealous. If I just said Victor was dull, I take it back. He's splendid, very decent, in fact the opposite of myself, and he's loved her since her childhood (slowly) and maybe she loved him even when we were married. After all, that happens, and the strongest love is perhaps unconscious love. Yes, I think she's always loved him far, far down beneath what she would admit to herself, and this feeling of nine has been a black shadow across our married life. But--I--I really don't suppose I ought to be talking to you like this, ought I? PRINCE SERGIUS. Please go on. My only object in coming was to understand this situation completely, and I begin to see how the shadow--as you charmingly express it--could have been---- FÉDYA (looking strangely ahead of him). Yes, no brightness could suck up that shadow. And so I suppose I never was satisfied with what my wife gave me, and I looked for every kind of distraction, sick at heart because I did so. I see it more and more clearly since we've been apart. Oh, but I sound as if I were defending myself. God knows I don't want to do that. No, I was a shocking bad husband. I say was, because now I don't consider myself her husband at all. She's perfectly free. There, does that satisfy you? PRINCE SERGIUS. Yes, but you know how strictly orthodox Victor and his family are. Of course I don't agree with them--perhaps I have broader views--(with a shrug) but I understand how they feel. They consider that any union without a church marriage is--well, to put it mildly, unthinkable. FÉDYA. Yes, I know he's very stu--I mean strict. (With a slight smile.) "Conservative" is the word, isn't it? But what in God's name (crossing to C.) do they want, a divorce? I told them long ago I was perfectly willing. But the business of hiring a street-woman and taking her to a shady hotel and arranging to be caught by competent witnesses--ugh--it's all so--so loathsome. [He shudders--pauses; and sits on bed. PRINCE SERGIUS. I know. I know. I assure you, I can sympathize with such a repugnance, but how can one avoid it? You see, it's the only way out. But, my dear boy, you mustn't think I don't sympathize with you. It's a horrible situation for a sensitive man and I quite understand how you must hate it. FÉDYA. Thank you, Prince Sergius. I always knew you were kind and just. Now tell me what to do. Put yourself in my place. I don't pretend to be any better than I really am. I am a blackguard but there are some things that even I can't do. (With a smile and helpless gesture.) I can't tell lies. [A pause. PRINCE SERGIUS. I must confess that you bewilder me. You with your gifts and charm and really au fond--a wonderful sense of what's right. How could you have permitted yourself to plunge into such tawdry distractions? How could you have forgotten so far what you owed to yourself? Tell me, why did you let your life fall into this ruin? FÉDYA (suppressing emotion). I've led this sort of life for ten years and you're the first real person to show me sympathy. Of course, I've been pitied by the degraded ones but never before by a sensible, kind man like you. Thanks more than it's possible to say. (He seems to forget his train of thought and suddenly to recall it.) Ah, yes, my ruin. Well, first, drink, not because it tasted well, but because everything I did disappointed me so, made me so ashamed of myself. I feel ashamed now, while I talk to you. Whenever I drank, shame was drowned in the first glass, and sadness. Then music, not opera or Beethoven, but gypsy music; the passion of it poured energy into my body, while those dark bewitching eyes looked into the bottom of my soul. (He sighs.) And the more alluring it all was, the more shame I felt afterwards. [Pause. PRINCE SERGIUS. But what about your career? FÉDYA. My career? This seems to be it. Once I was a director of a bank. There was something terribly lacking between what I felt and what I could do. (Abruptly.) But enough, enough of myself. It makes me rather nervous to think about myself. [Rises. PRINCE SERGIUS. What answer am I to take back? FÉDYA (very nervous). Oh, tell them I'm quite at their disposal. (Walking up and down) They want to marry, and there mustn't be anything in their way (pause); is that it? (Stops walking very suddenly. Repeats.) There mustn't be anything in their way--is that it? PRINCE SERGIUS (pause. FÉDYA sits on table L.). Yes. When do you--when do you think--you'll--you'll have it ready? The evidence? FÉDYA (turns and looks at the PRINCE, suppressing a slight, strained smile). Will a fortnight do? PRINCE SERGIUS (rising). Yes, I am sure it will. (Rises and crosses to FÉDYA.) May I say that you give them your word? FÉDYA (with some impatience). Yes. Yes. (PRINCE offers his hand.) Good-bye, Prince Sergius. And again thanks. [Exit PRINCE SERGIUS, R. I. FÉDYA sits down in an attitude of deep thought. Why not? Why not? And it's good not to be ashamed---- [Lights dim and out. CURTAIN SCENE V Private room in a cheap restaurant. FÉDYA is shown in by a shabby waiter. WAITER. This way, sir. No one will disturb you here. Here's the writing paper. [Starts to exit. FÉDYA (as waiter starts to exit). Bring me a bottle of champagne. WAITER. Yes, sir. [Exits R. C. [FÉDYA sits at table L. C., and begins to write. IVÁN PETROVICH appearing in the doorway R. C. IVÁN PETROVICH. I'll come in, shall I? FÉDYA (sitting L. of table L. C. Very serious). If you want to, but I'm awfully busy, and--(seeing he has already entered) Oh, all right, do come in. IVÁN PETROVICH (C.). You're going to write an answer to their demand. I'll help you. I'll tell you what to say Speak out. Say what you mean. It's straight from the shoulder. That's my system. (Picks up box that FÉDYA has placed on table--opens it and takes out a revolver.) Hallo! What's this? Going to shoot yourself. Of course, why not? I understand. They want to humiliate you, and you show them where the courage is--put a bullet through your head and heap coals of fire on theirs. I understand perfectly. (The waiter enters with champagne on tray, pours a glass for FÉDYA, then exits. PETROVICH takes up the glass of wine and starts to drink. FÉDYA looks up from his writing.) I understand everything and everybody, because I'm a genius. FÉDYA. So you are, but---- IVÁN PETROVICH (filling and lifting his glass). Here's to your immortal journey. May it be swift and pleasant. Oh, I see it from your point of view. So why should I stop you? Life and death are the same to genius. I'm dead during life and I live after death. You kill yourself in order to make a few people miss you, but I--but I--am going to kill myself to make the whole world know what it lost. I won't hesitate or think about it. I'll just take the revolver--one, two--and all is over--um. But I am premature. My hour is not yet struck. (He puts the revolver down.) But I shall write nothing. The world will have to understand all by itself. (FÉDYA continues to write.) The world, what is it but a mass of preposterous creatures, who crawl around through life, understanding nothing--nothing at all --do you hear me? (FÉDYA looks up, rather exasperated.) Oh, I'm not talking to you. All this is between me and the cosmos. (Pours himself out another drink.) After all, what does humanity most lack? Appreciation for its geniuses. As it is, we're persecuted, tortured, racked, through a lifetime of perpetual agony, into the asylum or the grave. But no longer will I be their bauble. Humanity, hypocrite that you are--to hell with you. [Drinks wine. FÉDYA (having finished his letter). Oh, go away, please. IVÁN PETROVICH. Away? (With a gesture.) Away? Me? (With profound resolve.) So be it. (He leans over the table, faces FÉDYA.) I shall away. I'll not deter you from accomplishing what I also shall commit-- all in its proper moment, however. Only I should like to say this---- FÉDYA. Later. Later. But now, listen, old man, give this to the head waiter. (Handing him some money.) You understand? IVÁN PETROVICH. Yes, but for God's sake wait for me to come back. (Moves away.) I've something rare to tell you, something you'll never hear in the next world--at least not till I get there---- Look here, shall I give him all this money? FÉDYA. No, just what I owe him. [Exit IVÁN PETROVICH, whistling. FÉDYA sighs with a sense of relief, takes the revolver, cocks it, stands at mirror on wall up R., and puts it close to his temple. Then shivers, and lets his hand drop. I can't do it. I can't do it. [Pause. MASHA is heard singing. MASHA bursts into the room. MASHA (breathless). I've been everywhere looking for you. To Popov's, Afrémov's, then I guessed you'd be here. (Crosses to him. Sees revolver, turns, faces him quickly, concealing it with her body, stands very tense and taut, looking at him.) Oh, you fool! You hideous fool! Did you think you'd---- FÉDYA (still completely unnerved). Awful! It's been awful! I tried---- (With a gesture of despair.) I couldn't---- [Crosses to table L. C.--leans against it. MASHA (puts her hand to her face as if terribly hurt). As if I didn't exist. (Crosses over to table L. C., puts down revolver.) As if I weren't in your life at all. Oh, how godless you are! (Brokenly.) Tell me, tell me, what about all my love for you? FÉDYA (as if suddenly aware of a great fatigue). I wanted to set them free. I promised to--and when the time came I couldn't. MASHA. And what about me? What about me? FÉDYA. I thought you'd be free, too. Surely my torturing you can't make you happy. MASHA. Oh, I can look out for myself. Maybe I'd rather be unhappy, miserable, wretched with you every minute than even think of living without you. FÉDYA (up R.--half to himself). If I'd finished just now, you would have cried bitterly perhaps, my Masha, but you would have lived past it. MASHA. Oh, damn you, don't be so sure I'd cry at all. Can't you even be sorry for me? [She tries to conceal her tears. FÉDYA. Oh God, I only wanted to make everybody happier. MASHA. Yourself happier, you mean. FÉDYA (smiling). Would I have been happier to be dead now? MASHA (sulkily). I suppose you would. (Suddenly in a tender voice, crossing to him.) But, Fédya, do you know what you want? Tell me, what do you want? FÉDYA (R). I want so many things. MASHA (impatiently and clinging to him). But what? What? FÉDYA. First of all, I want to set them free. How can I lie? How can I crawl through the muck and filth of a divorce? I can't. (Moves to end of table and stands there facing front.) But I must set them free somehow. They're such good people, my wife and Victor. I can't bear having them suffer. MASHA (R. of table L. C.--scornfully). Where's the good in her if she left you? FÉDYA. She didn't. I left her. MASHA. She made you think she'd be happier without you. But go on---- (Impatiently.) Blame yourself, what else. FÉDYA. There's you, Masha. Young, lovely, awfully dear to me. If I stay alive, ah, where will you be? MASHA. Don't bother about me. You can't hurt me. FÉDYA (sighing). But the big reason, the biggest reason of all, is myself. I'm just lost. Your father is right, my dear. I'm no good. MASHA (crossing to him, at once tenderly and savagely). I won't unfasten myself from you. I'll stick to you, no matter where you take me, no matter what you do. You're alive, terribly alive, and I love you. Fédya, drop all this horror. FÉDYA. How can I? MASHA (trying to project the very essence of her vitality into him). Oh, you can, you can. FÉDYA (slowly). When I look at you, I feel as though I could do anything. MASHA (proudly, fondly). My love, my love. You can do anything, get anywhere you want to. (FÉDYA moves away impatiently up R. She sees letter.) So you have been writing to them--to tell them you'll kill yourself. You just told them you'd kill yourself, is that it? But you didn't say anything about a revolver. Oh, Fédya, let me think, there must be some way. Fédya--listen to me. Do you remember the day we all went to the picnic to the White Lakes with Mama and Afrémov and the young Cossack officer? And you buried the bottles of wine in the sand to keep them cool while we went in bathing? Do you remember how you took my hands and drew me out beyond the waves till the water was quite silent and flashing almost up to our throats, and then suddenly it seemed as if there were nothing under our feet? We tried to get back. We couldn't and you shouted out, "Afrémov," and if he hadn't been almost beside us and pulled us in--and how cross he was with you for forgetting that you couldn't swim, and after, how wonderful it was to stretch out safely on the sands in the sunlight. Oh, how nice every one was to us that day and you kept on being so sorry for forgetting you couldn't swim! And, Fédya, don't you see? Of course, she must know you can't swim. Oh, it's all getting as clear as daylight. You will send her this beautiful letter. Your clothes will be found on the river bank--but instead of being in the river you will be far away with me--Fédya, don't you see, don't you see? You will be dead to her, but alive for me. (Embraces FÉDYA.) [The lights down and out. CURTAIN SCENE VI The PROTOSOVS' drawing-room. KARÉNIN and LISA. KARÉNIN (sitting chair R.). He's promised me definitely, and I'm sure he'll keep to it. LISA (sitting chair R. C.). I'm rather ashamed to confess it, Victor, but since I found out about this--this gypsy, I feel completely free of him. Of course, I am not in the least jealous, but knowing this makes me see that I owe him nothing more. Am I clear to you, I wonder? KARÉNIN (coming closer to her). Yes, dear, I think I'll always understand you. LISA (smiling). Don't interrupt me, but let me speak as I think. The thing that tortured me most was I seemed to love both of you at once, and that made me seem so indecent to myself. KARÉNIN (incredulously amused). You indecent? LISA (continuing). But since I've found out that there's another woman, that he doesn't need me any more, I feel free, quite free of him. And now I can say truthfully, I love you. Because everything is clear in my soul. My only worry is the divorce, and all the waiting to be gone through before we can---- Ah, that's torturing. KARÉNIN. Dearest, everything will be settled soon. After all, he's promised, and I've asked my secretary to go to him with the petition and not to leave until he's signed it. Really, sometimes, if I didn't know him as I do, I'd think he was trying on purpose to discomfort us. LISA. No. No. It's, only the same weakness and honesty fighting together in him. He doesn't want to lie. However, I'm sorry you sent him money. KARÉNIN. If I hadn't, it might have delayed things. Lisa. I know, but money seems so ugly. KARÉNIN (slightly ruffled). I hardly think it's necessary to be so delicate with Fédya. LISA. Perhaps, perhaps. (Smiling.) But don't you think we are becoming very selfish? KARÉNIN. Maybe. But it's all your fault, dear. After all, this hopelessness and waiting, to think of being happy at last! I suppose happiness does make us selfish. LISA. Don't believe you're alone in your happiness or selfishness. I am so filled with joy it makes me almost afraid. Misha's all right, your mother loves me, and above all, you are here, close to me, loving me as I love you. KARÉNIN (bending over her and searching her eyes). You're sure you've no regret? LISA. From the day I found out about that gypsy woman, my mind underwent a change that has set me free. KARÉNIN. You're sure? [Kissing her hands. LISA (passionately). Darling, I've only one desire now, and that is to have you forget the past and love as I do. [Her little boy toddles in R., sees them and stops. [To the child. Come here, my sweetheart. [He goes to her and she takes him on her knees. KARÉNIN. What strange contradictory instincts and desires make up our beings! LISA. Why? KARÉNIN (slowly). I don't know. When I came back from abroad, knew I'd lost you, I was unhappy, terribly. Yet, it was enough for me to learn that you at least remembered me. Afterward, when we became friends, and you were kind to me, and into our friendship wavered a spark of something more than friendship, ah, I was almost happy! Only one thing tormented me: fear that such a feeling wronged Fédya. Afterwards, when Fédya tortured you so, I saw I could help. Then a certain definite hope sprang up in me. And later, when he became impossible and you decided to leave him, and I showed you my heart for the first time, and you didn't say no, but went away in tears--then I was happy through and through. Then came the possibility of joining our lives. Mamma loved you. You told me you loved me, that Fédya was gone out of your heart, out of your life forever, and there was only, only me.... Ah, Lisa, for what more could I ask! Yet the past tortured me. Awful fancies would flush up into my happiness, turning it all into hatred for your past. LISA (interrupting reproachfully). Victor! KARÉNIN. Forgive me, Lisa. I only tell you this because I don't want to hide a single thought from you. I want you to know how bad I am, and what a weakness I've got to fight down. But don't worry, I'll get past it. It's all right, dear. (He bends over, kissing the child on the head.) And I love him, too. LISA. Dearest, I'm so happy. Everything has happened in my heart to make it as you'd wish. KARÉNIN. All? LISA. All, beloved, or I never could say so. [Enter the NURSE L. U. NURSE. Your secretary has come back. [LISA and KARÉNIN exchange glances. LISA. Show him in here, nurse, and take Misha, will you? NURSE. Come along, my pet. It's time for your rest. [Exit NURSE with the little boy, R. KARÉNIN (gets up, walks to the door). This will be Fédya's answer. LISA (kissing Karénin). At last, at last we shall know when. (She kisses him.) [Enter VOZNESÉNSKY L. U. KARÉNIN. Well? SECRETARY. He's not there, sir. KARÉNIN. Not there? He's not signed the petition, then? SECRETARY. No. But here is a letter addressed to you and Elizaveta Protosova. [Takes letter from his pocket and gives it to KARÉNIN. KARÉNIN (interrupting angrily). More excuses, more excuses. It's perfectly outrageous. How without conscience he is. Really, he has lost every claim to---- LISA. But read the letter, dear; see what he says. [KARÉNIN opens the letter. SECRETARY. Shall you need me, sir? Karénin. No. That's all. Thank you. [Exit SECRETARY. KARÉNIN reads the letter growing astonishment and concern. LISA watches his face. (Reading.) "Lisa, Victor, I write you both without using terms of endearment, since I can't feel them, nor can I conquer a sense of bitterness and reproach, self-reproach principally, when I think of you together in your love. I know, in spite of being the husband, I was also the barrier, preventing you from coming earlier to one another. C'est moi qui suis l'intrue. I stood in your way, I worried you to death. Yet I can't help feeling bitterly, coldly, toward you. In one way I love both of you, especially Lisa Lizenska, but in reality I am more than cold toward you. Yes, it's unjust, isn't it, but to change is impossible." LISA. What's all that for? KARÉNIN (standing L. of table C., continuing). "However, to the point. I am going to fulfill your wishes in perhaps a little different way from what you desire. To lie, to act a degrading comedy, to bribe women of the streets for evidence--the ugliness of it all disgusts me. I am a bad man, but this despicable thing I am utterly unable to do. My solution is after all the simplest. You must marry to be happy. I am the obstacle, consequently that obstacle must be removed." LISA (R. of table). Victor! KARÉNIN (reading). Must be removed? "By the time this letter reaches you, I shall no longer exist. All I ask you is to be happy, and whenever you think of me, think tender thoughts. God bless you both. Good-bye. FÉDYA." LISA. He's killed himself! KARÉNIN (going hurriedly up stage L. and calls of). My secretary! Call back my secretary! LISA. Fédya! Fédya, darling! KARÉNIN. Lisa! LISA. It's not true! It's not true that I've stopped loving him! He's the only man in all the world I love! And now I've killed him! I've killed him as surely as if I'd murdered him with my own two hands! KARÉNIN. Lisa, for God's sake! LISA. Stop it! Don't come near me! Don't be angry with me, Victor. You see I, too, cannot lie! CURTAIN ACT II SCENE I A dirty, ill-lighted underground dive; people are lying around drinking, sleeping, playing cards and making love. Near the front a small table at which FÉDYA sits; he is in rags and has fallen very low. By his side is PETUSHKÓV, a delicate spiritual man, with long yellow hair and beard. Both are rather drunk. Candle light is the only lighting in this Scene. PETUSHKÓV (R.C. of table C.). I know. I know. Well, that's real love. So what happened then? FÉDYA (L. C. of table C., pensively). You might perhaps expect a girl of our own class, tenderly brought up, to be capable of sacrificing for the man she loved, but this girl was a gypsy, reared in greed, yet she gave me the purest sort of self-sacrificing love. She'd have done anything for nothing. Such contrasts are amazing. PETUSHKÓV. I see. In painting we call that value. Only to realize bright red fully when there is green around it. But that's not the point. What happened? FÉDYA. Oh, we parted. I felt it wasn't right to go on taking, taking where I couldn't give. So one night we were having dinner in a little restaurant, I told her we'd have to say good-bye. My heart was so wrung all the time I could hardly help crying. PETUSHKÓV. And she? FÉDYA. Oh, she was awfully unhappy, but she knew I was right. So we kissed each other a long while, and she went back to her gypsy troupe --(Slowly.) Maybe she was glad to go---- [A pause. PETUSHKÓV. I wonder. FÉDYA. Yes. The single good act of my soul was not ruining that girl. PETUSHKÓV. Was it from pity? FÉDYA. I sorry for her? Oh, never. Quite the contrary. I worshipped her unclouded sincerity, the energy of her clear, strong will, and God in Heaven, how she sang. And probably she is singing now, for some one else. Yes, I always looked up at her from beneath, as you do at some radiance in the sky. I loved her really. And now it's a tender beautiful memory. PETUSHKÓV. I understand. It was ideal, and you left it like that. FÉDYA (ruminatingly). And I've been attracted often, you know. Once I was in love with a grande dame, bestially in love, dog-like. Well, she gave me a rendezvous, and I didn't, couldn't, keep it, because suddenly I thought of her husband, and it made me feel sick. And you know, it's queer, that now, when I look back, instead of being glad that I was decent, I am as sorry as if I had sinned. But with Masha it's so different; I'm filled with joy that I've never soiled the brightness of my feeling for her. (He points his finger at the floor.) I may go much further down. PETUSHKÓV (interrupting). I know so well what you mean. But where is she now? FÉDYA. I don't know. I don't want to know. All that belongs to another life, and I couldn't bear to mix that life and this life. [A POLICE OFFICER enters from up R., kicks a man who is lying on the floor--walks down stage, looks at FÉDYA and PETUSHKÓV, then exits. PETUSHKÓV. Your life's wonderful. I believe you're a real idealist. FÉDYA. No. It's awfully simple. You know among our class--I mean the class I was born in--there are only three courses: the first, to go into the civil service or join the army and make money to squander over your sensual appetites. And all that was appalling to me--perhaps because I couldn't do it. The second thing is to live to clear out, to destroy what is foul, to make way for the beautiful. But for that you've got to be a hero, and I'm not a hero. And the third is to forget it all--overwhelm it with music, drown it with wine. That's what I did. And look (he spreads his arms out) where my singing led me to. [He drinks. PETUSHKÓV. And what about family life? The sanctity of the home and all that--I would have been awfully happy if I'd had a decent wife. As it was, she ruined me. FÉDYA. I beg your pardon. Did you say marriage? Oh, yes, of course. Well, I've been married, too. Oh, my wife was quite an ideal woman. I don't know why I should say was, by the way, because she's still living. But there's something--I don't know; it's rather difficult to explain--But you know how pouring champagne into a glass makes it froth up into a million iridescent little bubbles? Well, there was none of that in our married life. There was no fizz in it, no sparkle, no taste, phew! The days were all one color--flat and stale and gray as the devil. And that's why I wanted to get away and forget. You can't forget unless you play. So trying to play I crawled in every sort of muck there is. And you know, it's a funny thing, but we love people for the good we do them, and we hate them for the harm. That's why I hated Lisa. That's why she seemed to love me. PETUSHKÓV. Why do you say seemed? FÉDYA (wistfully). Oh, she couldn't creep into the center of my being like Masha. But that's not what I mean. Before the baby was born, and afterwards, when she was nursing him, I used to stay away for days and days, and come back drunk, drunk, and love her less and less each time, because I was wronging her so terribly. (Excitedly.) Yes. That's it, I never realized it before. The reason why I loved Masha was because I did her good, not harm. But I crucified my wife, and her contortions filled me almost with hatred. [FÉDYA drinks. PETUSHKÓV. I think I understand. Now in my case---- [ARTIMIEV enters R. U., approaches with a cockade on his cap, dyed mustache, and shabby, but carefully mended clothes. ARTIMIEV (stands L. of table). Good appetite, gentlemen! (Bowing to FÉDYA.) I see you've made the acquaintance of our great artist. FÉDYA (coolly). Yes, I have. ARTIMIEV (to PETUSHKÓV). Have you finished your portrait? PETUSHKÓV. No, they didn't give me the commission, after all. ARTIMIEV (sitting down on end of table). I'm not in your way, am I? [FÉDYA and PETUSHKÓV don't answer. PETUSHKÓV. This gentleman was telling me about his life. ARTIMIEV. Oh, secrets? Then I won't disturb you. Pardon me for interrupting. (To himself as he moves away.) Damn swine! [He goes to the next table, sits down and in the dim candlelight he can just be seen listening to the conversation. FÉDYA. I don't like that man. PETUSHKÓV. I think he's offended. FÉDYA. Let him be. I can't stand him. If he'd stayed I shouldn't have said a word. Now, it's different with you. You make me feel all comfortable, you know. Well, what was I saying? PETUSHKÓV. You were talking about your wife. How did you happen to separate? FÉDYA. Oh, that? (A pause.) It's a rather curious story. My wife's married. PETUSHKÓV. Oh, I see! You're divorced. FÉDYA. No. (Smiling.) She's a widow. PETUSHKÓV. A widow? What do you mean? FÉDYA. I mean exactly what I say. She's a widow. I don't exist. PETUSHKÓV (puzzled). What? FÉDYA (smiling drunkenly). I'm dead. You're talking to a corpse. [ARTIMIEV leans towards them and listens intently. Funny, I seem to be able to say anything to you. And it's so long ago, so long ago. And what is it after all to you but a story? Well, when I got to the climax of torturing my wife, when I'd squandered everything I had or could get, and become utterly rotten, then, there appeared a protector. PETUSHKÓV. The usual thing, I suppose? FÉDYA. Don't think anything filthy about it. He was just her friend, mine too, a very good, decent fellow; in fact the opposite of myself. He'd known my wife since she was a child, and I suppose he'd loved her since then. He used to come to our house a lot. First I was very glad he did, then I began to see they were falling in love with each other, and then--an odd thing began to happen to me at night. Do you know when she lay there asleep beside me (he laughs shrilly) I would hear him, pushing open the door, crawling into the room, coming to me on his hands and knees, grovelling, whining, begging me (he is almost shouting) for her, for her, imagine it! And I, I had to get up and give my place to him. (He covers his eyes with his hands in a. convulsive moment.) Phew! Then I'd come to myself. PETUSHKÓV. God! It must have been horrible. FÉDYA (wearily). Well, later on I left her--and after a while, they asked me for a divorce. I couldn't bear all the lying there was to be got through. Believe me it was easier to think of killing myself. And so I tried to commit suicide, and I tried and I couldn't. Then a kind friend came along and said, "Now, don't be foolish!" And she arranged the whole business for me. I sent my wife a farewell letter--and the next day my clothes and pocketbook were found on the bank of the river. Everybody knew I couldn't swim. (Pause.) You understand, don't you? PETUSHKÓV. Yes, but what about the body? They didn't find that? FÉDYA (smiling drunkenly). Oh yes, they did! You just listen! About a week afterwards some horror was dragged out of the water. My wife was called in to identify it. It was in pretty bad shape, you know. She took one glance. "Is that your husband?" they asked her. And she said, "Yes." Well, that settled it! I was buried, they were married, and they're living very happily right here in this city. I'm living here, too! We're all living here together! Yesterday I walked right by their house. The windows were lit and somebody's shadow went across the blind. (A pause.) Of course there're times when I feel like hell about it, but they don't last. The worst is when there's no money to buy drinks with. [He drinks. ARTIMIEV. (rising and approaching them). Excuse me, but you know I've been listening to that story of yours? It's a very good story, and what's more a very useful one. You say you don't like being without money, but really there's no need of your ever finding yourself in that position. FÉDYA. (interrupting). Look here, I wasn't talking to you and I don't need your advice! ARTIMIEV. But I'm going to give it to you just the same. Now you're a corpse. Well, suppose you come to life again! FÉDYA. What? ARTIMIEV. Then your wife and that fellow she's so happy with--they'd be arrested for bigamy. The best they'd get would be ten years in Siberia. Now you see where you can have a steady income, don't you? FÉDYA. (furiously). Stop talking and get out of here! ARTIMIEV. The best way is to write them a letter. If you don't know how I'll do it for you. Just give me their address and afterwards when the ruble notes commence to drop in, how grateful you'll be! FÉDYA. Get out! Get out, I say! I haven't told you anything! ARTIMIEV. Oh, yes, you have! Here's my witness! This waiter heard you saying you were a corpse! FÉDYA. (beside himself). You damn blackmailing beast---- [Rising. ARTIMIEV. Oh, I'm a beast, am I? We'll see about that! (FÉDYA rises to go, ARTIMIEV seizes him.) Police! Police! (FÉDYA struggles frantically to escape.) [The POLICE enter and drag him away. CURTAIN SCENE II In the country. A veranda covered by a gay awning; sunlight; flowers; SOPHIA KARÉNINA, LISA, her little boy and nurse. LISA (standing C. in door. To the little boy, smiling), Who do you think is on his way from the station? MISHA (excitedly). Who? Who? LISA. Papa. MISHA (rapturously). Papa's coming! Papa's coming! [Exits L. through C. door. LISA (contentedly, to SOPHIA KARÉNINA). How much he loves Victor! As if he were his real father! SOPHIA KARÉNINA (on sofa L. knitting--back to audience). Tant mieux. Do you think he ever remembers his father? LISA (sighing). I can't tell. Of course I've never said anything to him. What's the use of confusing his little head? Yet sometimes I feel as though I ought. What do you think, Mamma? SOPHIA KARÉNINA. I think it's a matter of feeling. If you can trust your heart, let it guide you. What extraordinary adjustments death brings about! I confess I used to think very unkindly of Fédya, when he seemed a barrier to all this. (She makes a gesture with her hand.) But now I think of him as that nice boy who was my son's friend, and a man who was capable of sacrificing himself for those he loved. (She knits.) I hope Victor hasn't forgotten to bring me some wool. LISA. Here he comes. (LISA runs to the edge of the veranda.) There's some one with him--a lady in a bonnet! Oh, it's mother! How splendid! I haven't seen her for an age! [Enter ANNA PÁVLOVNA up C. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (kissing LISA). My darling. (To SOPHIA KARÉNINA.) How do you do? Victor met me and insisted on my coming down. [Sits bench L. C. beside SOPHIA. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. This is perfectly charming! [Enter VICTOR and MÍSHA. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I did want to see Lisa and the boy. So now, if you don't turn me out, I'll stay till the evening train. KARÉNIN. (L. C., kissing his wife, his mother and the boy). Congratulate me--everybody--I've a bit of luck, I don't have to go to town again for two days. Isn't that wonderful? LISA. (R. C.). Two days! That's glorious! We'll drive over to the Hermitage to-morrow and show it to mother. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. (holding the boy). He's so like his father, isn't he? I do hope he hasn't inherited his father's disposition. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. After all, Fédya's heart was in the right place. LISA. Victor thinks if he'd only been brought up more carefully everything would have been different. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, I'm not so sure about that, but I do feel sorry for him. I can't think of him without wanting to cry. LISA. I know. That's how Victor and I feel. All the bitterness is gone. There's nothing left but a very tender memory. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. (sighing). I'm sure of it. Lisa. Isn't it funny? It all seemed so hopeless back there, and now see how beautifully everything's come out! SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Oh, by the way, Victor, did you get my wool? KARÉNIN. I certainly did. (Brings a bag and takes out parcels.) Here's the wool, here's the eau-de-cologne, here are the letters--one on "Government Service" for you, Lisa---- (Hands her the letter. LISA opens letter, then strolls R, reading it, suddenly stops.) Well, Anna Pávlovna, I know you want to make yourself beautiful! I must tidy up, too. It's almost dinner time. Lisa, you've put your another in the Blue Room, haven't you? [Pause. [LISA is pale. She holds the letter with trembling hands and reads it, KARÉNIN seeing her. What's the matter, Lisa? What is it? LISA. He's alive. He's alive. My God! I shall never be free from him. (VICTOR crosses to LISA.) What does this mean? What's going to happen to us? KARÉNIN (taking the letter and reading). I don't believe it. SOPHIA KARÉNINA. What is it? (Rising.) What's the matter? Why don't you tell us? KARÉNIN. He's alive! They're accusing us of bigamy! It's a summons for Lisa to go before the Examining Magistrate. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No--no! It can't be! SOPHIA KARÉNINA. Oh, that horrible man! KARÉNIN. So it was all a lie! LISA (with a cry of rage). Oh! I hate him so! Victor!--Fédya!--My God! I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what I'm saying. [Sinks in chair down R. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (rising). He's not really alive? [Lights dim and out. CURTAIN SCENE III The room of the examining magistrate, who sits at a table talking to MÉLNIKOV, a smartly dressed, languid, man-about-town. At a side-table a CLERK is sorting papers. MAGISTRATE. (sitting R. of table R. C.). Oh, I never said so. It's her own notion. And now she is reproaching me with it. MÉLNIKOV. (sitting C. back to audience). She's not reproaching you, only her feelings are awfully hurt. MAGISTRATE. Are they? Oh, well, tell her I'll come to supper after the performance. But you'd better wait on. I've rather an interesting case. (To the CLERK.) Here, you, show them in. Clerk. (sitting C. facing audience). Both? Excellency. Magistrate. No, only Madame Karénina. [CLERK exits L. I. CLERK (calling off stage). Madame Protosova, Madame Protosova. MAGISTRATE. Or, to dot my i's, Madame Protosova. MÉLNIKOV (starting to go out). Ah, it's the Karénin case. MAGISTRATE. Yes, and an ugly one. I'm just beginning the investigation. But I assure you it's a first-rate scandal already. Must you go? Well, see you at supper. Good-bye. [Exit MÉLNIKOV, R. [The CLERK shows in LISA; she wears a black dress and veil. MAGISTRATE. Please sit down, won't you? (He points to a chair L. C. LISA sits down.) I am extremely sorry that it's necessary to ask you questions. [LISA appears very much agitated. MAGISTRATE appears unconcerned and is reading a newspaper as he speaks. But please be calm. You needn't answer them unless you wish. Only in the interest of every one concerned, I advise you to help me reach the entire truth. LISA. I've nothing to conceal. MAGISTRATE (looking at papers). Let's see. Your name, station, religion. I've got all that. You are accused of contracting a marriage with another man, knowing your first husband to be alive. LISA. But I did not know it. MAGISTRATE (continuing). And also you are accused of having persuaded with bribes your first husband to commit a fraud, a pretended suicide, in order to rid yourself of him. LISA. All that's not true. MAGISTRATE. Then permit me to ask you these questions: Did you or did you not send him 1200 rubles in July of last year? LISA. That was his own money obtained from selling his things, which I sent to him during our separation, while I was waiting for my divorce. MAGISTRATE. Just so. Very well. When the police asked you to identify the corpse, how were you sure it was your husband's? LISA. Oh, I was so terribly distressed that I couldn't bear to look at the body. Besides, I felt so sure it was he, and when they asked me, I just said yes. MAGISTRATE. Very good indeed. I can well understand your distraction, and permit me to observe, Madame, that although servants of the law, we remain human beings, and I beg you to be assured that I sympathize with your situation. You were bound to a spendthrift, a drunkard, a man whose dissipation caused you infinite misery. LISA (interrupting). Please, I loved him. MAGISTRATE (tolerantly). Of course. Yet naturally you desired to be free, and you took this simple course without counting the consequence, which is considered a crime, or bigamy. I understand you, and so will both judges and jury. And it's for this reason, Madam, I urge you to disclose the entire truth. LISA. I've nothing to disclose. I never have lied. (She begins to cry.) Do you want me any longer? MAGISTRATE. Yes. I must ask you to remain a few minutes longer. No more questions, however. (To the CLERK.) Show in Victor Karénin. (To LISA.) I think you'll find that a comfortable chair. (Sits L. C.) [Enter KARÉNIN, stern and solemn. Please, sit down. KARÉNIN. Thank you. (He remains standing L. U.) What do you want from me? MAGISTRATE. I have to take your deposition. KARÉNIN. In what capacity? MAGISTRATE (smiling). In my capacity of investigating magistrate. You are here, you know, because you are charged with a crime. KARÉNIN. Really? What crime? MAGISTRATE. Bigamy, since you've married a woman already married. But I'll put the questions to you in their proper order. Sure you'll not sit down? KARÉNIN. Quite sure. MAGISTRATE (writing). Your name? KARÉNIN. Victor Karénin. MAGISTRATE. Rank? KARÉNIN. Chamberlain of the Imperial Court. MAGISTRATE. Your age? KARÉNIN. Thirty-eight. MAGISTRATE. Religion? KARÉNIN. Orthodox, and I've never been tried before of any charge. (Pause.) What else? MAGISTRATE. Did you know that Fedor Protosov was alive when you married his wife? KARÉNIN. No, we were both convinced that he was drowned. MAGISTRATE. All right. And why did you send 1200 rubles to him a few days before he simulated death on July 17th? KARÉNIN. That money was given me by my wife. MAGISTRATE (interrupting him). Excuse me, you mean by Madame Protosova. KARÉNIN. By my wife to send to her husband. She considered this money his property, and having broken off all relations with him, felt it unjust to withhold it. What else do you want? MAGISTRATE. I don't want anything, except to do my official duty, and to aid you in doing yours, through causing you to tell me the whole truth, in order that your innocence be proved. You'd certainly better not conceal things which are sure to be found out, since Protosov is in such a weakened condition, physically and mentally, that he is certain to come out with the entire truth as soon as he gets into court, so from your point of view I advise.... KARÉNIN. Please don't advise me, but remain within the limits of your official capacity. Are we at liberty to leave? [He goes to LISA who takes his arm. MAGISTRATE. Sorry, but it's necessary to detain you. (KARÉNIN looks around in astonishment.) No, I've no intention of arresting you, although it might be a quicker way of reaching the truth. I merely want to take Protosov's deposition in your presence, to confront him with you, that you may facilitate your chances by proving his statements to be false. Kindly sit down. (To CLERK.) Show in Fedor Protosov. [There is a pause. The CLERK shows in FÉDYA in rags, a total wreck. He enters slowly, dragging his feet. He catches sight of his wife, who is bowed in grief. For a moment he is about to take her in his arms--he hesitates--then stands before the MAGISTRATE. MAGISTRATE. I shall ask you to answer some questions. FÉDYA. (rises, confronting the MAGISTRATE). Ask them. MAGISTRATE. Your name? FÉDYA. You know it. MAGISTRATE. Answer my questions exactly, please. [Rapping on his desk. FÉDYA (shrugs). Fedor Protosov. MAGISTRATE. Your rank, age, religion? FÉDYA. (silent for a moment). Aren't you ashamed to ask me these absurd questions? Ask me what you need to know, only that. MAGISTRATE. I shall ask you to take care how you express yourself. FÉDYA. Well, since you're not ashamed. My rank, graduate of the University of Moscow; age 40; religion orthodox. What else? MAGISTRATE. Did Victor Karénin and Elizaveta Andreyevna know you were alive when you left your clothes on the bank of the river and disappeared? FÉDYA. Of course not. I really wished to commit suicide. But-- however, why should I tell you? The fact's enough. They knew nothing of it. MAGISTRATE. You gave a somewhat different account to the police officer. How do you explain that? FÉDYA. Which police officer? Oh yes, the one who arrested me in that dive. I was drunk, and I lied to him--about what, I don't remember. But I'm not drunk now and I'm telling you the whole truth. They knew nothing; they thought I was dead, and I was glad of it. Everything would have stayed all right except for that damned beast Artimiev. So if any one's guilty, it's I. MAGISTRATE. I perceive you wish to be generous. Unfortunately the law demands the truth. Come, why did you receive money from them? [FÉDYA is silent. Why don't you answer me? Do you realize that it will be stated in your deposition that the accused refused to answer these questions, and that will harm (he includes LISA and VICTOR in a gesture) all of you? [FÉDYA remains silent. Aren't you ashamed of your stubborn refusal to aid these others and yourself by telling the entire truth? FÉDYA (breaking out passionately). The truth--Oh, God! what do you know about the truth? Your business is crawling up into a little power, that you may use it by tantalizing, morally and physically, people a thousand times better than you.... You sit there in your smug authority torturing people. MAGISTRATE. I must ask you---- FÉDYA (interrupts him). Don't ask me for I'll speak as I feel. (Turning to CLERK.) And you write it down. So for once some human words will get into a deposition. [Raising his voice, which ascends to a climax during this speech. There were three human beings alive: I, he, and she. [He turns to his wife with a gesture indicating his love for her. He pauses, then proceeds. We all bore towards one another a most complex relation. We were all engaged in a spiritual struggle beyond your comprehension: the struggle between anguish and peace; between falsehood and truth. Suddenly this struggle ended in a way that set us free. Everybody was at peace. They loved my memory, and I was happy even in my downfall, because I'd done what should have been done, and cleared away my weak life from interfering with their strong good lives. And yet we're all alive. When suddenly a bastard adventurer appears, who demands that I abet his filthy scheme. I drive him off as I would a diseased dog, but he finds you, the defender of public justice, the appointed guardian of morality, to listen to him. And you, who receive on the 20th of each month a few kopeks' gratuity for your wretched business, you get into your uniform, and in good spirits proceed to torture--bully people whose threshold you're not clean enough to pass. Then when you've had your fill of showing off your wretched power, oh, then you are satisfied, and sit and smile there in your damned complacent dignity. And.... MAGISTRATE (raising his voice. Rising excitedly). Be silent or I'll have you turned out. FÉDYA. God! Who should I be afraid of! I'm dead, dead, and away out of your power. (Suddenly overcome with the horror of the situation.) What can you do to me? How can you punish me--a corpse? [Beating his breast. MAGISTRATE. Be silent! (To CLERK, who is down L.) Take him out! [FÉDYA turns, seeing his wife, he falls on his knees before her ... kisses the hem of her dress, crying bitterly. [Slowly he rises, pulls himself together with a great effort, then exits L. [The lights dim and out. CURTAIN SCENE IV A corridor at the lower courts; in the background a door opposite which stands a GUARD; to the right is another door through which the PRISONERS are conducted to the court. IVÁN PETROVICH in rags enters L., goes to this last door, trying to pass through it. GUARD (at door R. C.). Where do you think you're going, shoving in like that? IVÁN PETROVICH. Why shouldn't I? The law says these sessions are public. GUARD. You can't get by and that's enough. IVÁN PETROVICH (in pity). Wretched peasant, you have no idea to whom you are speaking. GUARD. Be silent! [Enter a YOUNG LAWYER from R. I. LAWYER (to Petrovich). Are you here on business? IVÁN PETROVICH. No. I'm the public. But this wretched peasant won't let me pass. LAWYER. There's no room for the public at this trial. IVÁN PETROVICH. Perhaps, but I am above the general rule. LAWYER. Well, you wait outside; they'll adjourn presently. [He is just going into courtroom through door R. C. when PRINCE SERGIUS enters L. and stops him. PRINCE SERGIUS. How does the case stand? LAWYER. The defense has just begun. Petrúshin is speaking now. PRINCE SERGIUS. Are the Karénins bearing up well? LAWYER. Yes, with extraordinary dignity. They look as if they were the judges instead of the accused. That's felt all the way through, and PETRÚSHIN is taking advantage of it. PRINCE SERGIUS. What of Protosov? LAWYER. He's frightfully unnerved, trembling all over, but that's natural considering the sort of life he's led. Yes, he's all on edge, and he's interrupted, both judge and jury several times already. PRINCE SERGIUS. How do you think it will end? LAWYER. Hard to say. The jury are mixed. At any rate I don't think they'll find the Karénins guilty of premeditation. Do you want to go in? PRINCE SERGIUS. I should very much like to. LAWYER. Excuse me, you're Prince Sergius Abréskov, aren't you? (To the Prince.) There's an empty chair just at the left. [The guard lets PRINCE SERGIUS pass. IVÁN PETROVICH. Prince! Bah! I am an aristocrat of the soul, and that's a higher title. LAWYER. Excuse me. [And exits down R. C. into courtroom. [PETUSHKÓV, FÉDYA'S companion in the dive, enters approaching IVÁN PETROVICH. PETUSHKÓV (R.). Oh, there you are. Well, how're things going? IVÁN PETROVICH (L.). The speeches for the defense have begun, but this ignorant rascal won't let us in. Curse his damned petty soul. GUARD (C.) Silence! Where do you think you are? [Further applause is heard; door of the court opens, and there is a rush of lawyers and the general public into the corridor. A LADY. Oh, it's simply wonderful! When he spoke I felt as if my heart were breaking. AN OFFICER. It's all far better than a novel. But I don't see how she could ever have loved him. Such a sinister, horrible figure. [The other door opens over L.; the accused comes out. THE LADY (this group is down R.). Hush! There he is. See how wild he looks. FÉDYA (seeing IVÁN PETROVICH). Did you bring it? [Goes to PETROVICH. PETROVICH. There. [He hands FÉDYA something; FÉDYA hides it in his pocket. FÉDYA (seeing PETUSHKÓV). How foolish! How vulgar and how boring all this is, isn't it? [Men and women enter door L. and stand down L. watching. [Enter PETRÚSHIN, from R. C., FÉDYA'S counsel, a stout man with red cheeks; very animated. PETRÚSHIN (rubbing his hands). Well, well, my friend. It's going along splendidly. Only remember, don't go and spoil things for me in your last speech. FÉDYA (takes him by the arm). Tell me, what'll the worst be? PETRÚSHIN. I've already told you. Exile to Siberia. FÉDYA. Who'll be exiled to Siberia? PETRÚSHIN. You and your wife, naturally. FÉDYA. And at the best? PETRÚSHIN. Religious pardon and the annulment of the second marriage. FÉDYA. You mean--that we should be bound again--to one another---- PETRÚSHIN. Yes. Only try to collect yourself. Keep up your courage. After all, there's no occasion for alarm. FÉDYA. There couldn't be any other sentence, you're sure? PETRÚSHIN. None other. None other. [Exits R. I. FÉDYA stands motionless. GUARD (crosses and exits L. I. Calling). Pass on. Pass on. No loitering in the corridor. [VICTOR and LISA enter from door L. Start to go off L. when pistol shot stops them. FÉDYA (He turns his back to the audience, and from beneath his ragged coat shoots himself in the heart. There is a muffled explosion, smoke. He crumples up in a heap on the floor. All the people in the passage rush to him.) (In a very low voice.) This time--it's well done... Lisa.... [People are crowding in from all the doors, judges, etc. LISA rushes to FÉDYA, KARÉNIN, IVÁN PETROVICH and PRINCE SERGIUS follow. LISA. Fédya!... Fédya!... What have you done? Oh why!... why!... FÉDYA. Forgive me---- No other way---- Not for you--but for myself---- LISA. You will live. You must live. FÉDYA. No--no---- Good-bye---- (He seems to smile, then he mutters just under his breath.) Masha. [In the distance the gypsies are heard singing "No More at Evening." They sing until the curtain. You're too late---- [Suddenly he raises his head from LISA'S knees, and barely utters as if he saw something in front of him. Ah.... Happiness!... [His head falls from LISA'S knees to the ground. She still clings to it, in grief and horror. He dies. [The lights dim and out. CURTAIN END OF _REDEMPTION_ * * * * * THE POWER OF DARKNESS OR IF A CLAW IS CAUGHT THE BIRD IS LOST CHARACTERS PETER IGNÁTITCH. A well-to-do peasant, 42 years old, married for the second time, and sickly. ANÍSYA. His wife, 32 years old, fond of dress. AKOULÍNA. Peter's daughter by his first marriage, 16 years old, hard of hearing, mentally undeveloped. NAN (ANNA PETRÓVNA). His daughter by his second marriage, 10 years old NIKÍTA. Their laborer, 25 years old, fond of dress. AKÍM. Nikíta's father, 50 years old, a plain-looking, God-fearing peasant. MATRYÓNA. His wife and Nikíta's mother, 50 years old. MARÍNA An orphan girl, 22 years old. MARTHA. Peter's sister. MÍTRITCH An old laborer, ex-soldier. SIMON. Marína's husband. BRIDEGROOM. Engaged to Akoulína. IVÁN. His father. A NEIGHBOR. FIRST GIRL. SECOND GIRL. POLICE OFFICER. DRIVER. BEST MAN MATCHMAKER. VILLAGE ELDER. VISITORS, WOMEN, GIRLS, AND PEOPLE come to see the wedding N.B.--The "oven" mentioned is the usual large, brick, Russian baking-oven. The top of it outside is flat, so that more than one person can lie on it. ACT I The Act takes place in autumn in a large village. The Scene represents PETER'S roomy hut. PETER is sitting on a wooden bench, mending a horse-collar. ANÍSYA and AKOULÍNA are spinning, and singing a part-song. PETER (looking out of the window). The horses have got loose again. If we don't look out they'll be killing the colt. Nikíta! Hey, Nikíta! Is the fellow deaf? (Listens. To the women.) Shut up, one can't hear anything. NIKÍTA (from outside). What? PETER. Drive the horses in. NIKÍTA. We'll drive 'em in. All in good time. PETER (shaking his head). Ah, these laborers! If I were well, I'd not keep one on no account. There's nothing but bother with 'em. (Rises and sits down again.) Nikíta!.... It's no good shouting. One of you'd better go. Go, Akoúl, drive 'em in. AKOULÍNA. What? The horses? PETER. What else? AKOULÍNA. All right. [Exit. PETER. Ah, but he's a loafer, that lad ... no good at all. Won't stir a finger if he can help it. ANÍSYA. You're so mighty brisk yourself. When you're not sprawling on the top of the oven you're squatting on the bench. To goad others to work is all you're fit for. PETER. If one weren't to goad you on a bit, one'd have no roof left over one's head before the year's out. Oh, what people! ANÍSYA. You go shoving a dozen jobs on to one's shoulders, and then do nothing but scold. It's easy to lie on the oven and give orders. PETER (sighing). Oh, if 'twere not for this sickness that's got hold of me, I'd not keep him on another day. AKOULÍNA (off the scene). Gee up, gee, woo. [A colt neighs, the stamping of horses' feet and the creaking of the gate are heard. PETER. Bragging, that's what he's good at. I'd like to sack him, I would indeed. ANÍSYA (mimicking him). "Like to sack him." You buckle to yourself, and then talk. AKOULÍNA (enters). It's all I could do to drive 'em in. That piebald always will.... PETER. And where's Nikíta? AKOULÍNA. Where's Nikíta? Why, standing out there in the street. PETER. What's he standing there for? AKOULÍNA. What's he standing there for? He stands there jabbering. PETER. One can't get any sense out of her! Who's he jabbering with? AKOULÍNA (does not hear). Eh, what? [PETER waves her off. She sits down to her spinning. NAN (running in to her mother). Nikíta's father and mother have come. They're going to take him away. It's true! ANÍSYA. Nonsense! NAN. Yes. Blest if they're not! (Laughing.) I was just going by, and Nikíta, he says, "Good-bye, Anna Petróvna," he says, "you must come and dance at my wedding. I'm leaving you," he says, and laughs. ANÍSYA (to her husband). There now. Much he cares. You see, he wants to leave of himself. "Sack him" indeed! PETER. Well, let him go. Just as if I couldn't find somebody else. ANÍSYA. And what about the money he's had in advance? [NAN stands listening at the door for awhile, and then exit. PETER (frowning). The money? Well, he can work it off in summer, anyhow. ANÍSYA. Well, of course you'll be glad if he goes and you've not got to feed him. It's only me as'll have to work like a horse all the winter. That lass of yours isn't over fond of work either. And you'll be lying up on the oven. I know you. PETER. What's the good of wearing out one's tongue before one has the hang of the matter? ANÍSYA. The yard's full of cattle. You've not sold the cow, and have kept all the sheep for the winter: feeding and watering 'em alone takes all one's time, and you want to sack the laborer. But I tell you straight, I'm not going to do a man's work! I'll go and lie on the top of the oven same as you, and let everything go to pot! You may do what you like. PETER (to Akoulína). Go and see about the feeding, will you? it's time. AKOULÍNA. The feeding? All right. [Puts on a coat and takes a rope. ANÍSYA. I'm not going to work for you. You go and work yourself. I've had enough of it, so there! PETER. That'll do. What are you raving about? Like a sheep with the staggers! ANÍSYA. You're a crazy cur, you are! One gets neither work nor pleasure from you. Eating your fill, that's all you do; you palsied cur, you! PETER (spits and puts on coat). Faugh! The Lord have mercy! I'd better go myself and see what's up. [Exit. ANÍSYA (after him). Scurvy long-nosed devil! AKOULÍNA. What are you swearing at dad for? ANÍSYA. Hold your noise, you idiot! AKOULÍNA (going to the door). I know why you're swearing at him. You're an idiot yourself, you bitch. I'm not afraid of you. ANÍSYA. What do you mean? (Jumps up and looks round for something to hit her with.) Mind, or I'll give you one with the poker. AKOULÍNA (opening the door). Bitch! devil! that's what you are! Devil! bitch! bitch! devil! [Runs off. ANÍSYA (ponders). "Come and dance at my wedding!" What new plan is this? Marry? Mind. Nikíta, if that's your intention, I'll go and.... No, I can't live without him. I won't let him go. NIKÍTA (enters, looks round, and, seeing Anísya alone, approaches quickly. In a low tone). Here's a go; I'm in a regular fix! That governor of mine wants to take me away,--tells me I'm to come home. Says quite straight I'm to marry and live at home. ANÍSYA. Well, go and marry! What's that to me? NIKÍTA. Is that it? Why, here am I reckoning how best to consider matters, and just hear her! She tells me to go and marry. Why's that? (Winking.) Has she forgotten? ANÍSYA. Yes, go and marry! What do I care? NIKÍTA. What are you spitting for? Just see, she won't even let me stroke her.... What's the matter? ANÍSYA. This! That you want to play me false.... If you do,--why, I don't want you either. So now you know! NIKÍTA. That'll do, Anísya. Do you think I'll forget you? Never while I live! I'll not play you false, that's flat. I've been thinking that supposing they do go and make me marry, I'd still come back to you. If only he don't make me live at home. ANÍSYA. Much need I'll have of you, once you're married. NIKÍTA. There's a go now. How is it possible to go against one's father's will? ANÍSYA. Yes, I daresay, shove it all on your father. You know it's your own doing. You've long been plotting with that slut of yours, MARÍNA. It's she has put you up to it. She didn't come here for nothing t'other day. NIKÍTA. Marína? What's she to me? Much I care about her!... Plenty of them buzzing around. ANÍSYA. Then what has made your father come here? It's you have told him to. You've gone and deceived me. [Cries. NIKÍTA. Anísya, do you believe in a God or not? I never so much as dreamt of it. I know nothing at all about it. I never even dreamt of it--that's flat. My old dad has got it all out of his own pate. ANÍSYA. If you don't wish it yourself who can force you? He can't drive you like an ass. NIKÍTA. Well, I reckon it's not possible to go against one's parent. But it's not by my wish. ANÍSYA. Don't you budge, that's all about it! NIKÍTA. There was a fellow wouldn't budge, and the village elder gave him such a hiding.... That's what it might come to! I've no great wish for that sort of thing. They say it touches one up.... ANÍSYA. Shut up with your nonsense. Nikíta, listen to me: if you marry that Marína I don't know what I won't do to myself.... I shall lay hands on myself! I have sinned, I have gone against the law, but I can't go back now. If you go away I'll.... NIKÍTA. Why should I go? Had I wanted to go--I should have gone long ago. There was Iván Semyónitch t'other day--offered me a place as his coachman.... Only fancy what a life that would have been! But I did not go. Because, I reckon, I am good enough for any one. Now if you did not love me it would be a different matter. ANÍSYA. Yes, and that's what you should remember. My old man will die one of these fine days, I'm thinking; then we could cover our sin, make it all right and lawful, and then you'll be master here. NIKÍTA. Where's the good of making plans? What do I care? I work as hard as if I were doing it for myself. My master loves me, and his missus loves me. And if the wenches run after me, it's not my fault, that's flat. ANÍSYA. And you'll love me? NIKÍTA (embracing her). There, as you have ever been in my heart.... MATRYÓNA (enters and crosses herself a long time before the icón. NIKÍTA and ANÍSYA step apart). What I saw I didn't perceive, what I heard, I didn't hearken to. Playing with the lass, eh? Well,--even a calf will play. Why shouldn't one have some fun when one's young? But your master is out in the yard a-calling you, sonny. NIKÍTA. I only came to get the axe. MATRYÓNA. I know, sonny, I know; them sort of axes are mostly to be found where the women are. NIKÍTA (stooping to pick up axe). I say, mother, is it true you want me to marry? As I reckon, that's quite unnecessary. Besides, I've got no wish that way. MATRYÓNA. Eh, honey! why should you marry? Go on as you are. It's all the old man. You'd better go, sonny; we can talk these matters over without you. NIKÍTA. It's a queer go! One moment I'm to be married, the next, not. I can't make head or tail of it. [Exit. ANÍSYA. What's it all about, then? Do you really wish him to get married? MATRYÓNA. Eh, why should he marry, my jewel? It's all nonsense, all my old man's drivel. "Marry, marry." But he's reckoning without his host. You know the saying, "From oats and hay, why should horses stray?" When you've enough to spare, why look elsewhere? And so in this case. (Winks.) Don't I see which way the wind blows? ANÍSYA. Where's the good of my pretending to you, Mother Matryóna? You know all about it. I have sinned. I love your son. MATRYÓNA. Dear me, here's news! D'you think Mother Matryóna didn't know? Eh, lassie,--Mother Matryóna's been ground, and ground again, ground fine! This much I can tell you, my jewel: Mother Matryóna can see through a brick wall three feet thick. I know it all, my jewel! I know what young wives need sleeping draughts for, so I've brought some along. [Unties a knot in her handkerchief and brings out paper-packets. As much as is wanted, I see, and what's not wanted I neither see nor perceive! There! Mother Matryóna has also been young. I had to know a thing or two to live with my old fool. I know seventy-and-seven dodges. But I see your old man's quite seedy, quite seedy! How's one to live with such as him? Why, if you pricked him with a hayfork it wouldn't fetch blood. See if you don't bury him before the spring. Then you'll need some one in the house. Well, what's wrong with my son? He'll do as well as another. Then where's the advantage of my taking him away from a good place? Am I my child's enemy? ANÍSYA. Oh, if only he does not go away! MATRYÓNA. He won't go away, birdie. It's all nonsense. You know my old man. His wits are always wool-gathering; yet sometimes he takes a thing into his pate, and it's as if it were wedged in, you can't knock it out with a hammer. ANÍSYA. And what started this business? MATRYÓNA. Well, you see, my jewel, you yourself know what a fellow with women the lad is,--and he's handsome too, though I say it as shouldn't. Well, you know, he was living at the railway, and they had an orphan wench there to cook for them. Well, that same wench took to running after him. ANÍSYA. Marína? MATRYÓNA. Yes, the plague seize her! Whether anything happened or not, anyhow something got to my old man's ears. Maybe he heard from the neighbors, maybe she's been and blabbed.... ANÍSYA. Well, she is a bold hussy! MATRYÓNA. So my old man--the old blockhead--off he goes: "Marry, marry," he says, "he must marry her and cover the sin," he says. "We must take the lad home," he says, "and he shall marry," he says. Well, I did my best to make him change his mind, but, dear me, no. So, all right, thinks I,--I'll try another dodge. One always has to entice them fools in this way, just pretend to be of their mind, and when it comes to the point one goes and turns it all one's own way. You know, a woman has time to think seventy-and-seven thoughts while falling off the oven, so how's such as he to see through it? "Well, yes," says I, "it would be a good job,--only we must consider well beforehand. Why not go and see our son, and talk it over with Peter Ignátitch and hear what he has to say?" So here we are. ANÍSYA. Oh dear, oh dear, how will it all end? Supposing his father just orders him to marry her? MATRYÓNA. Orders, indeed! Chuck his orders to the dogs! Don't you worry; that affair will never come off. I'll go to your old man myself, and sift and strain this matter clear--there will be none of it left. I have come here only for the look of the thing. A very likely thing! Here's my son living in happiness and expecting happiness, and I'll go and match him with a slut! No fear, I'm not a fool! ANÍSYA. And she--this Marína--came dangling after him here! Mother, would you believe, when they said he was going to marry, it was as if a knife had gone right through my heart. I thought he cared for her. MATRYÓNA. Oh, my jewel! Why, you don't think him such a fool, that he should go and care for a homeless baggage like that? Nikíta is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don't you go and fret, my jewel. We'll not take him away, and we won't marry him. No, we'll let him stay on, if you'll only oblige us with a little money. ANÍSYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikíta went away. MATRYÓNA. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours. ANÍSYA. Mother Matryóna, would you believe it? I'm that sick of him, that sick of this long-nosed cur of mine, I can hardly bear to look at him. MATRYÓNA. Yes, I see, it's one of them cases. Just look here. (Looks round and whispers.) I've been to see that old man, you know he's given me simples of two kinds. This, you see, is a sleeping draught. "Just give him one of these powders," he says, "and he'll sleep so sound you might jump on him!" And this here, "This is that kind of simple," he says, "that if you give one some of it to drink it has no smell whatever, but its strength is very great. There are seven doses here, a pinch at a time. Give him seven pinches," he says, "and she won't have far to look for freedom," he says. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! What's that? MATRYÓNA. "No sign whatever," he says. He's taken a rouble for it. "Can't sell it for less," he says. Because it's no easy matter to get 'em, you know. I paid him, dearie, out of my own money. If she takes them, thinks I, it's all right; if she don't, I can let old Michael's daughter have them. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! But mayn't some evil come of them? I'm frightened! MATRYÓNA. What evil, my jewel? If your old man was hale and hearty, 'twould be a different matter, but he's neither alive nor dead as it is. He's not for this world. Such things often happen. ANÍSYA. O-o-oh, my poor head! I'm afeared, Mother Matryóna, lest some evil come of them. No. That won't do. MATRYÓNA. Just as you like. I might even return them to him. ANÍSYA. And are they to be used in the same way as the others? Mixed in water? MATRYÓNA. Better in tea, he says. "You can't notice anything," he says, "no smell nor nothing." He's a cute old fellow, too. ANÍSYA (taking the powder). O-oh, my poor head! Could I have ever thought of such a thing if my life were not a very hell? MATRYÓNA. You'll not forget that rouble? I promised to take it to the old man. He's had some trouble, too. ANÍSYA. Of course? [Goes to her box and hides the powders. MATRYÓNA. And now, my jewel, keep it as close as you can, so that no one should find it out. Heaven defend that it should happen, but if any one notices it, tell 'em it's for the black-beetles. (Takes the rouble.) It's also used for beetles. (Stops short.) [Enter AKÍM, who crosses himself in front of the icon, and then PETER, who sits down. PETER. Well, then, how's it to be, Daddy Akím? AKÍM. As it's best, Peter Ignátitch, as it's best.... I mean--as it's best. 'Cos why? I'm afeared of what d'you call 'ems, some tomfoolery, you know. I'd like to, what d'you call it.... to start, you know, start the lad honest, I mean. But supposing you'd rather, what d'you call it, we might, I mean, what's name? As it's best.... PETER. All right. All right. Sit down and let's talk it over. (Akím sits down.) Well, then, what's it all about? You want him to marry? MATRYÓNA. As to marrying, he might bide a while, Peter Ignátitch. You know our poverty, Peter Ignátitch. What's he to marry on? We've hardly enough to eat ourselves. How can he marry then?... PETER. You must consider what will be best. MATRYÓNA. Where's the hurry for him to get married? Marriage is not that sort of thing, it's not like ripe raspberries that drop off if not picked in time. PETER. If he were to get married, 'twould be a good thing in a way. AKÍM. We'd like to ... what d'you call it? 'Cos why, you see. I've what d'you call it ... a job. I mean, I've found a paying job in town, you know. MATRYÓNA. And a fine job too--cleaning out cesspools. The other day when he came home, I could do nothing but spew and spew. Faugh! AKÍM. It's true, at first it does seem what d'you call it ... "knocks one clean over," you know,--the smell, I mean. But one gets used to it, and then it's nothing, no worse than malt grain, and then it's, what d'you call it, ... pays, pays, I mean. And as to the smell being, what d'you call it, it's not for the likes of us to complain. And one changes one's clothes. So we'd like to take what's his name ... NIKÍTA, I mean, home. Let him manage things at home while I, what d'you call it,--earn something in town. PETER. You want to keep your son at home? Yes, that would be well: but how about the money he has had in advance? AKÍM. That's it, that's it! It's just as you Say, Ignátitch, it's just what d'you call it. 'Cos why? If you go into service, it's as good as if you had sold yourself, they say. That will be all right. I mean he may stay and serve his time, only he must, what d'you call it, get married. I mean--so: you let him off for a little while, that he may, what d'you call it? PETER. Yes, we could manage that. MATRYÓNA. Ah, but it's not yet settled between ourselves, Peter Ignátitch. I'll speak to you as I would before God, and you may judge between my old man and me. He goes on harping on that marriage. But just ask--who it is he wants him to marry. If it were a girl of the right sort now--I am not my child's enemy, but the wench is not honest. AKÍM. No, that's wrong! Wrong, I say. 'Cos why? She, that same girl-- it's my son as has offended, offended the girl I mean. PETER. How offended? AKÍM. That's how. She's what d'you call it, with him, with my son, NIKÍTA. With Nikíta, what d'you call it, mean. MATRYÓNA. You wait a bit, my tongue runs smoother--let me tell it. You know, this lad of ours lived at the railway before he came to you. There was a girl there as kept dangling after him. A girl of no account, you know; her name's Marína. She used to cook for the men. So now this same girl accuses our son, Nikíta, that he, so to say, deceived her. PETER. Well, there's nothing good in that. MATRYÓNA. But she's no honest girl herself; she runs after the fellows like a common slut. AKÍM. There you are again, old woman, and it's not at all what d'you call it, it's all not what d'you call it, I mean.... MATRYÓNA. There now, that's all the sense one gets from my old owl-- "what d'you call it, what d'you call it," and he doesn't know himself what he means. Peter Ignátitch, don't listen to me, but go yourself and ask any one you like about the girl, everybody will say the same. She's just a homeless good-for-nothing. PETER. You know, Daddy Akím, if that's how things are, there's no reason for him to marry her. A daughter-in-law's not like a shoe, you can't kick her off. AKÍM (excitedly). It's false, old woman, it's what d'you call it, false; I mean, about the girl; false! 'Cos why? The lass is a good lass, a very good lass, you know. I'm sorry, sorry for the lassie, I mean. MATRYÓNA. It's an old saying: "For the wide world old Miriam grieves, and at home without bread her children she leaves." He's sorry for the girl, but not sorry for his own son! Sling her round your neck and carry her about with you! That's enough of such empty cackle! AKÍM. No, it's not empty. MATRYÓNA. There, don't interrupt, let me have my say. AKÍM (interrupts). No, not empty! I mean, you twist things your own way, about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better for yourself; but God, what d'you call it, turns them His way. That's how it is. MATRYÓNA. Eh! One only wears out one's tongue with you. AKÍM. The lass is hard-working and spruce, and keeps everything round herself ... what d'you call it. And in our poverty, you know, it's a pair of hands, I mean; and the wedding needn't cost much. But the chief thing's the offence, the offence to the lass, and she's a what d'you call it, an orphan, you know; that's what she is, and there's the offence. MATRYÓNA. Eh! they'll all tell you a tale of that sort.... ANÍSYA. Daddy Akím, you'd better listen to us women; we can tell you a thing or two. AKÍM. And God, how about God? Isn't she a human being, the lass? A what d'you call it,--also a human being I mean, before God. And how do you look at it? MATRYÓNA. Eh! ... started off again?... PETER. Wait a bit, Daddy Akím. One can't believe all these girls say, either. The lad's alive, and not far away; send for him, and find out straight from him if it's true. He won't wish to lose his soul. Go and call the fellow, (Anísya rises) and tell him his father wants him. [Exit ANÍSYA. MATRYÓNA. That's right, dear friend; you've cleared the way clean, as with water. Yes, let the lad speak for himself. Nowadays, you know, they'll not let you force a son to marry; one must first of all ask the lad. He'll never consent to marry her and disgrace himself, not for all the world. To my thinking, it's best he should go on living with you and serving you as his master. And we need not take him home for the summer either; we can hire a help. If you would only give us ten roubles now, we'll let him stay on. Peter. All in good time. First let us settle one thing before we start another. Akím. You see, Peter Ignátitch, I speak. 'Cos why? you know how it happens. We try to fix things up as seems best for ourselves, you know; and as to God, we what d'you call it, we forget Him. We think it's best so, turn it our own way, and lo! we've got into a fix, you know. We think it will be best, I mean; and lo! it turns out much worse--without God, I mean. PETER. Of course one must not forget God. AKÍM. It turns out worse! But when it's the right way--God's way--it what d'you call it, it gives one joy; seems pleasant, I mean. So I reckon, you see, get him, the lad, I mean, get him to marry her, to keep him from sin, I mean, and let him what d'you call it at home, as it's lawful, I mean, while I go and get the job in town. The work is of the right sort--it's payin', I mean. And in God's sight it's what d'you call it--it's best, I mean. Ain't she an orphan? Here, for example, a year ago some fellows went and took timber from the steward,--thought they'd do the steward, you know. Yes, they did the steward, but they couldn't what d'you call it--do God, I mean. Well, and so.... [Enter NIKÍTA and NAN. NIKÍTA. You called me? [Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch. PETER (in a low, reproachful voice). What are you thinking about--have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up! [NIKÍTA rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles. AKÍM. It seems there's a complaint, you know, about you, Nikíta--a complaint, I mean, a complaint. NIKÍTA. Who's been complaining? AKÍM. Complaining? It's a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It's her, you know--a complaint against you, from Marína, I mean. NIKÍTA (laughs). Well, that's a good one. What's the complaint? And who's told you--she herself? AKÍM. It's I am asking you, and you must now, what d'you call it, give me an answer. Have you got mixed up with the lass, I mean--mixed up, you know? NIKÍTA. I don't know what you mean. What's up? AKÍM. Foolin', I mean, what d'you call it? foolin'. Have you been foolin' with her, I mean? NIKÍTA. Never mind what's been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that? PETER. Don't shuffle, Nikíta, but answer your father straight out. AKÍM (solemnly). You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikíta. You, what d'you call it--think, I mean, and don't tell lies. She's an orphan; so, you see, any one is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what's rightest. NIKÍTA. But what if I have nothing to say? I have told you everything --because there isn't anything to tell, that's flat! (Getting excited.) She can go and say anything about me, same as if she was speaking of one as is dead. Why don't she say anything about Fédka Mikíshin? Besides, how's this, that one mayn't even have a bit of fun nowadays? And as for her, well, she's free to say anything she likes. AKÍM. Ah, Nikíta, mind! A lie will out. Did anything happen? NIKÍTA (aside). How he sticks to it; it's too bad. (To Akím.) I tell you, I know nothing more. There's been nothing between us. (Angrily.) By God! and may I never leave this spot (crosses himself) if I know anything about it. (Silence. Then still more excitedly.) Why! have you been thinking of getting me to marry her? What do you mean by it?-- it's a confounded shame. Besides, nowadays you've got no such rights as to force a fellow to marry. That's plain enough. Besides, haven't I sworn I know nothing about it? MATRYÓNA (to her husband). There now, that's just like your silly pate, to believe all they tell you. He's gone and put the lad to shame all for nothing. The best thing is to let him live as he is living, with his master. His master will help us in our present need, and give us ten roubles, and when the time comes.... PETER. Well, Daddy Akím, how's it to be? AKÍM (looks at his son, clicking his tongue disapprovingly). Mind, Nikíta, the tears of one that's been wronged never, what d'you call it--never fall beside the mark but always on, what's name--the head of the man as did the wrong. So mind, don't what d'you call it. NIKÍTA (sits down). What's there to mind? mind yourself. NAN (aside). I must run and tell mother. [Exit. MATRYÓNA (to Peter). That's always the way with this old mumbler of mine, Peter Ignátitch. Once he's got anything wedged in his pate there's no knocking it out. We've gone and troubled you all for nothing. The lad can go on living as he has been. Keep him; he's your servant. PETER. Well, Daddy Akím, what do you say? AKÍM. Why, the lad's his own master, if only he what d'you call it.... I only wish that, what d'you call it, I mean. MATRYÓNA. You don't know yourself what you're jawing about. The lad himself has no wish to leave. Besides, what do we want with him at home? We can manage without him. PETER. Only one thing, Daddy Akím--if you are thinking of taking him back in summer, I don't want him here for the winter. If he is to stay at all, it must be for the whole year. MATRYÓNA. And it's for a year he'll bind himself. If we want help when the press of work comes, we can hire help, and the lad shall remain with you. Only give us ten roubles now.... PETER. Well then, is it to be for another year? AKÍM (sighing). Yes, it seems, it what d'you call it ... if it's so, I mean, it seems that it must be what d'you call it. MATRYÓNA. For a year, counting from St. Dimítry's day. We know you'll pay him fair wages. But give us ten roubles now. Help us out of our difficulties. (Gets up and bows to Peter.) [Enter NAN and ANÍSYA. The latter sits down at one side. PETER. Well, if that's settled we might step across to the inn and have a drink. Come, Daddy Akím, what do you say to a glass of vódka? AKÍM. No, I never drink that sort of thing. PETER. Well, you'll have some tea? AKÍM. Ah, tea! yes, I do sin that way. Yes, tea's the thing. PETER. And the women will also have some tea. Come. And you, Nikíta, go and drive the sheep in and clear away the straw. NIKÍTA. All right. (Exeunt all but NIKÍTA. NIKÍTA lights a cigarette. It grows darker.) Just see how they bother one. Want a fellow to tell 'em how he larks about with the wenches! It would take long to tell 'em all those stories--"Marry her," he says. Marry them all! One would have a good lot of wives! And what need have I to marry? Am as good as married now! There's many a chap as envies me. Yet how strange it felt when I crossed myself before the icón. It was just as if some one shoved me. The whole web fell to pieces at once. They say it's frightening to swear what's not true. That's all humbug. It's all talk, that is. It's simple enough. AKOULÍNA (enters with a rope, which she puts down. She takes off her outdoor things and goes into closet). You might at least have got a light. NIKÍTA. What, to look at you? I can see you well enough without. AKOULÍNA. Oh, bother you! [NAN enters and whispers to NIKÍTA. NAN. Nikíta, there's a person wants you. There is! NIKÍTA. What person? NAN. Marína from the railway; she's out there, round the corner. NIKÍTA. Nonsense! NAN. Blest if she isn't! Nikíta. What does she want? NAN. She wants you to come out. She says, "I only want to say a word to Nikíta." I began asking, but she won't tell, but only says, "Is it true he's leaving you?" And I say, "No, only his father wanted to take him away and get him to marry, but he won't, and is going to stay with us another year." And she says, "For goodness' sake send him out to me. I must see him," she says, "I must say a word to him somehow." She's been waiting a long time. Why don't you go? NIKÍTA. Bother her! What should I go for? NAN. She says, "If he don't come, I'll go into the hut to him." Blest if she didn't say she'd come in! NIKÍTA. Not likely. She'll wait a bit and then go away. NAN. "Or is it," she says, "that they want him to marry Akoulína?" [Re-enter AKOULÍNA, passing near NIKÍTA to take her distaff. AKOULÍNA. Marry whom to Akoulína? NAN. Why, Nikíta. Akoulína. A likely thing! Who says it? NIKÍTA (looks at her and laughs). It seems people do say it. Would you marry me, Akoulína? AKOULÍNA. Who, you? Perhaps I might have afore, but I won't now. NIKÍTA. And why not now? Akoulína. 'Cos you wouldn't love me. NIKÍTA. Why not? Akoulína. 'Cos you'd be forbidden to. [Laughs. NIKÍTA. Who'd forbid it? AKOULÍNA. Who? My step-mother. She does nothing but grumble, and is always staring at you. NIKÍTA (laughing). Just hear her! Ain't she cute? AKOULÍNA. Who? Me? What's there to be cute about? Am I blind? She's been rowing and rowing at dad all day. The fat-muzzled witch! [Goes into closet. NAN (looking out of the window). Look, Nikíta, she's coming! I'm blest if she isn't! I'll go away. [Exit. MARÍNA (enters). What are you doing with me? NIKÍTA. Doing? I'm not doing anything. MARÍNA. You mean to desert me. NIKÍTA (gets up angrily). What does this look like, your coming here? MARÍNA. Oh, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Well, you are strange! What have you come for? MARÍNA. Nikíta! NIKÍTA. That's my name. What do you want with Nikíta? Well, what next? Go away, I tell you! MARÍNA. I see, you do want to throw me over. NIKÍTA. Well, and what's there to remember? You yourself don't know. When you stood out there round the corner and sent Nan for me, and I didn't come, wasn't it plain enough that you're not wanted? It seems pretty simple. So there--go! MARÍNA. Not wanted! So now I'm not wanted! I believed you when you said you would love me. And now that you've ruined me, I'm not wanted. NIKÍTA. Where's the good of talking? This is quite improper. You've been telling tales to father. Now, do go away, will you? MARÍNA. You know yourself I never loved any one but you. Whether you married me or not, I'd not have been angry. I've done you no wrong, then why have you left off caring for me? Why? NIKÍTA. Where's the use of baying at the moon? You go away. Goodness me! what a duffer! MARÍNA. It's not that you deceived me when you promised to marry me that hurts, but that you've left off loving. No, it's not that you've stopped loving me either, but that you've changed me for another, that's what hurts. I know who it is! NIKÍTA (comes up to her viciously). Eh! what's the good of talking to the likes of you, that won't listen to reason? Be off, or you'll drive me to do something you'll be sorry for. MARÍNA. What, will you strike me, then? Well then, strike me! What are you turning away for? Ah, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Supposing some one came in. Of course, it's quite improper. And what's the good of talking? MARÍNA. So this is the end of it! What has been has flown. You want me to forget it? Well then, Nikíta, listen. I kept my maiden honor as the apple of my eye. You have ruined me for nothing, you have deceived me. You have no pity on a fatherless and motherless girl! (Weeping.) You have deserted, you have killed me, but I bear you no malice. God forgive you! If you find a better one you'll forget me, if a worse one you'll remember me. Yes, you will remember, Nikíta! Good-bye, then, if it is to be. Oh, how I loved you! Good-bye for the last time. [Takes his head in her hands and tries to kiss him. NIKÍTA (tossing his head back). I'm not going to talk with the likes of you. If you won't go away I will, and you may stay here by yourself. MARÍNA (screams). You are a brute. (In the doorway.) God will give you no joy. [Exit, crying. AKOULÍNA (comes out of closet). You're a dog, Nikíta! NIKÍTA. What's up? AKOULÍNA. What a cry she gave! [Cries. NIKÍTA. What's up with you? AKOULÍNA. What's up? You've hurt her, ... That's the way you'll hurt me also. You're a dog. [Exit into closet. [Silence. NIKÍTA. Here's a fine muddle. I'm as sweet as honey on the lasses, but when a fellow's sinned with 'em it's a bad look-out! CURTAIN ACT II The scene represents the village street. To the left the outside of PETER'S hut, built of logs, with a porch in the middle; to the right of the hut the gates and a corner of the yard buildings. ANÍSYA is beating hemp in the street near the corner of the yard. Six months have elapsed since the First Act. ANÍSYA (stops and listens). Mumbling something again. He's probably got off the stove. [AKOULÍNA enters, carrying two pails on a yoke. ANÍSYA. He's calling. You go and see what he wants, kicking up such a row. AKOULÍNA. Why don't you go? ANÍSYA. Go, I tell you! [Exit AKOULÍNA into hut. He's bothering me to death. Won't let out where the money is, and that's all about it. He was out in the passage the other day. He must have been hiding it there. Now, I don't know myself where it is. Thank goodness he's afraid of parting with it, so that at least it will stay in the house. If only I could manage to find it. He hadn't it on him yesterday. Now I don't know where it can be. He has quite worn the life out of me. [Enter AKOULÍNA, tying her kerchief over her head. ANÍSYA. Where are you off to? AKOULÍNA. Where? Why, he's told me to go for Aunt Martha. "Fetch my sister," he says. "I am going to die," he says. "I have a word to say to her." ANÍSYA (aside). Asking for his sister? Oh, my poor head! Sure he wants to give it her. What shall I do? Oh! (To AKOULÍNA.) Don't go! Where are you off to? AKOULÍNA. To call Aunt. ANÍSYA. Don't go I tell you, I'll go myself. You go and take the clothes to the river to rinse. Else you'll not have finished by the evening. AKOULÍNA. But he told me to go. ANÍSYA. You go and do as you're bid. I tell you I'll fetch Martha myself. Take the shirts off the fence. AKOULÍNA. The shirts? But maybe you'll not go. He's given the order. ANÍSYA. Didn't I say I'd go? Where's Nan? AKOULÍNA. Nan? Minding the calves. ANÍSYA. Send her here. I dare say they'll not run away. [AKOULÍNA collects the clothes, and exit. ANÍSYA. If one doesn't go he'll scold. If one goes he'll give the money to his sister. All my trouble will be wasted. I don't myself know what I'm to do. My poor head's splitting. [Continues to work. [Enter MATRYÓNA, with a stick and a bundle, in outdoor clothes. MATRYÓNA. May the Lord help you, honey. ANÍSYA (looks round, stops working, and claps her hands with joy). Well, I never expected this! Mother Matryóna, God has sent the right guest at the right time. MATRYÓNA. Well, how are things? ANÍSYA. Ah, I'm driven well-nigh crazy. It's awful! MATRYÓNA. Well, still alive, I hear? ANÍSYA. Oh, don't talk about it. He doesn't live and doesn't die! MATRYÓNA. But the money--has he given it to anybody? ANÍSYA. He's just sending for his sister Martha--probably about the money. MATRYÓNA. Well, naturally! But hasn't he given it to any one else? ANÍSYA. To no one. I watch like a hawk. MATRYÓNA. And where is it? ANÍSYA. He doesn't let out. And I can't find out in any way. He hides it now here, now there, and I can't do anything because of Akoulína. Idiot though she is, she keeps watch, and is always about. Oh my poor head! I'm bothered to death. MATRYÓNA. Oh, my jewel, if he gives the money to any one but you, you'll never cease regretting it as long as you live! They'll turn you out of house and home without anything. You've been worriting, and worriting all your life with one you don't love, and will have to go a-begging when you are a widow. ANÍSYA. No need to tell me, mother. My heart's that weary, and I don't know what to do. No one to get a bit of advice from. I told Nikíta, but he's frightened of the job. The only thing he did was to tell me yesterday it was hidden under the floor. MATRYÓNA. Well, and did you look there? ANÍSYA. I couldn't. The old man himself was in the room. I notice that sometimes he carries it about on him, and sometimes he hides it. MATRYÓNA. But you, my lass, must remember that if once he gives you the slip there's no getting it right again! (Whispering.) Well, and did you give him the strong tea? ANÍSYA. Oh! oh!... [About to answer, but sees neighbor and stops. [The NEIGHBOR (a woman) passes the hut, and listens to a call from within. NEIGHBOR (to Anísya). I say, Anísya! Oh, Anísya! There's your old man calling, I think. ANÍSYA. That's the way he always coughs,--just as if he were screaming. He's getting very bad. NEIGHBOR (approaches MATRYÓNA). How do you do, granny? Have you come far? MATRYÓNA. Straight from home, dear. Come to see my son. Brought him some shirts--can't help thinking of these things, you see, when it's one's own child. NEIGHBOR. Yes, that's always so. (To Anísya.) And I was thinking of beginning to bleach the linen, but it is a bit early, no one has begun yet. ANÍSYA. Where's the hurry? MATRYÓNA. Well, and has he had communion? ANÍSYA. Oh, dear, yes, the priest was here yesterday. NEIGHBOR. I had a look at him yesterday. Dearie me! one wonders his body and soul keep together. And, O Lord, the other day he seemed just at his last gasp, so that they laid him under the holy icóns.[1] They started lamenting and got ready to lay him out. ANÍSYA. He came to, and creeps about again. MATRYÓNA. Well, and is he to have extreme unction? ANÍSYA. The neighbors advise it. If he lives till to-morrow we'll send for the priest. NEIGHBOR. Oh, Anísya dear, I should think your heart must be heavy. As the saying goes, "Not he is sick that's ill in bed, but he that sits and waits in dread." ANÍSYA. Yes, if it were only over one way or other! NEIGHBOR. Yes, that's true, dying for a year, it's no joke. You're bound hand and foot like that. MATRYÓNA. Ah, but a widow's lot is also bitter. It's all right as long as one's young, but who'll care for you when you're old? Oh yes, old age is not pleasure. Just look at me. I've not walked very far, and yet am so footsore I don't know how to stand. Where's my son? ANÍSYA. Ploughing. But you come in and we'll get the samovár ready; the tea'll set you up again. MATRYÓNA (sitting down). Yes, it's true, I'm quite done up, my dears. As to extreme unction, that's absolutely necessary. Besides, they say it's good for the soul. ANÍSYA. Yes, we'll send to-morrow. MATRYÓNA. Yes, you had better. And we've had a wedding down in our parts. NEIGHBOR. What, in spring?[2] MATRYÓNA. Ah, now if it were a poor man, then, as the saying is, it's always unseasonable for a poor man to marry. But it's Simon Matvéyitch, he's married that Marína. ANÍSYA. What luck for her! NEIGHBOR. He's a widower. I suppose there are children? MATRYÓNA. Four of 'em. What decent girl would have him! Well, so he's taken her, and she's glad. You see, the vessel was not sound, so the wine trickled out. NEIGHBOR. Oh, my! And what do people say to it? And he, a rich peasant! MATRYÓNA. They are living well enough so far. NEIGHBOR. Yes, it's true enough. Who wants to marry where there are children? There now, there's our Michael. He's such a fellow, dear me.... PEASANT'S VOICE. Hullo, Mávra. Where the devil are you? Go and drive the cow in. [Exit NEIGHBOR. MATRYÓNA (while the NEIGHBOR is within hearing speaks in her ordinary voice). Yes, lass, thank goodness, she's married. At any rate my old fool won't go bothering about Nikíta. Now (suddenly changing her tone), she's gone! (Whispers.) I say, did you give him the tea? ANÍSYA. Don't speak about it. He'd better die of himself. It's no use --he doesn't die, and I have only taken a sin on my soul. O-oh, my head, my head! Oh, why did you give me those powders? MATRYÓNA. What of the powders? The sleeping powders, lass,--why not give them? No evil can come of them. ANÍSYA. I am not talking of the sleeping ones, but the others, the white ones. MATRYÓNA. Well, honey, those powders are medicinal. ANÍSYA (sighs). I know, yet it's frightening. Though he's worried me to death. MATRYÓNA. Well, and did you use many? ANÍSYA. I gave two doses. MATRYÓNA. Was anything noticeable? ANÍSYA. I had a taste of the tea myself--just a little bitter. And he drank them with the tea and says, "Even tea disgusts me," and I say, "Everything tastes bitter when one's sick." But I felt that scared, mother. MATRYÓNA. Don't go thinking about it. The more one thinks the worse it is. ANÍSYA. I wish you'd never given them to me and led me into sin. When I think of it something seems to tear my heart. Oh, dear, why did you give them to me? MATRYÓNA. What do you mean, honey? Lord help you! Why are you turning it on to me? Mind, lass, don't go twisting matters from the sick on to the healthy. If anything were to happen, I stand aside! I know nothing! I'm aware of nothing! I'll kiss the cross on it; I never gave you any kind of powders, never saw any, never heard of any, and never knew there were such powders. You think about yourself, lass. Why, we were talking about you the other day. "Poor thing, what torture she endures. The step-daughter an idiot; the old man rotten, sucking her lifeblood. What wouldn't one be ready to do in such a case!" ANÍSYA. I'm not going to deny it. A life such as mine could make one do worse than that. It could make you hang yourself or throttle him. Is this a life? MATRYÓNA. That's just it. There's no time to stand gaping; the money must be found one way or other, and then he must have his tea. ANÍSYA. O-oh, my head, my head! I can't think what to do. I am so frightened; he'd better die of himself. I don't want to have it on my soul. MATRYÓNA (viciously). And why doesn't he show the money? Does he mean to take it along with him? Is no one to have it? Is that right? God forbid such a sum should be lost all for nothing. Isn't that a sin? What's he doing? Is he worth considering? ANÍSYA. I don't know anything. He's worried me to death. MATRYÓNA. What is it you don't know? The business is clear. If you make a slip now, you'll repent it all your life. He'll give the money to his sister and you'll be left without. ANÍSYA. O--oh dear! Yes, and he did send for her--I must go. MATRYÓNA. You wait a bit and light the samovár first. We'll give him some tea and search him together--we'll find it, no fear. ANÍSYA. Oh dear, oh dear; supposing something were to happen. MATRYÓNA. What now? What's the good of waiting? Do you want the money to slip from your hand when it's just in sight? You go and do as I say. ANÍSYA. Well, I'll go and light the samovár. MATRYÓNA. Go, honey, do the business so as not to regret it afterwards. That's right! [ANÍSYA turns to go. MATRYÓNA calls her back. MATRYÓNA. Just a word. Don't tell Nikíta about the business. He's silly. God forbid he should find out about the powders. The Lord only knows what he would do. He's so tender-hearted. D'you know, he usen't to be able to kill a chicken. Don't tell him. 'Twould be a fine go, he wouldn't understand things. [Stops horror-struck as PETER appears in the doorway. PETER (holding on to the wall, creeps out into the porch and calls with a faint voice). How's it one can't make you hear? Oh, oh, Anísya! Who's there? [Drops on the bench. ANÍSYA (steps from behind the corner). Why have you come out? You should have stayed where you were lying. PETER. Has the girl gone for Martha? It's very hard.... Oh, if only death would come quicker! ANÍSYA. She had no time. I sent her to the river. Wait a bit, I'll go myself when I'm ready. PETER. Send Nan. Where's she? Oh, I'm that bad! Oh, death's at hand! ANÍSYA. I've sent for her already. Peter. Oh, dear! Then where is she? ANÍSYA. Where's she got to, the plague seize her! PETER. Oh, dear! I can't bear it. All my inside's on fire. It's as if a gimlet were boring me. Why have you left me as if I were a dog? ... no one to give me a drink.... Oh ... send Nan to me. ANÍSYA. Here she is. Nan, go to father. [NAN runs in. ANÍSYA goes behind the corner of the house. PETER. Go you. Oh ... to Aunt Martha, tell her father wants her; say she's to come, I want her. NAN. All right. PETER. Wait a bit. Tell her she's to come quick. Tell her I'm dying. O--oh! NAN. I'll just get my shawl and be off. [Runs off. MATRYÓNA (winking). Now, then, mind and look sharp, lass. Go into the hut, hunt about everywhere, like a dog that's hunting for fleas: look under everything, and I'll search him. ANÍSYA (to MATRYÓNA). I feel a bit bolder, somehow, now you're here. (Goes up to porch. To PETER.) Hadn't I better light the samovár? Here's Mother Matryóna come to see her son; you'll have a cup of tea with her? PETER. Well, then, light it. [ANÍSYA goes into the house. MATRYÓNA comes up to the porch. PETER. How do you do? MATRYÓNA (bowing). How d'you do, my benefactor; how d'you do, my precious ... still ill, I see. And my old man, he's that sorry! "Go," says he, "see how he's getting on." He sends his respects to you. [Bows again. PETER. I'm dying. MATRYÓNA. Ah, yes, Peter Ignátitch, now I look at you I see, as the saying has it, "Sickness lives where men live." You've shrivelled, shrivelled, all to nothing, poor dear, now I come to look at you. Seems illness does not add to good looks. PETER. My last hour has come. MATRYÓNA. Oh well, Peter Ignátitch, it's God's will you know, you've had communion, and you'll have unction, God willing. Your missus is a wise woman, the Lord be thanked; she'll give you a good burial, and have prayers said for your soul, all most respectable! And my son, he'll look after things meanwhile. PETER. There'll be no one to manage things! She's not steady. Has her head full of folly--why, I know all about it, I know. And my girl is silly and young. I've got the homestead together, and there's no one to attend to things. One can't help feeling it. [Whimpers. MATRYÓNA. Why, if it's money, or something, you can leave orders? PETER (to Anísya inside the house). Has Nan gone? MATRYÓNA (aside). There now, he's remembered! ANÍSYA (from inside). She went then and there. Come inside, won't you? I'll help you in. PETER. Let me sit here a bit for the last time. The air's so stuffy inside. Oh, how bad I feel! Oh, my heart's burning.... Oh, if death would only come! MATRYÓNA. If God don't take a soul, the soul can't go out. Death and life are in God's will. Peter Ignátitch. You can't be sure of death either. Maybe you'll recover yet. There was a man in our village just like that, at the very point of death.... PETER. No, I feel I shall die to-day, I feel it. [Leans back and shuts his eyes. ANÍSYA (enters). Well, now, are you coming in or not? You do keep one waiting. Peter! eh, Peter! MATRYÓNA (steps aside and beckons to ANÍSYA with her finger). Well? ANÍSYA (comes down the porch steps). Not there. MATRYÓNA. But have you searched everywhere? Under the floor? ANÍSYA. No, it's not there either. In the shed perhaps; he was rummaging there yesterday. MATRYÓNA. Go, search, search for all you're worth. Go all over everywhere, as if you licked with your tongue! But I see he'll die this very day, his nails are turning blue and his face looks earthy. Is the samovár ready? ANÍSYA. Just on the boil. NIKÍTA (comes from the other side, if possible on horse-back, up to the gate, and does not see PETER. To MATRYÓNA). How d'you do, mother, is all well at home? MATRYÓNA. The Lord be thanked, we're all alive and have a crust to bite. NIKÍTA. Well and how's master? MATRYÓNA. Hush, there he sits. [Points to porch. NIKÍTA. Well, let him sit. What's it to me? PETER (opens his eyes). Nikíta, I say, Nikíta, come here! [NIKÍTA approaches. ANÍSYA and MATRYÓNA whisper together. PETER. Why have you come back so early? NIKÍTA. I've finished ploughing. PETER. Have you done the strip beyond the bridge? NIKÍTA. It's too far to go there. PETER. Too far? From here it's still farther. You'll have to go on purpose now. You might have made one job of it. [ANÍSYA, without showing herself, stands and listens. MATRYÓNA (approaches). Oh, sonny, why don't you take more pains for your master? Your master is ill and depends on you; you should serve him as you would your own father, straining every muscle just as I always tell you to. PETER. Well, then--o--oh!... Get out the seed potatoes, and the women will go and sort them. ANÍSYA (aside). No fear, I'm not going. He's again sending every one away; he must have the money on him now, and wants to hide it somewhere. PETER. Else ... o--oh! when the time comes for planting, they'll all be rotten. Oh, I can't stand it! [Rises. MATRYÓNA (runs up into the porch and holds PETER up). Shall I help you into the hut? PETER. Help me in. (Stops.) Nikíta! NIKÍTA (angrily). What now? PETER. I shan't see you again.... I'll die to-day.... Forgive me,[3] for Christ's sake, forgive me if I have ever sinned against you.... If I have sinned in word or deed.... There's been all sorts of things. Forgive me! NIKÍTA. What's there to forgive? I'm a sinner myself. MATRYÓNA. Ah, sonny, have some feeling. PETER. Forgive me, for Christ's sake. [Weeps. NIKÍTA (snivels). God will forgive you, Daddy Peter. I have no cause to complain of you. You've never done me any wrong. You forgive me; maybe I've sinned worse against you. (Weeps.) [PETER goes in whimpering, MATRYÓNA supporting him. ANÍSYA. Oh, my poor head! It's not without some reason he's hit on that. (Approaches NIKÍTA.) Why did you say the money was under the floor? It's not there. NIKÍTA (does not answer, but cries). I have never had anything bad from him, nothing but good, and what have I gone and done! ANÍSYA. Enough now! Where's the money? NIKÍTA (angrily). How should I know? Go and look for it yourself! ANÍSYA. What's made you so tender? NIKÍTA. I am sorry for him,--that sorry. How he cried! Oh, dear! ANÍSYA. Look at him,--seized with pity! He has found some one to pity too! He's been treating you like a dog, and even just now was giving orders to have you turned out of the house. You'd better show me some pity! NIKÍTA. What are you to be pitied for? ANÍSYA. If he dies, and the money's been hidden away.... NIKÍTA. No fear, he'll not hide it.... ANÍSYA. Oh, Nikíta darling! he's sent for his sister, and wants to give it to her. It will be a bad lookout for us. How are we going to live, if he gives her the money? They'll turn me out of the house! You try and manage somehow! You said he went to the shed last night. NIKÍTA. I saw him coming from there, but where he's shoved it to, who can tell? ANÍSYA. Oh, my poor head! I'll go and have a look there. [NIKÍTA steps aside. MATRYÓNA (comes out of the hut and down the steps of the porch to ANÍSYA and NIKÍTA). Don't go anywhere. He's got the money on him. I felt it on a string round his neck. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my head! MATRYÓNA. If you don't keep wide awake now, then you may whistle for it. If his sister comes--then good-bye to it! ANÍSYA. That's true. She'll come and he'll give it her. What's to be done? Oh, my poor head! MATRYÓNA. What is to be done? Why, look here; the samovár is boiling, go and make the tea and pour him out a cup, and then (whispers) put in all that's left in the paper. When he's drunk the cup, then just take it. He'll not tell, no fear. ANÍSYA. Oh! I'm afeared! MATRYÓNA. Don't be talking now, but look alive, and I'll keep his sister off if need be. Mind, don't make a blunder! Get hold of the money and bring it here, and Nikíta will hide it. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my head! I don't know how I'm going to.... MATRYÓNA. Don't talk about it I tell you, do as I bid you. Nikíta! NIKÍTA. What is it? MATRYÓNA. You stay here--sit down--in case something is wanted. NIKÍTA (waves his hand). Oh, these women, what won't they be up to? Muddle one up completely. Bother them! I'll really go and fetch out the potatoes. MATRYÓNA (catches him by the arm). Stay here, I tell you. [NAN enters. ANÍSYA. Well? NAN. She was down in her daughter's vegetable plot--she's coming. ANÍSYA. Coming! What shall we do? MATRYÓNA. There's plenty of time if you do as I tell you. ANÍSYA. I don't know what to do; I know nothing, my brain's all in a whirl. Nan! Go, daughter, and see to the calves, they'll have run away, I'm afraid.... Oh dear, I haven't the courage. MATRYÓNA. Go on! I should think the samovár's boiling over. ANÍSYA. Oh my head, my poor head! [Exit. MATRYÓNA (approaches NIKÍTA). Now then, sonny. (Sits down beside him.) Your affairs must also be thought about, and not left anyhow. NIKÍTA. What affairs? MATRYÓNA. Why, this affair--how you're to live your life. NIKÍTA. How to live my life? Others live, and I shall live! MATRYÓNA. The old man will probably die to-day. NIKÍTA. Well, if he dies, God give him rest! What's that to me? MATRYÓNA (keeps looking towards the porch while she speaks). Eh, sonny! Those that are alive have to think about living. One needs plenty of sense in these matters, honey. What do you think? I've tramped all over the place after your affairs, I've got quite footsore bothering about matters. And you must not forget me when the time comes. NIKÍTA. And what's it you've been bothering about? MATRYÓNA. About your affairs, about your future. If you don't take trouble in good time you'll get nothing. You know Iván Mosévitch? Well, I've been to him too. I went there the other day. I had something else to settle, you know. Well, so I sat and chatted awhile and then came to the point. "Tell me, Iván Mosévitch," says I, "how's one to manage an affair of this kind? Supposing," says I, "a peasant as is a widower married a second wife, and supposing all the children he has is a daughter by the first wife, and a daughter by the second. Then," says I, "when that peasant dies, could an outsider get hold of the homestead by marrying the widow? Could he," says I, "give both the daughters in marriage and remain master of the house himself?" "Yes, he could," says he, "but," says he, "it would mean a deal of trouble; still the thing could be managed by means of money, but if there's no money it's no good trying." NIKÍTA (laughs). That goes without saying, only fork out the money. Who does not want money? MATRYÓNA. Well then, honey, so I spoke out plainly about the affair. And he says, "First and foremost, your son will have to get himself on the register of that village--that will cost something. The elders will have to be treated. And they, you see, they'll sign. Everything," says he, "must be done sensibly." Look (unwraps her kerchief and takes out a paper), he's written out this paper; just read it, you're a scholar, you know. [NIKÍTA reads. NIKÍTA. This paper's only a decision for the elders to sign. There's no great wisdom needed for that. MATRYÓNA. But you just hear what Iván Mosévitch bids us do. "Above all," he says, "mind and don't let the money slip away, dame. If she don't get hold of the money," he says, "they'll not let her do it. Money's the great thing!" So look out, sonny, things are coming to a head. NIKÍTA. What's that to me? The money's hers--so let her look out. MATRYÓNA. Ah, sonny, how you look at it! How can a woman manage such affairs? Even if she does get the money, is she capable of arranging it all? One knows what a woman is! You're a man anyhow. You can hide it, and all that. You see, you've after all got more sense, in case of anything happening. NIKÍTA. Oh, your woman's notions are all so inexpedient! MATRYÓNA. Why inexpedient? You just collar the money, and the woman's in your hands. And then should she ever turn snappish you'd be able to tighten the reins! NIKÍTA. Bother you all,--I'm going. ANÍSYA (quite pale, runs out of the hut and round the corner to MATRYÓNA). So it was, it was on him! Here it is! [Shows that she has something under her apron. MATRYÓNA. Give it to Nikíta; he'll hide it. Nikíta, take it and hide it somewhere. NIKÍTA. All right, give here! ANÍSYA. O--oh, my poor head! No, I'd better do it myself. [Goes towards the gate. MATRYÓNA (seizing her by the arm). Where are you going to? You'll be missed. There's the sister coming; give it him; he knows what to do. Eh, you blockhead! ANÍSYA (stops irresolutely). Oh, my head, my head! NIKÍTA. Well, give it here. I'll shove it away somewhere. ANÍSYA. Where will you shove it to? NIKÍTA (laughing). Why, are you afraid? [Enter AKOULÍNA, carrying clothes from the wash. ANÍSYA. O--oh, my poor head! (Gives the money.) Mind, Nikíta. NIKÍTA. What are you afraid of? I'll hide it so that I'll not be able to find it myself. [Exit. ANÍSYA (stands in terror). Oh dear, and supposing he.... MATRYÓNA. Well, is he dead? ANÍSYA. Yes, he seems dead. He did not move when I took it. MATRYÓNA. Go in, there's Akoulína. ANÍSYA. Well there, I've done the sin and he has the money.... MATRYÓNA. Have done and go in! There's Martha coming! ANÍSYA. There now, I've trusted him. What's going to happen now? [Exit. Martha (enters from one side, AKOULÍNA enters from the other. To AKOULÍNA). I should have come before, but I was at my daughter's. Well, how's the old man? Is he dying? AKOULÍNA (puts down the clothes). Don't know; I've been to the river. Martha (pointing to MATRYÓNA). Who's that? MATRYÓNA. I'm from Zoúevo. I'm Nikíta's mother from Zoúevo, my dearie. Good afternoon to you. He's withering, withering away, poor dear--your brother, I mean. He came out himself. "Send for my sister," he said, "because," said he.... Dear me, why, I do believe he's dead! ANÍSYA (runs out screaming. Clings to a post, and begins wailing).[4] Oh, oh, ah! who-o-o-o-m have you left me to, why-y-y have you dese-e-e-e-rted me--a miserable widow ... to live my life alone.... Why have you closed your bright eyes.... [Enter NEIGHBOR. MATRYÓNA and NEIGHBOR catch hold of ANÍSYA under the arms to support her. AKOULÍNA and MARTHA go into the hut. A crowd assembles. A VOICE IN THE CROWD. Send for the old women to lay out the body. MATRYÓNA (rolls up her sleeves). Is there any water in the copper? But I daresay the samovár is still hot. I'll also go and help a bit. CURTAIN ACT III The same hut. Winter. Nine months have passed since Act II. ANÍSYA, plainly dressed, sits before a loom weaving. NAN is on the oven. MÍTRITCH (an old laborer, enters and slowly takes off his outdoor things). Oh Lord, have mercy! Well, hasn't the master come home yet? ANÍSYA. What? MÍTRITCH. Nikíta isn't back from town, is he? ANÍSYA. No. MÍTRITCH. Must have been on the spree. Oh Lord! ANÍSYA. Have you finished in the stackyard? MÍTRITCH. What d'you think? Got it all as it should be, and covered everything with straw! I don't like doing things by halves! Oh Lord! holy Nicholas! (Picks at the corns on his hands.) But it's time he was back. ANÍSYA. What need has he to hurry? He's got money. Merry-making with that girl, I daresay.... MÍTRITCH. Why shouldn't one make merry if one has the money? And why did Akoulína go to town? ANÍSYA. You'd better ask her. How do I know what the devil took her there! MÍTRITCH. What! to town? There's all sorts of things to be got in town if one's got the means. Oh Lord! NAN. Mother, I heard myself. "I'll get you a little shawl," he says, blest if he didn't; "you shall choose it yourself," he says. And she got herself up so fine; she put on her velveteen coat and the French shawl. ANÍSYA. Really, a girl's modesty reaches only to the door. Step over the threshold and it's forgotten. She is a shameless creature. MÍTRITCH. Oh my! What's the use of being ashamed? While there's plenty of money make merry. Oh Lord! It is too soon to have supper, eh? (ANÍSYA does not answer.) I'll go and get warm meanwhile. (Climbs on the stove.) Oh, Lord! Blessed Virgin Mother! Holy Nicholas! NEIGHBOR (enters). Seems your good man's not back yet? ANÍSYA. No. NEIGHBOR. It's time he was. Hasn't he perhaps stopped at our inn? My sister, Thekla, says there's heaps of sledges standing there as have come from the town. ANÍSYA. Nan! Nan, I say! NAN. Yes? ANÍSYA. You run to the inn and see! Mayhap, being drunk, he's gone there. NAN (jumps down from the oven and dresses). All right. NEIGHBOR. And he's taken Akoulína with him? ANÍSYA. Else he'd not have had any need of going. It's because of her he's unearthed all the business there. "Must go to the bank," he says; "it's time to receive the payments," he says. But it's all her fooling. NEIGHBOR (shakes her head). It's a bad look-out. [Silence. NAN (at the door). And if he's there, what am I to say? ANÍSYA. You only see if he's there. NAN. All right. I'll be back in a winking. [Long silence. MÍTRITCH (roars). Oh Lord! merciful Nicholas! NEIGHBOR (starting). Oh, how he scared me! Who is it? ANÍSYA. Why, Mítritch, our laborer. NEIGHBOR. Oh dear, oh dear, what a fright he did give me! I had quite forgotten. But tell me, dear, I've heard some one's been wooing Akoulína? ANÍSYA (gets up from the loom and sits down by the table). There was some one from Dédlovo; but it seems the affair's got wind there too. They made a start, and then stopped; so the thing fell through. Of course, who'd care to? NEIGHBOR. And the Lizounófs from Zoúevo? ANÍSYA. They made some steps too, but it didn't come off either. They won't even see us. NEIGHBOR. Yet it's time she was married. ANÍSYA. Time and more than time! Ah, my dear, I'm that impatient to get her out of the house; but the matter does not come off. He does not wish it, nor she either. He's not yet had enough of his beauty, you see. NEIGHBOR. Eh, eh, eh, what doings! Only think of it. Why, he's her step-father! ANÍSYA. Ah, friend, they've taken me in completely. They've done me so fine it's beyond saying. I, fool that I was, noticed nothing, suspected nothing, and so I married him. I guessed nothing, but they already understood one another. NEIGHBOR. Oh dear, what goings on! ANÍSYA. So it went on from bad to worse, and I see they begin hiding from me. Ah, friend, I was that sick--that sick of my life! It's not as if I didn't love him. NEIGHBOR. That goes without saying. ANÍSYA. Ah, how hard it is to bear such treatment from him! Oh, how it hurts! NEIGHBOR. Yes, and I've heard say he's becoming too free with his fists? ANÍSYA. And that too! There was a time when he was gentle when he'd had a drop. He used to hit out before, but of me he was always fond! But now when he's in a temper he goes for me and is ready to trample me under his feet. The other day he got both my hands entangled in my hair so that I could hardly get away. And the girl's worse than a serpent; it's a wonder the earth bears such furies. NEIGHBOR. Ah, ah, my dear, now I look at you, you are a sufferer! To suffer like that is no joke. To have given shelter to a beggar, and he to lead you such a dance! Why don't you pull in the reins? ANÍSYA. Ah, but, my dear, if it weren't for my heart! Him as is gone was stern enough, still I could twist him about any way I liked; but with this one I can do nothing. As soon as I see him all my anger goes. I haven't a grain of courage before him; I go about like a drowned hen. NEIGHBOR. Ah, neighbor, you must be under a spell. I've heard that Matryóna goes in for that sort of thing. It must be her. ANÍSYA. Yes, dear; I think so myself sometimes. Gracious me, how hurt I feel at times! I'd like to tear him to pieces. But when I set eyes on him, my heart won't go against him. NEIGHBOR. It's plain you're bewitched. It don't take long to blight a body. There now, when I look at you, what you have dwindled to! ANÍSYA. Growing a regular spindle-shanks. And just look at that fool Akoulína. Wasn't the girl a regular untidy slattern, and just look at her now! Where has it all come from? Yes, he has fitted her out. She's grown so smart, so puffed up, just like a bubble that's ready to burst. And, though she's a fool, she's got it into her head. "I'm the mistress," she says; "the house is mine; it's me father wanted him to marry." And she's that vicious! Lord help us, when she gets into a rage she's ready to tear the thatch off the house. NEIGHBOR. Oh dear, what a life yours is, now I come to look at you. And yet there's people envying you: "They're rich," they say; but it seems that gold don't keep tears from falling. ANÍSYA. Much reason for envy indeed! And the riches, too, will soon be made ducks and drakes of. Dear me, how he squanders money! NEIGHBOR. But how's it, dear, you've been so simple to give up the money? It's yours. ANÍSYA. Ah, if you knew all! The thing is that I've made one little mistake. NEIGHBOR. Well, if I were you, I'd go straight and have the law of him. The money's yours; how dare he squander it? There's no such rights. ANÍSYA. They don't pay heed to that nowadays. NEIGHBOR. Ah, my dear, now I come to look at you, you've got that weak. Anísya. Yes, quite weak, dear, quite weak. He's got me into a regular fix. I don't myself know anything. Oh, my poor head! NEIGHBOR (listening). There's some one coming, I think. [The door opens and AKÍM enters. AKÍM (crosses himself, knocks the snow off his feet, and takes off his coat). Peace be to this house! How do you do? Are you well, daughter? ANÍSYA. How d'you do, father? Do you come straight from home? AKÍM. I've been a-thinking I'll go and see what's name, go to see my son, I mean,--my son. I didn't start early--had my dinner, I mean; I went, and it's so what d'you call it--so snowy, hard walking, and so there I'm what d'you call it--late, I mean. And my son--is he at home? At home? My son, I mean. ANÍSYA. No; he's gone to the town. AKÍM (sits down on a bench). I've some business with him, d'you see, some business, I mean. I told him t'other day, told him I was in need --told him, I mean, that our horse was done for, our horse, you see. So we must what d'ye call it, get a horse, I mean, some kind of a horse, I mean. So there, I've come, you see. ANÍSYA. Nikíta told me. When he comes back you'll have a talk. (Goes to the oven.) Have some supper now, and he'll soon come. Mítritch, eh, Mítritch, come have your supper. MÍTRITCH. Oh Lord! merciful Nicholas! ANÍSYA. Come to supper. NEIGHBOR. I shall go now. Good-night. [Exit. MÍTRITCH (gets down from the oven). I never noticed how I fell asleep. Oh, Lord! gracious Nicholas! How d'you do, Daddy Akím? AKÍM. Ah, Mítritch! What are you, what d'ye call it, I mean?... MÍTRITCH. Why, I'm working for your son, Nikíta. AKÍM. Dear me! What d'ye call ... working for my son, I mean. Dear me! MÍTRITCH. I was living with a tradesman in town, but drank all I had there. Now I've come back to the village. I've no home, so I've gone into service. (Gapes.) Oh Lord! AKÍM. But how's that, what d'you call it, or what's name, Nikíta, what does he do? Has he some business, I mean besides, that he should hire a laborer, a laborer, I mean, hire a laborer? ANÍSYA. What business should he have? He used to manage, but now he's other things on his mind, so he's hired a laborer. MÍTRITCH. Why shouldn't he, seeing he has money? AKÍM. Now that's what d'you call it, that's wrong, I mean, quite wrong, I mean. That's spoiling oneself. ANÍSYA. Oh, he has got spoilt, that spoilt, it's just awful. AKÍM. There now, what d'you call it, one thinks how to make things better, and it gets worse I mean. Riches spoil a man, spoil, I mean. MÍTRITCH. Fatness makes even a dog go mad; how's one not to get spoilt by fat living? Myself now; how I went on with fat living. I drank for three weeks without being sober. I drank my last breeches. When I had nothing left, I gave it up. Now I've determined not to. Bother it! AKÍM. And where's what d'you call, your old woman? MÍTRITCH. My old woman has found her right place, old fellow. She's hanging about the gin-shops in town. She's a swell too; one eye knocked out, and the other black, and her muzzle twisted to one side. And she's never sober; drat her! AKÍM. Oh, oh, oh, how's that? MÍTRITCH. And where's a soldier's wife to go? She has found her right place. [Silence. AKÍM (to ANÍSYA). And Nikíta,--has he what d'you call it, taken anything up to town? I mean, anything to sell? ANÍSYA (laying the table and serving up). No, he's taken nothing. He's gone to get money from the bank. AKÍM (sitting down to supper). Why? D'you wish to put it to another use, the money I mean? ANÍSYA. No, we don't touch it. Only some twenty or thirty roubles as have come due; they must be taken. AKÍM. Must be taken. Why take it, the money I mean? You'll take some to-day I mean, and some to-morrow; and so you'll what d'you call it, take it all, I mean. ANÍSYA. We get this besides. The money is all safe. AKÍM. All safe? How's that, safe? You take it, and it what d'you call it, it's all safe. How's that? You put a heap of meal into a bin, or a barn, I mean, and go on taking meal, will it remain there, what d'you call it, all safe, I mean? That's, what d'you call it, it's cheating. You'd better find out, or else they'll cheat you. Safe indeed! I mean you what d'ye call ... you take it and it remains all safe there? ANÍSYA. I know nothing about it. Iván Mosévitch advised us at the time. "Put the money in the bank," he said, "the money will be safe, and you'll get interest," he said. MÍTRITCH (having finished his supper). That's so. I've lived with a tradesman. They all do like that. Put the money in the bank, then lie down on the oven and it will keep coming in. AKÍM. That's queer talk. How's that--what d'ye call, coming in, how's that coming in, and they, who do they get it from I mean, the money I mean? ANÍSYA. They take the money out of the bank. MÍTRITCH. Get along! Tain't a thing a woman can understand! You look here, I'll make it all clear to you. Mind and remember. You see, suppose you've got some money, and I, for instance, have spring coming on, my land's idle, I've got no seeds, or I have to pay taxes. So, you see, I go to you. "Akím," I say, "give us a ten-rouble note, and when I've harvested in autumn I'll return it, and till two acres for you besides, for having obliged me!" And you, seeing I've something to fall back on--a horse say, or a cow--you say, "No, give two or three roubles for the obligation," and there's an end of it. I'm stuck in the mud, and can't do without. So I say, "All right!" and take a tenner. In the autumn, when I've made my turnover, I bring it back, and you squeeze the extra three roubles out of me. AKÍM. Yes, but that's what peasants do when they what d'ye call it, when they forget God. It's not honest, I mean, it's no good, I mean. MÍTRITCH. You wait. You'll see it comes just to the same thing. Now don't forget how you've skinned me. And Anísya, say, has got some money lying idle. She does not know what to do with it, besides, she's a woman, and does not know how to use it. She comes to you. "Couldn't you make some profit with my money too?" she says. "Why not?" say you, and you wait. Before the summer I come again and say, "Give me another tenner, and I'll be obliged." Then you find out if my hide isn't all gone, and if I can be skinned again you give me Anísya's money. But supposing I'm clean shorn,--have nothing to eat,--then you see I can't be fleeced any more, and you say, "Go your way, friend," and you look out for another, and lend him your own and Anísya's money and skin him. That's what the bank is. So it goes round and round. It's a cute thing, old fellow! AKÍM (excitedly). Gracious me, whatever is that like? It's what d'ye call it, it's filthy! The peasants--what d'ye call it, the peasants do so I mean, and know it's, what d'ye call it, a sin! It's what d'you call, not right, not right, I mean. It's filthy! How can people as have learnt ... what d'ye call it.... MÍTRITCH. That, old fellow, is just what they're fond off And remember, them that are stupid, or the women folk, as can't put their money into use themselves, they take it to the bank, and they there, deuce take 'em, clutch hold of it, and with this money they fleece the people. It's a cute thing! AKÍM (sighing). Oh dear, I see, what d'ye call it, without money it's bad, and with money it's worse! How's that? God told us to work, but you, what d'you call ... I mean you put money into the bank and go to sleep, and the money will what d'ye call it, will feed you while you sleep. It's filthy, that's what I call it; it's not right. MÍTRITCH. Not right? Eh, old fellow, who cares about that nowadays? And how clean they pluck you, too! That's the fact of the matter. AKÍM (sighs). Ah, yes, seems the time's what d'ye call it, the time's growing ripe. There, I've had a look at the closets in town. What they've come to! It's all polished and polished I mean, it's fine, it's what d'ye call it, it's like inside an inn. And what's it all for? What's the good of it? Oh, they've forgotten God. Forgotten, I mean. We've forgotten, forgotten God, God, I mean! Thank you, my dear, I've had enough. I'm quite satisfied. [Rises. MÍTRITCH climbs on to the oven. ANÍSYA (eats, and collects the dishes). If his father would only take him to task! But I'm ashamed to tell him. AKÍM. What d'you say? ANÍSYA. Oh! it's nothing. [Enter NAN. AKÍM. Here's a good girl, always busy! You're cold, I should think? NAN. Yes, I am, terribly. How d'you do, grandfather? ANÍSYA. Well? Is he there? NAN. No. But Andriyán is there. He's been to town, and he says he saw them at an inn in town. He says Dad's as drunk as drunk can be! ANÍSYA. Do you want anything to eat? Here you are. NAN (goes to the oven). Well, it is cold. My hands are quite numb. [AKÍM takes off his leg-bands and bast-shoes. ANÍSYA washes up. ANÍSYA. Father! AKÍM. Well, what is it? ANÍSYA. And is Marína living well? AKÍM. Yes, she's living all right. The little woman is what d'ye call it, clever and steady; she's living, and what d'ye call it, doing her best. She's all right; the little woman's of the right sort I mean; painstaking and what d'ye call it, submissive; the little woman's all right I mean, all right, you know. ANÍSYA. And is there no talk in your village that a relative of Marína's husband thinks of marrying our Akoulína? Have you heard nothing of it? AKÍM. Ah; that's Mirónof. Yes, the women did chatter something. But I didn't pay heed, you know. It don't interest me I mean, I don't know anything. Yes, the old women did say something, but I've a bad memory, bad memory, I mean. But the Mirónofs are what d'ye call it, they're all right, I mean they're all right. ANÍSYA. I'm that impatient to get her settled. AKÍM. And why? NAN (listens). They've come! ANÍSYA. Well, don't you go bothering them. [Goes on washing the spoons without turning her head. NIKÍTA (enters). Anísya! Wife! who has come? [ANÍSYA looks up and turns away in silence. NIKÍTA (severely). Who has come? Have you forgotten? ANÍSYA. Now don't humbug. Come in! NIKÍTA (still more severely). Who's come? ANÍSYA (goes up and takes him by the arm). Well, then, husband has come. Now then, come in! NIKÍTA (holds back). Ah, that's it! Husband! And what's husband called? Speak properly. ANÍSYA. Oh bother you! Nikíta! NIKÍTA. Where have you learnt manners? The full name. ANÍSYA. Nikíta Akímitch! Now then! NIKÍTA. (still in the doorway). Ah, that's it! But now--the surname? ANÍSYA (laughs and pulls him by the arm). Tchilíkin. Dear me, what airs! NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it. (Holds on to the door-post.) No, now say with which foot Tchilíkin steps into this house! ANÍSYA. That's enough! You're letting the cold in! NIKÍTA. Say with which foot he steps? You've got to say it,--that's flat. ANÍSYA (aside). He'll go on worrying. (To NIKÍTA.) Well then, with the left. Come in! NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it. ANÍSYA. You look who's in the hut! NIKÍTA. Ah, my parent! Well, what of that? I'm not ashamed of my parent. I can pay my respects to my parent. How d'you do, father? (Bows and puts out his hand.) My respects to you. AKÍM (does not answer). Drink, I mean drink, what it does! It's filthy! NIKÍTA. Drink, what's that? I've been drinking? I'm to blame, that's flat! I've had a glass with a friend, drank his health. ANÍSYA. Go and lie down, I say. NIKÍTA. Wife, say where am I standing? ANÍSYA. Now then, it's all right, lie down! NIKÍTA. No, I'll first drink a samovár with my parent. Go and light the samovár. Akoulína, I say, come here! [Enter AKOULÍNA, smartly dressed and carrying their purchases. AKOULÍNA. Why have you thrown everything about? Where's the yarn? NIKÍTA. The yarn? The yarn's there. Hullo, Mítritch, where are you? Asleep? Asleep? Go and put the horse up. AKÍM (not seeing AKOULÍNA but looking at his son). Dear me, what is he doing? The old man's what d'ye call it, quite done up, I mean,--been thrashing,--and look at him, what d'ye call it, putting on airs! Put up the horse! Faugh, what filth! MÍTRITCH (climbs down from the oven, and puts on felt boots). Oh, merciful Lord! Is the horse in the yard? Done it to death, I dare say. Just see how he's been swilling, the deuce take him. Up to his very throat. Oh Lord, Holy Nicholas! [Puts on sheepskin and exit. NIKÍTA (sits down). You must forgive me, father. It's true I've had a drop; well, what of that? Even a hen will drink. Ain't it true? So you must forgive me. Never mind Mítritch, he doesn't mind, he'll put it up. ANÍSYA. Shall I really light the samovár? NIKÍTA. Light it! My parent has come. I wish to talk to him, and shall drink tea with him. (To AKOULÍNA.) Have you brought all the parcels? AKOULÍNA. The parcels? I've brought mine, the rest's in the sledge. Hi, take this, this isn't mine! [Throws a parcel on the table and puts the others into her box. NAN watches her while she puts them away. AKÍM does not look at his son, but puts his leg-bands and bast-shoes on the oven. ANÍSYA (going out with the samovár). Her box is full as it is, and still he's bought more! NIKÍTA (pretending to be sober). You must not be cross with me, father. You think I'm drunk? I am all there, that's flat! As they say, "Drink, but keep your wits about you." I can talk with you at once, father. I can attend to any business. You told me about the money; your horse is worn-out,--I remember! That can all be managed. That's all in our hands. If it was an enormous sum that's wanted, then we might wait; but as it is I can do everything. That's the case. AKÍM (goes on fidgeting with the leg-bands). Eh, lad, "It's ill sledging when the thaw has set in." NIKÍTA. What do you mean by that? "And it's ill talking with one who is drunk?" But don't you worry, let's have some tea. And I can do anything; that's flat! I can put everything to rights. AKÍM (shakes his head). Eh, eh, eh! NIKÍTA. The money, here it is. (Puts his hand in his pocket, pulls out pocket-book, handles the notes in it and takes out a ten-rouble note.) Take this to get a horse; I can't forget my parent. I shan't forsake him, that's flat. Because he's my parent! Here you are, take it! Really now, I don't grudge it. (Comes up and pushes the note towards AKÍM, who won't take it. NIKÍTA catches hold of his father's hand.) Take it, I tell you. I don't grudge it. AKÍM. I can't what d'you call it, I mean, can't take it! And can't what d'ye call it, talk to you, because you're not yourself, I mean. NIKÍTA. I'll not let you go! Take it! [Puts the money into AKÍM'S hand. ANÍSYA (enters, and stops). You'd better take it, he'll give you no peace! AKÍM (takes it, and shakes his head). Oh! that liquor. Not like a man, I mean! NIKÍTA. That's better! If you repay it you'll repay it, if not I'll make no bother. That's what I am! (Sees AKOULÍNA.) Akoulína, show your presents. AKOULÍNA. What? NIKÍTA. Show your presents. AKOULÍNA. The presents, what's the use of showing 'em? I've put 'em away. NIKÍTA. Get them, I tell you. Nan will like to see 'em. Undo the shawl. Give it here. AKÍM. Oh, oh! It's sickening! [Climbs on the oven. AKOULÍNA (gets out the parcels and puts them on the table). Well, there you are,--what's the good of looking at 'em? NAN. Oh how lovely! It's as good as Stepanída's. AKOULÍNA. Stepanída's? What's Stepanída's compared to this? (Brightening up and undoing the parcels.) Just look here,--see the quality! It's a French one. NAN. The print is fine! Mary has a dress like it, only lighter on a blue ground. This is pretty. NIKÍTA. Ah, that's it! [ANÍSYA passes angrily into the closet, returns with a tablecloth and the chimney of the Samovár, and goes up to the table. ANÍSYA. Drat you, littering the table! NIKÍTA. You look here! ANÍSYA. What am I to look at? Have I never seen anything? Put it away! [Sweeps the shawl on to the floor with her arm. AKOULÍNA. What are you pitching things down for? You pitch your own things about! [Picks up the shawl. NIKÍTA. Anísya! Look here! ANÍSYA. Why am I to look? NIKÍTA. You think I have forgotten you? Look here! (Shows her a parcel and sits down on it.) It's a present for you. Only you must earn it! Wife, where am I sitting? ANÍSYA. Enough of your humbug. I'm not afraid of you. Whose money are you spreeing on and buying your fat wench presents with? Mine! AKOULÍNA. Yours indeed? No fear! You wished to steal it, but it did not come off! Get out of the way! [Pushes her while trying to pass. ANÍSYA. What are you shoving for? I'll teach you to shove! AKOULÍNA. Shove me? You try! [Presses against ANÍSYA. NIKÍTA. Now then, now then, you women. Have done now! [Steps between them. AKOULÍNA. Comes shoving herself in! You ought to keep quiet and remember your doings! You think no one knows! ANÍSYA. Knows what? Out with it, out with it! What do they know? AKOULÍNA. I know something about you! ANÍSYA. You're a slut who goes with another's husband! AKOULÍNA. And you did yours to death! ANÍSYA (throwing herself on AKOULÍNA). You're raving! NIKÍTA (holding her back). Anísya, you seem to have forgotten! ANÍSYA. Want to frighten me! I'm not afraid of you! NIKÍTA (turns ANÍSYA round and pushes her out). Be off! ANÍSYA. Where am I to go? I'll not go out of my own house! NIKÍTA. Be off, I tell you, and don't dare to come in here! ANÍSYA. I won't go! (NIKÍTA pushes her, ANÍSYA cries and screams and clings to the door.) What! am I to be turned out of my own house by the scruff of the neck? What are you doing, you scoundrel? Do you think there's no law for you? You wait a bit! NIKÍTA. Now then! ANÍSYA. I'll go to the Elder! To the policeman! NIKÍTA. Off, I tell you! [Pushes her out. ANÍSYA (behind the door). I'll hang myself! NIKÍTA. No fear! NAN. Oh, oh, oh! Mother, dear, darling! [Cries. NIKÍTA. Me frightened of her! A likely thing! What are you crying for? She'll come back, no fear. Go and see to the samovár. [Exit NAN. AKOULÍNA (collects and folds her presents). The mean wretch, how she's messed it up. But wait a bit, I'll cut up her jacket for her! Sure I will! NIKÍTA. I've turned her out; what more do you want? AKOULÍNA. She's dirtied my new shawl. If that bitch hadn't gone away, I'd have torn her eyes out! NIKÍTA. That's enough. Why should you be angry? Now if I loved her.... AKOULÍNA. Loved her? She's worth loving, with her fat mug! If you'd have given her up, then nothing would have happened. You should have sent her to the devil. And the house was mine all the same, and the money was mine! Says she is the mistress, but what sort of mistress is she to her husband? She's a murderess, that's what she is! She'll serve you the same way! NIKÍTA. Oh dear, how's one to stop a woman's jaw? You don't yourself know what you're jabbering about! AKOULÍNA. Yes, I do. I'll not live with her! I'll turn her out of the house! She can't live here with me. The mistress indeed! She's not the mistress,--that jailbird! NIKÍTA. That's enough! What have you to do with her? Don't mind her. You look at me! I am the master! I do as I like. I've ceased to love her, and now I love you. I love who I like! The power is mine, she's under me. That's where I keep her. (Points to his feet.) A pity we've no concertina. [Sings. "We have loaves on the stoves, We have porridge on the shelf. So we'll live and be gay, Making merry every day, And when death comes, Then we'll die! We have loaves on the stoves, We have porridge on the shelf...." [Enter MÍTRITCH. He takes off his outdoor things and climbs on the oven. MÍTRITCH. Seems the women have been fighting again! Tearing each other's hair. Oh Lord, gracious Nicholas! AKÍM. (sitting on the edge of the oven, takes his leg-bands and shoes and begins putting them on). Get in, get into the corner. MÍTRITCH. Seems they can't settle matters between them. Oh Lord! NIKÍTA. Get out the liquor, we'll have some with our tea. NAN (to AKOULÍNA). Sister, the samovár is just boiling over. NIKÍTA. And where's your mother? NAN. She's standing and crying out there in the passage. NIKÍTA. Oh, that's it! Call her, and tell her to bring the samovár. And you, Akoulína, get the tea things. AKOULÍNA. The tea things? All right. [Brings the things. NIKÍTA (unpacks spirits, rusks, and salt herrings). That's for myself. This is yarn for the wife. The paraffin is out there in the passage, and here's the money. Wait a bit (takes a counting-frame); I'll add it up. (Adds.) Wheat-flour, 80 kopeykas, oil ... Father, 10 roubles ... Father, come let's have some tea! [Silence. AKÍM sits on the oven and winds the bands round his legs. Enter ANÍSYA with samovár. ANÍSYA. Where shall I put it? NIKÍTA. Here on the table. Well! have you been to the Elder? Ah, that's it! Have your say and then eat your words. Now then, that's enough. Don't be cross; sit down and drink this. (Fills a wine-glass for her.) And here's your present. [Gives her the parcel he had been sitting on. ANÍSYA takes it silently and shakes her head. AKÍM (gets down and puts on his sheepskin, then comes up to the table and puts down the money). Here, take your money back! Put it away. NIKÍTA (does not see the money). Why have you put on your things? AKÍM. I'm going, going, I mean; forgive me, for the Lord's sake. [Takes up his cap and belt. NIKÍTA. My gracious! Where are you going to at this time of night? AKÍM. I can't, I mean what d'ye call 'em, in your house, what d'ye call 'em, can't stay I mean, stay, can't stay, forgive me. NIKÍTA. But are you going without having any tea? AKÍM (fastens his belt). Going because, I mean, it's not right in your house, I mean, what d'you call it, not right, Nikíta, in the house, what d'ye call it, not right! I mean, you are living a bad life, Nikíta, bad,--I'll go. NIKÍTA. Eh, now! Have done talking! Sit down and drink your tea! ANÍSYA. Why, father, you'll shame us before the neighbors. What has offended you? AKÍM. Nothing what d'ye call it, nothing has offended me, nothing at all! I mean only, I see, what d'you call it, I mean, I see my son, to ruin, I mean, to ruin, I mean my son's on the road to ruin, I mean. NIKÍTA. What ruin? Just prove it! AKÍM. Ruin, ruin; you're in the midst of it! What did I tell you that time? NIKÍTA. You said all sorts of things! Akím. I told you, what d'ye call it, I told you about the orphan lass. That you had wronged an orphan-- Marína, I mean, wronged her! NIKÍTA. Eh! he's at it again. Let bygones be bygones.... All that's past! AKÍM (excited). Past! No, lad, it's not past. Sin, I mean, fastens on to sin--drags sin after it, and you've stuck fast, Nikíta, fast in sin! Stuck fast in sin! I see you're fast in sin. Stuck fast, sunk in sin, I mean! NIKÍTA. Sit down and drink your tea, and have done with it! AKÍM. I can't, I mean can't what d'ye call it, can't drink tea. Because of your filth, I mean; I feel what d'ye call it, I feel sick, very sick! I can't what d'ye call it, I can't drink tea with you. NIKÍTA. Eh! There he goes rambling! Come to the table. AKÍM. You're in your riches same as in a net--you're in a net, I mean. Ah, Nikíta, it's the soul that God needs! NIKÍTA. Now really, what right have you to reprove me in my own house? Why do you keep on at me? Am I a child that you can pull by the hair? Nowadays those things have been dropped! AKÍM. That's true. I have heard that nowadays, what d'ye call it, that nowadays children pull their fathers' beards, I mean! But that's ruin, that's ruin, I mean! NIKÍTA (angrily). We are living without help from you, and it's you who came to us with your wants! AKÍM. The money? There's your money! I'll go begging, begging I mean, before I'll take it, I mean. NIKÍTA. That's enough! Why be angry and upset the whole company! [Holds him by the arm. AKÍM (shrieks). Let go! I'll not stay. I'd rather sleep under some fence than in the midst of your filth! Faugh! God forgive me! [Exit. NIKÍTA. Here's a go! AKÍM (reopens the door). Come to your senses, Nikíta! It's the soul that God wants! [Exit. AKOULÍNA (takes cups). Well, shall I pour out the tea? [Takes a cup. All are silent. MÍTRITCH (roars). Oh Lord be merciful to me a sinner! [All start. NIKÍTA (lies down on the bench). Oh, it's dull, it's dull! (To AKOULÍNA.) Where's the concertina? AKOULÍNA. The concertina? He's bethought himself of it. Why, you took it to be mended. I've poured out your tea. Drink it! NIKÍTA. I don't want it! Put out the light.... Oh, how dull I feel, how dull! [Sobs. CURTAIN ACT IV Autumn. Evening. The moon is shining. The stage represents the interior of courtyard. The scenery at the back shows, in the middle, the back porch of the hut. To the right the winter half of the hut and the gate; to the left the summer half and the cellar. To the right of the stage is a shed. The sound of tipsy voices and shouts are heard from the hut.[5] SECOND NEIGHBOR WOMAN comes out of the hut and beckons to FIRST NEIGHBOR WOMAN. SECOND NEIGHBOR. How's it Akoulína has not shown herself? FIRST NEIGHBOR. Why hasn't she shown herself? She'd have been glad to; but she's too ill, you know. The suitor's relatives have come, and want to see the girl; and she, my dear, she's lying in the cold hut and can't come out, poor thing! SECOND NEIGHBOR. But how's that? FIRST NEIGHBOR. They say she's been bewitched by an evil eye! She's got pains in the stomach! SECOND NEIGHBOR. You don't say so? FIRST NEIGHBOR. What else could it be? [Whispers. SECOND NEIGHBOR. Dear me! There's a go! But his relatives will surely find it out? FIRST NEIGHBOR. They find it out! They're all drunk! Besides, they are chiefly after her dowry. Just think what they give with the girl! Two furs, my dear, six dresses, a French shawl, and I don't know how many pieces of linen, and money as well,--two hundred roubles, it's said! SECOND NEIGHBOR. That's all very well, but even money can't give much pleasure in the face of such a disgrace. FIRST NEIGHBOR. Hush!... There's his father, I think. [They cease talking and go into the hut. [The SUITOR'S FATHER comes out of the hut hiccoughing. THE FATHER. Oh, I'm all in a sweat. It's awfully hot! Will just cool myself a bit. (Stands puffing.) The Lord only knows what--something is not right. I can't feel happy.--Well, it's the old woman's affair. [Enter MATRYÓNA from hut. MATRYÓNA. And I was just thinking, where's the father? Where's the father? And here you are, dear friend.... Well, dear friend, the Lord be thanked! Everything is as honorable as can be! When one's arranging a match one should not boast. And I have never learnt to boast. But as you've come about the right business, so with the Lord's help, you'll be grateful to me all your life! She's a wonderful girl! There's no other like her in all the district! THE FATHER. That's true enough, but how about the money? MATRYÓNA. Don't you trouble about the money! All she had from her father goes with her. And it's more than one gets easily, as things are nowadays. Three times fifty roubles! THE FATHER. We don't complain, but it's for our own child. Naturally we want to get the best we can. MATRYÓNA. I'll tell you straight, friend: if it hadn't been for me, you'd never have found anything like her! They've had an offer from the Karmilins, but I stood out against it. And as for the money, I'll tell you truly: when her father, God be merciful to his soul, was dying, he gave orders that the widow should take Nikíta into the homestead--of course I know all about it from my son,--and the money was to go to Akoulína. Why, another one might have thought of his own interests, but Nikíta gives everything clean! It's no trifle. Fancy what a sum it is! THE FATHER. People are saying that more money was left her? The lad's sharp too! MATRYÓNA. Oh, dear soul alive! A slice in another's hand always looks big; all she had will be handed over. I tell you, throw doubts to the wind and make all sure! What a girl she is! as fresh as a daisy! THE FATHER. That's so. But my old woman and I were only wondering about the girl; why has she not come out? We've been thinking, suppose she's sickly? MATRYÓNA. Ah, ah.... Who? She? Sickly? Why, there's none to compare with her in the district. The girl's as sound as a bell; you can't pinch her. But you saw her the other day! And as for work, she's wonderful! She's a bit deaf, that's true, but there are spots on the sun, you know. And her not coming out, you see, it's from an evil eye! A spell's been cast on her! And I know the bitch who's done the business! They know of the betrothal and they bewitched her. But I know a counter-spell. The girl will get up to-morrow. Don't you worry about the girl! THE FATHER. Well, of course, the thing's settled. MATRYÓNA. Yes, of course! Don't you turn back. And don't forget me, I've had a lot of trouble. Don't forget.... [A woman's voice from the hut. Voice. If we are to go, let's go. Come along, Iván! THE FATHER. I'm coming. [Exeunt. Guests crowd together in the passage and prepare to go away. NAN (runs out of the hut and calls to ANÍSYA). Mother! ANÍSYA (from inside.) What d'you want? NAN. Mother, come here, or they'll hear. [ANÍSYA enters and they go together to the shed. ANÍSYA. Well? What is it? Where's Akoulína? NAN She's gone into the barn. It's awful what's she's doing there! I'm blest! "I can't bear it," she says. "I'll scream," she says, "I'll scream out loud." Blest if she didn't. ANÍSYA. She'll have to wait. We'll see our visitors off first. NAN. Oh, mother! She's so bad! And she's angry too. "What's the good of their drinking my health?" she says. "I shan't marry," she says. "I shall die," she says. Mother, supposing she does die! It's awful. I'm so frightened! ANÍSYA. No fear, she'll not die. But don't you go near her. Come along. [Exit ANÍSYA and NAN. MÍTRITCH (comes in at the gate and begins collecting the scattered hay). Oh, Lord! Merciful Nicholas! What a lot of liquor they've been and swilled, and the smell they've made! It smells even out here! But no, I don't want any, drat it! See how they've scattered the hay about. They don't eat it, but only trample it under foot. A truss gone before you know it. Oh, that smell, it seems to be just under my nose! Drat it! (Yawns.) It's time to go to sleep! But I don't care to go into the hut. It seems to float just round my nose! It has a strong scent, the damned stuff! (The guests are heard driving off.) They're off at last. Oh Lord! Merciful Nicholas! There they go, binding themselves and gulling one another. And it's all gammon! [Enter NIKÍTA. NIKÍTA. Mítritch, you get off to sleep and I'll put this straight. MÍTRITCH. All right, you throw it to the sheep. Well, have you seen 'em all off? NIKÍTA. Yes, they're off! But things are not right! I don't know what to do! MÍTRITCH. It's a fine mess. But there's the Foundlings'[6] for that sort of thing. Whoever likes may drop one there; they'll take 'em all. Give 'em as many as you like, they ask no questions, and even pay--if the mother goes in as a wet-nurse. It's easy enough nowadays. NIKÍTA. But mind, Mítritch, don't go blabbing. MÍTRITCH. It's no concern of mine. Cover the tracks as you think best. Dear me, how you smell of liquor! I'll go in. Oh, Lord! [Exit, yawning. [NIKÍTA is long silent. Sits down on a sledge. NIKÍTA. Here's a go! [Enter ANÍSYA. ANÍSYA. Where are you? NIKÍTA. Here. ANÍSYA. What are you doing there? There's no time to be lost! We must take it out directly! NIKÍTA. What are we to do? ANÍSYA. I'll tell you what you are to do. And you'll have to do it! NIKÍTA. You'd better take it to the Foundlings'--if anything. ANÍSYA. Then you'd better take it there yourself if you like! You've a hankering for smut, but you're weak when it comes to settling up, I see! NIKÍTA. What's to be done? ANÍSYA. Go down into the cellar, I tell you, and dig a hole! NIKÍTA. Couldn't you manage, somehow, some other way? ANÍSYA (imitating him). "Some other way?" Seems we can't "some other way!" You should have thought about it a year ago. Do what you're told to! Nikíta. Oh, dear, what a go! [Enter NAN. NAN. Mother! Grandmother's calling! I think sister's got a baby! I'm blest if it didn't scream! ANÍSYA. What are you babbling about? Plague take you! It's kittens whining there. Go into the hut and sleep, or I'll give it you! NAN. Mammy dear, truly, I swear.... ANÍSYA (raising her arm as if to strike). I'll give it you! You be off and don't let me catch sight of you! (Nan runs into hut. To Nikíta.) Do as you're told, or else mind! [Exit. NIKÍTA (alone. After a long silence). Here's a go! Oh, these women! What a fix! Says you should have thought of it a year ago. When's one to think beforehand? When's one to think? Why, last year this Anísya dangled after me. What was I to do? Am I a monk? The master died; and I covered my sin as was proper, so I was not to blame there. Aren't there lots of such cases? And then those powders. Did I put her up to that? Why, had I known what the bitch was up to, I'd have killed her! I'm sure I should have killed her! She's made me her partner in these horrors--that jade! And she became loathsome to me from that day! She became loathsome, loathsome to me as soon as mother told me about it. I can't bear the sight of her! Well, then, how could I live with her? And then it begun.... That wench began hanging round. Well, what was I to do! If I had not done it, some one else would. And this is what comes of it! Still I'm not to blame in this either. Oh, what a go! (Sits thinking.) They are bold, these women! What a plan to think of! But I won't have a hand in it! [Enter MATRYÓNA with a lantern and spade, panting. MATRYÓNA. Why are you sitting there like a hen on a perch? What did your wife tell you to do? You just get things ready! NIKÍTA. What do you mean to do? MATRYÓNA. We know what to do. You do your share! NIKÍTA. You'll be getting me into a mess! MATRYÓNA. What? You're not thinking of backing out, are you? Now it's come to this, and you back out! NIKÍTA. Think what a thing it would be! It's a living soul. MATRYÓNA. A living soul indeed! Why, it's more dead than alive. And what's one to do with it? Go and take it to the Foundlings'--it will die just the same, and the rumor will get about, and people will talk, and the girl be left on our hands. NIKÍTA. And supposing it's found out? MATRYÓNA. Not manage to do it in one's own house? We'll manage it so that no one will have an inkling. Only do as I tell you. We women can't do it without a man. There, take the spade, and get it done there,--I'll hold the light. NIKÍTA. What am I to get done? MATRYÓNA (in a low voice). Dig a hole; then we'll bring it out and get it out of the way in a trice! There, she's calling again. Now then, get in, and I'll go. NIKÍTA. Is it dead then? MATRYÓNA. Of course it is. Only you must be quick, or else people will notice! They'll see or they'll hear! The rascals must needs know everything. And the policeman went by this evening. Well then, you see (gives him the spade), you get down into the cellar and dig a hole right in the corner; the earth is soft there, and you'll smooth it over. Mother earth will not blab to any one; she'll keep it close. Go then; go, dear. NIKÍTA. You'll get me into a mess, bother you! I'll go away! You do it alone as best you can! ANÍSYA (through the doorway). Well? Has he dug it? MATRYÓNA. Why have you come away? What have you done with it? ANÍSYA. I've covered it with rags. No one can hear it. Well, has he dug it? MATRYÓNA. He doesn't want to! ANÍSYA (springs out enraged). Doesn't want to! How will he like feeding vermin in prison! I'll go straight away and tell everything to the police! It's all the same if one must perish. I'll go straight and tell! NIKÍTA (taken aback). What will you tell? ANÍSYA. What? Everything! Who took the money? You! (NIKÍTA is silent.) And who gave the poison? I did! But you knew! You knew! You knew! We were in agreement! MATRYÓNA. That's enough now. Nikíta dear, why are you obstinate? What's to be done now? One must take some trouble. Go, honey. ANÍSYA. See the fine gentleman! He doesn't like it! You've put upon me long enough! You've trampled me under foot! Now it's my turn! Go, I tell you, or else I'll do what I said.... There, take the spade; there, now go! NIKÍTA. Drat you! Can't you leave a fellow alone! (Takes the spade, but shrinks.) If I don't choose to, I'll not go! ANÍSYA. Not go? (Begins to shout.) Neighbors! Heh! heh! MATRYÓNA (closes her mouth). What are you about? You're mad! He'll go.... Go, sonny, go, my own. ANÍSYA. I'll cry murder! NIKÍTA. Now stop! Oh, what people! You'd better be quick.... As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb! [Goes towards the cellar. MATRYÓNA. Yes, that's just it, honey. If you know how to amuse yourself, you must know how to hide the consequences. ANÍSYA (still excited). He's trampled on me ... he and his slut! But it's enough! I'm not going to be the only one! Let him also be a murderer! Then he'll know how it feels! MATRYÓNA. There, there! How she flares up! Don't you be cross, lass, but do things quietly little by little, as it's best. You go to the girl, and he'll do the work. [Follows NIKÍTA to the cellar with a lantern. He descends into the cellar. ANÍSYA. And I'll make him strangle his dirty brat! (Still excited.) I've worried myself to death all alone, with Peter's bones weighing on my mind! Let him feel it too! I'll not spare myself; I've said I'll not spare myself! NIKÍTA (from the cellar). Show a light! MATRYÓNA (holds up the lantern to him. To ANÍSYA). He's digging. Go and bring it. ANÍSYA. You stay with him, or he'll go away, the wretch! And I'll go and bring it. MATRYÓNA. Mind, don't forget to baptize it, or I will if you like. Have you a cross? ANÍSYA. I'll find one. Ï know how to do it. [Exit. * * * * * See at end of Act, VARIATION, which may be used instead of the following. * * * * * MATRYÓNA. How the woman bristled up! But one must allow she's been put upon. Well, but with the Lord's help, when we've covered this business, there'll be an end of it. We'll shove the girl off without any trouble. My son will live in comfort. The house, thank God, is as full as an egg. They'll not forget me either. Where would they have been without Matryóna? They'd not have known how to contrive things. (Peering into the cellar.) Is it ready, sonny? Nikíta (puts out his head). What are you about there? Bring it quick! What are you dawdling for? If it is to be done, let it be done. MATRYÓNA (goes towards door of the hut and meets ANÍSYA. ANÍSYA comes out with a baby wrapped in rags). Well, have you baptized it? ANÍSYA. Why, of course. It was all I could do to take it away--she wouldn't give it up! [Comes forward and hands it to NIKÍTA. NIKÍTA (does not take it). You bring it yourself! ANÍSYA. Take it, I tell you! [Throws the baby to him. NIKÍTA (catches it). It's alive! Gracious me, it's moving! It's alive! What am I to.... ANÍSYA (snatches the baby from him and throws it into the cellar). Be quick and smother it, and then it won't be alive! (Pushes NIKÍTA down.) It's your doing, and you must finish it. MATRYÓNA (sits on the doorstep of the hut). He's tender-hearted. It's hard on him, poor dear. Well, what of that? Isn't it also his sin? [ANÍSYA stands by the cellar. MATRYÓNA (sits looking at her and discourses). Oh, oh, oh! How frightened he was: well, but what of that? If it is hard, it's the only thing to be done. Where was one to put it? And just think, how often it happens that people pray to God to have children! But no, God gives them none; or they are all still-born. Look at our priest's wife now.... And here, where it's not wanted, here it lives. (Looks towards the cellar.) I suppose he's finished. (To ANÍSYA.) Well? ANÍSYA (looking into the cellar). He's put a board on it and is sitting on it. It must be finished! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh! One would be glad not to sin, but what's one to do? [Re-enter NIKÍTA from cellar, trembling all over. NIKÍTA. It's still alive! I can't! It's alive! ANÍSYA. If it's alive, where are you off to? [Tries to stop him. NIKÍTA (rushes at her). Go away! I'll kill you! (Catches hold of her arms; she escapes, he runs after her with the spade. MATRYÓNA runs towards him and stops him. ANÍSYA runs into the porch. MATRYÓNA tries to wrench the spade from him. To his mother.) I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Go away! (MATRYÓNA runs to ANÍSYA in the porch. NIKÍTA stops.) I'll kill you! I'll kill you all! MATRYÓNA. That's because he's so frightened! Never mind, it will pass! NIKÍTA. What have they made me do? What have they made me do? How it whimpered.... How it crunched under me! What have they done with me?... And it's really alive, still alive! (Listens in silence.) It's whimpering... There, it's whimpering. [Runs to the cellar. MATRYÓNA (to ANÍSYA). He's going; it seems he means to bury it. Nikíta, you'd better take the lantern! NIKÍTA (does not heed her, but listens by the cellar door). I can hear nothing! I suppose it was fancy! (Moves away, then stops.) How the little bones crunched under me. Krr ... kr.... What have they made me do? (Listens again.) Again whimpering! It's really whimpering! What can it be? Mother! Mother, I say! [Goes up to her. MATRYÓNA. What is it, sonny? NIKÍTA. Mother, my own mother, I can't do any more! Can't do any more! My own mother, have some pity on me! MATRYÓNA. Oh dear, how frightened you are, my darling! Come, come, drink a drop to give you courage! NIKÍTA. Mother, mother! It seems my time has come! What have you done with me? How the little bones crunched, and how it whimpered! My own mother! What have you done with me? [Steps aside and sits down on the sledge. MATRYÓNA. Come, my own, have a drink! It certainly does seem uncanny at night-time. But wait a bit. When the day breaks, you know, and one day and another passes, you'll forget even to think of it. Wait a bit; when the girl's married we'll even forget to think of it. But you go and have a drink; have a drink! I'll go and put things straight in the cellar myself. NIKÍTA (rouses himself). Is there any drink left? Perhaps I can drink it off! [Exit. [ANÍSYA, who has stood all the time by the door, silently makes way for him. MATRYÓNA. Go, go, honey, and I'll set to work! I'll go down myself and dig! Where has he thrown the spade to? (Finds the spade, and goes down into the cellar.) Anísya, come here! Hold the light, will you? ANÍSYA. And what of him? MATRYÓNA. He's so frightened! You've been too hard with him. Leave him alone, he'll come to his senses. God help him! I'll set to work myself. Put the lantern down here. I can see. [MATRYÓNA disappears into the cellar. ANÍSYA. (looking towards the door by which Nikíta entered the hut). Well, have you had enough spree? You've been puffing yourself up, but now you'll know how it feels! You'll lose some of your bluster! NIKÍTA (rushes out of the hut towards the cellar). Mother! Mother, I say! MATRYÓNA (puts out her head). What is it, sonny? NIKÍTA (listening) Don't bury it, it's alive? Don't you hear? Alive! There--it's whimpering! There ... quite plain! MATRYÓNA. How can it whimper? Why, you've flattened it into a pancake! The whole head is smashed to bits! NIKÍTA. What is it then? (Stops his ears.) It's still whimpering! I am lost! Lost! What have they done with me?... Where shall I go? [Sits down on the step. CURTAIN * * * * * VARIATION Instead of the end of Act IV. (from the words, "ANÍSYA. I'll find one. I know how to do it. [Exit]") the following variation may be read, and is the one usually acted. * * * * * SCENE II The interior of the hut as in Act I. NAN lies on the bench, and is covered with a coat. MÍTRITCH is sitting on the oven smoking. MÍTRITCH. Dear me! How they've made the place smell I Drat 'em! They've been spilling the fine stuff. Even tobacco don't get rid of the smell! It keeps tickling one's nose so. Oh Lord! But it's bedtime, I guess. [Approaches the lamp to put it out. NAN (jumps up, and remains sitting up). Daddy dear,[7] don't put it out! MÍTRITCH. Not put it out? Why? NAN. Didn't you hear them making a row in the yard? (Listens.) D'you hear, there in the barn again now? MÍTRITCH. What's that to you? I guess no one's asked you to mind! Lie down and sleep! And I'll turn down the light. [Turns down lamp. NAN. Daddy darling! Don't put it right out; leave a little bit if only as big as a mouse's eye, else it's so frightening! MÍTRITCH (laughs). All right, all right. (Sits down by her.) What's there to be afraid of? NAN. How can one help being frightened, daddy! Sister did go on so! She was beating her head against the box! (Whispers.) You know, I know ... a little baby is going to be born.... It's already born, I think.... MÍTRITCH. Eh, what a little busybody it is! May the frogs tick her! Must needs know everything. Lie down and sleep! (NAN lies down.) That's right! (Tucks her up.) That's right! There now, if you know too much you'll grow old too soon. NAN. And you are going to lie on the oven? Mitrich. Well, of course! What a little silly you are, now I come to look at you! Must needs know everything. (Tucks her up again, then stands up to go.) There now, lie still and sleep! [Goes up to the oven. NAN. It gave just one cry, and now there's nothing to be heard. MÍTRITCH. Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! What is it you can't hear? NAN. The baby. MÍTRITCH. There is none, that's why you can't hear it. NAN. But I heard it! Blest if I didn't hear it! Such a thin voice! MÍTRITCH. Heard indeed! Much you heard! Well, if you know,--why then it was just such a little girl as you that the bogey popped into his bag and made off with. NAN. What bogey? MÍTRITCH. Why, just his very self! (Climbs up on to the oven.) The oven is beautifully warm to-night. Quite a treat! Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! NAN. Daddy! are you going to sleep? MÍTRITCH. What else? Do you think I'm going to sing songs? [Silence. NAN. Daddy! Daddy, I say! They are digging! they're digging--don't you hear? Blest if they're not, they're digging! MÍTRITCH. What are you dreaming about? Digging! Digging in the night! Who's digging? The cow's rubbing herself, that's all. Digging indeed! Go to sleep I tell you, else I'll just put out the light! NAN. Daddy darling, don't put it out! I won't ... truly, truly, I won't. It's so frightful! MÍTRITCH. Frightful? Don't be afraid and then it won't be frightful. Look at her, she's afraid, and then says it's frightful. How can it help being frightful if you are afraid? Eh, what a stupid little girl! [Silence. The cricket chirps. NAN (whispers). Daddy! I say, daddy! Are you asleep? MÍTRITCH. Now then, what d'you want? NAN. What's the bogey like? MÍTRITCH. Why, like this! When he finds such a one as you, who won't sleep, he comes with a sack and pops the girl into it, then in he gets himself, head and all, lifts her dress, and gives her a fine whipping! NAN. What with? MÍTRITCH. He takes a birch-broom with him. NAN. But he can't see there--inside the sack! MÍTRITCH. He'll see, no fear! NAN. But I'll bite him. MÍTRITCH. No, friend, him you can't bite! NAN. Daddy, there's some one coming! Who is it? Oh gracious goodness! Who can it be? MÍTRITCH. Well, if some one's coming, let them come! What's the matter with you? I suppose it's your mother! [Enter ANÍSYA. ANÍSYA (NAN pretends to be asleep). Mítritch! MÍTRITCH. What? ANÍSYA. What's the lamp burning for? We are going to sleep in the summer-hut. MÍTRITCH. Why, you see I've only just got straight. I'll put the light out all right. ANÍSYA (rummages in her box and grumbles). When a thing's wanted one never can find it! MÍTRITCH. Why, what is it you are looking for? ANÍSYA. I'm looking for a cross. Suppose it were to die unbaptized! It would be a sin, you know! MÍTRITCH. Of course it would! Everything in due order.... Have you found it? ANÍSYA. Yes, I've found it. [Exit. MÍTRITCH. That's right, else I'd have lent her mine. Oh Lord! NAN (jumps up trembling). Oh, oh, daddy! Don't go to sleep; for goodness' sake, don't! It's so frightful! MÍTRITCH. What's frightful? NAN. It will die--the little baby will! At Aunt Irene's the old woman also baptized the baby, and it died! MÍTRITCH. If it dies, they'll bury it! NAN. But maybe it wouldn't have died, only old Granny Matryóna's there! Didn't I hear what granny was saying? I heard her! Blest if I didn't! MÍTRITCH. What did you hear? Go to sleep, I tell you. Cover yourself up, head and all, and let's have an end of it! NAN. If it lived, I'd nurse it! MÍTRITCH (roars). Oh Lord! NAN. Where will they put it? MÍTRITCH. In the right place! It's no business of yours! Go to sleep I tell you, else mother will come; she'll give it you! [Silence. NAN. Daddy! Eh, daddy! That girl, you know, you were telling about --they didn't kill her? MÍTRITCH. That girl? Oh yes. That girl turned out all right! NAN. How was it? You were saying you found her? MÍTRITCH. Well, we just found her! NAN. But where did you find her? Do tell! MÍTRITCH. Why, in their own house; that's where! We came to a village, the soldiers began hunting about in the house, when suddenly there's that same little girl lying on the floor, flat on her stomach. We were going to give her a knock on the head, but all at once I felt that sorry, that I took her up in my arms; but no, she wouldn't let me! Made herself so heavy, quite a hundredweight, and caught hold where she could with her hands, so that one couldn't get them off! Well, so I began stroking her head. It was so bristly,--just like a hedgehog! So I stroked and stroked, and she quieted down at last. I soaked a bit of rusk and gave it her. She understood that, and began nibbling. What were we to do with her? We took her; took her, and began feeding and feeding her, and she got so used to us that we took her with us on the march, and so she went about with us. Ah, she was a fine girl! NAN. Yes, and not baptized? MÍTRITCH. Who can tell! They used to say, not altogether. 'Cos why, those people weren't our own. NAN. Germans? MÍTRITCH. What an idea! Germans! Not Germans, but Asiatics. They are just the same as Jews, but still not Jews. Polish, yet Asiatics. Curls ... or, Curdlys is their name.... I've forgotten what it is![8] We called the girl Sáshka. She was a fine girl, Sáshka was! There now, I've forgotten everything I used to know! But that girl--the deuce take her--seems to be before my eyes now! Out of all my time of service, I remember how they flogged me, and I remember that girl. That's all I remember! She'd hang round one's neck, and one 'ud carry her so. That was a girl,--if you wanted a better you'd not find one! We gave her away afterwards. The captain's wife took her to bring up as her daughter. So--she was all right! How sorry the soldiers were to let her go! NAN. There now, daddy, and I remember when father was dying,--you were not living with us then. Well, he called Nikíta and says, "Forgive me, Nikíta!" he says, and begins to cry. (Sighs.) That also felt very sad! MÍTRITCH. Yes; there now, so it is.... NAN. Daddy! Daddy, I say! There they are again, making a noise in the cellar! Oh gracious heavens! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh, daddy! They'll do something to it! They'll make away with it, and it's so little! Oh, oh! [Covers up her head and cries. MÍTRITCH (listening). Really they're up to some villainy, blow them to shivers! Oh, these women are vile creatures! One can't say much for men either; but women!... They are like wild beasts, and stick at nothing! NAN (rising). Daddy; I say, daddy! MÍTRITCH. Well, what now? NAN. The other day a traveller stayed the night; he said that when an infant died its soul goes up straight to heaven. Is that true? MÍTRITCH. Who can tell? I suppose so. Well? NAN. Oh, it would be best if I died too. [Whimpers. MÍTRITCH. Then you'd be off the list! NAN. Up to ten one's an infant, and maybe one's soul would go to God. Else one's sure to go to the bad! MÍTRITCH. And how to the bad? How should the likes of you not go to the bad? Who teaches you? What do you see? What do you hear? Only vileness! I, though I've not been taught much, still know a thing or two. I'm not quite like a peasant woman. A peasant woman, what is she? Just mud! There are many millions of the likes of you in Russia, and all as blind as moles--knowing nothing! All sorts of spells: how to stop the cattle-plague with a plough, and how to cure children by putting them under the perches in the hen-house! That's what they know! NAN. Yes, mother also did that! MÍTRITCH. Yes,--there it is,--just so! So many millions of girls and women, and all like beasts in a forest! As she grows up, so she dies! Never sees anything; never hears anything. A peasant,--he may learn something at the pub, or maybe in prison, or in the army,--as I did. But a woman? Let alone about God, she doesn't even know rightly what Friday it is! Friday! Friday! But ask her what's Friday? She don't know! They're like blind puppies, creeping about and poking their noses into the dungheap.... All they know are their silly songs. Ho, ho, ho, ho! But what they mean by ho-ho, they don't know themselves! NAN. But I, daddy, I do know half the Lord's Prayer! MÍTRITCH. A lot you know! But what Can one expect of you? Who teaches you? Only a tipsy peasant--with the strap perhaps! That's all the teaching you get! I don't know who'll have to answer for you. For a recruit, the drill-sergeant or the corporal has to answer; but for the likes of you there's no one responsible! Just as the cattle that have no herdsman are the most mischievous, so with you women--you are the stupidest class! The most foolish class is yours! NAN. Then what's one to do? MÍTRITCH. That's what one has to do.... You just cover up your head and sleep! Oh Lord! [Silence. The cricket chirps. NAN (jumps up). Daddy! Some one's screaming awfully! Blest if some one isn't screaming! Daddy darling, it's coming here! MÍTRITCH. Cover up your head, I tell you! [Enter NIKÍTA, followed by MATRYÓNA. NIKÍTA. What have they done with me? What have they done with me? MATRYÓNA. Have a drop, honey; have a drop of drink! What's the matter? [Fetches the spirits and sets the bottle before him. NIKÍTA. Give it here! Perhaps the drink will help me! MATRYÓNA. Mind! They're not asleep! Here you are, have a drop! NIKÍTA. What does it all mean? Why did you plan it? You might have taken it somewhere! MATRYÓNA (whispers). Sit still a bit and drink a little more, or have a smoke. It will ease your thoughts! NIKÍTA. My own mother! My turn seems to have come! How it began to whimper, and how the little bones crunched ... krr.... I'm not a man now! MATRYÓNA. Eh, now, what's the use of talking so silly! Of course it does seem fearsome at night, but wait till the daylight comes, and a day or two passes, and you'll forget to think of it! [Goes up to NIKÍTA and puts her hand on his shoulder. NIKÍTA. Go away from me! What have you done with me? MATRYÓNA. Come, come, sonny! Now, really, what's the matter with you? [Takes his hand. NIKÍTA. Go away from me! I'll kill you! It's all one to me now! I'll kill you! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh, how frightened he's got! You should go and have a sleep now! NIKÍTA. I have nowhere to go; I'm lost! MATRYÓNA (shaking her head). Oh, oh, I'd better go and tidy things up. He'll sit and rest a bit, and it will pass! [Exit. [NIKÍTA sits with his face in his hands. MÍTRITCH and NAN seem stunned. NIKÍTA. It's whining! It's whining! It is really--there, there, quite plain! She'll bury it, really she will! (Runs to the door.) Mother, don't bury it, it's alive.... [Enter MATRYÓNA. MATRYÓNA (whispers). Now then, what is it? Heaven help you! Why won't you get to rest? How can it be alive? All its bones are crushed! NIKÍTA. Give me more drink. [Drinks. MATRYÓNA. Now go, sonny. You'll fall asleep now all right. NIKÍTA (stands listening). Still alive ... there ... it's whining! Don't you hear?... There! MATRYÓNA (whispers). No! I tell you! NIKÍTA. Mother! My own mother! I've ruined my life! What have you done with me? Where am I to go? [Runs out of the hut; MATRYÓNA follows him. NAN. Daddy dear, darling, they've smothered it! MÍTRITCH (angrily). Go to sleep, I tell you! Oh dear, may the frogs kick you! I'll give it to you with the broom! Go to sleep, I tell you! NAN. Daddy, my treasure! Something is catching hold of my shoulders, something is catching hold with its paws! Daddy dear ... really, really ... I must go! Daddy, darling! let me get up on the oven with you! Let me, for Heaven's sake! Catching hold ... catching hold! Oh! [Runs to the stove. MÍTRITCH. See how they've frightened the girl.... What vile creatures they are! May the frogs kick them! Well then, climb up. Nan (climbs on oven). But don't you go away! Mítritch. Where should I go to? Climb up, climb up! Oh Lord! Gracious Nicholas! Holy Mother!... How they have frightened the girl. (Covers her up.) There's a little fool-- really a little fool! How they've frightened her; really, they are vile creatures! The deuce take 'em! CURTAIN ACT V SCENE I In front of scene a stack-stand, to the left a thrashing ground, to the right a barn. The barn doors are open. Straw is strewn about in the doorway. The hut with yard and out-buildings is seen in the background, whence proceed sounds of singing and of a tambourine. Two GIRLS are walking past the barn towards the hut. FIRST GIRL. There, you see we've managed to pass without so much as getting our boots dirty! But to come by the street is terribly muddy! (Stop and wipe their boots on the straw. FIRST GIRL looks at the straw and sees something .) What's that? SECOND GIRL (looks where the straw lies and sees some one). It's MÍTRITCH, their laborer. Just look how drunk he is! FIRST GIRL. Why, I thought be didn't drink. SECOND GIRL. It seems he didn't, until it was going around. First Girl. Just see! He must have come to fetch some straw. Look! he's got a rope in his hand, and he's fallen asleep. SECOND GIRL (listening). They're still singing the praises.[9] So I s'pose the bride and bridegroom have not yet been blessed! They say Akoulína didn't even lament![10] FIRST GIRL. Mammie says she is marrying against her will. Her stepfather threatened her, or else she'd not have done it for the world! Why, you know what they've been saying about her? MARÍNA (catching up the GIRLS). How d'you you do, lassies? GIRLS. How d'you do? MARÍNA. Going to the wedding, my dears? FIRST GIRL. It's nearly over! We've come just to have a look. MARÍNA. Would you call my old man for me? Simon, from Zoúevo; but surely you know him? FIRST GIRL. To be sure we do; he's a relative of the bridegroom's, I think? MARÍNA. Of course; he's my old man's nephew, the bridegroom is. SECOND GIRL. Why don't you go yourself? Fancy not going to a wedding! MARÍNA. I have no mind for it, and no time either. It's time for us to be going home. We didn't mean to come to the wedding. We were taking oats to town. We only stopped to feed the horse, and they made my old man go in. FIRST GIRL. Where did you put up then? At Fyódoritch's? MARÍNA. Yes. Well then, I'll stay here and you go and call him, my dear--my old man. Call him, my pet, and say "Your missis, Marína, says you must go now!" His mates are harnessing. FIRST GIRL. Well, all right--if you won't go in yourself. [The GIRLS go away towards the house along a footpath. Sounds of songs and tambourine. MARÍNA (alone, stands thinking). I might go in, but I don't like to, because I have not met him since that day he threw me over. It's more than a year now. But I'd have liked to have a peep and see how he lives with his Anísya. People say they don't get on. She's a coarse woman, and with a character of her own. I should think he's remembered me more than once. He's been caught by the idea of a comfortable life and has changed me for it. But, God help him, I don't cherish ill-will! Then it hurt! Oh dear, it was pain! But now it's worn away and been forgotten. But I'd like to have seen him. (Looks towards hut and sees NIKÍTA.) Look there! Why, he is coming here! Have the girls told him? How's it he has left his guests? I'll go away! (NIKÍTA approaches, hanging his head down, swinging his arms, and muttering.) And how sullen he looks! NIKÍTA (sees and recognises MARÍNA). Marína, dearest friend, little MARÍNA, what do you want? MARÍNA. I have come for my old man. NIKÍTA. Why didn't you come to the wedding? You might have had a look round, and a laugh at my expense! MARÍNA. What have I to laugh at? I've come for my husband. NIKÍTA. Ah, Marína dear! [Tries to embrace her. MARÍNA (steps angrily aside). You'd better drop that sort of thing, Nikíta! What has been is past! I've come for my husband. Is he in your house? NIKÍTA. So I must not remember the past? You won't let me? MARÍNA. It's no use recalling the past! What used to be is over now! NIKÍTA. And can never come back, you mean? MARÍNA. And will never come back! But why have you gone away? You, the master,--and to go away from the feast! NIKÍTA (sits down on the straw). Why have I gone away? Eh, if you knew, if you had any idea.... I'm dull, Marína, so dull that I wish my eyes would not see! I rose from the table and left them, to get away from the people. If I could only avoid seeing any one! MARÍNA (coming nearer to him). How's that? NIKÍTA. This is how it is: when I eat, it's there! When I drink, it's there! When I sleep, it's there! I'm so sick of it--so sick! But it's chiefly because I'm all alone that I'm so sick, Marína. I have no one to share my trouble. MARÍNA. You can't live your life without trouble, Nikíta. However, I've wept over mine and wept it away. NIKÍTA. The former, the old trouble! Ah, dear friend, you've wept yours away, and I've got mine up to there! [Puts his hand to his throat. MARÍNA. But why? NIKÍTA. Why, I'm sick of my whole life! I am sick of myself! Ah, MARÍNA, why did you not know how to keep me? You've ruined me, and yourself too! Is this life? MARÍNA (stands by the barn crying, but restrains herself). I do not complain of my life, Nikíta! God grant every one a life like mine. I do not complain. I confessed to my old man at the time, and he forgave me. And he does not reproach me. I'm not discontented with my life. The old man is quiet, and is fond of me, and I keep his children clothed and washed! He is really kind to me. Why should I complain? It seems God willed it so. And what's the matter with your life? You are rich.... NIKÍTA. My life!... It's only that I don't wish to disturb the wedding feast, or I'd take this rope here (takes hold of the rope on the straw) and throw it across that rafter there. Then I'd make a noose and stretch it out, and I'd climb on to that rafter and jump down with my head in the noose! That's what my life is! MARÍNA. That's enough! Lord help you! NIKÍTA. You think I'm joking? You think I'm drunk? I'm not drunk! To-day even drink takes no hold on me! I'm devoured by misery! Misery is eating me up completely, so that I care for nothing! Oh little Marína, it's only with you I ever lived! Do you remember how we used to while away the nights together at the railway? MARÍNA. Don't you rub the sores, Nikíta! I'm bound legally now, and you too. My sin has been forgiven, don't disturb... NIKÍTA. What shall I do with my heart? Where am I to turn to? MARÍNA. What's there to be done? You've got a wife. Don't go looking at others, but keep to your own! You loved Anísya, then go on loving her! NIKÍTA. Oh, that Anísya, she's gall and wormwood to me, but she's round my feet like rank weeds! MARÍNA. Whatever she is, still she's your wife.... But what's the use of talking; you'd better go to your visitors, and send my husband to me. NIKÍTA. Oh dear, if you knew the whole business... but there's no good talking! [Enter MARÍNA'S husband, red and tipsy, and NAN. MARÍNA'S HUSBAND. Marína! Missis! My old woman! are you here? NIKÍTA. There's your husband calling you. Go! MARÍNA. And you? NIKÍTA. I? I'll lie down here for a bit! [Lies down on the straw. Husband. Where is she then? NAN. There she is, near the barn. HUSBAND. What are you standing there for? Come to the feast! The hosts want you to come and do them honor! The wedding party is just going to start, and then we can go too. MARÍNA (going towards her husband). I didn't want to go in. HUSBAND. Come on, I tell you! You'll drink a glass to our nephew Peter's health, the rascal! Else the hosts might take offense! There's plenty of time for our business. [MARÍNA'S husband puts his arm around her, and goes reeling out with her. NIKÍTA (rises and sits down on the straw). Ah, now that I've seen her, life seems more sickening than ever! It was only with her that I ever really lived! I've ruined my life for nothing! I've done for myself! (Lies down.) Where can I go? If mother earth would but open and swallow me! NAN (sees NIKÍTA, and runs towards him). Daddy, I say, daddy! They're looking for you! Her godfather and all of them have already blessed her. Truly they have, they're getting cross! NIKÍTA (aside). Where can I go to? NAN. What? What are you saying? NIKÍTA. I'm not saying anything! Don't bother! NAN. Daddy! Come, I say! (NIKÍTA is silent, NAN pulls him by the hand.) Dad, go and bless them! My word, they're angry, they're grumbling! NIKÍTA (drags away his hand). Leave me alone! NAN. Now then! NIKÍTA (threatens her with the rope). Go, I say! I'll give it you! NAN. Then I'll send mother! [Runs away. NIKÍTA (rises). How can I go? How can I take the holy icón in my hands? How am I to look her in the face! (Lies down again.) Oh, if there were a hole in the ground, I'd jump in! No one should see me, and I should see no one! (Rises again.) No, I shan't go.... May they all go to the devil, I shan't go! (Takes the rope and makes a noose, and tries it on his neck.) That's the way! [Enter MATRYÓNA. NIKÍTA sees his mother, takes the rope off his neck, and again lies down in the straw. MATRYÓNA (comes in hurriedly). Nikíta! Nikíta, I say! He don't even answer! Nikíta, what's the matter? Have you had a drop too much? Come, Nikíta dear; come, honey! The people are tired of waiting. NIKÍTA. Oh dear, what have you done with me? I'm a lost man! MATRYÓNA. But what is the matter then? Come, my own; come, give them your blessing, as is proper and honorable, and then it'll all be over! Why, the people are waiting! NIKÍTA. How can I give blessings? MATRYÓNA. Why, in the usual way! Don't you know? NIKÍTA. I know, I know! But who is it I am to bless? What have I done to her? MATRYÓNA. What have you done? Eh, now he's going to remember it! Why, who knows anything about it? Not a soul! And the girl is going of her own accord. NIKÍTA. Yes, but how? MATRYÓNA. Because she's afraid, of course. But still she's going. Besides, what's to be done now? She should have thought sooner! Now she can't refuse. And his kinsfolks can't take offense either. They saw the girl twice, and get money with her too! It's all safe and sound! NIKÍTA. Yes, but what's in the cellar? MATRYÓNA (laughs). In the cellar? Why, cabbages, mushrooms, potatoes, I suppose! Why remember the past? NIKÍTA. I'd be only too glad to forget it; but I can't! When I let my mind go, it's just as if I heard.... Oh, what have you done with me? MATRYÓNA. Now, what are you humbugging for? NIKÍTA (turns face downward). Mother! Don't torment me! I've got it up to there! [Puts his hand to his throat. MATRYÓNA. Still it has to be done! As it is, people are talking. "The master's gone away and won't come; he can't make up his mind to give his blessing." They'll be putting two and two together. As soon as they see you're frightened they'll begin guessing. "The thief none suspect who walks bold and erect!" But you'll be getting out of the frying-pan into the fire! Above all, lad, don't show it; don't lose courage, else they'll find out all the more! NIKÍTA. Oh dear! You have snared me into a trap! MATRYÓNA. That'll do, I tell you; come along! Come in and give your blessing, as is right and honorable;--and there's an end of the matter! NIKÍTA (lies face down). I can't! MATRYÓNA (aside). What has come over him? He seemed all right, and suddenly this comes over him! It seems he's bewitched! Get up, Nikíta! See! There's Anísya coming; she's left her guests! [ANÍSYA enters, dressed up, red and tipsy. ANÍSYA. Oh, how nice it is, mother! So nice, so respectable! And how the people are pleased.... But where is he? MATRYÓNA. Here, honey, he's here; he's laid down on the straw and there he lies! He won't come! NIKÍTA (looking at his wife). Just see, she's tipsy too! When I look at her my heart seems to turn! How can one live with her? (Turns on his face.) I'll kill her some day! It'll be worse then! ANÍSYA. Only look, how he's got all among the straw! Is it the drink? (Laughs.) I'd not mind lying down there with you, but I've no time! Come, I'll lead you! It is so nice in the house! It's a treat to look on! A concertina! And the women singing so well! All tipsy! Everything so respectable, so nice! NIKÍTA. What's nice? ANÍSYA. The wedding--such a jolly wedding! They all say it's quite an uncommon fine wedding. All so respectable, so nice! Come along! We'll go together! I have had a drop, but I can give you a hand yet! [Takes his hand. NIKÍTA. (pulls it back with disgust). Go alone! I'll come! ANÍSYA. What, are you humbugging for? We've got rid of all the bother, we've got rid of her as came between us; now we have nothing to do but to live and be merry! And all so respectable, and quite legal! I'm so pleased! I have no words for it! It's just as if I were going to marry you over again! And oh, the people, they are pleased! They're all thanking us! And the guests are all of the best: Iván Mosévitch is there, and the Police Officer; they've also been singing songs of praise! NIKÍTA. Then you should have stayed with them! What have you come for? ANÍSYA. True enough, I must go back! Else what does it look like! The hosts both go and leave the visitors! And the guests are all of the best! NIKÍTA (gets up and brushes the straw off himself). Go, and I'll come at once! MATRYÓNA. Just see! He listens to the young bird, but wouldn't listen to the old one! He would not hear me, but he follows his wife at once! (MATRYÓNA and ANÍSYA turn to go.) Well, are you coming? NIKÍTA. I'll come directly! You go and I'll follow! I'll come and give my blessing! (The women stop.) Go on! I'll follow! Now then, go! (Exit women. Sits down and takes his boots off.) Yes, I'm going! A likely thing! No, you'd better look at the rafter for me! I'll fix the noose and jump with it from the rafter, then you can look for me! And the rope is here just handy. (Ponders.) I'd have got over it, over any sorrow--I'd have got over that. But this now--here it is, deep in my heart, and I can't get over it! (Looks towards the yard.) Surely she's not coming back? (Imitates ANÍSYA.) "So nice, so nice. I'd lie down here with you." Oh, the baggage! Well, then, here I am! Come and cuddle when they've taken me down from the rafter! There's only one way! [Takes the rope and pulls it. [MÍTRITCH, who is tipsy, sits up and won't let go of the rope. MÍTRITCH. Shan't give it up! Shan't give it to no one! I'll bring it myself! I said I'd bring the straw--and so I will! Nikíta, is that you? (Laughs.) Oh, the devil! Have you come to get the straw? NIKÍTA. Give me the rope! Mítrich. No, you wait a bit! The peasants sent me! I'll bring it.... (Rises to his feet and begins getting the straw together, but reels for a time, then falls.) It has beaten me. It's stronger.... NIKÍTA. Give me the rope! MÍTRITCH. Didn't I say I won't! Oh, Nikíta, you're as stupid as a hog! (Laughs.) I love you, but you're a fool! You see that I'm drunk ... devil take you! You think I need you?... You just look at me; I'm a Non ... fool, can't say it--Non-commissioned Officer of Her Majesty's very First Regiment of Grenadier Guards! I've served Tsar and country, loyal and true! But who am I? You think I'm a warrior? No, I'm not a warrior; I'm the very least of men, a poor lost orphan! I swore not to drink, and now I had a smoke, and.... Well then, do you think I'm afraid of you? No fear; I'm afraid of no man! I've taken to drink, and I'll drink! Now I'll go it for a fortnight; I'll go it hard! I'll drink my last shirt; I'll drink my cap; I'll pawn my passport; and I'm afraid of no one! They flogged me in the army to stop me drinking! They switched and switched! "Well," they say, "will you leave off?" "No," says I! Why should I be afraid of them? Here I am! Such as I am, God made me! I swore off drinking, and didn't drink. Now I've took to drink, and I'll drink! And I fear no man! 'Cos I don't lie; but just as.... Why should one mind them--such muck as they are! "Here you are," I say; that's me. A priest told me, the devil's the biggest bragger! "As soon," says he, "as you begin to brag, you get frightened; and as soon as you fear men then the hoofed one just collars you and pushes you where he likes!" But as I don't fear men, I'm easy! I can spit in the devil's beard, and at the sow his mother! He can't do me no harm! There, put that in your pipe! NIKÍTA (crossing himself). True enough! What was I about? [Throws down the rope. MÍTRITCH. What? NIKÍTA (rises). You tell me not to fear men? MÍTRITCH. Why fear such muck as they are? You look at 'em in the bath-house! All made of one paste! One has a bigger belly, another a smaller; that's all the difference there is! Fancy being afraid of 'em! Deuce take 'em! MATRYÓNA (from the yard). Well, are you coming? NIKÍTA. Ah! Better so! I'm coming! [Goes towards yard. SCENE II Interior of hut, full of people, some sitting round tables and others standing. In the front corner AKOULÍNA and the BRIDEGROOM. On one of the tables an Icon and a loaf of rye-bread. Among the visitors are MARÍNA, her husband, and a POLICE OFFICER, also a HIRED DRIVER, the MATCHMAKER, and the BEST MAN. The women are singing. ANÍSYA carries round the drink. The singing stops. THE DRIVER. If we are to go, let's go! The church ain't so near. THE BEST MAN. All right; you wait a bit till the step-father has given his blessing. But where is he? ANÍSYA. He is coming--coming at once, dear friends! Have another glass, all of you; don't refuse! THE MATCHMAKER. Why is he so long? We've been waiting such a time! ANÍSYA. He's coming; coming directly, coming in no time! He'll be here before one could plait a girl's hair who's had her hair cropped! Drink, friends! (Offers the drink.) Coming at once! Sing again, my pets, meanwhile! THE DRIVER. They've sung all their songs, waiting here! [The women sing. NIKÍTA and AKÍM enter during the singing. NIKÍTA (holds his father's arm and pushes him in before him). Go, father; I can't do without you! AKÍM. I don't like--I mean what d'ye call it.... NIKÍTA (to the women). Enough! Be quiet! (Looks round the hut.) Marína, are you there? THE MATCHMAKER. Go, take the icón, and give them your blessing! NIKÍTA. Wait a while! (Looks round.) Akoulína, are you there? MATCHMAKER. What are you calling everybody for? Where should she be? How queer he seems! ANÍSYA. Gracious goodness! Why, he's barefoot! NIKÍTA. Father, you are here! Look at me! Christian Commune, you are all here, and I am here! I am.... [Falls on his knees. ANÍSYA. Nikíta, darling, what's the matter with you? Oh, my head, my head! MATCHMAKER. Here's a go! MATRYÓNA. I did say he was taking too much of that French wine! Come to your senses; what are you about? [They try to lift him; he takes no heed of them, but looks in front of him. NIKÍTA. Christian Commune! I have sinned, and I wish to confess! MATRYÓNA (shakes him by the shoulder). Are you mad? Dear friends, he's gone crazy! He must be taken away! NIKÍTA (shakes her off). Leave me alone! And you, father, hear me! And first, Marína, look here! (Bows to the ground to her and rises.) I have sinned towards you! I promised to marry you, I tempted you, and forsook you! Forgive me, in Christ's name! [Again bows to the ground before her. ANÍSYA. And what are you drivelling about? It's not becoming! No one wants to know! Get up! It's like your impudence! MATRYÓNA. Oh, oh, he's bewitched! And however did it happen? It's a spell! Get up! what nonsense are you jabbering? [Pulls him. NIKÍTA (shakes his head). Don't touch me! Forgive me my sin towards you, Marína! Forgive me, for Christ's sake! [MARÍNA covers her face with her hands in silence. ANÍSYA. Get up, I tell you! Don't be so impudent! What are you thinking about--to recall it? Enough humbug! It's shameful! Oh my poor head! He's quite crazy! NIKÍTA (pushes his wife away and turns to AKOULÍNA). Akoulína, now I'll speak to you! Listen, Christian Commune! I'm a fiend, Akoulína! I have sinned against you! Your father died no natural death! He was poisoned! ANÍSYA (screams). Oh my head! What's he about? MATRYÓNA. The man's beside himself! Lead him away! [The folk come up and try to seize him. AKÍM (motions them back with his arms). Wait! You lads, what d'ye call it, wait, I mean! NIKÍTA. Akoulína, I poisoned him! Forgive me, in Christ's name! AKOULÍNA (jumps up). He's telling lies! I know who did it! MATCHMAKER. What are you about? You sit still! AKÍM. Oh Lord, what sins, what sins! POLICE OFFICER. Seize him, and send for the Elder! We must draw up an indictment and have witnesses to it! Get up and come here! AKÍM (to POLICE OFFICER). Now you--with the bright buttons--I mean, you wait! Let him, what d'ye call it, speak out, I mean! POLICE OFFICER. Mind, old man, and don't interfere! I have to draw up an indictment! AKÍM. Eh, what a fellow you are; wait, I say! Don't talk, I mean, about, what d'ye call it, 'ditements' Here God's work is being done.... A man is confessing, I mean! And you, what d'ye call it ... 'ditements! POLICE OFFICER. The Elder! AKÍM. Let God's work be done, I mean, and then you. I mean you, do your business! NIKÍTA. And, Akoulína, my sin is great towards you; I seduced you; forgive me in Christ's name! [Bows to the ground before her. AKOULÍNA (leaves the table). Let me go! I shan't be married! He told me to, but I shan't now! POLICE OFFICER. Repeat what you have said. NIKÍTA. Wait, sir, let me finish! AKÍM (with rapture). Speak, my son! Tell everything--you'll feel better! Confess to God, don't fear men! God--God! It is He! NIKÍTA. I poisoned the father, dog that I am, and I ruined the daughter! She was in my power, and I ruined her, and her baby! AKOULÍNA. True, that's true! NIKÍTA. I smothered the baby in the cellar with a board! I sat on it and smothered it--and its bones crunched! (Weeps.) And I buried it! I did it, all alone! AKOULÍNA. He raves! I told him to! NIKÍTA. Don't shield me! I fear no one now! Forgive me, Christian Commune! [Bows to the ground. [Silence. POLICE OFFICER. Bind him! The marriage is evidently off! [Men come up with their belts. NIKÍTA. Wait, there's plenty of time! (Bows to the ground before his father.) Father, dear father, forgive me too,--fiend that I am! You told me from the first, when I took to bad ways, you said then, "If a claw is caught, the bird is lost!" I would not listen to your words, dog that I was, and it has turned out as you said! Forgive me, for Christ's sake! AKÍM (rapturously). God will forgive you, my own son! (Embraces him.) You have had no mercy on yourself; He will show mercy on you! God-- God! It is He! [Enter ELDER. ELDER. There are witnesses enough here. POLICE OFFICER. We will have the examination at once. [NIKÍTA is bound. AKOULÍNA. (goes and stands by his side). I shall tell the truth! Ask me! NIKÍTA (bound). No need to ask! I did it all myself. The design was mine, and the deed was mine. Take me where you like. I will say no more! CURTAIN FOOTNOTES FOR THE POWER OF DARKNESS 1. It is customary to place a dying person under the icón. One or more icóns hang in the hut of each Orthodox peasant. 2. Peasant weddings are usually in autumn. They are forbidden in Lent, and soon after Easter the peasants become too busy to marry till harvest is over. 3. A formal request for forgiveness is customary among Russians, but it is often no mere formality. Nikíta's first reply is evasive; his second reply, "God will forgive you," is the correct one sanctioned by custom. 4. Loud public wailing of this kind is customary, and considered indispensable, among the peasants. 5. Where not otherwise mentioned in the stage directions, it is always the winter half of the hut that is referred to as "the hut." The summer half is not heated, and not used in winter under ordinary circumstances. 6. The Foundlings' Hospital in Moscow, where 80 to 90 percent of the children die. 7. Nan calls Mítritch "daddy" merely as a term of endearment. 8. Probably Kurds 9. This refers to the songs customary at the wedding of Russian peasants, praising the bride and bridegroom. 10. It is etiquette for a bride to bewail the approaching loss of her maidenhood. END OF _THE POWER OF DARKNESS_ * * * * * FRUITS OF CULTURE CHARACTERS LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH ZVEZDÍNTSEF. A retired Lieutenant of the Horse Guards. Owner of more than 60,000 acres of land in various provinces. A fresh-looking, bland, agreeable gentleman of 60. Believes in Spiritualism, and likes to astonish people with his wonderful stories. ANNA PÁVLOVNA ZVEZDÍNTSEVA. Wife of Leoníd. Stout; pretends to be young; quite taken up with the conventionalities of life; despises her husband, and blindly believes in her doctor. Very irritable. BETSY. Their daughter. A young woman of 20, fast, tries to be mannish, wears a pince-nez, flirts and giggles. Speaks very quickly and distinctly. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH ZVEZDÍNTSEF. Their son, aged 25; has studied law, but has no definite occupation. Member of the Cycling Club, Jockey Club, and of the Society for Promoting the Breeding of Hounds. Enjoys perfect health, and has imperturbable self-assurance. Speaks loud and abruptly. Is either perfectly serious--almost morose, or is noisily gay and laughs loud. Is nicknamed Vovo. ALEXÉY VLADÍMIROVITCH KROUGOSVÉTLOF. A professor and scientist of about 50, with quiet and pleasantly self-possessed manners, and quiet, deliberate, harmonious speech. Likes to talk. Is mildly disdainful of those who do not agree with him. Smokes much. Is lean and active. THE DOCTOR. About 40. Healthy, fat, red-faced, loud-voiced, and rough; with a self-satisfied smile constantly on his lips. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. A girl of 20, from the Conservatoire, teacher of music. Wears a fringe, and is super-fashionably dressed. Obsequious, and gets easily confused. PETRÍSTCHEF. About 28; has taken his degree in philology, and is looking out for a position. Member of the same clubs as Vasíly Leoníditch, and also of the Society for the Organisation of Calico Balls. [1] Is bald-headed, quick in movement and speech, and very polite. THE BARONESS. A pompous lady of about 50, slow in her movements, speaks with monotonous intonation. THE PRINCESS. A society woman, a visitor. HER DAUGHTER. An affected young society woman, a visitor. THE COUNTESS. An ancient dame, with false hair and teeth. Moves with great difficulty. GROSSMAN. A dark, nervous, lively man of Jewish type. Speaks very loud. THE FAT LADY: MÁRYA VASÍLYEVNA TOLBOÚHINA. A very distinguished, rich, and kindly woman, acquainted with all the notable people of the last and present generations. Very stout. Speaks hurriedly, trying to be heard above every one else. Smokes. BARON KLÍNGEN (nicknamed KOKO). A graduate of Petersburg University. Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Attaché to an Embassy. Is perfectly correct in his deportment, and therefore enjoys peace of mind and is quietly gay. TWO SILENT LADIES. SERGÉY IVÁNITCH SAHÁTOF. About 50, an ex-Assistant Minister of State. An elegant gentleman, of wide European culture, engaged in nothing and interested in everything. His carriage is dignified and at times even severe. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Personal attendant on Zvezdíntsef, aged about 60. A man of some education and fond of information. Uses his pince-nez and pocket-handkerchief too much, unfolding the latter very slowly. Takes an interest in politics. Is kindly and sensible. GREGORY. A footman, about 28, handsome, profligate, envious, and insolent. JACOB. Butler, about 40, a bustling, kindly man, to whom the interests of his family in the village are all-important. SIMON. The butler's assistant, about 20, a healthy, fresh, peasant lad, fair, beardless as yet; calm and smiling. THE COACHMAN. A man of about 35, a dandy. Has moustaches but no beard. Rude and decided. A DISCHARGED MAN-COOK. About 45, dishevelled, unshaved, bloated, yellow and trembling. Dressed in a ragged, light summer-overcoat and dirty trousers. Speaks hoarsely, ejecting the words abruptly. THE SERVANTS' COOK. A talkative, dissatisfied woman of 30. THE DOORKEEPER. A retired soldier. TÁNYA (TATYÁNA MÁRKOVNA). LADY's-maid, 19, energetic, strong, merry, with quickly-changing moods. At moments, when strongly excited, she shrieks with joy. FIRST PEASANT. About 60. Has served as village Elder. Imagines that he knows how to treat gentlefolk, and likes to hear himself talk. SECOND PEASANT. About 45, head of a family. A man of few words. Rough and truthful. The father of Simon. THIRD PEASANT. About 70. Wears shoes of plaited bast. Is nervous, restless, hurried, and tries to cover his confusion by much talking. FIRST FOOTMAN (in attendance on the Countess). An old man, with old-fashioned manners, and proud of his place. SECOND FOOTMAN. Of enormous size, strong, and rude. A PORTER FROM A FASHIONABLE DRESSMAKER'S SHOP. A fresh-faced man in dark-blue long coat. Speaks firmly, emphatically, and clearly. The action takes place in Moscow, in Zvesdíntsef's house. ACT I The entrance hall of a wealthy house in Moscow. There are three doors: the front door, the door of LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH'S study, and the door of VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S room. A staircase leads up to the other rooms; behind it is another door leading to the servants' quarters. SCENE I GREGORY (looks at himself in the glass and arranges his hair, etc.). I am sorry about those moustaches of mine! "Moustaches are not becoming to a footman," she says! And why? Why, so that any one might see you're a footman,--else my looks might put her darling son to shame. He's a likely one! There's not much fear of his coming anywhere near me, moustaches or no moustaches! (Smiling into the glass.) And what a lot of 'em swarm round me. And yet I don't care for any of them as much as for that Tánya. And she only a lady's-maid! Ah well, she's nicer than any young lady. (Smiles.) She's a duck! (Listening.) Ah, here she comes. (Smiles.) Yes, that's her, clattering with her little heels. Oh! [Enter TÁNYA, carrying a cloak and boots. GREGORY. My respects to you, Tatyána Márkovna. TÁNYA. What are you always looking in the glass for? Do you think yourself so good-looking? GREGORY. Well, and are my looks not agreeable? TÁNYA. So, so; neither agreeable nor disagreeable, but just betwixt and between! Why are all those cloaks hanging there? GREGORY. I am just going to put them away, your lady-ship! (Takes down a fur cloak and, wrapping it round her, embraces her.) I say, Tánya, I'll tell you something.... TÁNYA. Oh, get away, do! What do you mean by it? (Pulls herself angrily away.) Leave me alone, I tell you! GREGORY (looks cautiously around). Then give me a kiss! TÁNYA. Now, really, what are you bothering for? I'll give you such a kiss! [Raises her hand to strike. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (off the scene, rings and then shouts). Gregory! TÁNYA. There now, go! Vasíly Leoníditch is calling you. GREGORY. He'll wait! He's only just opened his eyes! I say, why don't you love me? TÁNYA. What sort of loving have you imagined now? I don't love anybody. GREGORY. That's a fib. You love Simon! You have found a nice one to love--a common, dirty-pawed peasant, a butler's assistant! TÁNYA. Never mind; such as he is, you are jealous of him! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (off the scene). Gregory! GREGORY. All in good time.... Jealous indeed! Of what? Why, you have only just begun to get licked into shape, and who are you tying yourself up with? Now, wouldn't it be altogether a different matter if you loved me?.... I say, Tánya.... TÁNYA (angrily and severely). You'll get nothing from me, I tell you! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (off the scene). Gregory! GREGORY. You're mighty particular, ain't you? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (off the scene, shouts persistently, monotonously, and with all his might) Gregory! Greg--ory! Gregory! [TÁNYA and GREGORY laugh. GREGORY. You should have seen the girls that have been sweet on me. [Bell rings. TÁNYA. Well then, go to them, and leave me alone! GREGORY. You are a silly, now I think of it. I'm not Simon! TÁNYA. Simon means marriage, and not tomfoolery! [Enter PORTER, carrying a large cardboard box. PORTER. Good morning! GREGORY. Good morning! Where are you from? PORTER. From Bourdey's. I've brought a dress, and here's a note for the lady. TÁNYA (taking the note). Sit down, and I'll take it in. [Exit. [VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH looks out of the door in shirt-sleeves and slippers. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Gregory! GREGORY. Yes, sir. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Gregory! Don't you hear me call? GREGORY. I've only just come, sir. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Hot water, and a cup of tea. GREGORY. Yes, sir; Simon will bring them directly. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. And who is this? Ah, from Bourdier? PORTER. Yes, sir. [Exeunt VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH and GREGORY. Bell rings. TÁNYA runs in at the sound of the bell and opens the front door. TÁNYA (to PORTER). Please wait a little. Porter. I am waiting. [SAHÁTOF enters at front door. TÁNYA. I beg your pardon, but the footman has just gone away. This way, sir. Allow me, please. [Takes his fur cloak. SAHÁTOF (adjusting his clothes). Is Leoníd Fyódoritch at home? Is he up? [Bell rings. TÁNYA. Oh yes, sir. He's been up a long time. [DOCTOR enters and looks around for the footman. Sees SAHÁTOF and addresses him in an offhand manner. DOCTOR. Ah, my respects to you! SAHÁTOF (looks fixedly at him). The Doctor, I believe? DOCTOR. And I thought you were abroad! Dropped in to see Leoníd Fyódoritch? SAHÁTOF. Yes. And you? Is any one ill? DOCTOR (laughing). Not exactly ill but, you know.... It's awful with these ladies! Sits up at cards till three every morning, and pulls her waist into the shape of a wine-glass. And the lady is flabby and fat, and carries the weight of a good many years on her back. SAHÁTOF. Is this the way you state your diagnosis to Anna Pávlovna? I should hardly think it quite pleases her! DOCTOR (laughing). Well, it's the truth. They do all these tricks--and then come derangements of the digestive organs, pressure on the liver, nerves, and all sorts of things, and one has to come and patch them up. It's just awful! (Laughs.) And you? You are also a spiritualist, it seems? SAHÁTOF. I? No, I am not also a spiritualist.... Good morning! [Is about to go, but is stopped by the DOCTOR. DOCTOR. No! But I can't myself, you know, positively deny the possibility of it, when a man like Krougosvétlof is connected with it all. How can one? Is he not a professor,--a European celebrity? There must be something in it. I should like to see for myself, but I never have the time. I have other things to do. SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes! Good morning. [Exit, bowing slightly. DOCTOR (to Tánya). Is Anna Pávlovna up? TÁNYA. She's in her bedroom, but please come up. [DOCTOR goes upstairs. [THEODORE IVÁNITCH enters with a newspaper In his hand. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (to PORTER). What is it you want? PORTER. I'm from Bourdey's. I brought a dress and a note, and was told to wait. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Ah, from Bourdey's! (To Tánya.) Who came in just now? TÁNYA. It was Sergéy Ivánitch Sahátof and the Doctor. They stood talking here a bit. It was all about spiritalism. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (correcting her). Spiritualism. TÁNYA. Yes, that's just what I said--spiritalism. Have you heard how well it went off last time, Theodore Ivánitch? (Laughs). There was knocks, and things flew about! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And how do you know? TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth told me. [JACOB runs in with a tumbler of tea on a tray. JACOB (to the PORTER). Good morning! PORTER (disconsolately). Good morning! [JACOB knocks at VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S door. [GREGORY enters. GREGORY. Give it here. JACOB. You didn't bring back all yesterday's tumblers, nor the tray Vasíly Leoníditch had. And it's me that have to answer for them! GREGORY. The tray is full of cigars. JACOB. Well, put them somewhere else. It's me who's answerable for it. GREGORY. I'll bring it back! I'll bring it back! JACOB. Yes, so you say, but it is not where it ought to be. The other day, just as the tea had to be served, it was not to be found. GREGORY. I'll bring it back, I tell you. What a fuss! JACOB. It's easy for you to talk. Here am I serving tea for the third time, and now there's the lunch to get ready. One does nothing but rush about the livelong day. Is there any one in the house who has more to do than me? Yet they are never satisfied with me. GREGORY. Dear me! Who could wish for any one more satisfactory? You're such a fine fellow! TÁNYA. Nobody is good enough for you! You alone.... GREGORY (to TÁNYA). No one asked your opinion! [Exit. JACOB. Ah, well, I don't mind. Tatyána Márkovna, did the mistress say anything about yesterday? TÁNYA. About the lamp, you mean? JACOB. And how it managed to drop out of my hands, the Lord only knows! Just as I began rubbing it, and was going to take hold of it in another place, out it slips and goes all to pieces. It's just my luck! It's easy for that Gregory Miháylitch to talk--a single man like him! But when one has a family, one has to consider things: they have to be fed. I don't mind work.... So she didn't say anything? The Lord be thanked!... Oh, Theodore Ivánitch, have you one spoon or two? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. One. Only one! [Reads newspaper. [Exit JACOB. [Bell rings. Enter GREGORY carrying a tray and the DOORKEEPER. DOORKEEPER (to GREGORY). Tell the master some peasants have come from the village. GREGORY (pointing to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). Tell the major-domo here, it's his business. I have no time. [Exit. TÁNYA. Where are these peasants from? DOORKEEPER. From Koursk, I think. TÁNYA. (shrieks with delight). It's them.... It's Simon's father come about the land! I'll go and meet them! [Runs off. DOORKEEPER. Well, then what shall I say to them? Shall they come in here? They say they've come about the land--the master knows, they say. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, they want to purchase some land. All right! But he has a visitor now, so you had better tell them to wait. DOORKEEPER. Where shall they wait? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Let them wait outside. I'll send for them when the time comes. [Exit DOORKEEPER. [Enter TÁNYA, followed by three PEASANTS. TÁNYA. To the right. In here! In here! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I did not want them brought in here! GREGORY. Forward minx! TÁNYA. Oh, Theodore Ivánitch, it won't matter, they'll stand in this corner. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They'll dirty the floor. TÁNYA. They've scraped their shoes, and I'll wipe the floor up afterwards. (To PEASANTS.) Here, stand just here. [PEASANTS come forward, carrying presents tied in cotton handkerchiefs: cake, eggs and embroidered towels. They look around for an icón before which to cross themselves; not finding one, they cross themselves, looking at the staircase. GREGORY (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). There now, Theodore Ivánitch, they say Pironnet's boots are an elegant shape. But those there are ever so much better. [Pointing to the third PEASANT'S bast shoes. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why will you always be ridiculing people? [Exit GREGORY. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (rises and goes up to the PEASANTS). So you are from Koursk? And have come to arrange about buying some land? FIRST PEASANT. Just so. We might say, it is for the completion of the purchase of the land we have come. How could we announce ourselves to the master? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, yes, I know. You wait a bit and I'll go and inform him. [Exit. [The PEASANTS look around; they are embarrassed where to put their presents. FIRST PEASANT. There now, couldn't we have what d'you call it? Something to present these here things on? To do it in a genteel way, like,--a little dish or something. TÁNYA. All right, directly; put them down here for the present. [Puts bundles on settle. FIRST PEASANT. There now,--that respectable gentleman that was here just now,--what might be his station? TÁNYA. He's the master's valet. FIRST PEASANT. I see. So he's also in service. And you, now, are you a servant too? TÁNYA. I am lady's-maid. Do you know, I also come from Démen! I know you, and you, but I don't know him. [Pointing to THIRD PEASANT. THIRD PEASANT. Them two you know, but me you don't know? TÁNYA. You are Efím Antónitch. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it! TÁNYA. And you are Simon's father, Zachary Trifánitch. SECOND PEASANT. Right! THIRD PEASANT. And let me tell you, I'm Mitry Vlásitch Tchilikin. Now do you know? TÁNYA. Now I shall know you too! SECOND PEASANT. And who may you be? TÁNYA. I am Aksínya's, the soldier's wife's, orphan. FIRST AND THIRD PEASANTS (with surprise). Never! SECOND PEASANT. The proverb says true: "Buy a penny pig, put it in the rye, And you'll have a wonderful fat porker by-and-by." FIRST PEASANT. That's just it! She's got the resemblance of a duchess! THIRD PEASANT. That be so truly. Oh Lord! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (off the scene, rings, and then shouts). Gregory! Gregory! FIRST PEASANT. Now who's that, for example, disturbing himself in such a way, if I may say so? TÁNYA. That's the young master. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! Didn't I say we'd better wait outside until the time comes? [Silence. SECOND PEASANT. Is it you, Simon wants to marry? TÁNYA. Why, has he been writing? [Hides her face in her apron. SECOND PEASANT. It's evident he's written! But it's a bad business he's imagined here. I see the lad's got spoilt! TÁNYA (quickly). No, he's not at all spoilt! Shall I send him to you? SECOND PEASANT. Why send him? All in good time. Where's the hurry? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (desperately, behind scene). Gregory! Where the devil are you?... [Enters from his room in shirt-sleeves, adjusting his pince-nez. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Is every one dead? TÁNYA. He's not here, sir.... I'll send him to you at once. [Moves towards the back door. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. I could hear you talking, you know. How have these scarecrows sprung up here? Eh? What? TÁNYA. They're peasants from the Koursk village, sir. [PEASANTS bow. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. And who is this? Oh yes, from Bourdier. [VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH pays no attention to the PEASANTS' bow. TÁNYA meets GREGORY at the doorway and remains on the scene. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (to GREGORY). I told you the other boots.... I can't wear these! GREGORY. Well, the others are also there. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But where is there? GREGORY. Just in the same place! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. They're not! GREGORY. Well, come and see. [Exeunt GREGORY and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. THIRD PEASANT. Say, now, might we not in the meantime just go and wait, say, in some lodging-house or somewhere? TÁNYA. No, no, wait a little. I'll go and bring you some plates to put the presents on. [Exit. [Enter SAHÁTOF and LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, followed by THEODORE IVÁNITCH. [The PEASANTS take up the presents, and pose themselves. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (to PEASANTS). Presently, presently! Wait a bit! (Points to PORTER.) Who is this? PORTER. From Bourdey's. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, from Bourdier. SAHÁTOF (smiling). Well, I don't deny it: still you understand that, never having seen it, we, the uninitiated, have some difficulty in believing. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You say you find it difficult to believe! We do not ask for faith; all we demand of you is to investigate! How can I help believing in this ring? Yet this ring came from there! SAHÁTOF. From there? What do you mean? From where? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. From the other world. Yes! SAHÁTOF (smiling). That's very interesting--very interesting! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, supposing we admit that I'm a man carried away by an idea, as you think, and that I am deluding myself. Well, but what of Alexéy Vladímiritch Krougosvétlof--he is not just an ordinary man, but a distinguished professor, and yet he admits it to be a fact. And not he alone. What of Crookes? What of Wallace? SAHÁTOF. But I don't deny anything. I only say it is very interesting. It would be interesting to know how Krougosvétlof explains it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He has a theory of his own. Could you come to-night?--he is sure to be here. First we shall have Grossman--you know, the famous thought-reader? SAHÁTOF. Yes, I have heard of him but have never happened to meet him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Then you must come! We shall first have Grossman, then Kaptchítch, and our mediumistic séance.... (To THEODORE IVÁNITCH.) Has the man returned from Kaptchítch? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Not yet, sir. SAHÁTOF. Then how am I to know? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Never mind, come in any case! If Kaptchítch can't come we shall find our own medium. Márya Ignátievna is a medium--not such a good one as Kaptchítch, but still.... [TÁNYA enters with plates for the presents, and stands listening. SAHÁTOF (smiling). Oh, yes, yes. But here is one puzzling point:--how is it that the mediums are always of the, so-called, educated class, such as Kaptchítch and Márya Ignátievna? If there were such a special force, would it not be met with also among the common people--the peasants? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Oh yes, and it is! That is very common. Even here in our own house we have a peasant whom we discovered to be a medium. A few days ago we called him in--a sofa had to be moved, during a séance--and we forgot all about him. In all probability he fell asleep. And, fancy, after our séance was over and Kaptchítch had come to again, we suddenly noticed mediumistic phenomena in another part of the room, near the peasant: the table gave a jerk and moved! TÁNYA (aside). That was when I was getting out from under it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It is quite evident he also is a medium. Especially as he is very like Home in appearance. You remember Home--a fair-haired naïf sort of fellow? SAHÁTOF (shrugging his shoulders). Dear me, this is very interesting, you know. I think you should try him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. So we will! And he is not alone; there are thousands of mediums, only we do not know them. Why, only a short time ago a bedridden old woman moved a brick wall! SAHÁTOF. Moved a brick ... a brick wall? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes. She was lying in bed, and did not even know she was a medium. She just leant her arm against the wall, and the wall moved! SAHÁTOF. And did not cave in? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. And did not cave in. SAHÁTOF. Very strange! Well, then, I'll come this evening. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Pray, do. We shall have a séance in any case. [SAHATOF puts on his outdoor things; LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH sees him to the door. PORTER (to TÁNYA). Do tell your mistress! Am I to spend the night here? TÁNYA. Wait a little; she's going to drive out with the young lady, so she'll soon be coming downstairs. [Exit. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (comes up to the PEASANTS, who bow and offer him their presents). That's not necessary! FIRST PEASANT (smiling). Oh, but this-here is our first duty, it is! It's also the Commune's orders that we should do it! SECOND PEASANT. That's always been the proper way. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it! 'Cause as we are much satisfied.... As our parents, let's say, served, let's say, your parents, so we would like the same with all our hearts ... and not just anyhow! [Bows. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But what is it about? What do you want? FIRST PEASANT. It's to your honor we've come.... [Enter PETRÍSTCHEF briskly, in fur-lined overcoat. PETRÍSTCHEF. Is Vasíly Leoníditch awake yet? [Seeing LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, bows, moving only his head. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You have come to see my son? PETRÍSTCHEF. I? Yes, just to see Vovo for a moment. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Step in, step in. [PETRÍSTCHEF takes off his overcoat and walks in briskly. Exit. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (to PEASANTS). Well, what is it you want? SECOND PEASANT. Please accept our presents! FIRST PEASANT (smiling). That's to say, the peasants' offerings. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it; what's the good? We wish you the same as if you were our own father! Say no more about it! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. All right. Here, Theodore, take these. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (to PEASANTS). Give them here. [Takes the presents. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, what is the business? FIRST PEASANT. We've come to your honor.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I see you have; but what do you want? FIRST PEASANT. It's about making a move towards completing the sale of the land. It comes to this.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Do you mean to buy the land? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It comes to this.... I mean the buying of the property of the land. The Commune has given us, let's say, the power of atturning, to enter, let's say, as is lawful, through the Government bank, with a stamp for the lawful amount. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You mean that you want to buy the land through the land-bank. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Just as you offered it to us last year. It comes to this, then, the whole sum in full for the buying of the property of the land is 32,864 roubles. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That's all right, but how about paying up? FIRST PEASANT. As to the payment, the Commune offers just as it was said last year--to pay in 'stalments, and your receipt of the ready money by lawful regulations, 4000 roubles in full. [2] SECOND PEASANT. Take 4000 now, and wait for the rest of the money. THIRD PEASANT (unwrapping a parcel of money). And about this be quite easy. We should pawn our own selves rather than do such a thing just anyhow say, but in this way, let's say, as it ought to be done. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But did I not write and tell you that I should not agree to it unless you brought the whole sum? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It would be more agreeable, but it is not in our possibilities, I mean. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, the thing can't be done! FIRST PEASANT. The Commune, for example, relied its hopes on that, that you made the offer last year to sell it in easy 'stalments.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That was last year. I would have agreed to it then, but now I can't. SECOND PEASANT. But how's that? We've been depending on your promise-- we've got the papers ready and have collected the money! THIRD PEASANT. Be merciful, master! We're short of land; we'll say nothing about cattle, but even a hen, let's say, we've no room to keep. (Bows.) Don't wrong us, master! [Bows. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Of course it's quite true, that I agreed last year to let you have the land for payment by instalments, but now circumstances are such that it would be inconvenient. SECOND PEASANT. Without this land we cannot live! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Without land our lives must grow weaker and come to a decline. THIRD PEASANT (bowing). Master, we have so little land, let's not talk about the cattle, but even a chicken, let's say, we've no room for. Master, be merciful, accept the money, master! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (examining the document). I quite understand, and should like to help you. Wait a little; I will give you an answer in half-an-hour.... Theodore, say I am engaged and am not to be disturbed. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, sir. [Exit LEONÍD FYODORITCH. [The PEASANTS look dejected. SECOND PEASANT. Here's a go! "Give me the whole sum," he says. And where are we to get it from? FIRST PEASANT. If he had not given us hopes, for example. As it is we felt quite insured it would be as was said last year. THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! and I had begun unwrapping the money. (Begins wrapping up the bundle of bank-notes again.) What are we to do now? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What is your business, then? FIRST PEASANT. Our business, respected sir, depends in this. Last year he made us the offer of our buying the land in 'stalments. The Commune entered upon these terms and gave us the powers of atturning, and now d'you see he makes the offering that we should pay the whole in full! And as it turns out, the business is no ways convenient for us. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What is the whole sum? FIRST PEASANT. The whole sum in readiness is 4000 roubles, you see. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what of that? Make an effort and collect more. FIRST PEASANT. Such as it is, it was collected with much effort. We have, so to say, in this sense, not got ammunition enough. SECOND PEASANT. You can't get blood out of a stone. THIRD PEASANT. We'd be glad with all our hearts, but we have swept even this together, as you might say, with a broom. [VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH and PETRÍSTCHEF appear in the doorway both smoking cigarettes. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. I have told you already I'll do my best, so, of course, I will do all that is possible! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. You must just understand that if you do not get it, the devil only knows what a mess we shall be in! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But I've already said I'll do my best, and so I will. Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. Nothing. I only say, get some at any cost; I will wait. [Exit into VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S room, closing door. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (waving his arm). It's a deuce of a go! [The PEASANTS bow. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (looking at PORTER, to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). Why don't you attend to this fellow from Bourdier? He hasn't come to take lodgings with us, has he? Just look, he is asleep! Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. The note he brought has been sent in, and he has been told to wait until Anna Pávlovna comes down. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (looks at PEASANTS and notices the money). And what is this? Money? For whom? Is it for us? (To THEODORE IVÁNITCH.) Who are they? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They are peasants from Koursk. They are buying land. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Has it been sold them? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, they have not yet come to any agreement. They are too stingy? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Eh? Well, we must try and persuade them. (To the PEASANTS.) Here, I say, are you buying land? Eh? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. We have made an offering as how we should like to acquire the possession of the land. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then you should not be so stingy, you know. Just let me tell you how necessary land is to peasants! Eh, what? It's very necessary, isn't it? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. The land appears as the very first and foremost necessity to a peasant. That's just it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then why be so stingy? Just you think what land is! Why, one can sow wheat on it in rows! I tell you, you could get eighty bushels of wheat, at a rouble and a half a bushel--that would be 120 roubles. Eh, what? Or else mint! I tell you, you could collar 400 roubles off an acre by sowing mint! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. All sorts of products one could put into action if one had the right understanding. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Mint! Decidedly mint! I have learnt about it, you know. It's all printed in books. I can show them you. Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. That's just it, all concerns are clearer to you through your books. That's learnedness, of course. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Then pay up and don't be stingy! (To THEODORE IVÁNITCH.) Where's papa? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. He gave orders not to be disturbed just now. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Oh, I suppose he's consulting a spirit whether to sell the land or not? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I can't say. All I know is that be went away undecided about it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. What d'you think, Theodore Ivánitch, is he flush of cash? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I don't know. I hardly think so. But what does it matter to you? You drew a good sum not more than a week ago. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But didn't I pay for those dogs? And now, you know, there's our new Society, and Petrístchef has been chosen, and I had borrowed money from Petrístchef and must pay the subscription both for him and for myself. Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And what is this new Society? A Cycling Club? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. No. Just let me tell you. It is quite a new Society. It is a very serious Society, you know. And who do you think is President? Eh, what? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What's the object of this new Society? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. It is a "Society to Promote the Breeding of Pure-Bred Russian Hounds." Eh, what? And I'll tell you, they're having the first meeting and a lunch, to-day. And I've no money. I'll go to him and have a try! [Exit through study door. FIRST PEASANT (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). And who might he be, respected sir? THEODORE IVÁNITCH (smiles). The young master. THIRD PEASANT. The heir, so to say. Oh, Lord! (Puts away the money.) I'd better hide it meanwhile. FIRST PEASANT. And we were told he was in military service, in the cav'rely, for example. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, as an only son he is exempt from military service. THIRD PEASANT. Left for to keep his parents, so to say! That's right! SECOND PEASANT (shaking his head). He's the right sort. He'll feed them finely! THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! [Enter VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH, followed by LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. That's always the way. It's really surprising! First I'm asked why I have no occupation, and now when I have found a field and am occupied, when a Society with serious and noble aims has been founded, I can't even have 300 roubles to go on with!... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I tell you I can't do it, and I can't! I haven't got it. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Why, you have just sold some land. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. In the first place I have not sold it! And above all, do leave me in peace! Weren't you told I was engaged? [Exit, slamming door. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I told you this was not the right moment. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Well, I say! Here's a position to be in! I'll go and see mamma--that's my only hope. He's going crazy over his spiritualism and forgets everything else. [Goes upstairs. [THEODORE IVÁNITCH takes newspaper and is just going to sit down, when BETSY and MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA, followed by GREGORY, come down the stairs. BETSY. Is the carriage ready? GREGORY. Just coming to the door. BETSY (to MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA). Come along, come along, I know it is he. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Which he? BETSY. You know very well whom I mean--Petrístchef, of course. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But where is he? BETSY. Sitting in Vovo's room. You'll see! MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. And suppose it is not he? [The PEASANTS and PORTER bow. BETSY (to PORTER). You brought a dress from Bourdier's? PORTER. Yes, Miss. May I go? BETSY. Well, I don't know. Ask my mother. PORTER. I don't know whose it is, Miss; I was ordered to bring it here and receive the money. BETSY. Well, then, wait. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Is it still that costume for the charade? BETSY. Yes, a charming costume. But mamma won't take it or pay for it. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But why not? BETSY. You'd better ask mamma. She doesn't grudge Vovo 500 roubles for his dogs, but 100 is too much for a dress. I can't act dressed like a scarecrow. (Pointing to PEASANTS.) And who are these? GREGORY. Peasants who have come to buy some land or other. BETSY. And I thought they were the beaters. Are you not beaters? FIRST PEASANT. No, no, lady. We have come to see Leoníd Fyódoritch about the signing into our possession of the title-deeds to some land. BETSY. Then how is it? Vovo was expecting some beaters who were to come to-day. Are you sure you are not the beaters? (The PEASANTS are silent.) How stupid they are! (Goes to VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S door.) Vovo? [Laughs. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But we met him just now upstairs! BETSY. Why need you remember that? Vovo, are you there? [PETRÍSTCHEF enters. PETRÍSTCHEF. Vovo is not here, but I am prepared to fulfil on his behalf anything that may be required. How do you do? How do you do, Márya Konstantínovna? [Shakes hands long and violently with BETSY, and then with MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. SECOND PEASANT. See, it's as if he were pumping water! BETSY. You can't replace him,--still you're better than nobody. (Laughs.) What are these affairs of yours with Vovo? PETRÍSTCHEF. What affairs? Our affairs are fie-nancial that is, our business is fie! It's also nancial, and besides it is financial. BETSY. What does nancial mean? PETRÍSTCHEF. What a question! It means nothing, that's just the point. BETSY. No, no, you have missed fire. [Laughs. PETRÍSTCHEF. One can't always hit the mark, you know. It's something like a lottery. Blanks and blanks again, and at last you win! [THEODORE IVÁNITCH goes into the study. BETSY. Well, this was blank then; but tell me, were you at the Mergásofs' last night? PETRÍSTCHEF. Not exactly at the Mère Gásof's, but rather at the Père Gásof's, or better still, at the Fils Gásof's. BETSY. You can't do without puns. It's an illness. And were the Gypsies there? [3] [Laughs. PETRÍSTCHEF (sings). "On their aprons silken threads, little birds with golden heads!".... BETSY. Happy mortals! And we were yawning at Fofo's. PETRÍSTCHEF (continues to sing). "And she promised and she swore, she would ope' her ... her ... her...." how does it go on, Márya Konstantínovna? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. "Closet door." PETRÍSTCHEF. How? What? How, Márya Konstantínovna? BETSY. Cessez, vous devenez impossible! [4] PETRÍSTCHEF. J'ai cessé, j'ai bébé, j'ai dédé....[5] BETSY. I see the only way to rid ourselves of your wit is to make you sing! Let us go into Vovo's room, his guitar is there. Come, Márya Konstantínovna, come! [Exeunt BETSY, MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA, and PETRÍSTCHEF. FIRST PEASANT. Who be they? GREGORY. One is our young lady, the other is a girl who teaches her music. FIRST PEASANT. Administrates learning, so to say. And ain't she smart? A reg'lar picture! SECOND PEASANT. Why don't they marry her? She is old enough, I should say. GREGORY. Do you think it's the same as among you peasants,--marry at fifteen? FIRST PEASANT. And that man, for example, is he also in the musitional line? GREGORY (mimicking him). "Musitional," indeed! You don't understand anything! FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. And stupidity, one might say, is our ignorance. THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! [Gypsy songs and guitar accompaniment are heard from VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S room. [Enter SIMON, followed by TÁNYA, who watches the meeting between father and son. GREGORY (to SIMON). What do you want? SIMON. I have been to Mr. Kaptchítch. GREGORY. Well, and what's the answer? SIMON. He sent word he couldn't possibly come to-night. GREGORY. All right, I'll let them know. [Exit. SIMON (to his father). How d'you do, father! My respects to Daddy Efím and Daddy Mítry! How are all at home? SECOND PEASANT. Very well, Simon. FIRST PEASANT. How d'you do, lad? THIRD PEASANT. How d'you do, sonny? SIMON (smiles). Well, come along, father, and have some tea. SECOND PEASANT. Wait till we've finished our business. Don't you see we are not ready yet? SIMON. Well, I'll wait for you by the porch. [Wishes to go away. TÁNYA (running after him). I say, why didn't you tell him anything? SIMON. How could I before all those people? Give me time, I'll tell him over our tea. [Exit. [THEODORE IVÁNITCH enters and sits down by the window. FIRST PEASANT. Respected sir, how's our business proceeding? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Wait a bit, he'll be out presently, he's just finishing. TÁNYA (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). And how do you know, Theodore Ivánitch, he is finishing? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I know that when he has finished questioning, he reads the question and answer aloud. TÁNYA. Can one really talk with spirits by means of a saucer? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. It seems so. TÁNYA. But supposing they tell him to sign, will he sign? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Of course he will. TÁNYA. But they do not speak with words? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Oh, yes. By means of the alphabet. He notices at which letter the saucer stops. TÁNYA. Yes, but at a si-ance?.... [Enter LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, friends, I can't do it! I should be very glad to, but it is quite impossible. If it were for ready money it would be a different matter. FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. What more could any one desire? But the people are so inpennycuous--it is quite impossible! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, I can't do it, I really can't. Here is your document; I can't sign it. THIRD PEASANT. Show some pity, master; be merciful! SECOND PEASANT. How can you act so? It is doing us a wrong. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Nothing wrong about it, friends. I offered it you in summer, but then you did not agree; and now I can't agree to it. THIRD PEASANT. Master, be merciful! How are we to get along? We have so little land. We'll say nothing about the cattle; a hen, let's say, there's no room to let a hen run about. [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH goes up to the door and stops. Enter, descending the staircase, ANNA PÁVLOVNA and DOCTOR, followed by VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH, who is in a merry and playful mood and is putting some bank-notes into his purse. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (tightly laced, and wearing a bonnet). Then I am to take it? DOCTOR. If the symptoms recur you must certainly take it, but above all, you must behave better. How can you expect thick syrup to pass through a thin little hair tube, especially when we squeeze the tube? It's impossible; and so it is with the biliary duct. It's simple enough. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. All right, all right! DOCTOR. Yes. "All right, all right," and you go on in the same old way. It won't do, madam--it won't do. Well, good-bye! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, not good-bye, only au revoir! For I still expect you to-night. I shall not be able to make up my mind without you. DOCTOR. All right, if I have time I'll pop in. [Exit. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (noticing the PEASANTS). What's this? What? What people are these? [PEASANTS bow. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. These are peasants from Koursk, come to see Leoníd Fyódoritch about the sale of some land. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I see they are peasants, but who let them in? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Leoníd Fyódoritch gave the order. He has just been speaking to them about the sale of the land. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What sale? There is no need to sell any. But above all, how can one let in people from the street into the house? One can't let people in from the street! One can't let people into the house who have spent the night heaven knows where!... (Getting more and more excited.) I daresay every fold of their clothes is full of microbes-- of scarlet-fever microbes, of smallpox microbes, of diphtheria microbes! Why, they are from Koursk Government, where there is an epidemic of diphtheria ... Doctor! Doctor! Call the doctor back! [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH goes into his room and shuts the door. GREGORY goes to recall the DOCTOR. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (smokes at the PEASANTS). Never mind, mamma; if you like I'll fumigate them so that all the microbes will go to pot! Eh, what? [ANNA PÁVLOVNA remains severely silent, awaiting the DOCTOR'S return. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (to PEASANTS). And do you fatten pigs? There's a first-rate business! FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. We do go in for the pig-fattening line now and then. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. This kind?... [Grunts like a pig. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Vovo, Vovo, leave off! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Isn't it like? Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. It's very resemblant. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Vovo, leave off, I tell you! SECOND PEASANT. What's it all about? THIRD PEASANT. I said, we'd better go to some lodging meanwhile! [Enter DOCTOR and GREGORY. DOCTOR. What's the matter? What's happened? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why, you're always saying I must not get excited. Now, how is it possible to keep calm? I do not see my own sister for two months, and am careful about any doubtful visitor--and here are people from Koursk, straight from Koursk, where there is an epidemic of diphtheria, right in my house! DOCTOR. These good fellows you mean, I suppose? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course. Straight from a diphtheric place! DOCTOR. Well, of course, if they come from an infected place it is rash; but still there is no reason to excite yourself so much about it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. But don't you yourself advise carefulness? DOCTOR. Of course, of course. Still, why excite yourself? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How can I help it? Now we shall have to have the house completely disinfected. DOCTOR. Oh, no! Why completely? That would cost 300 roubles or more. I'll arrange it cheaply and well for you. Take, to a large bottle of water.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Boiled? DOCTOR. It's all the same. Boiled would be better. To one bottle of water take a tablespoon of salicylic acid, and have everything they have come in contact with washed with the solution. As to the fellows themselves, they must be off, of course. That's all. Then you're quite safe. And it would do no harm to sprinkle some of the same solution through a spray--two or three tumblers--you'll see how well it will act. No danger whatever. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Tánya! Where is Tánya? [Enter TÁNYA. TÁNYA. Did you call, M'm? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You know that big bottle in my dressing-room? TÁNYA. Out of which we sprinkled the laundress yesterday? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, of course! What other bottle could I mean? Well, then, take that bottle and first wash with soap the place where they have been standing, and then with.... TÁNYA. Yes, M'm; I know how. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And then take the spray.... However, I had better do that myself when I get back. DOCTOR. Well, then, do so, and don't be afraid! Well, au revoir till this evening. [Exit. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And they must be off! Not a trace of them must remain! Get out, get out! Go--what are you looking at? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. It's because of our stupidity, as we were instructed.... GREGORY (pushes the PEASANTS out). There, there; be off! SECOND PEASANT. Let me have my handkerchief back! [The handkerchief in which the presents were wrapped. THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord! didn't I say--some lodging-house meanwhile! [GREGORY pushes him out. Exeunt PEASANTS. PORTER (who has repeatedly tried to say something).--Will there be any answer? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Ah, from Bourdier? (Excitedly.) None! None! You can take it back. I told her I never ordered such a costume, and I will not allow my daughter to wear it! PORTER. I know nothing about it. I was sent.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Go, go, take it back! I will call myself about it! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (solemnly). Sir Messenger from Bourdier, depart! PORTER. I might have been told that long ago. I have sat here nearly five hours! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ambassador from Bourdier, begone! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Cease, please! [Exit PORTER. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Betsy! Where is she? I always have to wait for her. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (shouting at the top of his voice). Betsy! PETRÍSTCHEF! Come quick, quick, quick! Eh? What? [Enter PETRÍSTCHEF, BETSY, and MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You always keep one waiting! BETSY. On the contrary, I was waiting for you! [PETRÍSTCHEF bows with his head only, then kisses ANNA PÁVLOVNA'S hand. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How d'you do! (To BETSY.) You always have an answer ready! BETSY. If you are upset, mamma, I had better not go. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Are we going or not? BETSY. Well, let us go; it can't be helped. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Did you see the man from Bourdier? BETSY. Yes, and I was very glad. I ordered the costume, and am going to wear it when it is paid for. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I am not going to pay for a costume that is indecent! BETSY. Why has it become indecent? First it was decent, and now you have a fit of prudery. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Not prudery at all! If the bodice were completely altered, then it would do. BETSY. Mamma, that is quite impossible. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, get dressed. [They sit down. GREGORY puts on their over-shoes for them. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Márya Konstantínovna, do you notice a vacuum in the hall? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. What is it? [Laughs in anticipation. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Bourdier's man has gone! Eh, what? Good, eh? [Laughs loudly. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, let us go. (Goes out of the door, but returns at once.) Tánya! TÁNYA. Yes, M'm? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Don't let Frisk catch cold while I am away. If she wants to be let out, put on her little yellow cloak. She is not quite well to-day. TÁNYA. Yes, M'm. [Exeunt ANNA PÁVLOVNA, BETSY, and GREGORY. PETRÍSTCHEF. Well, have you got it? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Not without trouble, I can tell you! First I rushed at the gov'nor; he began to bellow and turned me out. Off to the mater--I got it out of her. It's here! (Slaps his breast pocket.) If once I make up my mind, there's no getting away from me. I have a deadly grip! Eh, what? And d'you know, my wolf-hounds are coming to-day. [PETRÍSTCHEF and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH put on their outdoor things and go out. TÁNYA follows. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (alone). Yes, nothing but unpleasantness. How is it they can't live in peace? But one must say the new generation are not --the thing. And as to the women's dominion!... Why, Leoníd Fyódoritch just now was going to put in a word, but seeing what a frenzy she was in--slammed the door behind him. He is a wonderfully kind-hearted man. Yes, wonderfully kind. What's this? Here's Tánya bringing them back again! TÁNYA. Come in, come in, grand-dads, never mind! [Enter TÁNYA and the PEASANTS. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why have you brought them back? TÁNYA. Well, Theodore Ivánitch, we must do something about their business. I shall have to wash the place anyhow. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But the business will not come off, I see that already. FIRST PEASANT. How could we best put our affair into action, respected sir? Your reverence might take a little trouble over it, and we should give you full thankings from the Commune for your trouble. THIRD PEASANT. Do try, honey! We can't live! We have so little land. Talk of cattle--why, we have no room to keep a hen! [They bow. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I am sorry for you, friends, but I can't think of any way to help you. I understand your case very well, but he has refused. So what can one do? Besides, the lady is also against it. Well, give me your papers--I'll try and see what I can do, but I hardly hope to succeed. [Exit. [TÁNYA and the three PEASANTS sigh. TÁNYA. But tell me, grand-dads, what is it that is wanted? FIRST PEASANT. Why, only that he should put his signature to our document. TÁNYA. That the master should sign? Is that all? FIRST PEASANT. Yes, only lay his signature on the deed and take the money, and there would be an end of the matter. THIRD PEASANT. He only has to write and sign, as the peasants, let's say, desire, so, let's say, I also desire. That's the whole affair--if he'd only take it and sign it, it's all done. TÁNYA (considering). He need only sign the paper and it's done? FIRST PEASANT. That's just so. The whole matter is in dependence on that, and nothing else. Let him sign, and we ask no more. TÁNYA. Just wait and see what Theodore Ivánitch will say. If he cannot persuade the master, I'll try something. FIRST PEASANT. Get round him, will you? TÁNYA. I'll try. THIRD PEASANT. Ay, the lass is going to bestir herself. Only get the thing settled, and the Commune will bind itself to keep you all your life. See there, now! FIRST PEASANT. If the affair can be put into action, truly we might put her in a gold frame. SECOND PEASANT. That goes without saying! TÁNYA. I can't promise for certain, but as the saying is: "An attempt is no sin, if you try...." FIRST PEASANT. "You may win." That's just so. [Enter THEODORE IVÁNITCH. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. No, friends, it's no go! He has not done it, and he won't do it. Here, take your document. You may go. FIRST PEASANT (gives TÁNYA the paper). Then it's on you we pin all our reliance, for example. TÁNYA. Yes, yes! You go into the street, and I'll run out to you in a minute and have a word with you. [Exeunt PEASANTS. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, dear Theodore Ivánitch, ask the master to come out and speak to me for a moment. I have something to say to him. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What next? TÁNYA. I must, Theodore Ivánitch. Ask him, do; there's nothing wrong about it, on my sacred word. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But what do you want with him? TÁNYA. That's a little secret. I will tell you later on, only ask him. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (smiling). I can't think what you are up to! All right, I'll go and ask him. [Exit. TÁNYA. I'll do it! Didn't he say himself that there is that power in Simon? And I know how to manage. No one found me out that time, and now I'll teach Simon what to do. If it doesn't succeed it's no great matter. After all it's not a sin. [Enter LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, followed by THEODORE IVÁNITCH. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (smiling). Is this the petitioner? Well, what is your business? TÁNYA. It's a little secret, Leoníd Fyódoritch; let me tell it you alone. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What is it? Theodore, leave us for a minute. [Exit THEODORE IVÁNITCH. TÁNYA. As I have grown up and lived in your house, Leoníd Fyódoritch, and as I am very grateful to you for everything, I shall open my heart to you as to a father. Simon, who is living in your house, wants to marry me. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. So that's it! TÁNYA. I open my heart to you as to a father! I have no one to advise me, being an orphan. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, and why not? He seems a nice lad. TÁNYA. Yes, that's true. He would be all right; there is only one thing I have my doubts about. It's something about him that I have noticed and can't make out ... perhaps it is something bad. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What is it? Does he drink? TÁNYA. God forbid! But since I know that there is such a thing as spiritalism.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, you know that? TÁNYA. Of course! I understand it very well. Some, of course, through ignorance, don't understand it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, what then? TÁNYA. I am very much afraid for Simon. It does happen to him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What happens to him? TÁNYA. Something of a kind like spiritalism. You ask any of the servants. As soon as he gets drowsy at the table, the table begins to tremble, and creak like that: tuke, ... tuke! All the servants have heard it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, it's the very thing I was saying to Sergéy Ivánitch this morning! Yes?... TÁNYA. Or else ... when was it?... Oh, yes, last Wednesday. We sat down to dinner, and the spoon just jumps into his hand of itself! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Ah, that is interesting! Jumps into his hand? When he was drowsing? TÁNYA. That I didn't notice. I think he was, though. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes?... TÁNYA. And that's what I'm afraid of, and what I wanted to ask you about. May not some harm come of it? To live one's life together, and him having such a thing in him! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (smiling). No, you need not be afraid, there is nothing bad in that. It only proves him to be a medium--simply a medium. I knew him to be a medium before this. TÁNYA. So that's what it is! And I was afraid! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, there's nothing to be afraid of. (Aside.) That's capital! Kaptchítch can't come, so we will test him to-night.... (To TÁNYA.) No, my dear, don't be afraid, he will be a good husband and ... that is only a kind of special power, and every one has it, only in some it is weaker and in others stronger. TÁNYA. Thank you, sir. Now I shan't think any more about it; but I was so frightened.... What a thing it is, our want of education! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, no, don't be frightened.... Theodore! [Enter THEODORE IVÁNITCH. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I am going out now. Get everything ready for to-night's séance. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But Mr. Kaptchítch is not coming. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. That does not matter. (Puts on overcoat.) We shall have a trial séance with our own medium. [Exit. THEODORE IVÁNITCH goes out with him. TÁNYA (alone). He believes it! He believes it! (Shrieks and jumps with joy.) He really believes it! Isn't it wonderful! (Shrieks.) Now I'll do it, if only Simon has pluck for it! [THEODORE IVÁNITCH returns. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, have you told him your secret? TÁNYA. I'll tell you, too, only later on.... But I have a favor to ask of you, too, Theodore Ivánitch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes? What is it? TÁNYA (shyly). You have been a second father to me, and I will open my heart before you as before God. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Don't beat about the bush, but come straight to the point. TÁNYA. The point is ... well, the point is, that Simon wants to marry me. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Is that it? I thought I noticed.... TÁNYA. Well, why should I hide it? I am an orphan, and you know yourself how matters are in these town establishments. Every one comes bothering; there's that Gregory Miháylitch, for instance, he gives me no peace. And also that other one ... you know. They think I have no soul, and am only here for their amusement. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Good girl, that's right! Well, what then? TÁNYA. Well, Simon wrote to his father; and he, his father, sees me to-day, and says: "He's spoilt"--he means his son. Theodore Ivánitch (bows), take the place of a father to me, speak to the old man,--to Simon's father! I could take them into the kitchen, and you might come in and speak to the old man! THEODORE IVÁNITCH (smiling). Then I am to turn match-maker--am I? Well, I can do that. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, dearest, be a father to me, and I'll pray for you all my life long. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, all right, I'll come later on. Haven't I promised? [Takes up newspaper. TÁNYA. You are a second father to me! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, all right. TÁNYA. Then I'll rely on you. [Exit. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (alone, shaking his head). A good affectionate girl. To think that so many like her perish! Get but once into trouble and she'll go from hand to hand until she sinks into the mire, and can never be found again! There was that dear little Nataly. She, too, was a good girl, reared and cared for by a mother. (Takes up paper.) Well, let's see what tricks Ferdinand is up to in Bulgaria. CURTAIN ACT II Evening of the same day. The scene represents the interior of the servants' kitchen. The PEASANTS have taken off their outer garments and sit drinking tea at the table, and perspiring. THEODORE IVÁNITCH is smoking a cigar at the other side of the stage. The discharged COOK is lying on the brick oven, and is unseen during the early part of the scene. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. My advice is, don't hinder him! If it's his wish and hers, in Heaven's name, let him do it. She is a good, honest girl. Never mind her being a bit dressy; she can't help that, living in town: she is a good girl all the same. SECOND PEASANT. Well, of course, if it is his wish, let him! He'll have to live with her, not me. But she's certainly uncommon spruce. How's one to take her into one's hut? Why, she'll not let her mother-in-law so much as pat her on the head. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That does not depend on the spruceness, but on character. If her nature is good, she's sure to be docile and respectful. SECOND PEASANT. Ah, well, we'll have her if the lad's bent on having her. After all, it's a bad job to live with one as one don't care for. I'll consult my missus, and then may Heaven bless them! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then let's shake hands on it! SECOND PEASANT. Well, it seems it will have to come off. FIRST PEASANT. Eh, Zachary! fortune's a-smiling on you! You've come to accomplish a piece of business, and just see what a duchess of a daughter-in-law you've obtained. All that's left to be done is to have a drink on it, and then it will be all in order. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's not at all necessary. [An awkward silence. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I know something of your way of life, too, you know. I am even thinking of purchasing a bit of land, building a cottage, and working on the land myself somewhere; maybe in your neighborhood. SECOND PEASANT. A very good thing, too. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. When one has got the money one can get all kinds of pleasure in the country. THIRD PEASANT. Say no more about it! Country life let's say, is freer in every way, not like the town! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. There now, would you let me join your Commune if I settled among you? SECOND PEASANT. Why not? If you stand drink for the Elders, they'll accept you soon enough! FIRST PEASANT. And if you open a public-house, for example, or an inn, why, you'd have such a life you'd never need to die! You might live like a king, and no mistake. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, we'll see. I should certainly like to have a few quiet years in my old age. Though my life here is good enough, and I should be sorry to leave. Leoníd Fyódoritch is an exceedingly kind-hearted man. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. But how about our business? Is it possible that he is going to leave it without any termination? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. He'd do it willingly. SECOND PEASANT. It seems he's afraid of his wife. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. It's not that he's afraid, but they don't hit things off together. THIRD PEASANT. But you should try, father! How are we to live else? We've so little land.... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. We'll see what comes of Tánya's attempt. She's taken the business into her hands now! THIRD PEASANT (takes a sip of tea). Father, be merciful. We've so little land. A hen, let's say, we've no room for a hen, let alone the cattle. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. If the business depended on me.... (To SECOND PEASANT.) Well, friend, so we've done our bit of match-making! It's agreed then about Tánya? SECOND PEASANT. I've given my word, and I'll not go back on it without a good reason. If only our business succeeds! [Enter SERVANTS' COOK, who looks up at the oven, makes a sign, and then begins to speak animatedly to THEODORE IVÁNITCH. SERVANTS' COOK. Just now Simon was called upstairs from the front kitchen! The master and that other bald-headed one who calls up spirits with him, ordered him to sit down and take the place of Kaptchítch! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. You don't say so! SERVANTS' COOK. Yes, Jacob told Tánya. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Extraordinary! [Enter COACHMAN. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What do you want? COACHMAN (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). You may just tell them I never agreed to live with a lot of dogs! Let any one who likes do it, but I will never agree to live among dogs! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What dogs? COACHMAN. Three dogs have been sent into our room by Vasíly Leoníditch! They've messed it all over. They're whining, and if one comes near them they bite--the devils! They'd tear you to pieces if you didn't mind. I've a good mind to take a club and smash their legs for them! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But when did they come? COACHMAN. Why, to-day, from the Dog Show; the devil knows what kind they are, but they're an expensive sort. Are we or the dogs to live in the coachmen's quarters? You just go and ask! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, that will never do. I'll go and ask about it. COACHMAN. They'd better be brought here to Loukérya. SERVANTS' COOK (angrily). People have to eat here, and you'd like to lock dogs in here! As it is.... COACHMAN. And I've got the liveries, and the sledge-covers and the harness there, and they expect things kept clean! Perhaps the porter's lodge might do. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I must ask Vasíly Leoníditch. COACHMAN (angrily). He'd better hang the brutes round his neck and lug them about with him! But no fear: he'd rather ride on horseback himself. It's he as spoilt. Beauty without rhyme or reason. That was a horse!... Oh, dear! what a life! [Exit, slamming door. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's not right! Certainly not right! (To PEASANTS.) Well, then, it's time we were saying good-bye, friends. PEASANTS. Good-bye! [Exit THEODORE IVÁNITCH. [As soon as he is gone a sound of groaning is heard from the top of the oven. SECOND PEASANT. He's sleek, that one; looks like a general. SERVANTS' COOK. Rather! Why he has a room all to himself; he gets his washing, his tea and sugar, and food from the master's table. DISCHARGED COOK (on the oven). Why shouldn't the old beggar live well? He's lined his pockets all right! SECOND PEASANT. Who's that up there, on the oven? SERVANTS' COOK. Oh, it's only a man. [Silence. FIRST PEASANT. Well, and you, too, as I noticed a while since when you were supping, have capital food to eat. SERVANTS' COOK. We can't complain. She's not mean about the food. We have wheat bread every Sunday, and fish when a holiday happens to be a fast-day, too, and those who like may eat meat. SECOND PEASANT. And does any one tuck into flesh on fast-days? SERVANTS' COOK. Oh, they nearly all do! Only the old coachman--not the one who was here just now but the old one--and Simon, and I and the housekeeper, fast--all the others eat meat. SECOND PEASANT. And the master himself? SERVANTS' COOK. Catch him! Why, I bet he's forgotten there is such a thing as fasting! THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! FIRST PEASANT. That's the gentlefolks' way: they have got it all out of their books. 'Cos of their intelex! THIRD PEASANT. Shouldn't wonder if they feed on wheat bread every day! SERVANTS' COOK. Wheat bread, indeed! Much they think of wheat bread! You should see what food they eat. No end of different things! FIRST PEASANT. In course gentlefolks' food is of an airial kind. SERVANTS' COOK. Airial, of course, but all the same they're good at stuffing themselves, they are! FIRST PEASANT. Have healthy appekites, so to say. SERVANTS' COOK. 'Cos they always rinse it down! All with sweet wines, and spirits, and fizzy liquors. They have a different one to suit every kind of food. They eat and rinse it down, and eat and rinse it down, they do. FIRST PEASANT. And so the food's floated down in proportion, so to say. SERVANTS' COOK. Ah, yes, they are good at stuffing! It's awful! You see, it's not just sitting down, eating, then saying grace and going away--they're always at it! SECOND PEASANT. Like pigs with their feet in the trough! [Peasants laugh. SERVANTS' COOK. As soon as, by God's grace, they have opened their eyes, the samovár is brought in--tea, coffee, chocolate. Hardly is the second samovár emptied, a third has to be set. Then lunch, then dinner, then again coffee. They've hardly left off, then comes tea, and all sorts of tit-bits and sweetmeats--there's never an end to it! They even lie in bed and eat! THIRD PEASANT. There now; that's good. [Laughs. FIRST AND SECOND PEASANTS. What are you about? THIRD PEASANT. If I could only live a single day like that! SECOND PEASANT. But when do they do their work? SERVANTS' COOK. Work indeed! What is their work? Cards and piano-- that's all their work. The young lady used to sit down to the piano as soon as she opened her eyes, and off she'd go! And that other one who lives here, the teacher, stands and waits. "When will the piano be free?" When one has finished, off rattles the other, and sometimes they'd put two pianos near one another and four of 'em would bust out at once. Bust out in such a manner, you could hear 'em down here! THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! SERVANTS' COOK. Well, and that's all the work they do! Piano or cards! As soon as they have met together--cards, wine, smoking, and so on, all night long. And as soon as they are up: eating again! [Enter SIMON. SIMON. Hope you're enjoying your tea! FIRST PEASANT. Come and join us. SIMON. (comes up to the table). Thank you kindly. [First PEASANT pours out a cup of tea for him. SECOND PEASANT. Where have you been? SIMON. Upstairs. SECOND PEASANT. Well, and what was being done there? SIMON. Why, I couldn't make it out at all! I don't know how to explain it. SECOND PEASANT. But what was it? SIMON. I can't explain it. They have been trying some kind of strength in me. I can't make it out. Tánya says, "Do it, and we'll get the land for our peasants; he'll sell it them." SECOND PEASANT. But how is she going to manage it? SIMON. I can't make it out, and she won't say. She says, "Do as I tell you," and that's all. SECOND PEASANT. But what is it you have to do? SIMON. Nothing just now. They made me sit down, put out the lights and told me to sleep. And Tánya had hidden herself there. They didn't see her, but I did. SECOND PEASANT. Why? What for? SIMON. The Lord only knows--I can't make it out. FIRST PEASANT. Naturally, it is for the distraction of time. SECOND PEASANT. Well, it's clear you and I can make nothing of it. You had better tell me whether you have taken all your wages yet. SIMON. No, I've not drawn any. I have twenty-eight roubles to the good, I think. SECOND PEASANT. That's all right! Well, if God grants that we get the land, I'll take you home, Simon. SIMON. With all my heart! SECOND PEASANT. You've got spoilt, I should say. You'll not want to plough? SIMON. Plough? Only give me the chance! Plough or mow,--I'm game. Those are things one doesn't forget. FIRST PEASANT. But it don't seem very desirous after town life, for example? Eh! SIMON. It's good enough for me. One can live in the country, too. FIRST PEASANT. And Daddy Mítry here is already on the look-out for your place; he's hankering after a life of luckshury! SIMON. Eh, Daddy Mítry, you'd soon get sick of it. It seems easy enough when one looks at it, but there's a lot of running about that takes it out of one. SERVANTS' COOK. You should see one of their balls, Daddy Mítry, then you would be surprised! THIRD PEASANT. Why, do they eat all the time? SERVANTS' COOK. My eye! You should have seen what we had here awhile ago. Theodore Ivánitch took me upstairs and I peeped in. The ladies-- awful! Dressed up! Dressed up, bless my heart, and all bare down to here, and their arms bare. THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! SECOND PEASANT. Faugh! How beastly! FIRST PEASANT. I take it the climate allows of that sort of thing! SERVANTS' COOK. Well, daddy, so I peeped in. Dear me, what it was like! All of 'em in their natural skins! Would you believe it: old women--our mistress, only think, she's a grandmother, and even she'd gone and bared her shoulders. THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! SERVANTS' COOK. And what next? The music strikes up, and each man of 'em went up to his own, catches hold of her, and off they go twirling round and round! SECOND PEASANT. The old women, too? SERVANTS' COOK. Yes, the old ones, too. SIMON. No, the old ones sit still. SERVANTS' COOK. Get along,--I've seen it myself! SIMON. No, they don't. DISCHARGED COOK (in a hoarse voice, looking down from the oven). That's the Polka-Mazurka. You fools don't understand what dancing is. The way they dance.... SERVANTS' COOK. Shut up, you dancer! And keep quiet--there's some one coming. [Enter GREGORY; old COOK hides hurriedly. GREGORY (to SERVANTS' COOK). Bring some sour cabbage. SERVANTS' COOK. I am only just up from the cellar, and now I must go down again! Who is it for? GREGORY. For the young ladies. Be quick, and send it up with Simon. I can't wait! SERVANTS' COOK. There now, they tuck into sweetmeats till they are full up, and then they crave for sour cabbage! FIRST PEASANT. That's to make a clearance. SERVANTS' COOK. Of course, and as soon as there is room inside, they begin again! [Takes basin, and exit. GREGORY (at PEASANTS). Look at them, how they've established themselves down here! Mind, if the mistress finds it out she'll give it you hot, like she did this morning! [Exit, laughing. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it, she did raise a storm that time--awful! SECOND PEASANT. That time it looked as if the master was going to step in, but seeing that the missus was about to blow the very roof off the house, he slams the door. Have your own way, thinks he. THIRD PEASANT (waving his arm). It's the same everywhere. My old woman, let's say, she kicks up such a rumpus sometimes--it's just awful! Then I just get out of the hut. Let her go to Jericho! She'll give you one with the poker if you don't mind. Oh, Lord! [JACOB enters hurriedly with a prescription. JACOB. Here, Simon, you run to the chemist's and get these powders for the mistress! SIMON. But master told me not to go out. JACOB. You've plenty of time; your business won't begin till after their tea. Hope you are enjoying your tea! FIRST PEASANT. Thanks, come and join us. [Exit SIMON. JACOB. I haven't time. However, I'll just have one cup for company's sake. FIRST PEASANT. And we've just been having a conversation as to how your mistress carried on so haughty this morning. JACOB. Oh, she's a reg'lar fury! So hot-tempered, that she gets quite beside herself. Sometimes she even bursts out crying. FIRST PEASANT. Now, there's a thing I wanted to ask you about. What, for example, be these mikerots she was illuding to erewhile? "They've infested the house with mikerots, with mikerots," she says. What is one to make of these same mikerots? JACOB. Mikerogues, you mean! Well, it seems there is such a kind of bugs; all illnesses come from them, they say. So she says there are some of 'em on you. After you were gone, they washed and washed and sprinkled the place where you had stood. There's a kind of physic as kills these same bugs, they say. Second Peasant. Then where have we got these bugs on us? JACOB (drinking his tea). Why, they say they're so small that one can't see 'em even through a glass. SECOND PEASANT. Then how does she know I've got 'em on me? Perhaps there's more of that muck on her than on me! JACOB. There now, you go and ask her! SECOND PEASANT. I believe it's humbug. JACOB. Of course it's bosh. The doctors must invent something, or else what are they paid for? There's one comes to us every day. Comes,-- talks a bit,--and pockets ten roubles! SECOND PEASANT. Nonsense! JACOB. Why, there's one as takes a hundred! FIRST PEASANT. A hundred? Humbug! JACOB. A hundred. Humbug, you say? Why, if he has to go out of town, he'll not do it for less than a thousand! "Give a thousand," he says, "or else you may kick the bucket for what I care!" THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! SECOND PEASANT. Then does he know some charm? JACOB. I suppose he must. I served at a General's outside Moscow once: a cross, terrible proud old fellow he was--just awful. Well, this General's daughter fell ill. They send for that doctor at once. "A thousand roubles, then I'll come." Well, they agreed, and he came. Then they did something or other he didn't like, and he bawled out at the General and says, "Is this the way you show your respect for me? Then I'll not attend her!" And, oh, my! The old General forgot all his pride, and starts wheedling him in every way not to chuck up the job! FIRST PEASANT. And he got the thousand? JACOB. Of course! SECOND PEASANT. That's easy got money. What wouldn't a peasant do with such a sum! THIRD PEASANT. And I think it's all bosh. That time my foot was festering I had it doctored ever so long. I spent nigh on five roubles on it,--then I gave up doctoring, and it got all right! [DISCHARGED COOK on the oven coughs. JACOB. Ah, the old crony is here again! FIRST PEASANT. Who might that man be? JACOB. He used to be our master's cook. He comes to see Loukérya. FIRST PEASANT. Kitchen-master, as one might say. Then, does he live here? JACOB. No, they won't allow that. He's here one day, there another. If he's got a copper he goes to a dosshouse; but when he has drunk all, he comes here. SECOND PEASANT. How did he come to this? JACOB. Simply grew weak. And what a man he used to be--like a gentleman! Went about with a gold watch; got forty roubles a month wages. And now look at him! He'd have starved to death long ago if it hadn't been for Loukérya. [Enter SERVANTS' COOK with the sour cabbage. JACOB (to SERVANTS' COOK). I see you've got Paul Petróvitch here again? SERVANTS' COOK. And where's he to go to? Is he to go and freeze? THIRD PEASANT. What liquor does.... Liquor, let's say.... [Clicks his tongue sympathetically. SECOND PEASANT. Of course. A firm man's firm as a rock; a weak man's weaker than water. DISCHARGED COOK (gets off the oven with trembling hands and legs). Loukérya, I say, give us a drop! SERVANTS' COOK. What are you up to? I'll give you such a drop!... DISCHARGED COOK. Have you no conscience? I'm dying! Brothers, a copper.... SERVANTS' COOK. Get back on the oven, I tell you! DISCHARGED COOK. Half a glass only, cook, for Heaven's sake! I say, do you understand? I ask you in the name of Heaven, now! SERVANTS' COOK. Come along, here's some tea for you. DISCHARGED COOK. Tea; what is tea? Weak, sloppy stuff. A little vódka --just one little drop.... Loukérya! THIRD PEASANT. Poor old soul, what agony it is! SECOND PEASANT. You'd better give him some. SERVANTS' COOK (gets out a bottle and fills a wine-glass). Here you are; you'll get no more. DISCHARGED COOK (clutches hold of it and drinks, trembling all over). Loukérya, Cook! I am drinking, and you must understand.... SERVANTS' COOK. Now, then, stop your chatter! Get on to the oven, and let not a breath of you be heard! [The old COOK meekly begins to climb up, muttering something to himself. SECOND PEASANT. What it is, when a man gives way to his weakness! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it--human weakness. THIRD PEASANT. That goes without saying. [The DISCHARGED COOK settles down, muttering all the time. [Silence. SECOND PEASANT. I want to ask you something: that girl of Aksínya's as comes from our village and is living here. How is she? What is she like? How is she living--I mean, does she live honest? JACOB. She's a nice girl; one can say nothing but good of her. SERVANTS' COOK. I'll tell you straight, daddy; I know this here establishment out and out, and if you mean to have Tánya for your son's wife--be quick about it, before she comes to grief, or else she'll not escape! JACOB. Yes, that's true. A while ago we had a girl here, Nataly. She was a good girl too. And she was lost without rhyme or reason. No better than that chap! [Pointing to the old COOK. SERVANTS' COOK. There's enough to dam a mill-pool, with the likes of us, as perish! 'Cos why, every one is tempted by the easy life and the good food. And see there,--as soon as one has tasted the good food she goes and slips. And once she's slipped, they don't want her, but get a fresh one in her place. So it was with dear little Nataly; she also slipped, and they turned her out. She had a child and fell ill, and died in the hospital last spring. And what a girl she used to be! THIRD PEASANT. Oh, Lord! People are weak; they ought to be pitied. DISCHARGED COOK. Those devils pity? No fear! (He hangs his legs down from the oven.) I have stood roasting myself by the kitchen range for thirty years, and now that I am not wanted, I may go and die like a dog.... Pity indeed!... FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. It's the old circumstances. SECOND PEASANT. While they drank and they fed, you were "curly head." When they'd finished the prog, 'twas "Get out, mangy dog!" THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! DISCHARGED COOK. Much you know. What is "Sautey a la Bongmont"? What is "Bavassary"? Oh, the things I could make! Think of it! The Emperor tasted my work, and now the devils want me no longer. But I am not going to stand it! SERVANTS' COOK. Now, then, stop that noise, mind.... Get up right into the corner, so that no one can see you, or else Theodore Ivánitch or some one may come in, and both you and me'll be turned out! [Silence. JACOB. And do you know my part of the country? I'm from Voznesénsky. SECOND PEASANT. Not know it? Why, it's no more'n ten miles from our village; not that across the ford! Do you cultivate any land there? JACOB. My brother does, and I send my wages. Though I live here, I am dying for a sight of home. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. SECOND PEASANT. Then Anísim is your brother? JACOB. Own brother. He lives at the farther end of the village. SECOND PEASANT. Of course, I know; his is the third house. [Enter TÁNYA, running. TÁNYA. Jacob, what are you doing, amusing yourself here? She is calling you! JACOB. I'm coming; but what's up? TÁNYA. Frisk is barking; it's hungry. And she's scolding you. "How cruel he is," she says. "He's no feeling," she says. "It's long past Frisk's dinner-time, and he has not brought her food!" [Laughs. JACOB (rises to go). Oh, she's cross? What's going to happen now, I wonder? SERVANTS' COOK. Here, take the cabbage with you. JACOB. All right, give it here. [Takes basin, and exit. FIRST PEASANT. Who is going to dine now? TÁNYA. Why, the dog! It's her dog. (Sits down and takes up the tea-pot.) Is there any more tea? I've brought some. [Puts fresh tea into the tea-pot. FIRST PEASANT. Dinner for a dog? TÁNYA. Yes, of course! They prepare a special cutlet for her; it must not be too fat. And I do the washing--the dog's washing, I mean. THIRD PEASANT. Oh Lord! TÁNYA. It's like that gentleman who had a funeral for his dog. SECOND PEASANT. What's that? TÁNYA. Why, some one told me he had a dog--I mean the gentleman had a dog. And it died. It was winter, and he went in his sledge to bury that dog. Well, he buried it, and on the way home he sits and cries-- the gentleman does. Well, there was such a bitter frost that the coachman's nose keeps running, and he has to keep wiping it. Let me fill your cup! (Fills it.) So he keeps wiping his nose, and the gentleman sees it, and says, "What are you crying about?" And the coachman, he says, "Why, sir, how can I help it; is there another dog like him?" [Laughs. SECOND PEASANT. And I daresay he thinks to himself, "If your own self was to kick the bucket I'd not cry." [Laughs. DISCHARGED COOK (from up on the oven). That is true; that's right! TÁNYA. Well, the gentleman, he gets home and goes straight to his lady: "What a good-hearted man our coachman is; he was crying all the way home about poor Dash. Have him called.... Here, drink this glass of vódka," he says, "and here's a rouble as a reward for you." That's just like her saying Jacob has no feelings for her dog! [The PEASANTS laugh. FIRST PEASANT. That's the style! SECOND PEASANT. That was a go! THIRD PEASANT. Aye, lassie, but you've set us a-laughing! TÁNYA (pouring out more tea). Have some more! Yes, it only seems that our life is pleasant; but sometimes it is very disgusting,--clearing up all their messes! Faugh! It's better in the country. (PEASANTS turn their cups upside-down, as a polite sign that they have had enough. TÁNYA pours out more tea.) Have some more, Efím Antónitch. I'll fill your cup, Mítry Vlásitch. THIRD PEASANT. All right, fill it, fill it. FIRST PEASANT. Well, dear, and what progression is our business making? TÁNYA. It's getting on.... FIRST PEASANT. Simon told us.... TÁNYA. (quickly). Did he? SECOND PEASANT. But he could not make us understand. TÁNYA. I can't tell you now, but I'm doing my best--all I can! And I've got your paper here! (Shows the paper hidden under the bib of her apron.) If only one thing succeeds ... (Shrieks.) Oh, how nice it would be! SECOND PEASANT. Don't lose that paper, mind. It has cost money. TÁNYA. Never fear. You only want him to sign it? Is that all? THIRD PEASANT. Why, what else? Let's say he's signed it, and it's done! (Turns his cup upside-down.) I've had enough. TÁNYA (aside). He'll sign it; you'll see he will.... Have some more. [Pours out tea. FIRST PEASANT. If only you get this business about the sale of the land settled, the Commune would pay your marriage expenses. [Refuses the tea. TÁNYA (pouring out tea). Do have another cup. THIRD PEASANT. You get it done, and we'll arrange your marriage, and I myself, let's say, will dance at the wedding. Though I've never danced in all my born days, I'll dance then! TÁNYA (laughing). All right, I'll be in hopes of it. [Silence. SECOND PEASANT (examines TÁNYA). That's all very well, but you're not fit for peasant work. TÁNYA. Who? I? Why, don't you think me strong enough? You should see me lacing up my mistress. There's many a peasant couldn't tug as hard. SECOND PEASANT. Where do you tug her to? TÁNYA. Well, there's a thing made with bone, like--something like a stiff jacket, only up to here! Well, and I pull the strings just as when you saddle a horse--when you ... what d'ye call it? You know, when you spit on your hands! SECOND PEASANT. Tighten the girths, you mean. TÁNYA. Yes, yes, that's it. And you know I mustn't shove against her with my knee. [Laughs. SECOND PEASANT. Why do you pull her in? TÁNYA. For a reason! SECOND PEASANT. Why, is she doing penance? TÁNYA. No, it's for beauty's sake! FIRST PEASANT. That's to say, you pull in her paunch for appearance' sake. TÁNYA. Sometimes I lace her up so that her eyes are ready to start from her head, and she says, "Tighter," till my hands tingle. And you say I'm not strong! [PEASANTS laugh and shake their heads. TÁNYA. But here, I've been jabbering. [Runs away, laughing. THIRD PEASANT. Ah, the lassie has made us laugh! FIRST PEASANT. She's a tidy one! SECOND PEASANT. She's not bad. [Enter SAHÁTOF and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. SAHÁTOF holds a teaspoon in his hand. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Not exactly a dinner, but a déjeuner dinatoire. And first-rate it was, I tell you. Ham of sucking-pig, delicious! Roulier feeds one splendidly! I've only just returned. (Sees PEASANTS.) Ah, the peasants are here again! SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes, that's all very well, but we came here to hide this article. Where shall we hide it? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me a moment. (To SERVANTS' COOK.) Where are the dogs? SERVANTS' COOK. In the coachman's quarters. You can't keep dogs in the servants' kitchen! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ah, in the coachman's quarters? All right. SAHÁTOF. I am waiting. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Excuse me, please. Eh, what? Hide it? I'll tell you what. Let's put it into one of the peasants' pockets. That one. I say, where's your pocket? Eh, what? THIRD PEASANT. What for d'ye want my pocket? You're a good 'un! My pocket! There's money in my pocket! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Where's your bag, then? THIRD PEASANT. What for? SERVANTS' COOK. What d'you mean? That's the young master! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (laughs. To SAHÁTOF). D'you know why he's so frightened? Shall I tell you? He's got a heap of money. Eh, what? SAHÁTOF. Yes, yes, I see. Well, you talk to them a bit, and I'll put it into that bag without being observed, so that they should not notice and could not point it out to him. Talk to them. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. All right! (To PEASANTS.) Well then, old fellows, how about the land? Are you buying it? Eh, what? FIRST PEASANT. We have made an offering, so to say, with our whole heart. But there,--the business don't come into action nohow. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. You should not be so stingy! Land is an important matter! I told you about planting mint. Or else tobacco would also do. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. Every kind of producks. THIRD PEASANT. And you help us, master. Ask your father. Or else how are we to live? There's so little land. A fowl, let's say, there's not enough room for a fowl to run about. SAHÁTOF (having put the spoon into a bag belonging to the THIRD PEASANT). C'est fait. Ready. Come along. [Exit. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. So don't be stingy! Eh? Well, good-bye. [Exit. THIRD PEASANT. Didn't I say, come to some lodging-house? Well, supposing we'd had to give three-pence each, then at least we'd have been in peace. As to here, the Lord be merciful! "Give us the money," he says. What's that for? SECOND PEASANT. He's drunk, I daresay. [PEASANTS turn their cups upside-down, rise, and cross themselves. FIRST PEASANT. And d'you mind what a saying he threw out? Sowing mint! One must know how to understand them, that one must! SECOND PEASANT. Sow mint indeed! He'd better bend his own back at that work, and then it's not mint he'll hanker after, no fear! Well, many thanks!... And now, good woman, would you tell us where we could lie down to sleep? SERVANTS' COOK. One of you can lie on the oven, and the others on these benches. THIRD PEASANT. Christ save you! [Prays, crossing himself. FIRST PEASANT. If only by God's help we get our business settled! (Lies down.) Then to-morrow, after dinner, we'd be off by the train, and on Tuesday we'd be home again. SECOND PEASANT. Are you going to put out the light? SERVANTS' COOK. Put it out? Oh, no! They'll keep running down here, first for one thing then another.... You lie down, I'll lower it. SECOND PEASANT. How is one to live, having so little land? Why, this year, I have had to buy corn since Christmas. And the oat-straw is all used up. I'd like to get hold of ten acres, and then I could take Simon back. THIRD PEASANT. You're a man with a family. You'd get the land cultivated without trouble. If only the business comes off. SECOND PEASANT. We must pray to the Holy Virgin, maybe she'll help us out. (Silence, broken by sighs. Then footsteps and voices are heard outside. The door opens. Enter GROSSMAN hurriedly, with his eyes bandaged, holding SAHÁTOF'S hand, and followed by the PROFESSOR and the DOCTOR, the FAT LADY and LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, BETSY and PETRÍSTCHEF, VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH and MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA, ANNA PÁVLOVNA and the BARONESS, THEODORE IVÁNITCH and TÁNYA.) [PEASANTS jump up. GROSSMAN comes forward stepping quickly, then stops. FAT LADY. You need not trouble yourselves; I have undertaken the task of observing, and am strictly fulfilling my duty! Mr. Sahátof, are you not leading him? SAHÁTOF. Of course not! FAT LADY. You must not lead him, but neither must you resist! (To LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH.) I know these experiments. I have tried them myself. Sometimes I used to feel a certain effluence, and as soon as I felt it.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. May I beg of you to keep perfect silence? FAT LADY. Oh, I understand so well! I have experienced it myself. As soon as my attention was diverted I could no longer.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Sh...! [GROSSMAN goes about, searches near the FIRST and SECOND PEASANTS, then approaches the THIRD, and stumbles over a bench. BARONESS. Mais dites-moi, on le paye?[6] ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Je ne saurais vous dire. BARONESS. Mais c'est un monsieur? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, oui! BARONESS. Ça tient du miraculeux. N'est ce pas? Comment est-ce qu'il trouve? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Je ne saurais vous dire. Mon mari vous l'expliquera. (Noticing PEASANTS, turns round, and sees the SERVANTS' COOK.) Pardon ... what is this? [BARONESS goes up to the group. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. (to SERVANTS' COOK). Who let the peasants in? SERVANTS' COOK. Jacob brought them in. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Who gave Jacob the order? SERVANTS' COOK. I can't say. Theodore Ivánitch has seen them. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Leoníd! [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH does not hear, being absorbed in the search, and says, Sh.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Theodore Ivánitch! What is the meaning of this? Did you not see me disinfecting the whole hall, and now the whole kitchen is infected, all the rye bread, the milk.... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I thought there would not be any danger if they came here. The men have come on business. They have far to go, and are from our village. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. That's the worst of it! They are from the Koursk village, where people are dying of diphtheria like flies! But the chief thing is, I ordered them out of the house!... Did I, or did I not? (Approaches the others that have gathered round the PEASANTS.) Be careful! Don't touch them--they are all infected with diphtheria! [No one heeds her, and she steps aside in a dignified manner and stands quietly waiting. PETRÍSTCHEF (sniffs loudly). I don't know if it is diphtheria, but there is some kind of infection in the air. Don't you notice it? BETSY. Stop your nonsense! Vovo, which bag is it in? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. That one, that one. He is getting near, very near! PETRÍSTCHEF. Is it spirits divine, or spirits of wine? BETSY. Now your cigarette comes in handy for once. Smoke closer, closer to me. [PETRÍSTCHEF leans over her and smokes at her. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. He's getting near, I tell you. Eh, what? GROSSMAN (searches excitedly round the THIRD PEASANT). It is here; I feel it is! FAT LADY. Do you feel an effluence? [GROSSMAN stoops and finds the spoon in the bag. ALL. Bravo! [General enthusiasm. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Ah! So that's where our spoon was. (To PEASANTS.) Then that's the sort you are! THIRD PEASANT. What sort? I didn't take your spoon! What are you making out? I didn't take it, and my soul knows nothing about it. I didn't take it--there! Let him do what he likes. I knew he came here for no good. "Where's your bag?" says he. I didn't take it, the Lord is my witness! (Crosses himself.) I didn't take it! [The young people group round the PEASANT, laughing. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (angrily to his son). Always playing the fool! (To the THIRD PEASANT.) Never mind, friend! We know you did not take it; it was only an experiment. GROSSMAN (removes bandage from his eyes, and pretends to be coming to). Can I have a little water? [All fuss round him. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Let's go straight from here into the coachman's room. I've got a bitch there--épâtante![7] BETSY. What a horrid word! Couldn't you say dog? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. No. I can't say--Betsy is a man, épâtante. I should have to say young woman; it's a parallel case. Eh, what? Márya Konstantínovna, isn't it true? Good, eh? [Laughs loudly. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. Well, let us go. [Exeunt MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA, BETSY, PETRÍSTCHEF, and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. FAT LADY (to GROSSMAN). Well? how are you? Have you rested? (GROSSMAN does not answer. To SAHÁTOF.) And you, Mr. Sahátof, did you feel the effluence? SAHÁTOF. I felt nothing. Yes, it was very fine--very fine. Quite a success! BARONESS.--Admirable! Ça ne le fait pas souffrir? [8] LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Pas le moins du monde. PROFESSOR (to GROSSMAN). May I trouble you? (Hands him a thermometer.) At the beginning of the experiment it was 37 decimal 2 degrees. [9] (To DOCTOR.) That's right, I think? Would you mind feeling his pulse? Some loss is inevitable. DOCTOR (to GROSSMAN). Now then, sir, let's have your hand; we'll see, we'll see. [Takes out his watch and feels GROSSMAN'S pulse. FAT LADY (to GROSSMAN). One moment! The condition you were in could not be called sleep? GROSSMAN (wearily). It was hypnosis. SAHÁTOF. In that case, are we to understand that you hypnotised yourself? GROSSMAN. And why not? An hypnotic state may ensue not only in consequence of association--the sound of the tom-tom, for instance, in Charcot's method--but by merely entering an hypnogenetic zone. SAHÁTOF. Granting that, it would still be desirable to define what hypnotism is, more exactly? PROFESSOR. Hypnotism is a phenomenon resulting from the transmutation of one energy into another. GROSSMAN. Charcot does not so define it. SAHÁTOF. A moment, just a moment! That is your definition, but Liébault told me himself.... DOCTOR (lets go of GROSSMAN'S pulse). Ah, that's all right; well, now, the temperature? FAT LADY (interrupting). No, allow me! I agree with the Professor. And here's the very best proof. After my illness, when I lay insensible, a desire to speak came over me. In general I am of a silent disposition, but then I was overcome by this desire to speak, and I spoke and spoke, and I was told that I spoke in such a way that every one was astonished! (To SAHÁTOF.) But I think I interrupted you? SAHÁTOF (with dignity). Not at all. Pray continue. DOCTOR. Pulse 82, and the temperature has risen three-tenths of a degree. PROFESSOR. There you are! That's a proof! That's just as it should be. (Takes out pocket-book and writes.) 82, yes? And 37 and 5. When the hypnotic state is induced, it invariably produces a heightened action of the heart. DOCTOR. I can, as a medical man, bear witness that your prognosis was justified by the event. PROFESSOR (to SAHÁTOF). You were saying?... SAHÁTOF. I wished to say that Liébault told me himself that the hypnotic is only one particular psychical state, increasing susceptibility to suggestion. PROFESSOR. That is so, but still the law of equivalents is the chief thing. GROSSMAN. Moreover, Liébault is far from being an authority, while Charcot has studied the subject from all sides, and has proved that hypnotism produced by a blow, a trauma.... [All talking together-- SAHÁTOF. Yes, but I don't reject Charcot's labor. I know him also, I am only repeating what Liébault told me... GROSSMAN (excitedly). There are 3000 patients together in the Salpêtrière, and I have gone through the whole course. PROFESSOR. Excuse me, gentlemen, but that is not the point. FAT LADY (interrupting). One moment, I will explain it to you in two words. When my husband was ill, all the doctors gave him up.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. However, we had better go upstairs again. Baroness, this way! [Exeunt GROSSMAN, SAHÁTOF, PROFESSOR, DOCTOR, the FAT LADY, and BARONESS, talking loudly and interrupting each other. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (catching hold of LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH'S arm). How often have I asked you not to interfere in household matters! You think of nothing but your nonsense, and the whole house is on my shoulders. You will infect us all! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What? How? I don't understand what you mean. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. How? Why, people ill of diphtheria sleep in the kitchen, which is in constant communication with the whole house. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, but I.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What, I? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I know nothing about it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It's your duty to know, if you are the head of the family. Such things must not be done. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But I never thought.... I thought.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It is sickening to listen to you! [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH remains silent. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). Turn them out at once! They are to leave my kitchen immediately! It is terrible! No one listens to me; they do it out of spite.... I turn them out from there, and they bring them in here! And with my illness.... (Gets more and more excited, and at last begins to cry.) Doctor! Doctor! Peter Petróvitch!... He's gone too!... [Exit, sobbing, followed by LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. [All stand silent for a long time. THIRD PEASANT. Botheration take them all! If one don't mind, the police will be after one here. And I have never been to law in all my born days. Let's go to some lodging-house, lads! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. (to TÁNYA). What are we to do? TÁNYA. Never mind, Theodore Ivánitch, let them sleep with the coachman. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How can we do that? The coachman was complaining as it is, that his place is full of dogs. TÁNYA. Well, then, the porter's lodge. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And supposing it's found out? TÁNYA. It won't be found out! Don't trouble about that, Theodore Ivánitch. How can one turn them out now, at night? They'll not find anywhere to go to. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, do as you please. Only they must go away from here. [Exit. [PEASANTS take their bags. DISCHARGED COOK. Oh those damned fiends! It's all their fat! Fiends! SERVANTS' COOK. You be quiet there. Thank goodness they didn't see you! TÁNYA. Well then, daddy, come along to the porter's lodge. FIRST PEASANT. Well, but how about our business? How, for example, about the applience of his hand to the signature? May we be in hopes? TÁNYA. We'll see in an hour's time. SECOND PEASANT. You'll do the trick? TÁNYA (laughs). Yes, God willing! CURTAIN ACT III Evening of the same day. The small drawing-room in LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH'S house, where the séances are always held. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH and the PROFESSOR. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, shall we risk a séance with our new medium? PROFESSOR. Yes, certainly. He is a powerful medium, there is no doubt about it. And it is especially desirable that the séance should take place to-day with the same people. Grossman will certainly respond to the influence of the mediumistic energy, and then the connection and identity of the different phenomena will be still more evident. You will see then that, if the medium is as strong as he was just now, Grossman will vibrate. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Then I will send for Simon and ask those who wish to attend to come in. PROFESSOR. Yes, all right! I will just jot down a few notes. [Takes out his note-book and writes. [Enter SAHÁTOF. SAHÁTOF. They have just settled down to whist in Anna Pávlovna's drawing-room, and as I am not wanted there--and as I am interested in your séance--I have put in an appearance here. But will there be a séance? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, certainly! SAHÁTOF. In spite of the absence of Mr. Kaptchítch's mediumistic powers? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Vous avez la main heureuse. [10] Fancy, that very peasant whom I mentioned to you this morning turns out to be an undoubted medium. SAHÁTOF. Dear me! Yes, that is peculiarly interesting! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, we tried a few preliminary experiments with him just after dinner. SAHÁTOF. So you've had time already to experiment, and to convince yourself.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, perfectly! And he turns out to be an exceptionally powerful medium. SAHÁTOF (incredulously). Dear me! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It turns out that it has long been noticed in the servants' hall. When he sits down to table, the spoon springs into his hand of its own accord! (To the PROFESSOR.) Had you heard about it? PROFESSOR. No, I had not heard that detail. SAHÁTOF (to the PROFESSOR). But still, you admit the possibility of such phenomena? PROFESSOR. What phenomena? SAHÁTOF. Well, spiritualistic, mediumistic, and supernatural phenomena in general. PROFESSOR. The question is, what do we consider supernatural? When, not a living man but a piece of stone attracted a nail to itself, how did the phenomena strike the first observers? As something natural? Or supernatural? SAHÁTOF. Well, of course; but phenomena such as the magnet attracting iron always repeat themselves. PROFESSOR. It is just the same in this case. The phenomenon repeats itself and we experiment with it. And not only that, but we apply to the phenomena we are investigating the laws common to other phenomena. These phenomena seem supernatural only because their causes are attributed to the medium himself. But that is where the mistake lies. The phenomena are not caused by the medium, but by psychic energy acting through a medium, and that is a very different thing. The whole matter lies in the law of equivalents. SAHÁTOF. Yes, certainly, but.... [Enter TÁNYA, who hides behind the hangings. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Only remember that we cannot reckon on any results with certainty, with this medium any more than with Home or Kaptchítch. We may not succeed, but on the other hand we may even have perfect materialisation. SAHÁTOF. Materialisation even? What do you mean by materialisation? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, I mean that some one who is dead--say, your father or your grandfather--may appear, take you by the hand, or give you something; or else some one may suddenly rise into the air, as happened to Alexéy Vladímiritch last time. PROFESSOR. Of course, of course. But the chief thing is the explanation of the phenomena, and the application to them of general laws. [Enter the FAT LADY. FAT LADY. Anna Pávlovna has allowed me to join you. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Very pleased. FAT LADY. Oh, how tired Grossman seems! He could scarcely hold his cup. Did you notice (to the PROFESSOR) how pale he turned at the moment he approached the hiding-place? I noticed it at once, and was the first to mention it to Anna Pávlovna. PROFESSOR. Undoubtedly,--loss of vital energy. FAT LADY. Yes, it's just as I say, one should not abuse that sort of thing. You know, a hypnotist once suggested to a friend of mine, Véra Kónshin (oh, you know her, of course)--well, he suggested that she should leave off smoking,--and her back began to ache! PROFESSOR (trying to have his say). The temperature and the pulse clearly indicate.... FAT LADY. One moment! Allow me! Well, I said to her: it's better to smoke than to suffer so with one's nerves. Of course, smoking is injurious; I should like to give it up myself, but, do what I will, I can't! Once I managed not to smoke for a fortnight, but could hold out no longer. PROFESSOR (again trying to speak). Clearly proves.... FAT LADY. Yes, no! Allow me, just one word! You say, "loss of strength." And I was also going to say that, when I travelled with post-horses ... the roads used to be dreadful in those days--you don't remember--but I have noticed that all our nervousness comes from railways! I, for instance, can't sleep while travelling; I cannot fall asleep to save my life! PROFESSOR (makes another attempt, which the FAT LADY baffles). The loss of strength.... SAHÁTOF (smiling). Yes; oh yes! [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH rings. FAT LADY. I am awake one night, and another, and a third, and still I can't sleep! [Enter GREGORY. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Please tell Theodore to get everything ready for the séance, and send Simon here--Simon, the butler's assistant,--do you hear? GREGORY. Yes, sir. [Exit. PROFESSOR (to SAHÁTOF). The observation of the temperature and the pulse have shown loss of vital energy. The same will happen in consequence of the mediumistic phenomena. The law of the conservation of energy.... FAT LADY. Oh yes, yes; I was just going to say that I am very glad that a simple peasant turns out to be a medium. That's very good. I always did say that the Slavophils.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Let's go into the drawing-room in the meantime. FAT LADY. Allow me, just one word! The Slavophils are right; but I always told my husband that one ought never to exaggerate anything! "The golden mean," you know. What is the use of maintaining that the common people are all perfect, when I have myself seen.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Won't you come into the drawing-room? FAT LADY. A boy--that high--who drank! I gave him a scolding at once. And he was grateful to me afterwards. They are children, and, as I always say, children need both love and severity! [Exeunt all, all talking together. [TÁNYA enters from behind the hangings. TÁNYA. Oh, if it would only succeed! [Begins fastening some threads. [Enter BETSY hurriedly. BETSY. Isn't papa here? (Looks inquiringly at TÁNYA.) What are you doing here? TÁNYA. Oh, Miss Elizabeth, I have only just come; I only wished ... only came in.... [Embarrassed. BETSY. But they are going to have a séance here directly (Notices TÁNYA drawing in the threads, looks at her, and suddenly bursts out laughing.) Tánya! Why, it's you who do it all? Now don't deny it. And last time it was you too? Yes, it was, it was! TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth, dearest! BETSY (delighted). Oh, that is a joke! Well, I never. But why do you do it? TÁNYA. Oh miss, dear miss, don't betray me! BETSY. Not for the world! I'm awfully glad. Only tell me how you manage it? TÁNYA. Well, I just hide, and then, when it's all dark, I come out and do it. That's how. BETSY (pointing to threads). And what is this for? You needn't tell me. I see; you draw.... TÁNYA. Miss Elizabeth, darling! I will confess it, but only to you. I used to do it just for fun, but now I mean business. BETSY. What? How? What business? TÁNYA. Well, you see, those peasants that came this morning, you saw them. They want to buy some land, and your father won't sell it; well, and Theodore Ivánitch, he says it's the spirits as forbid him. So I have had a thought as.... BETSY. Oh, I see! Well, you are a clever girl! Do it, do it.... But how will you manage it? TÁNYA. Well, I thought, when they put out the lights, I'll at once begin knocking and shying things about, touching their heads with the threads, and at last I'll take the paper about the land and throw it on the table. I've got it here. BETSY. Well, and then? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see? They will be astonished. The peasants had the paper, and now it's here. I will teach.... BETSY. Why, of course! Simon is the medium to-day! TÁNYA. Well, I'll teach him.... (Laughs so that she can't continue.) I'll tell him to squeeze with his hands any one he can get hold of! Of course, not your father--he'd never dare do that--but any one else; he'll squeeze till it's signed. BETSY (laughing). But that's not the way it is done. Mediums never do anything themselves. TÁNYA. Oh, never mind. It's all one; I daresay it'll turn out all right. [Enter THEODORE IVÁNITCH. [Exit BETSY, making signs to TÁNYA. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Why are you here? TÁNYA. It's you I want, Theodore Ivánitch, dear.... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what is it? TÁNYA. About that affair of mine as I spoke of. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (laughs). I've made the match; yes, I've made the match. The matter is settled; we have shaken hands on it, only not had a drink on it. TÁNYA (with a shriek). Never! So it's all right? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Don't I tell you so? He says, "I shall consult the missus, and then, God willing...." TÁNYA. Is that what he said? (Shrieks.) Dear Theodore Ivánitch, I'll pray for you all the days of my life! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right! All right! Now is not the time. I've been ordered to arrange the room for the séance. TÁNYA. Let me help you. How's it to be arranged? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How? Why, the table in the middle of the room-- chairs--the guitar--the accordion. The lamp is not wanted, only candles. TÁNYA (helps THEODORE IVÁNITCH to place the things). Is that right? The guitar here, and here the inkstand. (Places it.) So? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Can it be true that they'll make Simon sit here? TÁNYA. I suppose so; they've done it once. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Wonderful! (Puts on his pince-nez.) But is he clean? TÁNYA. How should I know? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then, I'll tell you what.... TÁNYA. Yes, Theodore Ivánitch? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Go and take a nail-brush and some Pears' soap; you may take mine ... and go and cut his claws and scrub his hands as clean as possible. TÁNYA. He can do it himself. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well then, tell him to. And tell him to put on a clean shirt as well. TÁNYA. All right, Theodore Ivánitch. [Exit. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (sits down in an easy-chair). They're educated and learned--Alexéy Vladímiritch now, he's a professor--and yet sometimes one can't help doubting very much. The people's rude superstitions are being abolished: hobgoblins, sorcerers, witches.... But if one considers it, is not this equally superstitious? How is it possible that the souls of the dead should come and talk, and play the guitar? No! Some one is fooling them, or they are fooling themselves. And as to this business with Simon--it's simply incomprehensible. (Looks at an album.) Here's their spiritualistic album. How is it possible to photograph a spirit? But here is the likeness of a Turk and Leoníd Fyódoritch sitting by.... Extraordinary human weakness! [Enter LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Is it all ready? THEODORE IVÁNITCH (rising leisurely). Quite ready. (Smiles.) Only I don't know about your new medium. I hope he won't disgrace you, Leoníd Fyódoritch. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, I and Alexéy Vladímiritch have tested him. He is a wonderfully powerful medium! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, I don't know. But is he clean enough? I don't suppose you have thought of ordering him to wash his hands? It might be rather inconvenient. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. His hands? Oh yes! They're not clean, you think? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What can you expect? He's a peasant, and there will be ladies present, and Márya Vasílevna. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. It will be all right. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And then I have something to report to you. Timothy, the coachman, complains that he can't keep things clean because of the dogs. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (arranging the things on the table absentmindedly). What dogs? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. The three hounds that came for Vasíly Leoníditch to-day. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (vexed). Tell Anna Pávlovna! She can do as she likes about it. I have no time. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But you know her weakness.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. 'Tis just as she likes, let her do as she pleases. As for him,--one never gets anything but unpleasantness from him. Besides, I am busy. [Enter SIMON, smiling; he has a sleeveless peasant's coat on. SIMON. I was ordered to come. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, it's all right. Let me see your hands. That will do, that will do very well! Well, then, my good fellow, you must do just as you did before,--sit down, and give way to your mood. But don't think at all. SIMON. Why should I think? The more one thinks, the worse it is. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Just so, just so, exactly! The less conscious one is, the greater is the power. Don't think, but give in to your mood. If you wish to sleep, sleep; if you wish to walk, walk. Do you understand? SIMON. How could one help understanding? It's simple enough. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But above all, don't be frightened. Because you might be surprised yourself. You must understand that just as we live here, so a whole world of invisible spirits live here also. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (improving on what LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH has said). Invisible feelings, do you understand? SIMON (laughs). How can one help understanding! It's very plain as you put it. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You may rise up in the air, or something of the kind, but don't be frightened. SIMON. Why should I be frightened? That won't matter at all. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well then, I'll go and call them all.... Is everything ready? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I think so. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But the slates? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. They are downstairs. I'll bring them. [Exit. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. All right then. So don't be afraid, but be at your ease. SIMON. Had I not better take off my coat? One would be more easy like. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Your coat? Oh no. Don't take that off. [Exit. SIMON. She tells me to do the same again, and she will again shy things about. How isn't she afraid? [Enter TÁNYA in her stockings and in a dress of the color of the wall-paper. SIMON laughs. TÁNYA. Shsh!... They'll hear! There, stick these matches on your fingers as before. (Sticks them on.) Well, do you remember everything? SIMON (bending his fingers in, one by one). First of all, wet the matches and wave my hands about, that's one. Then make my teeth chatter, like this ... that's two. But I've forgotten the third thing. TÁNYA. And it's the third as is the chief thing. Don't forget as soon as the paper falls on the table--I shall ring the little bell--then you do like this.... Spread your arms out far and catch hold of some one, whoever it is as sits nearest, and catch hold of him. And then squeeze! (Laughs.) Whether it's a gentleman or a lady, it's all one, you just squeeze 'em, and don't let 'em go,--as if it were in your sleep, and chatter with your teeth, or else howl like this. (Howls sotto-voce.) And when I begin to play on the guitar, then stretch yourself as if you were waking up, you know.... Will you remember everything? SIMON. Yes, I'll remember, but it is too funny. TÁNYA. But mind you don't laugh. Still, it won't matter much if you do laugh; they'd think it was in your sleep. Only take care you don't really fall asleep when they put out the lights. SIMON. No fear, I'll pinch my ears. TÁNYA. Well, then, Sim, darling, only mind do as I tell you, and don't get frightened. He'll sign the paper, see if he don't! They're coming! [Gets under the sofa. [Enter GROSSMAN and the PROFESSOR, LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH and the FAT LADY, the DOCTOR, SAHÁTOF and ANNA PÁVLOVNA. SIMON stands near the door. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Please come in, all you doubters! Though we have a new and accidentally discovered medium, I expect very important phenomena to-night. SAHÁTOF. That's very, very interesting. FAT LADY (pointing to SIMON). Mais il est très bien! [11] ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, as a butler's assistant, but hardly.... SAHÁTOF. Wives never have any faith in their husbands' work. You don't believe in anything of this kind? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Of course not. Kaptchítch, it is true, has something exceptional about him, but Heaven knows what all this is about! FAT LADY. No, Anna Pávlovna, permit me, you can't decide it in such a way. Before I was married, I once had a remarkable dream. Dreams, you know, are often such that you don't know where they begin and where they end; it was just such a dream that I.... [Enter VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH and PETRÍSTCHEF. FAT LADY. And much was revealed to me by that dream. Nowadays the young people (points to PETRÍSTCHEF and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH) deny everything. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. But look here, you know--now I, for instance, never deny anything! Eh, what? [BETSY and MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA enter, and begin talking to PETRÍSTCHEF. FAT LADY. And how can one deny the supernatural? They say it is unreasonable. But what if one's reason is stupid; what then? There now, on Garden Street, you know ... why, well, it appeared every evening! My husband's brother--what do you call him? Not beau-frère-- what's the other name for it?--I never can remember the names of these different relationships--well, he went there three nights running, and still he saw nothing; so I said to him.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, who is going to stay here? FAT LADY. I! I! SAHÁTOF. I. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to DOCTOR). Do you mean to say you are going to stay? DOCTOR. Yes; I must see, if only once, what it is that Alexéy Vladímiritch has discovered in it. How can we deny anything without proof? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Then I am to take it to-night for certain? DOCTOR. Take what?... Oh, the powder. Yes, it would perhaps be better. Yes, yes, take it.... However, I shall come upstairs again. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, please do. (Loud.) When it is over, mesdames et messieurs, I shall expect you to come to me upstairs to rest from your emotions, and then we will finish our rubber. FAT LADY. Oh, certainly. SAHÁTOF. Yes, thanks! [Exit ANNA PÁVLOVNA. BETSY (to PETRÍSTCHEF). You must stay, I tell you. I promise you something extraordinary. Will you bet? MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. But you don't believe in it? BETSY. To-day I do. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA (to PETRÍSTCHEF). And do you believe? PETRÍSTCHEF. "I can't believe, I cannot trust a heart for falsehood framed." Still, if Elizabeth Leonídovna commands.... VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Let us stay, Márya Konstantínovna. Eh, what? I shall invent something épâtant. MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA. No, you mustn't make me laugh. You know I can't restrain myself. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH (loud). I remain! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (severely). But I beg those who remain not to joke about it. It is a serious matter. PETRÍSTCHEF. Do you hear? Well then, let's stay. Vovo, sit here, and don't be too shy. BETSY. Yes, it's all very well for you to laugh; but just wait till you see what will happen. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Oh, but supposing it's true? Won't it be a go! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF (trembles). Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Márya Konstantínovna, I'm afraid! My tootsies tremble. BETSY (laughing). Not so loud. [All sit down. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Take your seats, take your seats. Simon, sit down! SIMON. Yes, sir. [Sits down on the edge of the chair. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Sit properly. PROFESSOR. Sit straight in the middle of the chair, and quite at your ease. [Arranges SIMON on his chair. [BETSY, MÁRYA KONSTANTÍNOVNA and VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH laugh. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (raising his voice). I beg those who are going to remain here not to behave frivolously, but to regard this matter seriously, or bad results might follow. Do you hear, Vovo! If you can't be quiet, go away! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Quiet, quiet! [Hides behind FAT LADY. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Alexéy Vladímiritch, will you mesmerise him? PROFESSOR. No; why should I do it when Antón Borísitch is here? He has had far more practice and has more power in that department than I ... Antón Borísitch! GROSSMAN. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not, strictly speaking, a spiritualist. I have only studied hypnotism. It is true I have studied hypnotism in all its known manifestations; but what is called spiritualism, is entirely unknown to me. When a subject is thrown into a trance, I may expect the hypnotic phenomena known to me: lethargy, abulia, anaesthesia, analgesia, catalepsy, and every kind of susceptibility to suggestion. Here it is not these but other phenomena we expect to observe. Therefore it would be well to know of what kind are the phenomena we expect to witness, and what is their scientific significance. SAHÁTOF. I thoroughly agree with Mr. Grossman. Such an explanation would be very interesting. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I think Alexéy Vladímiritch will not refuse to give us a short explanation. PROFESSOR. Why not? I can give an explanation if it is desired. (To the DOCTOR.) Will you kindly note his temperature and pulse? My explanation must, of necessity, be cursory and brief. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, please; briefly, quite briefly. DOCTOR. All right. (Takes out thermometer.) Now then, my lad.... [Places the thermometer. SIMON. Yes, sir! PROFESSOR (rising and addressing the FAT LADY--then reseating himself). Ladies and gentlemen! The phenomenon we are investigating to-night is regarded, on the one hand, as something new; and, on the other, as something transcending the limits of natural conditions. Neither view is correct. This phenomenon is not new but is as old as the world; and it is not supernatural but is subject to the eternal laws that govern all that exists. This phenomenon has been usually defined as "intercourse with the spirit world." That definition is inexact. Under such a definition the spirit world is contrasted with the material world. But this is erroneous; there is no such contrast! Both worlds are so closely connected that it is impossible to draw a line of demarcation, separating the one from the other. We say matter is composed of molecules.... PETRÍSTCHEF. Prosy matter! [Whispering and laughter. PROFESSOR (pauses, then continues). Molecules are composed of atoms, but the atoms, having no extension, are in reality nothing but the points of application of forces. Strictly speaking, not of forces but of energy, that same energy which is as much a unity and just as indestructible as matter. But matter, though one, has many different aspects, and the same is true of energy. Till recently only four forms of energy, convertible into one another, have been known to us: energies known as the dynamic, the thermal, the electric, and the chemic. But these four aspects of energy are far from exhausting all the varieties of its manifestation. The forms in which energy may manifest itself are very diverse, and it is one of these new and as yet but little known phases of energy, that we are investigating to-night. I refer to mediumistic energy. [Renewed whispering and laughter among the young people. PROFESSOR (stops and casts a severe look round). Mediumistic energy has been known to mankind for ages: prophecy, presentiments, visions and so on, are nothing but manifestations of mediumistic energy. The manifestations produced by it have, I say, been known to mankind for ages. But the energy itself has not been recognised as such till quite recently--not till that medium, the vibrations of which cause the manifestations of mediumistic energy, was recognised. In the same way that the phenomena of light were inexplicable until the existence of an imponderable substance--an ether--was recognised, so mediumistic phenomena seemed mysterious until the now fully established fact was recognised, that between the particles of ether there exists another still more rarefied imponderable substance not subject to the law of the three dimensions.... [Renewed laughter, whispers, and giggling. PROFESSOR (again looks round severely). And just as mathematical calculations have irrefutably proved the existence of imponderable ether which gives rise to the phenomena of light and electricity, so the successive investigations of the ingenious Hermann, of Schmidt, and of Joseph Schmatzhofen, have confirmed beyond a doubt the existence of a substance which fills the universe and may be called spiritual ether. FAT LADY. Ah, now I understand. I am so grateful.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, but Alexéy Vladímiritch, could you not ... condense it a little? PROFESSOR (not heeding the remark). And so, as I have just had the honor of mentioning to you, a succession of strictly scientific experiments have made plain to us the laws of mediumistic phenomena. These experiments have proved that, when certain individuals are plunged into a hypnotic state (a state differing from ordinary sleep only by the fact that man's physiological activity is not lowered by the hypnotic influence but, on the contrary, is always heightened--as we have recently witnessed), when, I say, any individual is plunged into such a state, this always produces certain perturbations in the spiritual ether--perturbations quite similar to those produced by plunging a solid body into liquid matter. These perturbations are what we call mediumistic phenomena.... [Laughter and whispers. SAHÁTOF. That is quite comprehensible and correct; but if, as you are kind enough to inform us, the plunging of the medium into a trance produces perturbations of the spiritual ether, allow me to ask why (as is usually supposed to be the case in spiritualistic séances) these perturbations result in an activity on the part of the souls of dead people? PROFESSOR. It is because the molecules of this spiritual ether are nothing but the souls of the living, the dead, and the unborn, and any vibration of the spiritual ether must inevitably cause a certain vibration of its atoms. These atoms are nothing but human souls, which enter into communication with one another by means of these movements. FAT LADY (to SAHÁTOF). What is it that puzzles you? It is so simple.... Thank you so, so much! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I think everything has now been explained, and that we may commence. DOCTOR. The fellow is in a perfectly normal condition: temperature 37 decimal 2, pulse 74. PROFESSOR (takes out his pocket-book and notes this down). What I have just had the honor of explaining will be confirmed by the fact, which we shall presently have an opportunity of observing, that after the medium has been thrown into a trance his temperature and pulse will inevitably rise, just as occurs in cases of hypnotism. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes. But excuse me a moment. I should like to reply to Sergéy Ivánitch's question: How do we know we are in communication with the souls of the dead? We know it because the spirit that appears, plainly tells us--as simply as I am speaking to you--who he is, and why he has come, and whether all is well with him! At our last séance a Spaniard, Don Castillos, came to us, and he told us everything. He told us who he was, and when he died, and that he was suffering for having taken part in the Inquisition. He even told us what was happening to him at the very time that he was speaking to us, namely, that at the very time he was talking to us he had to be born again on earth, and, therefore, could not continue his conversation with us.... But you'll see for yourselves.... FAT LADY (interrupting). Oh, how interesting! Perhaps the Spaniard was born in one of our houses and is a baby now! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Quite possibly. PROFESSOR. I think it is time we began. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I was only going to say.... PROFESSOR. It is getting late. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Very well. Then we will commence. Antón Borísitch, be so good as to hypnotize the medium. GROSSMAN. What method would you like me to use? There are several methods. There is Braid's system, there is the Egyptian symbol, and there is Charcot's system. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (to the PROFESSOR). I think it is quite immaterial. PROFESSOR. Quite. GROSSMAN. Then I will make use of my own method, which I showed in Odessa. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. If you please! [GROSSMAN waves his arms above SIMON. SIMON closes his eyes and stretches himself. GROSSMAN (looking closely at him). He is falling asleep! He is asleep! A remarkably rapid occurrence of hypnosis. The subject has evidently already reached a state of anaesthesia. He is remarkable,--an unusually impressionable subject, and might be subjected to interesting experiments!... (Sits down, rises, sits down again.) Now one might run a needle into his arm. If you like.... PROFESSOR (to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH). Do you notice how the medium's trance acts on Grossman? He is beginning to vibrate. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, yes ... can the lights be extinguished now? SAHÁTOF. But why is darkness necessary? PROFESSOR. Darkness? Because it is a condition of the manifestation of mediumistic energy, just as a given temperature is a condition necessary for certain manifestations of chemical or dynamic energy. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. But not always. Manifestations have been observed by me, and by many others, both by candlelight and daylight. PROFESSOR (interrupting). May the lights be put out? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, certainly. (Puts out candles.) Ladies and gentlemen! attention, if you please. [TÁNYA gets from under the sofa and takes hold of a thread tied to a chandelier. PETRÍSTCHEF. I like that Spaniard! Just in the midst of a conversation--off he goes head downwards ... as the French say: piquer une tête. [12] BETSY. You just wait a bit, and see what will happen! PETRÍSTCHEF. I have only one fear, and that is that Vovo may be moved by the spirit to grunt like a pig! VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Would you like me to? I will.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Gentlemen! Silence, if you please! [Silence. SIMON licks the matches on his fingers and rubs his knuckles with them. Leoníd Fyódoritch. A light! Do you see the light? SAHÁTOF. A light? Yes, yes, I see; but allow me.... FAT LADY. Where? Where? Oh, dear, I did not see it! Ah, there it is. Oh!... PROFESSOR (whispers to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, and points to GROSSMAN, who is moving). Do you notice how he vibrates? It is the dual influence. [The light appears again. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (to the PROFESSOR). It must be he--you know! SAHÁTOF. Who? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A Greek, Nicholas. It is his light. Don't you think so, Alexéy Vladímiritch? SAHÁTOF. Who is this Greek, Nicholas? PROFESSOR. A certain Greek, who was a monk at Constantinople under Constantine and who has been visiting us lately. FAT LADY. Where is he? Where is he? I don't see him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is not yet visible ... Alexéy Vladímiritch, he is particularly well disposed towards you. You question him. PROFESSOR (in a peculiar voice). Nicholas! Is that you? [TÁNYA raps twice on the wall. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (joyfully). It is he! It is he! FAT LADY. Oh, dear! Oh! I shall go away! SAHÁTOF. Why do you suppose it is he? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Why, the two knocks. It is an affirmative answer; else all would have been silence. [Silence. Suppressed giggling in the young people's corner. TÁNYA throws a lampshade, pencil and penwiper upon the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (whispers). Do you notice, gentlemen, here is a lamp-shade, and something else--a pencil!... Alexéy Vladímiritch, it is a pencil! PROFESSOR. All right, all right! I am watching both him and Grossman! [GROSSMAN rises and feels the things that have fallen on the table. SAHÁTOF. Excuse me, excuse me! I should like to see whether it is not the medium who is doing it all himself? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Do you think so? Well, sit by him and hold his hands. But you may be sure he is asleep. SAHÁTOF (approaches, TÁNYA lets a thread touch his head. He is frightened, and stoops). Ye ... ye ... yes! Strange, very strange! [Takes hold of SIMON'S elbow. SIMON howls. PROFESSOR (to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH). Do you notice the effect of Grossman's presence? It is a new phenomenon--I must note it.... [Runs out to note it down, and returns again. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes.... But we cannot leave Nicholas without an answer. We must begin.... GROSSMAN (rises, approaches Simon and raises and lowers his arm). It would be interesting to produce contraction! The subject is in profound hypnosis. PROFESSOR (to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH). Do you see? Do you see? GROSSMAN. If you like.... DOCTOR. Now then, my dear sir, leave the management to Alexéy Vladímiritch; the affair is turning out serious. PROFESSOR. Leave him alone, he (referring to GROSSMAN) is talking in his sleep! FAT LADY. How glad I now am that I resolved to be present! It is frightening, but all the same I am glad, for I always said to my husband.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Silence, if you please. [TÁNYA draws a thread over the FAT LADY'S head. FAT LADY. Aie! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. What? What is it? FAT LADY. He took hold of my hair! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (whispers). Never mind, don't be afraid, give him your hand. His hand will be cold, but I like it. FAT LADY (hides her hands). Not for the world! SAHÁTOF. Yes, it is strange, very strange! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is here and is seeking for intercourse. Who wishes to put a question to him? SAHÁTOF. I should like to put a question, if I may. PROFESSOR. Please do. SAHÁTOF. Do I believe or not? [TÁNYA knocks twice. PROFESSOR. The answer is affirmative. SAHÁTOF. Allow me to ask again. Have I a ten rouble note in my pocket? [TÁNYA knocks several times and passes a thread over SAHÁTOF'S head. SAHÁTOF. Ah! [Seizes the thread and breaks it. PROFESSOR. I should ask those present not to ask indefinite or trivial questions. It is unpleasant to him! SAHÁTOF. No, but allow me! Here I have a thread in my hand! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A thread? Hold it fast; that happens often, and not only threads but sometimes even silk cords--very ancient ones! SAHÁTOF. No--but where did this thread come from? [TÁNYA throws a cushion at him. SAHÁTOF. Wait a bit; wait! Something soft has hit me on the head. Light a candle--there is something.... PROFESSOR. We beg of you not to interrupt the manifestations. FAT LADY. For goodness' sake, don't interrupt! I should also like to ask something. May I? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, if you like. FAT LADY. I should like to ask about my digestion. May I? I want to know what to take: aconite or belladonna? [Silence, whispers among the young people; suddenly VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH begins to cry like a baby: "ou-a, ou-a!" (Laughter.) Holding their mouths and noses, the girls and PETRÍSTCHEF run away bursting with laughter. FAT LADY. Ah, that must be the monk who's been born again! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (beside himself with anger, whispers). One gets nothing but tomfoolery from you! If you don't know how to behave decently, go away! [Exit VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Darkness and silence. FAT LADY. Oh, what a pity! Now one can't ask any more! He is born! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Not at all. It is only Vovo's nonsense. But he is here. Ask him. PROFESSOR. That often happens. These jokes and ridicule are quite usual occurrences. I expect he is still here. But we may ask. Leoníd Fyódoritch, will you? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. No, you, if you please. This has upset me. So unpleasant! Such want of tact!... PROFESSOR. Very well.... Nicholas, are you here? [TÁNYA raps twice and rings. SIMON roars, spreads his arms out, seizes SAHÁTOF and the PROFESSOR--squeezing them. PROFESSOR. What an unexpected phenomenon! The medium himself reacted upon! This never happened before! Leoníd Fyódoritch, will you watch? It is difficult for me to do so. He squeezes me so! Mind you observe GROSSMAN! This needs the very greatest attention! [TÁNYA throws the PEASANTS' paper on the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Something has fallen upon the table. PROFESSOR. See what it is! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Paper! A folded paper! [TÁNYA throws a travelling inkstand on the table. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. An inkstand! [TÁNYA throws a pen. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A pen! [SIMON roars and squeezes. PROFESSOR (crushed). Wait a bit, wait: a totally new manifestation! The action proceeding not from the mediumistic energy produced, but from the medium himself! However, open the inkstand, and put the pen on the table, and he will write! [TÁNYA goes behind LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH and strikes him on the head with the guitar. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He has struck me on the head! (Examining table.) The pen is not writing yet and the paper remains folded. PROFESSOR. See what the paper is, and quickly; evidently the dual influence--his and Grossman's--has produced a perturbation! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (goes out and returns at once). Extraordinary! This paper is an agreement with some peasants that I refused to sign this morning and returned to the peasants. Probably he wants me to sign it? PROFESSOR. Of course! Of course! But ask him. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Nicholas, do you wish.... [TÁNYA knocks twice. PROFESSOR. Do you hear? It is quite evident! [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH takes the paper and pen and goes out. TÁNYA knocks, plays on the guitar and the accordion, and then creeps under the sofa. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH returns. SIMON stretches himself and coughs. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. He is waking up. We can light the candles. PROFESSOR (hurriedly). Doctor, Doctor, please, his pulse and temperature! You will see that a rise of both will be apparent. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (lights the candles). Well, what do you gentlemen who were sceptical think of it now? DOCTOR (goes up to SIMON and places thermometer). Now then my lad. Well, have you had a nap? There, put that in there, and give me your hand. [Looks at his watch. SAHÁTOF (shrugging his shoulders). I must admit that all that has occurred cannot have been done by the medium. But the thread?... I should like the thread explained. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. A thread! A thread! We have been witnessing manifestations more important than a thread. SAHÁTOF. I don't know. At all events, je réserve mon opinion. FAT LADY (to SAHÁTOF). Oh, no, how can you say: "je réserve mon opinion"? And the infant with the little wings? Didn't you see? At first I thought it was only an illusion, but afterwards it became clearer and clearer, like a live.... SAHÁTOF. I can only speak of what I have seen. I did not see that-- nothing of the kind. FAT LADY. You don't mean to say so? Why, it was quite plainly visible! And to the left there was a monk clothed in black bending over it.... SAHÁTOF (moves away. Aside). What exaggeration! FAT LADY (addressing the DOCTOR). You must have seen it! It rose up from your side. [DOCTOR goes on counting the pulse without heeding her. FAT LADY (to GROSSMAN). And that light, the light around it, especially around its little face! And the expression so mild and tender, something so heavenly! [Smiles tenderly herself. GROSSMAN. I saw phosphorescent light, and objects changed their places, but I saw nothing more than that. FAT LADY. Don't tell me! You don't mean it! It is simply that you scientists of Charcot's school do not believe in a life beyond the grave! As for me, no one could now make me disbelieve in a future life--no one in the world! [GROSSMAN moves away from her. FAT LADY. No, no, whatever you may say, this is one of the happiest moments of my life! When I heard Sarasate play, and now.... Yes! (No one listens to her. She goes up to SIMON.) Now tell me, my friend, what did you feel? Was it very trying? SIMON (laughs). Yes, ma'm, just so. FAT LADY. Still not unendurable? SIMON. Just so, ma'm. (To LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH.) Am I to go? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, you may go. DOCTOR (to the PROFESSOR). The pulse is the same, but the temperature is lower. PROFESSOR. Lower! (Considers awhile, then suddenly divines the conclusion.) It had to be so--it had to descend! The dual influence crossing had to produce some kind of reflex action. Yes, that's it! [Exeunt, all talking at once-- LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. I'm only sorry we had no complete materialisation. But still.... Come, gentlemen, let us go to the drawing-room? FAT LADY. What specially struck me was when he flapped his wings, and one saw how he rose! GROSSMAN (to SAHÁTOF). If we had kept to hypnotism, we might have produced a thorough state of epilepsy. The success might have been complete! SAHÁTOF. It is very interesting, but not entirely convincing. That is all I can say. [Enter THEODORE IVÁNITCH. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH (with paper in his hand). Ah, Theodore, what a remarkable séance we have had! It turns out that the peasants must have the land on their own terms. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Dear me! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Yes, indeed. (Showing paper.) Fancy, this paper that I returned to them, suddenly appeared on the table! I have signed it. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. How did it get there? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, it did get there! [Exit. THEODORE IVÁNITCH follows him out. TÁNYA (gets from under the sofa and laughs). Oh, dear, oh dear! Well, I did get a fright when he got hold of the thread! (Shrieks.) Well, anyhow, it's all right--he has signed it! [Enter GREGORY. GREGORY. So it was you that was fooling them? TÁNYA. What business is it of yours? GREGORY. And do you think the missis will be pleased with you for it? No, you bet; you're caught now! I'll tell them what tricks you're up to, if you don't let me have my way! TÁNYA. And you'll not get your way, and you'll not do me any harm! CURTAIN ACT IV The same scene as in Act I. The next day. Two liveried footmen, THEODORE IVÁNITCH and GREGORY. FIRST FOOTMAN (with grey whiskers). Yours is the third house to-day. Thank goodness that all the at-homes are in this direction. Yours used to be on Thursdays. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, we changed to Saturday so as to be on the same day as the Golóvkins and Grade von Grabes.... SECOND FOOTMAN. The Stcherbákofs do the thing well. There's refreshments for the footmen every time they've a ball. [The two PRINCESSES, mother and daughter, come down the stairs accompanied by BETSY. The old PRINCESS looks in her note-book and at her watch, and sits down on the settle. GREGORY puts on her overshoes. YOUNG PRINCESS. Now, do come. Because, if you refuse, and Dodo refuses, the whole thing will be spoilt. BETSY. I don't know. I must certainly go to the Shoúbins. And then there is the rehearsal. YOUNG PRINCESS. You'll have plenty of time. Do, please. Ne nous fais pas faux bond.[13] Fédya and Koko will come. BETSY. J'en ai par-dessus la tête de votre Koko.[14] YOUNG PRINCESS. I thought I should see him here. Ordinairement il est d'une exactitude....[15] BETSY. He is sure to come. YOUNG PRINCESS. When I see you together, it always seems to me that he has either just proposed or is just going to propose. BETSY. Yes, I don't suppose it can be avoided. I shall have to go through with it. And it is so unpleasant! YOUNG PRINCESS. Poor Koko! He is head over ears in love. BETSY. Cessez, les gens![16] [YOUNG PRINCESS sits down, talking in whispers. GREGORY puts on her overshoes. YOUNG PRINCESS. Well then, good-bye till this evening. BETSY. I'll try to come. OLD PRINCESS. Then tell your papa that I don't believe in anything of the kind, but will come to see his new medium. Only he must let me know when. Good afternoon, ma toute belle. [Kisses BETSY, and exit, followed by her daughter. BETSY goes upstairs. GREGORY. I don't like putting on an old woman's overshoes for her; she can't stoop, can't see her shoe for her stomach, and keeps poking her foot in the wrong place. It's different with a young one; it's pleasant to take her foot in one's hand. SECOND FOOTMAN. Hear him! Making distinctions! FIRST FOOTMAN. It's not for us footmen to make such distinctions. GREGORY. Why shouldn't one make distinctions; are we not men? It's they think we don't understand! Just now they were deep in their talk, then they look at me, and at once it's "lay zhon!" SECOND FOOTMAN. And what's that? GREGORY. Oh, that means, "Don't talk, they understand!" It's the same at table. But I understand! You say, there's a difference? I say there is none. FIRST FOOTMAN. There is a great difference for those who understand. GREGORY. There is none at all. To-day I am a footman, and to-morrow I may be living no worse than they are. Has it never happened that they've married footmen? I'll go and have a smoke. [Exit. SECOND FOOTMAN. That's a bold young man you've got. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. A worthless fellow, not fit for service. He used to be an office boy and has got spoilt. I advised them not to take him, but the mistress liked him. He looks well on the carriage when they drive out. FIRST FOOTMAN. I should like to send him to our Count; he'd put him in his place! Oh, he don't like those scatterbrains. "If you're a footman, be a footman and fulfil your calling." Such pride is not befitting. [PETRÍSTCHEF comes running downstairs, and takes out a cigarette. PETRÍSTCHEF (deep in thought). Let's see, my second is the same as my first. Echo, a-co, co-coa. (Enter KOKO KLÍNGEN, wearing his pince-nez.) Ko-ko, co-coa. Cocoa tin, where do you spring from? KOKO KLÍNGEN. From the Stcherbákofs. You are always playing the fool.... PETRÍSTCHEF. No, listen to my charade. My first is the same as my second, my third may be cracked, my whole is like your pate. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I give it up. I've no time. PETRÍSTCHEF. Where else are you going? KOKO KLÍNGEN. Where? Of course to the Ivins, to practice for the concert. Then to the Shoúbins, and then to the rehearsal. You'll be there too, won't you? PETRÍSTCHEF. Most certainly. At the re-her-Sall and also at the re-her-Sarah. Why, at first I was a savage, and now I am both a savage and a general. KOKO KLÍNGEN. How did yesterday's séance go off? PETRÍSTCHEF. Screamingly funny! There was a peasant, and above all, it was all in the dark. Vovo cried like an infant, the Professor defined, and Márya Vasílevna refined. Such a lark! You ought to have been there. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I'm afraid, mon cher. You have a way of getting off with a jest, but I always feel that if I say a word they'll construe it into a proposal. Et ça ne m'arrange pas du tout, du tout. Mais du tout, du tout! [17] PETRÍSTCHEF. Instead of a proposal, make a proposition, and receive a sentence! Well, I shall go in to Vovo's. If you'll call for me, we can go to the re-her-Sarah together. KOKO KLÍNGEN. I can't think how you can be friends with such a fool. He is so stupid--a regular blockhead! PETRÍSTCHEF. And I am fond of him. I love Vovo, but ... "with a love so strange, ne'er towards him the path untrod shall be".... [Exit into Vovo's room. [BETSY comes down with a LADY. KOKO bows significantly to BETSY. BETSY (shaking KOKO'S hand without turning towards him. To LADY). You are acquainted? LADY. No. BETSY. Baron Klíngen.... Why were you not here last night? KOKO KLÍNGEN. I could not come, I was engaged. BETSY. What a pity, it was so interesting! (Laughs.) You should have seen what manifestations we had! Well, how is our charade getting on? KOKO KLÍNGEN. Oh, the verses for mon second are ready. Nick composed the verses, and I the music. BETSY. What are they? What are they? Do tell me! KOKO KLÍNGEN. Wait a minute; how does it go?... Oh, the knight sings: "Oh, naught so beautiful as nature: The Nautilus sails by. Oh, naughty lass, oh, naughty lass! Oh, nought, oh, nought! Oh, fie!" LADY. I see, my second is "nought," and what is my first? KOKO KLÍNGEN. My first is Aero, the name of a girl savage. BETSY. Aero, you see, is a savage who wished to devour the object of her love. (Laughs.) She goes about lamenting, and sings-- "My appetite," KOKO KLÍNGEN (interrupts)-- "How can I fight,".... BETSY (chimes in)-- "Some one to chew I long. I seeking go ...." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "But even so...." BETSY-- "No one to chew can find." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "A raft sails by," BETSY-- "It cometh nigh; Two generals upon it...." KOKO KLÍNGEN-- "Two generals are we: By fate's hard decree, To this island we flee." And then, the refrain-- "By fate's hard decree, To this island we flee." LADY. Charmant! BETSY. But just think how silly! KOKO KLÍNGEN. Yes, that's the charm of it! LADY. And who is to be Aero? BETSY. I am. And I have had a costume made, but mamma says it's "not decent." And it is not a bit less decent than a ball dress. (To THEODORE IVÁNITCH.) Is Bourdier's man here? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, he is waiting in the kitchen. LADY. Well, and how will you represent Aeronaut? BETSY. Oh, you'll see. I don't want to spoil the pleasure for you. Au revoir. LADY. Good-bye! [They bow. Exit LADY. BETSY (to KOKO KLÍNGEN). Come up to mamma. [BETSY and KOKO go upstairs. JACOB enters from servants' quarters, carrying a tray with teacups, cakes, etc., and goes panting across the stage. JACOB (to the FOOTMEN). How d'you do? How d'you do? [FOOTMEN bow. JACOB (to THEODORE IVÁNITCH). Couldn't you tell Gregory to help a bit! I'm ready to drop.... [Exit up the stairs. FIRST FOOTMAN. That is a hard-working chap you've got there. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Yes, a good fellow. But there now--he doesn't satisfy the mistress, she says his appearance is ungainly. And now they've gone and told tales about him for letting some peasants into the kitchen yesterday. It is a bad look-out: they may dismiss him. And he is a good fellow. SECOND FOOTMAN. What peasants were they? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Peasants that had come from our Koursk village to buy some land. It was night, and they were our fellow-countrymen, one of them the father of the butler's assistant. Well, so they were asked into the kitchen. It so happened that there was thought-reading going on. Something was hidden in the kitchen, and all the gentlefolk came down, and the mistress saw the peasants. There was such a row! "How is this," she says; "these people may be infected, and they are let into the kitchen!".... She is terribly afraid of this infection. [Enter GREGORY. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Gregory, you go and help Jacob. I'll stay here. He can't manage alone. GREGORY. He's awkward, that's why he can't manage. [Exit. FIRST FOOTMAN. And what is this new mania they have got? This infection!... So yours also is afraid of it? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. She fears it worse than fire! Our chief business, nowadays, is fumigating, washing, and sprinkling. FIRST FOOTMAN. I see. That's why there is such a stuffy smell here. (With animation.) I don't know what we're coming to with these infection notions. It's just detestable! They seem to have forgotten the Lord. There's our master's sister, Princess Mosolóva, her daughter was dying, and, will you believe it, neither father nor mother would come near her! So she died without their having taken leave of her. And the daughter cried, and called them to say good-bye--but they didn't go! The doctor had discovered some infection or other! And yet their own maid and a trained nurse were with her, and nothing happened to them; they're still alive! [Enter VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH and PETRÍSTCHEF from VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH'S room, smoking cigarettes. PETRÍSTCHEF. Come along then, only I must take Koko--Cocoanut, with me. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. Your Koko is a regular dolt; I can't bear him. A hare-brained fellow, a regular gad-about! Without any kind of occupation, eternally loafing around! Eh, what? PETRÍSTCHEF. Well, anyhow, wait a bit, I must say goodbye. VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. All right. And I will go and look at my dogs in the coachman's room. I've got a dog there that's so savage, the coachman said, he nearly ate him. PETRÍSTCHEF. Who ate whom? Did the coachman really eat the dog? VASÍLY LEONÍDITCH. You are always at it! [Puts on outdoor things and goes out. PETRÍSTCHEF (thoughtfully). Ma - kin - tosh, Co - co - tin.... Let's see. [Goes upstairs. [JACOB runs across the stage. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What's the matter? JACOB. There is no more thin bread and butter. I said.... [Exit. SECOND FOOTMAN. And then our master's little son fell ill, and they sent him at once to an hotel with his nurse, and there he died without his mother. FIRST FOOTMAN. They don't seem to fear sin! I think you cannot escape from God anywhere. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's what I think. [JACOB runs upstairs with bread and butter. FIRST FOOTMAN. One should consider too, that if we are to be afraid of everybody like that, we'd better shut ourselves up within four walls, as in a prison, and stick there! [Enter TÁNYA; she bows to the FOOTMEN. TÁNYA. Good afternoon. [FOOTMEN bow. TÁNYA. Theodore Ivánitch, I have a word to say to you. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, what? TÁNYA. The peasants have come again, Theodore Ivánitch.... THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well? I gave the paper to Simon. TÁNYA. I have given them the paper. They were that grateful! I can't say how! Now they only ask you to take the money. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. But where are they? TÁNYA. Here, by the porch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. All right, I'll tell the master. TÁNYA. I have another request to you, dear Theodore Ivánitch. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. What now? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see, Theodore Ivánitch, I can't remain here any longer. Ask them to let me go. [Enter JACOB, running. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (to JACOB). What d'you want? JACOB. Another samovár, and oranges. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Ask the housekeeper. [Exit JACOB. THEODORE IVÁNITCH (to TÁNYA). How is that? TÁNYA. Why, don't you see, my position is such.... JACOB (runs in). There are not enough oranges. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Serve up as many as you've got. (Exit JACOB.) Now's not the time! Just see what a bustle we are in. TÁNYA. But you know yourself, Theodore Ivánitch, there is no end to this bustle; one might wait for ever--you know yourself--and my affair is for life.... Dear Theodore Ivánitch, you have done me a good turn, be a father to me now, choose the right moment and tell her, or else she'll get angry and won't let me have my passport.[18] THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Where's the hurry? TÁNYA. Why, Theodore Ivánitch, it's all settled now.... And I could go to my godmother's and get ready, and then after Easter we'd get married.[19] Do tell her, dear Theodore Ivánitch! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Go away--this is not the place. [An elderly GENTLEMAN comes downstairs, puts on overcoat, and goes out, followed by the SECOND FOOTMAN. [Exit TÁNYA. Enter JACOB. JACOB. Just fancy, Theodore Ivánitch, it's too bad! She wants to discharge me now! She says, "You break everything, and forget Frisk, and you let the peasants into the kitchen against my orders!" And you know very well that I knew nothing about it. Tatyána told me, "Take them into the kitchen"; how could I tell whose order it was? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Did the mistress speak to you? JACOB. She's just spoken. Do speak up for me, Theodore Ivánitch! You see, my people in the country are only just getting on their feet, and suppose I lose my place, when shall I get another? Theodore Ivánitch, do, please! [ANNA PÁVLOVNA comes down with the old COUNTESS, whom she is seeing off. The COUNTESS has false teeth and hair. The FIRST FOOTMAN helps the COUNTESS into her outdoor things. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, most certainly, of course! I am so deeply touched. COUNTESS. If it were not for my illness, I should come oftener to see you. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You should really consult Peter Petróvitch. He is rough, but nobody can soothe one as he does. He is so clear, so simple. COUNTESS. Oh no, I shall keep to the one I am used to. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Pray, take care of yourself. COUNTESS. Merci, mille fois merci.[20] [GREGORY, dishevelled and excited, jumps out from the servants' quarters. SIMON appears behind him in the doorway. SIMON. You'd better leave her alone! GREGORY. You rascal! I'll teach you how to fight, you scamp, you! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What do you mean? Do you think you are in a public-house? GREGORY. This coarse peasant makes life impossible for me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (provoked). You've lost your senses. Don't you see? (To COUNTESS.) Merci, mille fois merci. A mardi! [21] [Exeunt COUNTESS and FIRST FOOTMAN. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to GREGORY). What is the meaning of this? GREGORY. Though I do occupy the position of a footman, still I won't allow every peasant to hit me; I have my pride too. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why, what has happened? GREGORY. Why, this Simon of yours has got so brave, sitting with the gentlemen, that he wants to fight! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Why? What for? GREGORY. Heaven only knows! ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to SIMON). What is the meaning of it? SIMON. Why does he bother her? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What has happened? SIMON (smiles). Well, you see, he is always catching hold of Tánya, the lady's-maid, and she won't have it. Well, so I just moved him aside a bit, just so, with my hand. GREGORY. A nice little bit! He's almost caved my ribs in, and has torn my dress-coat, and he says, "The same power as came over me yesterday comes on me again," and he begins to squeeze me. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to SIMON). How dare you fight in my house? THEODORE IVÁNITCH. May I explain it to you, ma'am? I must tell you Simon is not indifferent to Tánya, and is engaged to her. And Gregory --one must admit the truth--does not behave properly, nor honestly, to her. Well, so I suppose Simon got angry with him. GREGORY. Not at all! It is all his spite, because I have discovered their trickery. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What trickery? GREGORY. Why, at the séance. All those things, last night,--it was not Simon but Tánya who did them! I saw her getting out from under the sofa with my own eyes. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. What is that? From under the sofa? GREGORY. I give you my word of honor. And it was she who threw the paper on the table. If it had not been for her the paper would not have been signed, nor the land sold to the peasants. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. And you saw it yourself? GREGORY. With my own eyes. Shall I call her? She'll not deny it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Yes, call her. [Exit GREGORY. [Noise behind the scenes. The voice of the DOORKEEPER, "No, no, you cannot." DOORKEEPER is seen at the front door, the three PEASANTS rush in past him, the SECOND PEASANT first; the THIRD one stumbles, falls on his nose, and catches hold of it. DOORKEEPER. You must not go in! SECOND PEASANT. Where's the harm? We are not doing anything wrong. We only wish to pay the money! FIRST PEASANT. That's just it; as by laying on the signature the affair is come to a conclusion, we only wish to make payment with thanks. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Wait a bit with your thanks. It was all done by fraud! It is not settled yet. Not sold yet.... Leoníd.... Call Leoníd Fyódoritch. [Exit DOORKEEPER. [LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH enters, but, seeing his wife and the PEASANTS, wishes to retreat. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, no, come here, please! I told you the land must not be sold on credit, and everybody told you so, but you let yourself be deceived like the veriest blockhead. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. How? I don't understand who is deceiving? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You have grey hair, and you let yourself be deceived and laughed at like a silly boy. You grudge your son some three hundred roubles which his social position demands, and let yourself be tricked of thousands--like a fool! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Now come, Annette, try to be calm. FIRST PEASANT. We are only come about the acceptation of the sum, for example.... THIRD PEASANT (taking out the money). Let us finish the matter, for Christ's sake! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Wait, wait! [Enter TÁNYA and GREGORY. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (angrily). You were in the small drawing-room during the séance last night? [TÁNYA looks around at THEODORE IVÁNITCH, LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH, and SIMON, and sighs. GREGORY. It's no use beating about the bush; I saw you myself.... ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Tell me, were you there? I know all about it, so you'd better confess! I'll not do anything to you. I only want to expose him (pointing to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH) your master.... Did you throw the paper on the table? TÁNYA. I don't know how to answer. Only one thing,--let me go home. [Enter BETSY unobserved. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (to LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH). There, you see! You are being made a fool of. TÁNYA. Let me go home, Anna Pávlovna! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No, my dear! You may have caused us a loss of thousands of roubles. Land has been sold that ought not to be sold! TÁNYA. Let me go, Anna Pávlovna! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. No; you'll have to answer for it! Such tricks won't do. We'll have you up before the Justice of the Peace! BETSY (comes forward). Let her go, mamma. Or, if you wish to have her tried, you must have me tried too! She and I did it together. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Well, of course, if you have a hand in anything, what can one expect but the very worst results! [Enter the PROFESSOR. PROFESSOR. How do you do, Anna Pávlovna? How do you do, Miss Betsy? Leoníd Fyódoritch, I have brought you a report of the Thirteenth Congress of Spiritualists at Chicago. An amazing speech by Schmidt! LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Oh, that is interesting! ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I will tell you something much more interesting! It turns out that both you and my husband were fooled by this girl! Betsy takes it on herself, but that is only to annoy me. It was an illiterate peasant girl who fooled you, and you believed it all. There were no mediumistic phenomena last night; it was she (pointing to TÁNYA) who did it! PROFESSOR (taking off his overcoat). What do you mean? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I mean that it was she who, in the dark, played on the guitar and beat my husband on the head and performed all your idiotic tricks--and she has just confessed! PROFESSOR (smiling). What does that prove? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. It proves that your mediumism is--tomfoolery; that's what it proves! PROFESSOR. Because this young girl wished to deceive, we are to conclude that mediumism is "tomfoolery," as you are pleased to express it? (Smiles.) A curious conclusion! Very possibly this young girl may have wished to deceive: that often occurs. She may even have done something; but then, what she did--she did. But the manifestations of mediumistic energy still remain manifestations of mediumistic energy! It is even very probable that what this young girl did evoked (and so to say solicited) the manifestation of mediumistic energy,--giving it a definite form. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Another lecture! PROFESSOR (sternly). You say, Anna Pávlovna, that this girl, and perhaps this dear young lady also, did something; but the light we all saw, and, in the first case the fall, and in the second the rise of temperature, and Grossman's excitement and vibration--were those things also done by this girl? And these are facts, Anna Pávlovna, facts! No! Anna Pávlovna, there are things which must be investigated and fully understood before they can be talked about, things too serious, too serious.... LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. And the child that Márya Vasílevna distinctly saw? Why, I saw it too.... That could not have been done by this girl. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. You think yourself wise, but you are--a fool. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Well, I'm going.... Alexéy Vladímiritch, will you come? [Exit into his study. PROFESSOR (shrugging his shoulders, follows). Oh, how far, how far, we still lag behind Western Europe! [Enter JACOB. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (following LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH with her eyes). He has been tricked like a fool, and he sees nothing! (To JACOB.) What do you want? JACOB. How many persons am I to lay the table for? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. For how many?... Theodore Ivánitch! Let him give up the silver plate to you. Be off, at once! It is all his fault! This man will bring me to my grave. Last night he nearly starved the dog that had done him no harm! And, as if that were not enough, he lets the infected peasants into the kitchen, and now they are here again! It is all his fault! Be off at once! Discharge him, discharge him! (To SIMON.) And you, horrid peasant, if you dare to have rows in my house again, I'll teach you! SECOND PEASANT. All right, if he is a horrid peasant there's no good keeping him; you'd better discharge him too, and there's an end of it. ANNA PÁVLOVNA (while listening to him looks at THIRD PEASANT). Only look! Why, he has a rash on his nose--a rash! He is ill; he is a hotbed of infection!! Did I not give orders, yesterday, that they were not to be allowed into the house, and here they are again? Drive them out! THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Then are we not to accept their money? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Their money? Oh yes, take their money; but they must be turned out at once, especially this one! He is quite rotten! THIRD PEASANT. That's not just, lady. God's my witness, it's not just! You'd better ask my old woman, let's say, whether I am rotten! I'm clear as crystal, let's say. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. He talks!... Off, off with him! It's all to spite me!... Oh, I can't bear it, I can't!... Send for the doctor! [Runs away, sobbing. Exit also JACOB and GREGORY. TÁNYA (to BETSY). Miss Elizabeth, darling, what am I to do now? BETSY. Never mind, you go with them and I'll arrange it all. [Exit. FIRST PEASANT. Well, your reverence, how about the reception of the sum now? SECOND PEASANT. Let us settle up, and go. THIRD PEASANT (fumbling with the packet of banknotes). Had I known, I'd not have come for the world. It's worse than a fever! THEODORE IVÁNITCH (to DOORKEEPER). Show them into my room. There's a counting-board there. I'll receive their money. Now go. DOORKEEPER. Come along. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. And it's Tánya you have to thank for it. But for her you'd not have had the land. FIRST PEASANT. That's just it. As she made the proposal, so she put it into effect. THIRD PEASANT. She's made men of us. Else what were we? We had so little land, no room to let a hen out, let's say, not to mention the cattle. Good-bye, dear! When you get to the village, come to us and eat honey. SECOND PEASANT. Let me get home and I'll start brewing the beer for the wedding! You will come? TÁNYA. Yes, I'll come, I'll come! (Shrieks.) Simon, this is fine, isn't it? [Exeunt PEASANTS. THEODORE IVÁNITCH. Well, Tánya, when you have your house I'll come to visit you. Will you welcome me? TÁNYA. Dear Theodore Ivánitch, just the same as we would our own father! [Embraces and kisses him. CURTAIN FOOTNOTES FOR FRUITS OF CULTURE 1. Economical balls at which the ladies are bound to appear in dresses made of cotton materials. 2. The present value of the rouble is rather over fifty cents. 3. The Gypsy choirs are very popular in Moscow. 4. BETSY. Cease! You are becoming quite unbearable!. 5. PETRÍSTCHEF. I have C said (ceased), B said, and D said. 6. BARONESS. But tell me, please, is he paid for this? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I really do not know. BARONESS. But he is a gentleman? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Oh, yes! BARONESS. It is almost miraculous. Isn't it? How does he manage to find things? ANNA PÁVLOVNA. I really can't tell you. My husband will explain it to you.... Excuse me.... 7. Stunning! 8. BARONESS. Capital! Does it not cause him any pain? LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. Not the slightest. 9. He uses a Centigrade thermometer. 10. LEONÍD FYÓDORITCH. You bring good luck. 11. FAT LADY. But he looks quite nice. 12. To take a header. 13. Do not disappoint us. 14. BETSY. I have more than enough of your Koko. 15. YOUNG PRINCESS. He is usually so very punctual.... 16. BETSY. Cease; mind the servants! 17. And that won't suit me at all, at all! Not at all, at all! 18. Employers have charge of the servants' passports, and in this way have a hold on them in case of misconduct. 19. It is customary for peasants to marry just after Easter, but when spring has come and the field work begun, no marriages take place among them till autumn. (See also THE POWER OF DARKNESS footnote 2.) 20. COUNTESS. Thank you (for your hospitality), a thousand thanks 21. ANNA PÁVLOVNA. Thank you (for coming to see us), a thousand thanks. Till next Tuesday! 
7991	----	THE STORM By Aleksandr Nicolaevich Ostrovsky Translated By Constance Garnett INTRODUCTION Up to the years of the Crimean War Russia was always a strange, uncouth riddle to the European consciousness. It would be an interesting study to trace back through the last three centuries the evidence of the historical documents that our forefathers have left us when they were brought face to face, through missions, embassies, travel, and commerce, with the fantastic life, as it seemed to them, led by the Muscovite. But in any chance record we may pick up, from the reports of a seventeenth century embassy down to the narrative of an early nineteenth century traveller, the note always insisted on is that of all the outlandish civilisations, queer manners and customs of Europeans, the Russian's were the queerest and those standing furthest removed from the other nations'. And this sentiment has prevailed to-day, side by side with the better understanding we have gained of Russia. Nor can this conception, generally held among us, which is a half truth, be removed by personal contact or mere objective study; for example, of the innumerable memoirs published on the Crimean war, it is rare to find one that gives us any real insight into the nature of the Russian. And the conception itself can only be amended and enlarged by the study of the Russian mind as it expresses itself in its own literature. The mind of the great artist, of whatever race he springs, cannot lie. From the works of Thackeray and George Eliot in England and Turgenev and Tolstoi in Russia, a critic penetrates into the secret places of the national life, where all the clever objective pictures of foreign critics must lead him astray. Ostrovsky's drama, "The Storm," here translated for the English reader, is a good instance of this truth. It is a revelation of the old-fashioned Muscovite life _from the inside_, and Ostrovsky thereby brings us in closer relation to that primitive life than was in the power of Tolstoi or Goncharov, or even Gogol to bring us. These great writers have given us admirable pictures of the people's life as it appeared to them at the angle of the educated Westernised Russian mind; but here in "The Storm" is the atmosphere of the little Russian town, with its primitive inhabitants, merchants, and workpeople, an atmosphere untouched, unadulterated by the _ideas_ of any outside European influence. It is the Russia of Peter the Great and Catherine's time, the Russian patriarchal family life that has existed for hundreds of years through all the towns and villages of Great Russia, that lingers indeed to-day in out-of-the-way corners of the Empire, though now invaded and much broken up by modern influences. It is, in fact, the very Muscovite life that so puzzled our forefathers, and that no doubt will seem strange to many English readers. But the special triumph of "The Storm" is that although it is a realistic picture of old-fashioned Russian patriarchal life, it is one of the deepest and simplest psychological analyses of the Russian soul ever made. It is a very deep though a very narrow analysis. Katerina, the heroine, to the English will seem weak, and crushed through her weakness; but to a Russian she typifies revolt, freedom, a refusal to be bound by the cruelty of life. And her attitude, despairing though it seems to us, is indeed the revolt of the spirit in a land where Tolstoi's doctrine of non-resistance is the logical outcome of centuries of serfdom in a people's history. The merchant Dikoy, the bully, the soft characterless lover Boris, the idealistic religious Katerina, Kuligin the artisan, and Madame Kabanova, the tyrannical mother, all these are true national types, true Russians of the changing ages, and the counterparts of these people may be met to-day, if the reader takes up Tehehov's tales. English people no doubt will find it difficult to believe that Madame Kabanova could so have crushed Katerina's life, as Ostrovsky depicts. Nothing indeed is so antagonistic to English individualism and independence as is the passivity of some of the characters in "The Storm." But the English reader's very difficulty in this respect should give him a clue to much that has puzzled Europeans, should help him to penetrate into the strangeness of Russian political life, the strangeness of her love of despotism. Only in the country that produces such types of weakness and tyranny is possible the fettering of freedom of thought and act that we have in Russia to-day. Ostrovsky's striking analysis of this fatalism in the Russian soul will help the reader to understand the unending struggle in Russia between the enlightened Europeanised intelligence of the few, and the apathy of the vast majority of Russians who are disinclined to rebel against the crystallised conditions of their lives. Whatever may be strange and puzzling in "The Storm" to the English mind, there is no doubt that the Russians hail the picture as essentially true. The violence of such characters as Madame Kabanova and Dikoy may be weakened to-day everywhere by the gradual undermining of the patriarchal family system now in progress throughout Russia, but the picture is in essentials a criticism of the national life. On this point the Russian critic Dobroliubov, criticising "The Storm," says: "The need for justice, for respect for personal rights, this is the cry ... that rises up to the ear of every attentive reader. Well, can we deny the wide application of this need in Russia? Can we fail to recognise that such a dramatic background corresponds with the true condition of Russian society? Take history, think of our life, look about you, everywhere you will find justification of our words. This is not the place to launch out into historical investigation; it is enough to point out that our history up to the most recent times has not fostered among us the development of a respect for equity, has not created any solid guarantees for personal rights, and has left a wide field to arbitrary tyranny and caprice." This criticism of Dobroliubov's was written in 1860, the date of the play; but we have only to look back at the internal history of Russia for the last thirty years to see that it too "has not created any solid guarantees for personal rights, and has left a wide field to arbitrary tyranny and caprice." And here is Ostrovsky's peculiar merit, that he has in his various dramas penetrated deeper than any other of the great Russian authors into one of the most fundamental qualities of the Russian nature--its innate tendency to arbitrary power, oppression, despotism. Nobody has drawn so powerfully, so truly, so incisively as he, the type of the 'samodour' or 'bully,' a type that plays a leading part in every strata of Russian life. From Turgenev we learn more of the reverse side of the Russian character, its lack of will, tendency to weakness, dreaminess and passivity: and it is this aspect that the English find it so hard to understand, when they compare the characters in the great Russian novels with their own idea of Russia's formidable power. The people and the nation do not seem to correspond. But the riddle may be read in the coexistence of Russia's internal weakness and misery along with her huge force, and the immense rôle she fills as a civilising power. In "The Storm" we have all the contradictory elements: a life strongly organised, yet weak within; strength and passivity, despotism and fatalism side by side. The author of "The Storm," Alexander Ostrovsky (born in Moscow 1823, died 1886), is acknowledged to be the greatest of the Russian dramatists. He has been called "a specialist in the natural history of the Russian merchant," and his birth, upbringing, family connections and vocations gave him exceptional facilities for penetrating into the life of that class which he was the first to put into Russian literature. His best period was from 1850 to 1860, but all his work received prompt and universal recognition from his countrymen. In 1859 Dobroliubov's famous article, "The Realm of Darkness," appeared, analysing the contents of all Ostrovsky's dramas, and on the publication of "The Storm" in 1860, it was followed by another article from the same critic, "A Ray of Light in the Realm of Darkness." These articles were practically a brief for the case of the Liberals, or party of Progress, against the official and Slavophil party. Ostrovsky's dramas in general are marked by intense sombreness, biting humour and merciless realism. "The Storm" is the most poetical of his works, but all his leading plays still hold the stage. "The Storm" will repay a minute examination by all who recognise that in England to-day we have a stage without art, truth to life, or national significance. There is not a superfluous line in the play: all is drama, natural, simple, deep. There is no _falsity_, no forced situations, no sensational effects, none of the shallow or flashy caricatures of daily life that our heterogeneous public demands. All the reproach that lives for us in the word _theatrical_ is worlds removed from "The Storm." The people who like 'farcical comedy' and social melodrama, and 'musical sketches' will find "The Storm" deep, forbidding and gloomy. The critic will find it an abiding analysis of a people's temperament. The reader will find it literature. E. G. _November_, 1898. THE STORM DRAMATIS PERSONÆ SAVIL PROKOFIEVITCH DIKOY, _a merchant, and personage of importance in the town_. BORIS GRIGORIEVITCH, _his nephew, a young man of good education_. MARFA IGNATIEVNA KABANOVA, _a rich merchant's widow_. TIHON IVANITCH KABANOV, _her son_. KATERINA, _his wife_. VARVARA, _sister of Tihon_. KULIGIN, _a man of artisan class, a self-taught watchmaker, engaged in trying to discover the secret of perpetual motion_. VANIA KUDRIASH, _a young man, clerk to Dikoy_. SHAPKIN, _an artisan_. FEKLUSHA, _a pilgrim woman_. GLASHA, _a maid servant in the Kabanovs' house_. AN OLD LADY _of seventy, half mad, with_ TWO FOOTMEN. TOWNSPEOPLE _of both sexes_. _The action takes place in the town of Kalinov, on the banks of the Volga, in summertime. There is an interval of ten days between the 3rd and 4th acts. All the characters except Boris are dressed in old Russian national dress._ ACT I SCENE I A public garden on the steep bank of the Volga; beyond the Volga, a view of the country. On the stage two benches and a few bushes. KULIGIN (_sitting on a bench, looking towards the river_). KUDRIASH and SHAPKIN (_walking up and down_). KULIGIN (_singing_). "Amidst the level dales, upon a sloping hillside,"... (_ceases singing_) Wonderful, one really must say it's wonderful! Kudriash! Do you know, I've looked upon the Volga every day these fifty years and I can never get tired of looking upon it. KUDRIASH. How's that? KULIGIN. It's a marvellous view! Lovely! It sets my heart rejoicing. KUDRIASH. It's not bad. KULIGIN. It's exquisite! And you say "not bad"! You are tired of it, or you don't feel the beauty there is in nature. KUDRIASH. Come, there's no use talking to you! You're a genuine antique, we all know, a chemical genius. KULIGIN. Mechanical, a self-taught mechanician. KUDRIASH. It's all one. [_Silence._ KULIGIN (_pointing away_). Look, Kudriash, who's that waving his arms about over there? KUDRIASH. There? Oh, that's Dikoy pitching into his nephew. KULIGIN. A queer place to do it! KUDRIASH. All places are alike to him. He's not afraid of any one! Boris Grigoritch is in his clutches now, so he is always bullying him. SHAPKIN. Yes, you wouldn't find another bully like our worthy Saviol Prokofitch in a hurry! He pulls a man up for nothing at all. KUDRIASH. He is a stiff customer. SHAPKIN. Old Dame Kabanova's a good hand at that too! KUDRIASH. Yes, but she at least does it all under pretence of morality; he's like a wild beast broken loose! SHAPKIN. There's no one to bring him to his senses, so he rages about as he likes! KUDRIASH. There are too few lads of my stamp or we'd have broken him of it. SHAPKIN. Why, what would you have done? KUDRIASH. We'd have given him a good scare. SHAPKIN. How'd you do that? KUDRIASH. Why, four or five of us would have had a few words with him, face to face, in some back street, and he'd soon have been as soft as silk. And he'd never have let on to a soul about the lesson we'd given him; he'd just have walked off and taken care to look behind him. SHAPKIN. I see he'd some reason for wanting to get you sent for a soldier. KUDRIASH. He wanted to, right enough, but he didn't do it. No, he won't get rid of me; he's an inkling that I'd make him pay too dear for it. You're afraid of him, but I know how to talk to him. SHAPKIN. Oh, I daresay! KUDRIASH. What do you mean by that? I am reckoned a tough one to deal with. Why do you suppose he keeps me on? Because he can't do without me, to be sure. Well, then, I've no need to be afraid of him; let him be afraid of me. SHAPKIN. Why, doesn't he swear at you? KUDRIASH. Swear at me! Of course; he can't breathe without that. But I don't give way to him: if he says one word, I say ten; he curses and goes off. No, I'm not going to lick the dust for him. KULIGIN. What, follow his example! You'd do better to bear it in patience. KUDRIASH. Come, I say, if you're so wise, teach him good manners first and then we'll learn! It's a pity his daughters are all children, there's not one grown-up girl among them. SHAPKIN. What if there were? KUDRIASH. I should treat him as he deserves if there were. I'm a devil of a fellow among the girls! [_Dikoy and Boris advance. Kuligin takes off his hat._ SHAPKIN (_to Kudriash_). Let us move off; he'll pick a quarrel with us, very likely. [_They move off a little._ SCENE II. The Same, DIKOY and BORIS. DIKOY. Did you come here to loaf about in idleness? eh? Lazy good for nothing fellow, confound you! BORIS. It's a holiday; what could I be doing at home? DIKOY. You'd find work to do if you wanted to. I've said it once, and I've said it twice, "don't dare to let me come across you"; you're incorrigible! Isn't there room enough for you? Go where one will, there you are! Damn you! Why do you stand there like a post? Do you hear what's said to you? BORIS. I'm listening,--what more am I to do? DIKOY (_looking at Boris_). Get away with you! I won't talk to a Jesuit like you. (_Going_) To come forcing himself on me here! [_Spits and exit_. SCENE III KULIGIN, BORIS, KUDRIASH, and SHAPKIN. KULIGIN. What have you to do with him, sir? We can't make it out. What can induce you to live with him and put up with his abuse? BORIS. A poor inducement, Kuligin! I'm not free. KULIGIN. But how are you not free, allow me to ask you. If you can tell us, sir, do. BORIS. Why not? You knew our grandmother, Anfisa Mihalovna? KULIGIN. To be sure I did! KUDRIASH. I should think we did! BORIS. She quarrelled with my father you know because he married into a noble family. It was owing to that that my father and mother lived in Moscow. My mother used to tell me that she could hardly endure life for three days together with my father's relations, it all seemed so rough and coarse to her. KULIGIN. Well it might! you have to be used to it from the first, sir, to be able to bear it. BORIS. Our parents brought us up well in Moscow, they spared no expense. They sent me to the Commercial Academy, and my sister to a boarding school, but they both died suddenly of cholera. We were left orphans, my sister and I. Then we heard that our grandmother was dead here, and had left a will that our uncle was to pay us a fair share of her fortune, when we came of age, only upon one condition. KULIGIN. And what was that, sir? BORIS. If we showed a proper respect for his authority. KULIGIN. Then there's no doubt, sir, you'll never see your fortune. BORIS. No, but that's not all, Kuligin! First he finds fault with us to his heart's content, and ends none the less with giving us nothing, or some tiny dole. And then he'll go making out that it's a great favour, and that he ought not to have done even that. KUDRIASH. That's just the way the merchants go on among us. Besides, if you were ever so respectful to him, who's to hinder him from saying you're disrespectful? BORIS. To be sure. And indeed he sometimes will say: I've children of my own, why should I give money away to outsiders? Am I to wrong my own like that? KULIGIN. It's plain, sir, you're not in luck's way. BORIS. If it were only me, I wouldn't care! I'd throw it all up and go away. But I'm sorry for my sister. He did write for her to come too, but mother's relations wouldn't let her, they wrote she wasn't well. It frightens me to think what the life here would be for her. KUDRIASH. Of course. The master's no decent manners at all. KULIGIN. In what capacity do you live with him, sir; what arrangement has he made with you? BORIS. Why, none whatever; "you live with me," he says, "and do what you're told, and your pay shall be what I give you," that's to say, in a year's time he'll settle up with me as he thinks fit. KUDRIASH. That's just his way. Not one of us dare as much as hint at a salary, or he storms till he's black in the face. "How do you know," he'll say, "what I have in my mind to do? Do you suppose you can see into my heart? Maybe, I shall be so disposed as to give you five thousand." It's no use talking to him! Only you may be pretty sure he's never been disposed that way in his life. KULIGIN. It's a hard case, sir! You must try and get the right side of him somehow. BORIS. But the point is, Kuligin, that it's impossible. Why, even his own children can never do anything to please him; so it's hardly likely I could! KUDRIASH. Who could please him, when his whole life's spent in bullying people? Especially where money's at stake; no accounts are ever settled without storms of abuse. Often people are glad to go short of their due, if only he'll let them off quietly. Woe to us if anyone vexes him in the morning! He falls foul of everyone all day long. BORIS. Every morning my aunt entreats us with tears in her eyes: "Don't anger him, friends! Dear boys, don't anger him!" KUDRIASH. But you can never avoid it! If he goes to the bazaar, it's all up! He scolds all the peasants. Even if they ask him less than cost price they never get off without abuse. And then he's upset for the whole day. SHAPKIN. He's a bully--there's no other word for him. KUDRIASH. A bully? I should think he is! BORIS. And what's fatal is if some man offends him, whom he daren't be rude to. Then all his household have to look out for themselves! KUDRIASH. Bless my soul! That was a joke though. Didn't that hussar let him have it on the Volga, at the ferry! Oh, a lovely shindy he kicked up afterwards, too. BORIS. Ah, and didn't his family suffer for it! Why, for a fortnight after we were all hiding away in the attics and cupboards. KULIGIN. Surely that's not the folk coming back from vespers? [_Several persons pass in the background_. KUDRIASH. Come on, Shapkin, let's get a drink! It's no good stopping here. [_They bow and exeunt_. BORIS. Oh, Kuligin, it's awfully hard here for me who've not been used to it. Everyone seems to look with unfriendly eyes at me, as though I were not wanted here, as though I were in their way. I don't understand the ways here. I know this is truly Russia, my own country, but still I can't get used to it. KULIGIN. And you never will get used to it, sir. BORIS. Why? KULIGIN. They're a coarse lot, sir, in our town, a coarse lot! Among the working people, sir, you'll find nothing but brutality and squalid poverty. And we've no chance, sir, of ever finding our way out of it. For by honest labour we can never earn more than a crust of bread. And everyone with money, sir, tries all he can to get a poor man under his thumb, so as to make more money again out of his working for nothing. Do you know the answer your uncle, Saviol Prokofitch, made to the provost? The peasants were always coming to the provost with complaints that your uncle never paid one of them fairly according to agreement. The provost said to him at last: "Look here," says he, "Saviol Prokofitch, you must pay the peasants what's fairly owing to them! Every day they come to me with some complaint!" Your uncle slapped the provost on the shoulder, and says he: "It's not worth while, your Worship, for you and me to waste our breath over such petty details! I have to do with numbers of peasants in the course of the year; you can understand, if I pay them a paltry farthing short, every man of them, it mounts up to thousands, and a capital thing too for me!" Think of that, sir! And the way they treat one another too, sir! They injure each other's trade all they can, and that not so much from self-interest, as from envy. They are always at feud with one another. They entertain in their grand mansions drunken attorneys' clerks, wretched creatures, sir, that hardly look like human beings. And they, for a small tip, will cover sheets of stamped paper with malicious quibbling attacks on their neighbours. And then there's a lawsuit commences between them, sir, and no end to the worry and fret. They bring it before the court here, and go off to the chief town, and there everyone in court is on the look-out for them and they clap their hands with glee when they see them. Words do not take long, but deeds are not soon done. They are dragged from court to court, they are worn out with delays; but they are positively delighted at that; it's just that they want. "I've lost a lot of money," one will say, "but it's cost him a pretty penny too!" I did try to put it all into verse.... BORIS. Why, do you make verse? KULIGIN. Yes, sir, in the old-fashioned style. I have read Lomonosov and Derzhavin. Lomonosov was a deep thinker, an investigator of nature.... And he was one of us plain working folk too. BORIS. You should write. That would be interesting. KULIGIN. How could I, sir! They'd tear me to pieces, they'd skin me alive. Even as it is, sir, I have had to pay for my chattering; but I can't help it, I love to speak my mind freely. I meant to say something about their family life, sir, but we'll talk of that some other time. There's plenty to tell about that too. [_Enter Feklusha and another woman_. FEKLUSHA. De-lightful, my clear, de-lightful! Divinely beautiful! But what's the use of talking! You live in the Promised Land, simply! And the merchant gentry are all a devout people, and famed for many a virtue! liberality and much almsgiving! I am well content, my good soul, full to the brim of content! For their liberality to us will their abundance be greatly increased, especially in the house of Kabanova. [_Exeunt_. BORIS. Kabanova? KULIGIN. A fanatical hypocrite, sir. She gives to the poor, but her own household she worries to death. (_Silence_.) All I want, sir, is to find out the secret of perpetual motion! BORIS. Why, what would you do? KULIGIN. How can you ask, sir! Why, the English offer millions for it. I should use all the money for public purposes,--we want to provide work for the working people. Here they have hands to work, and no work to do. BORIS. And you hope to discover perpetual motion? KULIGIN. Not a doubt, I shall, sir! I have only to scrape up enough money for models. Good-bye, sir! [_Exit_. SCENE IV BORIS (_alone_). I haven't the heart to disillusion him! What a good fellow! He dreams and is happy. But I, it seems, must waste my youth in this wretched hole. I was utterly crushed before, and now this madness creeping into my mind! So suitable! Me give myself up to tender sentiments! Trampled upon, broken-spirited, and as if that's not enough, in my idiocy I must needs fall in love! And of all people in the world! With a woman, whom I may never have the luck to speak a word to. (_Silence_.) But for all that, I can't get her out of my head, try as I will. Here she is! Coming with her husband, oh! and the mother-in-law with them! Ah, what a fool I am! I must snatch a look at her round the corner, and then home again. [_Exit. From the opposite side, enter Mme. Kabanova, Kabanov, Katerina and Varvara_.] SCENE V MADAME KABANOVA, KABANOV, KATERINA and VARVARA. MME. KABANOVA. If you care to listen to your mother, you'll do as I have told you, directly you get there. KABANOV. How could I possibly disobey you, mother! MME. KABANOVA. Young folks show little respect to their elders, nowadays. VARVARA (_to herself_). Not respect you, my dear? That's likely! KABANOV. I think, mamma, I never depart a hairsbreadth from your will. MME. KABANOVA. I might believe you, my son, if I hadn't seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears how little reverence parents receive nowadays from children! They might at least remember all the sufferings a mother has to put up with for her children. KABANOV. Mamma, I.... MME. KABANOVA. If the mother that bore you does at times say a word that wounds your pride surely you might put up with it! Hey, what do you think? KABANOV. But, mamma, when have I not put up with anything from you? MME. KABANOVA. The mother's old, and foolish, to be sure; you young people must not be too exacting with us old fools. KABANOV (_sighs, aside_). Oh, merciful Heavens! (_To his mother_) We should never dare think such a thing for a moment, mamma! MME. KABANOVA. It's out of love that parents are severe with you, out of love they scold even--they're always thinking how to train you in the right way. To be sure, that's not in favour nowadays. And children go about among folks proclaiming that their mother's a scold, that their mother won't let them stir, that she's the plague of their life. And if--Lord save us--some word of hers doesn't please her daughter-in-law, then it's the talk all over the place, that the mother-in-law worries her to death. KABANOV. You don't mean that anyone talks about you, mamma? MME. KABANOVA. I haven't heard so, my son, I haven't; I don't want to tell a lie about it. If I had, indeed, I shouldn't be talking to you like this, my dear. (_Sighs_) Ah, sin is a heavy burden! Sin is never far off! Something said goes to the heart, and there, one sins, one gets angry. No, my son, say what you like about me, there's no forbidding anyone to talk; if they don't dare before one's face, they'll do it behind one's back. KABANOV. May my tongue wither up and... MME. KABANOVA. Hush, hush, don't swear! It's a sin! I've seen plain enough for a long time past that your wife's dearer to you than your mother. Ever since you were married, I don't see the same love for me that I did in you. KABANOV. In what way do you see me changed, mamma? MME. KABANOVA. In everything, my son! When a mother doesn't see a thing with her eyes, her heart's so sensitive she can feel it with her heart. Or maybe it's your wife sets you against me, I can't say. KABANOV. Oh no, mamma! how can you say so, really? KATERINA. I look upon you as I would on my own mother, and indeed Tihon loves you too. MME. KABANOVA. You might hold your tongue, I should think, till you're asked a question. You've no need to defend him, young madam, I'm not going to hurt him, no fear! He's my son too, let me tell you; don't you forget it! What do you want to fire up and display your feelings before folks for! That we may see you love your husband? We know that, we know that, you show off before everyone. VARVARA (_to herself_). A nice place she's pitched on to read us a sermon! KATERINA. You have no need to say that of me, mamma. I am just the same before people, as I am by myself. I make no show of anything. MME. KABANOVA. And I'd no intention of speaking about you at all, but it happened to come up. KATERINA. Even so, why need you attack me? MME. KABANOVA. My, what a stuck-up thing she is! Here she's in a huff directly! KATERINA. No one likes to put up with unjust blame. MME. KABANOVA. I know, I know my words are not to your liking, but that can't be helped. I'm not a stranger to you, it makes my heart grieve to see you. I've seen for a long time past that you want your own way. Well, well, you've only to wait a bit, you'll have it all your own way when I'm dead and gone. Then to be sure you can do as you please, there'll be no elders then to look after you. And, maybe, you will think of me then. KABANOV. But we pray God night and day for you, mamma, that God may grant you health, and every blessing and success in all you do. MME. KABANOVA. Come, give over, please. I daresay you did love your mother, while you were a bachelor. But you've no thoughts for me now you've a young wife. KABANOV. The one doesn't hinder the other. A wife is something different, but for my mother I have a reverence quite apart. MME. KABANOVA. Then would you give up your wife rather than your mother? No, that I'll never believe. KABANOV. But why should I give up either? I love both. MME. KABANOVA. Oh, I daresay, I daresay, you may talk away! I see plain enough that I'm a hindrance to you. KABANOV. You must think as you please, it's for you to decide in everything. Only I can't comprehend why I was ever born into the world so unlucky as not to be able to please you anyhow. MME. KABANOVA. What do you mean by whimpering like a sick child! A pretty husband, upon my word! You should just see yourself! Do you suppose your wife will fear you after that? KABANOV. Why should she fear me? I'm content, if she loves me. MME. KABANOVA. Why should she fear you! Why should she fear you! What do you mean? Why, you must be crazy! If she doesn't fear you, she's not likely to fear me. A pretty state of confusion there would be in the house! Why, you're living with her in lawful wedlock, aren't you? Or does the law count for nothing to your thinking? If you do harbour such fools' notions in your brain, you shouldn't talk so before her anyway, nor before your sister, that's a girl still. She'll have to be married too; and if she catches up your silly talk it's her husband will thank us afterwards for the lessons we've taught her. You see how little sense you've got, and yet you want to be independent and live as you like. KABANOV. But indeed, mamma, I don't want to be independent. How ever could I be independent! MME. KABANOVA. So, to your thinking then, kindness is all that's needed with a wife? Mustn't even scold her then, or threaten her? KABANOV. But, indeed, mamma.... MME. KABANOVA (_hotly_). Wait till she sets up a lover.... Hey! But I daresay that's no consequence either, to your thinking? Hey? Come, speak? KABANOV. But, mercy on us, mamma.... MME. KABANOVA (_perfectly coolly_). Fool! (_Sighs_) What's the use of talking to a fool! it's simply a sin! (_Silence_) I'm going home. KABANOV. We'll come directly too; we'll only take one or two more turns on the parade. MME. KABANOVA. Very well; do as you like, only mind you don't keep me waiting! You know I don't like that. KABANOV. Oh no, mamma! God forbid! MME. KABANOVA. Mind you don't then! [_Goes_. SCENE VI The Same, except MME. KABANOVA. KABANOV. There, you see how I always catch it from mamma on your account! A nice sort of life I lead! KATERINA. Is it my fault? KABANOV. I don't know whose fault it is. VARVARA. Is it likely you would know? KABANOV. She used to keep on at me, "You must get a wife, you must get a wife, I'm longing to see you a married man." And now she worries my life out, and gives me no peace--all on your account. VARVARA. Well, it's not her fault! Mother attacks her, and you too. And then you say you love your wife. It makes me sick to look at you. (_Turns away_.) KABANOV. Talk away! What am I to do? VARVARA. Mind your own business--hold your tongue, if you can't do anything better. Why do you stand there shilly-shallying? I can see by your face what's in your mind. KABANOV. Why, what? VARVARA. What?--Why, that you want to go in and have a drink with Saviol Prokofitch. Eh? isn't that it? KABANOV. You've hit it, old girl. KATERINA. Come back quickly, Tihon dear, or mamma will be scolding again. VARVARA. Yes, indeed, you must look sharp, or you'll know what to expect. KABANOV. I should think I do! VARVARA. We've no great desire to get into a row for your sake either. KABANOV. I'll fly. Wait for me! [_Goes_. SCENE VII KATERINA and VARVARA. KATERINA. So you are sorry for me, Varia? VARVARA (_looking away_). Of course, I am. KATERINA. Then you love me, don't you? (_Kisses her warmly._) VARVARA. Love you? Of course. KATERINA. Thank you! you are so sweet, I love you dearly. (_Silence_) Do you know what I'm thinking? VARVARA. What? KATERINA. What a pity people can't fly! VARVARA. I don't know what you mean. KATERINA. What a pity people can't fly like birds. Do you know I sometimes fancy I'm a bird. When one stands on a high hill, one feels a longing to fly. One would take a little run, throw up one's arms, and fly away! Couldn't we try it now? (_Makes as though she would run._) VARVARA. What will you make up next? KATERINA (_sighs_). How I used to love play and frolic! But in your house I'm growing old and spiritless. VARVARA. Do you suppose I don't see it? KATERINA. How different I used to be! I lived without a care in my heart, as free as a bird. Mother adored me, dressed me up like a doll, and never forced me to work; I could do just as I liked. Do you know how I passed my days as a girl? I'll tell you. I used to get up early; if it was summer I used to go to the spring, and bathe, and bring back water with me, and water all the flowers in the house, every one of them. Then mother and I used to go to church, and all the pilgrim women--our house was simply full of pilgrims and holy women. We used to come back from church, and sit down to some work, often embroidery in gold on velvet, while the pilgrim women would tell us where they had been, what they had seen, and the different ways of living in the world, or else they would sing songs. And so the time would pass till dinner. Then the older women lay down for a nap, while I would run about in the garden. Then evensong, and in the evening, stories and singing again. Ah, those were happy days! VARVARA. But it's pretty much the same with us, if you come to that. KATERINA. Yes, but here one feels somehow in a cage. And how passionately I loved being in church! It was like stepping into Paradise, and I saw no one and had no thought of time and did not hear when the service was over. It was just as if it were all in one second. Mother used to say that often everyone looked at me and wondered what had come over me! And you know, on a sunny day, such a column of light streamed down from the golden cupola, and a sort of mist moving in the light, like smoke, and at times I seemed to see angels flying and singing in that bright light. And sometimes, dear girl, I would get up at night--we had lamps always burning all over our house,--and fall down in some corner and pray till morning. Or I would go out into the garden early in the morning, when the sun was just rising, fall on my knees and pray and weep, and not know myself what I prayed and wept for; and so they would find me sometimes. And what I was praying for then, what I besought God for--I couldn't say. I wanted nothing, I had enough of everything. And what dreams I used to have, dear Varia, what lovely dreams! Golden temples or gardens of some wonderful sort, and voices of unseen spirits singing, and the sweet scent of cypress and mountains and trees, not such as we always see, but as they are painted in the holy pictures. And sometimes I seemed to be flying, simply flying in the air. I dream sometimes now, but not often, and never dreams like those. VARVARA. Why, what then? KATERINA (_after a pause_). I shall die soon. VARVARA. What nonsense! KATERINA. No, I know I shall die. Oh, dear girl, something not good is happening with me, something strange. It has never been like this with me before. There is something in me so incomprehensible. As though I were beginning to live again, or ... I don't know what. VARVARA. What is the matter with you? KATERINA (_taking her hand_). I'll tell you, Varia; some dreadful sin is coming upon me! I have such a terror in my heart, such terror! As though I am standing on the edge of a precipice and someone is pushing me in, and I have nothing to cling to. [_Clutches her head in her hand._] VARVARA. What's wrong with you? You can't be well. KATERINA. Yes, I am well.... It would be better if I were ill, it's worse as it is. A dream keeps creeping into my mind, and I cannot get away from it. I try to think--I can't collect my thoughts, I try to pray--but I can't get free by prayer. My lips murmur the words but my heart is far away; as though the evil one were whispering in my ear, and always of such wicked things. And such thoughts rise up within me, that I'm ashamed of myself. What is wrong with me? There's some trouble, something before me! At night I do not sleep, Varia, a sort of murmur haunts me; someone seems speaking so tenderly to me, as it were cooing to me like a dove. And now I never dream, Varia, those old dreams, of trees and mountains in Paradise; but it's as though someone were clasping me passionately--so passionately and leading me, and I follow him, I follow. VARVARA. Well? KATERINA. But what things I am saying to you, a young girl like you. VARVARA (_looking about her_). You can tell me! I'm worse than you. KATERINA. Oh what am I to tell you? I'm ashamed. VARVARA. You've no need! Tell away. KATERINA. I am stifling, stifling at home, I should like to run away. And the fancy comes to me that if I were my own mistress, I would float down the Volga now, in a boat, to the singing of songs, or I would drive right away clasped close.... VARVARA. But not with your husband. KATERINA. How do you know that? VARVARA. As if I didn't know! KATERINA. Ah, Varia, there is sin in my heart! Alas, how often I have wept, I have done everything I can think of! I can't get free from this sin. I can't escape. Varia, it is wicked, it is a fearful sin--I love someone else! VARVARA. I'm not likely to be hard upon you! I've sins enough of my own. KATERINA. What am I to do? I'm at the end of my strength, where can I find help. I'm so wretched, I shall do something dreadful. VARVARA. Mercy on us! what is coming to you! Come, wait a bit, brother's going away to-morrow, we'll think of something; maybe, you'll be able to see each other. KATERINA. No, no, that must not be! What are you saying! God forbid! VARVARA. Why are you frightened? KATERINA. If I were once to see and speak with him, I should run away from home, I would not go back home for anything in the world. VARVARA. Oh well, wait a little, and then we shall see. KATERINA. No, no, don't talk to me, I don't want to hear! VARVARA. Why wear yourself out for nothing? You may die of grieving, do you suppose they'll be sorry for you? Come, wait a bit. Why, what's the good of making yourself miserable? [_Enter the Old Lady with a stick and two footmen in three-cornered hats behind her._ SCENE VIII The same and the OLD LADY. OLD LADY. Hey, my pretty charmers? What are you doing here? Waiting for young fellows, waiting for your beaus? Are your hearts merry? Merry are they? Are you pleased and proud of your beauty? That's where beauty leads to. (_Points to the Volga_) Yes, yes, to the bottomless pit! (_Varvara smiles._) What, laughing? Let not your heart rejoice! (_Knocks with her stick_) You will burn all of you in a fire unquenchable. You will boil in the lake of flaming pitch. (_Going_) That is whither beauty leads you! [_Goes._ SCENE IX KATERINA and VARVARA. KATERINA. Ah, how she frightened me! I'm trembling all over, as if she were foretelling something for me. VARVARA. Her curse fall on her own head, the old witch! KATERINA. What was it she said, eh? what did she say? VARVARA. It was all rubbish. It's silly to listen to her raving. She foretells evil like that to everyone. She was a sinner all her life from her youth up. You should hear the stories they tell about her. So now she's afraid of death. And she must try and frighten others with what she dreads herself. Why even the little street boys hide away from her; she shakes her stick at them and growls (_mimicking_) "you'll all burn in fire unquenchable!" KATERINA (_shrinking_). Ah, ah, stop! I can't bear it! VARVARA. There's nothing to be frightened of! An old fool.... KATERINA. I am afraid, terribly afraid! I seem to see her all the while before us. [_Silence._ VARVARA (_looking round_). I say, brother doesn't come, and yonder there's a storm coming up. KATERINA (_in terror_). A storm! Let us run home! Make haste! VARVARA. Why, are you crazy? How can you show yourself at home without my brother? KATERINA. No, let us go home! Never mind him! VARVARA. But why are you so awfully frightened? The storm's a long way off yet. KATERINA. If it's so far off, we'll wait then a little, if you like; but really it would be better to go. Yes, we'd better go home. VARVARA. But if anything were to happen, you know, you'd be no safer at home. KATERINA. No, but still, it's better there, it's quieter; at home one can turn to the holy pictures and pray to God! VARVARA. I didn't know you were so afraid of a thunderstorm. I'm not afraid, you see. KATERINA. Don't talk of not being afraid! Everyone must be afraid. What is dreadful is not it's killing you, but that death may overtake you all of a sudden, just as you are, with all your sins, with all your erring thoughts. I have no fear of death, but when I think that I shall be brought all at once before the face of God just as I am here, with you, after this talk,--that's what is awful! What I had in my heart! What wickedness! fearful to think of! (_Thunder._) Ah! [_Enter Kabanov._ VARVARA. Here comes my brother. (_To Kabanov_) Hurry up! [_Thunder._ KATERINA. Ah! Make haste! Make haste! ACT II SCENE I A room in the house of the Kabanovs. GLASHA (_packing up clothes in a bundle_). _Enter_ FEKLUSHA. FEKLUSHA. Dear girl, always at work! What are you doing, my dear? GLASHA. I'm getting the master's things ready for his journey. FEKLUSHA. Is he going away then--the light of our eyes? GLASHA. Yes. FEKLUSHA. Is he going to be away long, my dear? GLASHA. No, not long. FEKLUSHA. Well, God speed him on his way! And say, will the young mistress do a wail for his going or not? GLASHA. That I can't say, really. FEKLUSHA. But she does wail at times, I suppose? GLASHA. Never heard of her doing it. FEKLUSHA. Well now, my dear, if there's one thing I love, it's to hear a wail well done! (_Silence._) And mind you keep a sharp look out, my girl, on the beggar woman below, that she don't lay her hands on anything. GLASHA. Who's to tell the rights and wrongs of it with you begging pilgrims, you all speak ill of one another. Why can't you live and let live? I should have thought you wandering women get plenty in our house all of you, and yet you must always be quarrelling and nagging at each other. Aren't you afraid of such sin? FEKLUSHA. One can't be without sin, my good girl; we live in the world. I'll tell you what, my dear; you, simple folk, are tempted of one devil, but we pilgrim folk are beset, one with six, another with twelve devils; and here we have to struggle against all at once. It's a hard fight, my dear, a hard fight! GLASHA. Why is it you have such a lot? FEKLUSHA. Ah, my good girl, that comes of the hatred the evil one has for us, because we lead a life of such holiness. But I can't say, my dear, that I'm one to gossip; that's not a sin of mine. One failing I have, truly; I know myself what it is. I love dainty eating. Well, well, the Lord in His mercy provides according to my weakness. GLASHA. And have you travelled far in your wanderings, Feklusha? FEKLUSHA. No, my dear, owing to my weakness, I've never gone far away; but many a thing I've heard. They do say, my dear, there are countries where there are no Tsars of the true faith, but Sultans rule the lands. In one land there is the Sultan Mahnoot the Turk on the throne--and in another the Sultan Mahnoot the Persian. And they rule, my good girl, over all men, and whatever they decree it's always unrighteous. And they cannot, my dear, judge righteously in any one thing, such is the ban laid upon them. We have a just law, but they, my dear, an unjust law. Everything that is one way in our land is the very opposite in theirs. And all the judges with them, in their countries, are unjust too, so that, do you know, my girl, they even write in their petitions: "judge me, unjust judge!" And there is a country too where all the men have the heads of dogs. GLASHA. How do they come to have dogs' heads? FEKLUSHA. For their infidelity. I am going off on my rounds among the merchant gentry, my dear, to see if there won't be some alms for poverty. Good-bye for the present! GLASHA. Good-bye! (_Exit Feklusha_.) Only fancy that there are lands like that! There's no end to the marvels in the world. And here we sit at home and know nothing. A good thing it is to be sure, that there are pious folk; from time to time one hears what is being done in the light of day; if it weren't for them, we should live and die in our foolishness. _Enter Katerina and Varvara_. SCENE II KATERINA and VARVARA. VARVARA (_to Glasha_). Carry the bundles down to the chaise, the horses are at the door. (_To Katerina_) You were married off young, and you never had any fun when you were a girl; and so your heart is restless still. [_Glasha goes out._ KATERINA. And it always will be. VARVARA. Why? KATERINA. I have been like that from my birth up, full of fire! I was only six years old, when do you know what I did? They offended me somehow at home,--it was in the evening and quite dark--I ran away to the Volga, and got into a boat, and pushed it off from the bank. They found me next morning, ten miles down the river. VARVARA. Really! And were there any men in love with you, as a girl? KATERINA. Of course there were! VARVARA. Well? And didn't you care for anyone? KATERINA. No, I only laughed at them. VARVARA. And you know, Katia, you don't love Tihon. KATERINA. Oh, yes, I do! I'm dreadfully sorry for him. VARVARA. Oh, no, you don't. If you're sorry for him you don't love him. And indeed you've no great reason to, I must own. And it's no good your being so close with me! I noticed a long while ago, that you were fond of some one. KATERINA (_with dismay_). How did you notice it? VARVARA. How absurd you are! I'm not a baby! Well, I'll tell you the first sign I knew by; directly you see him, your whole face is transformed. (_Katerina drops her eyes._) And that's not all.... KATERINA (_still looking down_). Well, whom then? VARVARA. Why, you know, what's the use of telling his name? KATERINA. No, tell it! Tell his name! VARVARA. Boris Grigoritch. KATERINA. Yes, yes, Varia! Only mind, Varia, for pity's sake.... VARVARA. What nonsense! _You'd_ better mind, and not betray yourself in any way. KATERINA. I can't deceive, I don't know how to conceal anything. VARVARA. But there's no doing without deceit; think where you're living! Our whole house rests on it! I wasn't fond of lying either, but I learnt the trick, when I had to. I was out walking yesterday, and so I saw him and had a few minutes talk with him. KATERINA (_after a short silence, looking down_). Well? VARVARA. He sent greetings to you. He was sorry, he said, that he never meets you. KATERINA (_her head still more bent down_). As if we could meet! And what would be the use.... VARVARA. He is so sad and unhappy.... KATERINA. Don't speak to me of him, for goodness' sake, don't speak of him! I don't want to know him even. I will love my husband: Tisha, my dear one, no one shall ever take your place! I did not want to think of him, you tempt me. VARVARA. All right, don't think of him; no one compels you to. KATERINA. You have no mercy on me! You say: don't think of him, and you mention him yourself! Do you suppose I want to think of him; but what can I do, when I can't get him out of my mind? Whatever I try to think, he seems always standing before my eyes. And I try to be different, and I can't. Do you know, last night, the evil one tempted me again. I was almost walking straight out of the house. VARVARA. You are such a fantastical creature, God bless you! What I think is: one should do what one likes, only be sure it's kept dark! KATERINA. I don't like that. What good can come of it! I had much better bear it as long as I can bear it. VARVARA. And when you can't bear it, what will you do? KATERINA. What shall I do? VARVARA. Yes, what will you do? KATERINA. Whatever I long to do, I will do. VARVARA. Just try; why they'd torment you to death. KATERINA. What do I care! I should go away, and that would be the end of it. VARVARA. Where would you go? You are a married woman. KATERINA. Ah, Varia, you don't know me! I pray, of course, it may never come to that! But if I am too miserable here, they would not keep me by any force on earth. I should throw myself out of the window, I should drown myself in the Volga. If I will not to live here, then I would not, they might cut me to pieces! (_Silence._) VARVARA. Do you know what, Katia! When Tihon's gone, let's sleep in the garden, in the summerhouse. KATERINA. Oh, why, Varia? VARVARA. Why, isn't it just the same to you? KATERINA. I'm timid of sleeping in a place I'm not used to. VARVARA. Timid, nonsense! Glasha will be with us. KATERINA. Still one feels nervous, somehow! But perhaps I will. VARVARA. I wouldn't have asked you, only mamma wouldn't let me alone, and I must. KATERINA (_looking at her_). What for? VARVARA.(_laughing_). We'll tell our fortunes together there. KATERINA. You must be joking. VARVARA. To be sure, I am joking; did you think I meant it? [_Silence_. KATERINA. Where can Tihon be? VARVARA. Why, do you want him? KATERINA. No, I only wondered, he has to start so soon. VARVARA. He's sitting locked up with mamma. She's nagging away at him now. KATERINA. What for? VARVARA. For nothing at all, teaching him to mind what he's about. He'll be a fortnight away out of her sight! Only fancy! She has an uneasy inkling all the time that he'll enjoy himself when he's his own master. And so she's busy now laying all sorts of injunctions upon him, each more imperative than the last, and then she'll take him up to the holy picture and make him swear solemnly that he'll do everything exactly and precisely according to her bidding. KATERINA. And so even when he's free he'll be as good as bound. VARVARA. Bound! Oh, will he! As soon as he gets away, he'll start drinking, you may be sure. He says nothing now, but all the while he's only thinking how to get away as soon as possible. [_Enter Mme. Kabanova and Kabanov_. SCENE III The Same with KABANOV and MADAME KABANOVA. MME. KABANOVA. Now do you remember everything I've told you? Mind you do remember it! Keep it in your heart! KABANOV. Yes, mamma. MME. KABANOVA. Well, now everything is ready. The horses are at the door. You've only to say good-bye and be off in God's name. KABANOV. Yes, mamma, it's time I was off. MME. KABANOVA. Well? KABANOV. What do you desire? MME. KABANOVA. Why are you standing about? Don't you know the way to do things? Lay your commands upon your wife, exhort her how she is to live in your absence. [_Katerina looks on the ground_. KABANOV. But she knows quite well without that. MME. KABANOVA. The way you talk! Come, come, give your commands, that I may hear what commands you lay upon her! And then when you come back, you can ask if she has performed everything exactly. KABANOV (_standing opposite Katerina_). Obey mamma, Katia. MME. KABANOVA. Tell her not to be saucy to her mother-in-law. KABANOV. Don't be saucy! MME. KABANOVA. To revere her mother-in-law as her own mother. KABANOV. Revere mamma, Katia, as your own mother. MME. KABANOVA. Not to sit with her hands in her lap like a fine lady. KABANOV. Do some work while I am away! MME. KABANOVA. Not to go staring out of window! KABANOV. But, mamma, whenever has she.... MME. KABANOVA. Come, come! KABANOV. Don't look out of window! MME. KABANOVA. Not to stare at young fellows while you are away! KABANOV. But that is too much, mamma, for mercy's sake! MME. KABANOVA (_severely_). Enough of this nonsense! It's your duty to do what your mother tells you. (_With a smile_) It's always as well when it's forbidden. KABANOV (_in great confusion_). Don't look at young men! [_Katerina looks sternly at him_. MME. KABANOVA. Well, now you can talk by yourselves a little, if you want to. Come, Varvara! [_They go out_. SCENE IV KABANOV and KATERINA (_she stands as though turned to stone_). KABANOV. Katia! (_Silence_.) Katia, you're not angry with me? KATERINA (_after a protracted silence--shakes her head_). No! KABANOV. But why are you like this? Come, forgive me! KATERINA (_still in the same position, slightly shaking her head_). Peace be with you! (_Hiding her face in her hands_) She has hurt me! KABANOV. If you take everything to heart so, you'll soon fall into a decline. Why listen to her! You know she must talk! Well then, let her talk, and you let it go in at one ear and out at the other. Come, good-bye, Katia! KATERINA (_falling on her husband's neck_). Tisha, don't go away! For God's sake, don't go away! Dear one, I implore you! KABANOV. I must, Katia. When mamma sends me, how can I not go? KATERINA. Well, take me with you, do take me! KABANOV (_freeing himself from her embrace_). But it's impossible! KATERINA. Oh, why, Tisha, impossible? KABANOV. Much fun there would be in going with you! You've worried me out of my life here between you! No sooner have I a hope of escaping than you want to fasten yourself upon me. KATERINA. Why, can it be that you are tired of me? KABANOV. No, I'm not tired of you; but to get out of this slavery a man would run away from the loveliest woman in the world! Just consider for a minute; I may not be good for much; but I'm a man anyway; and living all my life as you see, one's glad to run away from one's wife even. Why, when I think now, that for two whole weeks there'll be no storm hanging over me, no fetters on my legs,--do you suppose I can think of my wife? KATERINA. How can I care for you, when you say things like that? KABANOV. Say things? Why, what things am I to say? God knows what it is you're afraid of! You won't be alone, you know, you'll be with mamma. KATERINA. Don't speak of her, don't torture my heart! Ah, how wretched I am, how wretched! (_Weeps_.) Where can I go? Whom can I cling to? Merciful Heavens, I am lost! KABANOV. Come, be quiet! KATERINA (_goes up to her husband and draws him to her_). Tisha, dear one, if you would stay, if you would take me with you, how I would love you, how I would cherish you, my dear one! KABANOV. I can't make you out, Katia! Often there's no getting a word out of you, to say nothing of a kiss, and now you come coaxing up to me of your own accord. KATERINA. Tisha, what are you leaving me to? There'll be trouble when you're away! There'll be trouble! KABANOV. Now, come, I can't, so it's no use. KATERINA. Well, here then! Take from me some dreadful vow.... KABANOV. What vow? KATERINA. A vow that I will not dare while you're away on any ground whatever to speak with any outsider, nor see anyone,--that I will not even dare to think of anyone but you. KABANOV. But what's this for? KATERINA. Set my heart at rest, do this for me! KABANOV. But one can never answer for oneself like that, anything may come into one's head. KATERINA (_falling on her knees_). May I never look upon my father nor my mother! May I die impenitent, if I... KABANOV (_pulling her up_). Hush! Nonsense! What wickedness is this! I won't hear you! [_Voice of Mme. Kabanova heard without, "It's time to start, Tihon!" Enter Mme. Kabanova, Varvara and Glasha._ SCENE V The same. MME. KABANOVA, VARVARA and GLASHA. MME. KABANOVA. Come, Tihon, it's time now! Set off on your way in God's name! (_sits down_). Sit down, all of you! (_All sit down. Silence_.) Now, good-bye! (_Gets up and all get up_.) KABANOV (_going up to his mother_). Good-bye, mamma! MME. KABANOVA (_with a wave of her hand points him to the ground_). At my feet! At my feet! (_Kabanov bows down to her feet, then kisses his mother_.) Say good-bye to your wife. KABANOV. Good-bye, Katia! [_Katerina falls on his neck_. MME. KABANOVA. What do you want to hang on his neck like that for, shameless hussy! It's not a lover you're parting from! He's your husband--your head! Don't you know how to behave? Bow down at his feet! [_Katerina bows down to his feet_. KABANOV. Good-bye, sister (_kisses Varvara_). Good-bye! Glasha (_kisses Glasha_). Good-bye, mamma! (_bows down to the ground_). MME. KABANOVA. Good-bye! Long farewells mean foolish tears. [_Kabanov goes out, after him Katerina, Varvara, and Glasha_. SCENE VI MME. KABANOVA (_alone_). MME. KABANOVA. The way young folks behave! It makes one laugh really to see them! If they weren't my own, I could laugh till I split. They don't know the way to do anything properly. Can't even take leave with decorum. A lucky thing it is for them that they have elder folk, who will keep their house together as long as they're living. And yet, the silly fools, they long to be their own masters, though when they do have their own way, they get in a mess directly to the scandal and amusement of all worthy folk. One here and there, to be sure, will be sorry for them, but for the most part they'll all laugh. No one can help laughing either; they'll invite guests, and not know how they should sit, and what's more, as likely as not, they leave out some one of their relations. It's simply comical. But the old order's passing away. There are some houses one doesn't care to go into. If you do cross the threshold, all you can do is to spit, and get away as quick as may be. What will happen when the old people are dead, how the world will go on, I really can't think. I'm thankful anyway, that I shall see nothing of it. [_Enter Katerina and Varvara._ SCENE VII MME. KABANOVA, KATERINA, and VARVARA. You make a boast of loving your husband so much; I see now how much your love's worth. Any other good wife, on seeing her husband off, would wail for a good hour and a half, lying on the steps; but one can see you're not much upset. KATERINA. There's no reason to be! Besides, I don't know how to wail. Why make the people laugh! MME. KABANOVA. No great art is needed. If you loved him you would have learnt to do it. If you can't wail properly, you should wail a little, if only for example. It is always more decorous; or else one sees it is all words with you. Well, I'm going to pray to God; do not interrupt me. VARVARA. I'm going out. MME. KABANOVA (_caressingly_). I've nothing against it! Go and enjoy yourself till your time comes. You'll have sitting indoors enough later on! [_Exeunt Mme. Kabanova and Varvara._ SCENE VIII KATERINA (_alone, dreamily_). Well, now, peace reigns in our house! Ah, the dreariness. If only there were children! That's the saddest thing! I have no children; I should sit with them and amuse them all day. I love talking to little children--they are angels, really. (_Silence._) If I had died when I was little, it would have been better. I should have looked down on to the earth from Heaven and been delighted with everything. I should have flown unseen wherever I liked. I would have floated into the country and fluttered from flower to flower, like a butterfly. (_Sinks into a reverie_) I know what I will do; I will begin some piece of work, as an offering to God. I will go to the bazaar, and buy some stuff and make some clothes to give to the poor. They will remember me in their prayers. And so I'll sit sewing with Varvara, and we shall not notice how the time passes; and soon Tisha will be back. [_Enter Varvara_. SCENE IX KATERINA and VARVARA. VARVARA (_putting a kerchief on her head before the looking-glass_). I am just going out for a walk now; Glasha's putting our beds in the summer house now, mamma's consented to let us sleep there. Mamma always keeps the little gate in the garden behind the raspberries locked up and hides the key. I've taken it and put another one in its place for her, so she won't notice it. Here, see, maybe, it will be wanted (_gives the key_). If I see him, I shall tell him to come to the little gate. KATERINA (_with horror, pushing away the key_). What for! what for! No! no! VARVARA. If you don't want it, I do; take it, it won't bite you! KATERINA. But what are you plotting, wicked girl? It's impossible! Do you know what you're doing? It's dreadful, dreadful! VARVARA. Well, well--Least said is soonest mended; and I've no time to stay either. It's time for my walk. [_Goes._ SCENE X KATERINA (_alone, holding the key in her hand_). The things she thinks of doing! Ah, she's a mad girl, really mad! Here is ruin! Here it is! Fling it away, fling it far away, drop it into the river, that it may never be found. It burns the hand like fire. (_Musing_) This is how we women come to ruin. How can anyone be happy in bondage? One may be driven to anything. Many a one is glad if she gets the chance; she flings herself headlong. But how can they, without thinking, without reflecting! Easy is the path that leads to misfortune! And then tears and anguish all your life: your bondage is bitterer than ever. (_Silence_) But bitter is a life of bondage, ah, how bitter! Who does not weep in it! Most of all, we women. Here am I now! I am fretting away my life, and I see no loophole of light and hope before me! And I never shall see it, that's certain! It'll be worse as it goes on. And now this wickedness too has come upon me. (_Muses_) If it were not for my mother-in-law! ... She is crushing me.... She has made the house hateful to me.... I loathe the very walls because of her. (_Looks dreamily at the key_) Throw it away? Of course, I must throw it away. And how came it into my hands? For my temptation, for my undoing. (_Listens_) Ah, someone is coming. How my heart is beating! (_hides the key in her pocket_) No! ... No one! ... Why was I so frightened? And I have put away the key.... Well, that's a sign it is to be! Fate itself, it seems, wills it! And where is the sin if I do look at him just once, from a distance. Even if I speak to him, still there's no harm in that! But what I said to Tihon ... why, he would not have it himself. And maybe, such a chance will not come again all my life long. Then I may well weep to myself--that there was a chance and I had not sense to seize it. But why talk, why cheat myself? If I die for it, I must see him. Whom am I trying to deceive.... Throw away the key! No, for nothing in the whole world! It is mine now.... Come what may, I will see Boris! Ah, night! come quickly! ACT III SCENE I The Street. The gates of the Kabanovs' house, a garden seat before the gates. MME. KABANOVA and FEKLUSHA (_sitting on the bench_). FEKLUSHA. The end of the world is at hand, ma'am, by every sign and token, Marfa Ignatievna, the end of the world is at hand. It's peace and paradise still here in your town, but in other towns it's simply Sodom, ma'am: the noise, the bustle, the incessant traffic! The people keep running, one one way, and one another. MME. KABANOVA. We've no need to hurry, my dear, we live without haste. FEKLUSHA. No, ma'am; there is peace and quietness in this town, because there are many people, you for instance, adorned with virtues, as with flowers; that's why everything is done decorously and tranquilly. Why, what is the meaning of all that haste and bustle, ma'am? It is vanity, to be sure! In Moscow now: the folk run to and fro; there's no knowing for why. It is all vanity. It is a people, full of vanity, ma'am, and so it runs to and fro. Each one fancies he's hurrying on business; he hastens, poor fellow, doesn't recognise people; it seems to him that someone is beckoning him; but when he gets to the place, sure enough it's empty, there's nothing there, it's only a dream. And he is downcast and disappointed. And another one fancies that he's overtaking someone he knows. Anyone looking on can see in a trice that there's no one; but it seems to him in his vanity and delusion that he's overtaking someone. Vanity, to be sure, is like a fog about them. Here among you on a fine evening like this, it's not often anyone even comes out to sit at his gate; but in Moscow now there's walking and playing, and a fearful racket going on in the street; a continual roar. And what's more, Marfa Ignatievna, ma'am, they've harnessed a fiery serpent to drive: all, look you, for the sake of more speed. MME. KABANOVA. I have heard tell of it, my dear. FEKLUSHA. But I, ma'am, have seen it with my own eyes; no doubt, others, in blindness and vanity, see nothing, so it seems a machine to them, but I saw it doing like this _(spreading out her fingers)_ with its paws. And a roar, too, that folks of righteous life hear for what it is. MME. KABANOVA. You can call it anything you like, call it a machine, if you will; the people is foolish and will believe anything. But as for me you might load me with gold, I wouldn't drive with such a thing. FEKLUSHA. The very idea, ma'am! The Lord preserve us from such a thing. And let me tell you too, Marfa Ignatievna, ma'am, a vision I had in Moscow. I went out early in the morning, it was just dawn, and on a high, very high house, on the roof, I saw someone standing, with a black face. You understand whom I mean. And he kept moving his hands, as though he were scattering something, but nothing fell. Then I divined that he was the enemy sowing tares, and the people in their blindness see it not, and gather them up. And that is why they run to and fro so, and the women among them are all so thin, and never get plump and comfortable, but always look as if they had lost something, or were looking for something, and that careworn they are, you feel sorry for them. MME. KABANOVA. Anything is possible, my dear, in our times, one can't be surprised at anything. FEKLUSHA. Hard times they are, Marfa Ignatievna, ma'am, very hard. Already the time has begun diminishing. MME. KABANOVA. How is that? diminishing, my dear? FEKLUSHA. We, of course--how should we observe it in our blindness and vanity? but wise people have observed that time has grown shorter with us. Once the summer and the winter dragged on endlessly, you got tired of looking for the end of them, but now, before one's time to look about one, they've flown. The days and the hours still seem the same, of course; but the time keeps growing shorter and shorter, for our sins. That's what the learned folk say about it. MME. KABANOVA. And worse than that will be, my dear. FEKLUSHA. I only trust we shan't live to see it. MME. KABANOVA. Maybe, we shall. [_Enter Dikoy._ SCENE II The Same and DIKOY. MME. KABANOVA. What brings you abroad so late, old friend? DIKOY. Why, who's to hinder me being out, I should like to know? MME. KABANOVA. Who wants to hinder you, indeed! DIKOY. Well, then what's the use of talking? Whose control am I under, hey? What next will you say? What the devil.... MME. KABANOVA. Now then, keep a little check on your tongue! You'd better look out for someone else to talk to! I won't let you off so easily as some do! Go your way wherever you're going. Come indoors, Feklusha. [_Gets up._ DIKOY. Wait a bit, old friend, wait a bit! Don't be angry. You're in no hurry to get home; your home's not many miles away. Here it is! MME. KABANOVA. If you've come on business, don't shout at me, but speak out plainly. DIKOY. I've no business, but I'm drunk, that's what it is! MME. KABANOVA. Well, would you have me praise you for that, hey? DIKOY. Needn't praise or blame. Only I'm drunk, and that's all about it. I can't get over it till I've slept it off. MME. KABANOVA. Well, go and have a sleep then. DIKOY. Where am I to go? MME. KABANOVA. Home, of course, where else? DIKOY. But if I don't want to go home. MME. KABANOVA. Why not, allow me to ask you? DIKOY. Because I've a row going on there. MME. KABANOVA. Why, who is there to quarrel with? You're the only quarrelsome one there, you know. DIKOY. Well, what if I am quarrelsome, hey? What of it, hey? MME. KABANOVA. Oh, nothing. Only there's no great glory in doing battle all your life with women, that's all. DIKOY. Well, I suppose they ought to obey me! Or am I to obey them, hey? MME. KABANOVA. I really wonder at you; with all the crowd of folks in your house, not a single one can do anything to your liking. DIKOY. That's so! MME. KABANOVA. Come, what do you want of me? DIKOY. Well, talk me out of my temper. You're the only person in the whole town who knows how to talk to me. MME. KABANOVA. Go in, Feklusha, and order a little something to be served. _(Feklusha goes.)_ Let's go indoors. DIKOY. No, I'm not going indoors, I'm worse indoors! MME. KABANOVA. How have they put you into such a rage? DIKOY. I've been so all day since the morning. MME. KABANOVA. I suppose they've been asking for money. DIKOY. As if they were in league together, damn them. One after another the whole day long they've been at me. MME. KABANOVA. No doubt you'll have to give it them, or they wouldn't persist. DIKOY. I know that; but what would you have me do, since I've a temper like that? Why, I know that I must pay, still I can't do it with a good will. You're a friend of mine, and I've to pay you something, and you come and ask me for it, I'm bound to swear at you! Pay I will, if pay I must, but I must swear too. For you've only to hint at money to me, and I feel hot all over in a minute; red-hot all over, and that's all about it. And to be sure at such times, I'd swear at anyone for nothing at all. MME. KABANOVA. You've no one over you, and so you think you can do as you like. DIKOY. No, you hold your tongue! Listen to me! I'll tell you the sort of troubles that happen to me. I had fasted and all ready for sacrament in Lent, and then the evil one thrusts a wretched peasant under my nose. He had come for money,--for wood he had supplied us. And for my sins he must needs show himself at a time like that! I fell into sin, of course, I pitched into him, pitched into him finely, I did, all but thrashed him. There you have it, my temper! Afterwards I asked his pardon, bowed down at his feet, upon my word I did. It's the truth I'm telling you, I bowed down at a peasant's feet. That's what my temper brings me to: on the spot there, in the mud I bowed down at his feet; before everyone, I did. MME. KABANOVA. But what do you work yourself up into a rage on purpose for? That's not right, my friend! DIKOY. On purpose? How d'you mean? MME. KABANOVA. I've seen you, I know all about it. When you see that people are going to ask you for anything, you go and pick a quarrel purposely with one of your household, so as to work yourself into a rage. For you know that when you're in a rage, no one dare come near you. That's a pretty thing! DIKOY. Well, what of it? Who likes parting with his property? [_Glasha comes in._ GLASHA. Marfa Ignatievna, lunch is served! MME. KABANOVA. Well, old friend, come in! Have a taste of what God has sent us! DIKOY. Much obliged. MME. KABANOVA. Pray walk in. _(Ushers Dikoy in front and follows him in. Glasha, folding her arms, stands at the gates.)_ GLASHA. If that isn't Boris Grigoritch coming. Sure now he's not after his uncle? Or may be, just out for a stroll--to be sure, out for a stroll, he must be. [_Enter Boris._ SCENE III GLASHA, BORIS, later KULIGIN. BORIS. Isn't my uncle inside? GLASHA. Yes. Do you want him? BORIS. They sent me from home to find out where he was. But since he's with you let him stop there; no one wants him. At home they're pleased and happy that he's out. GLASHA. Our good lady out to marry him, she'd soon make him mind what he's about. But I mustn't stop here gossiping with you! Good-bye. [_Exit._ BORIS. Ah, merciful Heavens! For one glimpse of her! I can't go into the house. No one calls anywhere uninvited in this place. What a life! We are living in the same town, almost next door; yet we barely see each other once a week, and then only in church, or in the street,--and that's all! When a woman's married here she might as well be buried,--it's all the same. _(Silence.)_ If only I had never seen her; it would have been better for me! I can only see her by snatches, and before people,--who are all eyes, staring at one. It's simply heartrending. And yet there's no mastering oneself. If I go out for a walk, I always find myself here at the gate. And what use is there in coming here? There's never any chance of seeing her, and what's more, it may give rise to gossip and do her harm. Well, it's a fine town, certainly! [_He is going, Kuligin comes, meeting him._ KULIGIN. Well, sir? out for a walk? BORIS. Yes, it's very pleasant out now. KULIGIN. Very pleasant it is, sir, walking now. The stillness, the sweet air, the scent of flowers from the far side of the Volga, the clear sky-- The space aloft, filled full of stars, Stars numberless, space limitless. Shall we go to the parade, there's not a soul there. BORIS. Yes, come along. KULIGIN That's our town all over, sir! Here they've made a parade, but they don't walk there. They only walk out on fête days, and then they only make a show of being out for a walk. They really come out to show off their best clothes. You never meet anyone but maybe a drunken attorney's clerk reeling home from the tavern. The poor have no time, sir, to walk out; they must work and worry day and night. Three hours' sleep is all they get out of the twenty-four. But what are the rich about? You'd wonder why they shouldn't walk about and enjoy the fresh air. But not a bit of it! They've all had their gates, sir, locked up long ago, and their dogs let loose. ... Do you suppose they are at work at their business, or praying to God? No, sir! And it's not for fear of thieves they lock themselves up; it's that folks shouldn't see the way they ill-treat their household, and bully their families. And the tears that flow behind those bolts, unseen, unheard of! But there's no need to tell you that, sir! You can judge of it for yourself. And the sordid sodden vice within those barred gates, sir! And all hidden and buried--no one sees or knows anything of it, God alone beholds it! Stare at me as you like, say they, in the street and among folk, but you've nothing to do with my family; that's what I have locks for, and bolts and bars and savage dogs. The family's something apart, secret! We know all about such secrets!--secrets, sir, that make one man merry, perhaps, while the rest are weeping and wailing. Much secrecy about it! Everyone knows! Robbing their orphans, kinsfolk, nephews, beating their dependents till they're too cowed to hint at what goes on within doors,--there's no great secret in that! But that's enough of them! Do you know, sir, who do go for walks here? The young fellows and girls. They steal an hour or two from sleep and walk out in couples. There's a couple over there! [_Kudriash and Varvara are seen. They kiss._ BORIS. They are kissing. KULIGIN. We don't think much of that. [_Kudriash goes off, and Varvara goes towards her own gate and beckons Boris, he goes up to her._ SCENE IV BORIS, KULIGIN and VARVARA. KULIGIN. I'll go to the parade, sir. I'm in your way. I'll wait for you there. BORIS. Very well, I'll come directly. VARVARA (_hiding her face in her kerchief_). Do you know the hollow behind the Kabanovs' garden? BORIS. Yes. VARVARA. You come there a little later on. BORIS. What for? VARVARA. How stupid you are! Come; then you'll see what for. Well, you'd better make haste now, since that person's waiting for you. (_Boris goes_.) There, he didn't know me! Well, now let him wonder, I know very well that Katerina won't hold out, she'll run out to see him. [_Goes in at the gate. Curtain_. SCENE V The scene changes. A hollow dell covered with bushes; at the top of it the Kabanovs' garden and a gate; a path leading down from it. (_Kudriash enters with a, guitar_.) KUDRIASH. No one. What is she up to? Well, I'll sit and wait for her. (_Seats himself on a stone_) This is slow; I'll sing a song (_sings_). As the Don Cossack, the Cossack, leads his horse to drink, The brave young man, he stands at the gate, At the gate he stands, and ponders in his heart, In his heart he ponders, how he will slay his wife. And the wife, the wife besought him, Falling down at his swift feet; Master, friend of my heart, I pray thee, Strike me not, slay me not in the evening! But kill me, slay me after midnight! Let my little children be asleep, My little children, and all my good neighbours. [_Enter Boris_. SCENE VI KUDRIASH and BORIS. KUDRIASH (_stops singing_). Hullo! Such a sober, staid person as you, out on the spree too? BORIS. Kudriash, is that you? KUDRIASH. It is, Boris Grigoritch. BORIS. What are you here for? KUDRIASH. What for? I suppose because I want to be here, Boris Grigoritch, since I am here. I shouldn't have come if I hadn't wanted to. Where is fortune taking you? BORIS (_looking carefully at the scene around him_). Look here, Kudriash, I've got to stop here, and I've no doubt it's all the same to you, so you might go and sit in some other place. KUDRIASH. No, Boris Grigoritch, you're here, I perceive, for the first time, but this is a place where I have often sat, and this little path has been trodden by my feet. I like you, sir, and am ready to do you any service; but you'll kindly refrain from meeting me in this path at night, lest evil come of it. Fair words are better than gold. BORIS. What is the matter with you, Vania? KUDRIASH. Vania, indeed! I know my name's Vania. But you go on your way, that's all about it. Find a girl to your liking, and walk out with her to your heart's content, and no one will say a word to you. But don't meddle with other fellows' girls! That's not the way we do things here, or the fellows will break your legs for you. For my girl ... Well, I don't know what I wouldn't do! I'd cut your throat! BORIS. You're angry for no reason; I've not the slightest idea of robbing you of her. I shouldn't have come here if I hadn't been told to. KUDRIASH. Who told you to? BORIS. I couldn't make out, it was dark. A girl stopped me in the street and said I was to come just here, behind the Kabanovs' garden, where there is a little path. KUDRIASH. Who could that be? BORIS. Listen, Kudriash. Could I speak to you openly, you wouldn't gossip? KUDRIASH. You needn't be afraid of that! I'm as safe as the grave. BORIS. I know nothing of your habits and ways of doing things here; but the fact is ... KUDRIASH. You're in love. BORIS. Yes, Kudriash. KUDRIASH. Oh, well, that's all right. We're free enough in that way. The girls amuse themselves as they like, and the father and mother have nothing to say to it. It's only the wives are kept shut up. BORIS. That's just what's so sad. KUDRIASH. You don't mean to say you're in love with a married woman? BORIS. She is married, Kudriash. KUDRIASH. Ah, Boris Grigoritch, you must drop that! BORIS. It's easy to say drop it! I daresay it's all the same to you, you'll throw up one and pick up another easily enough! But I can't do like that! If once I love ... KUDRIASH. That's as much as to say you're ready to ruin the poor thing completely, Boris Grigoritch! BORIS. God forbid! God forbid! No, Kudriash, how can you! I ready to ruin her! I only want to see her, to speak to her, I ask for nothing more. KUDRIASH. You can't answer for yourself like that, sir! And just think what sort of people you have to deal with here. You know them yourself. They'd be the death of her, they'd torment her into the grave. BORIS. Ah, don't say that, Kudriash, please don't frighten me! KUDRIASH. But does she care for you? BORIS. I don't know. KUDRIASH. Have you ever met then? BORIS. I have only once been in their house with my uncle. And I see her in church, and pass her sometimes on the parade. Ah, Kudriash, how she prays, if you could see her! the angelic smile on her face! her face seems to shed light. KUDRIASH. Oh, then it's the young wife of Kabanov. BORIS. Yes, Kudriash. KUDRIASH. Oh, so that's it! Well, I humbly congratulate you! BORIS. What for? KUDRIASH. Well, things look promising for you, since she's sent you word to come here. BORIS. Can it be she sent word? KUDRIASH. Why, who else could it be? BORIS. No, you're making fun of me! It can't be so. (_Clutches his head_.) KUDRIASH. What's the matter? BORIS. I shall go mad with joy. KUDRIASH. What next! I can't see anything to go mad about! You look out that you don't make a mess of things and get her into trouble! Her husband's a fool, we all know, but her mother-in-law is terrible. [_Varvara comes out of the gate._ SCENE VII The Same and VARVARA, afterwards KATERINA. VARVARA (_at the gate, sings_). "Beyond the river, the swift river, My Vania's walking, dear Vania's walking" ... KUDRIASH (_going on with the song_). "Going to the fair." (_Whistles._) VARVARA (_comes down the path and, hiding her face in her kerchief, goes up to Boris_). You wait a bit, lad. You've something to wait for. (_To Kudriash_) Let's go to the Volga. KUDRIASH. Why have you been so long? Kept me waiting again! You know I don't like it! (_Varvara puts one arm round him and they walk away._) BORIS. It's like a dream! This night, and singing and trysts! They're walking, their arms round each other. It is so new for me, so sweet! Here I am waiting for something. And what I am waiting for--I know not and cannot picture to myself; only my heart is throbbing and every nerve is quivering. I cannot think even what to say to her, I can hardly breathe, my knees are shaking! My stupid heart is in my mouth, I can't quiet it. Here she comes. (_Katerina slowly comes down the path, wrapt in a large white kerchief, her eyes fixed on the ground. Silence._) Is it you? Katerina Petrovna? (_Silence._) How can I ever thank you,--I don't know. (_Silence._) If you only knew, Katerina Petrovna, how I love you! [_Tries to take her hand._ KATERINA (_with terror, but not raising her eyes_). Do not touch me, do not touch me! Alas, alas! BORIS. Do not be angry! KATERINA. Go away from me, go away, unhappy man! Do you know that never by any prayer can I be free of this sin, never again! Like a stone it will lie on my soul, like a stone. BORIS. Do not send me away! KATERINA. Why did you come? Why did you come for my undoing? I am a wife, you know, I must live with my husband, till I lie in the grave.... BORIS. You told me yourself to come ... KATERINA. Till the grave; do you understand? BORIS. Better if I had never seen you. KATERINA (_with great emotion_). You see what I am preparing for myself? What is the only place left for me? BORIS. Calm yourself. (_Takes her hand_) Sit down! KATERINA. Why do you wish for my ruin? BORIS. How can I wish to injure you, when I love you more than anything in the world, more than myself? KATERINA. No, no! You have been the undoing of me. BORIS. Am I such a wicked wretch? KATERINA (_shaking her head_). I am lost, lost, lost! BORIS. God forbid! I'd rather perish myself! KATERINA. Have I not forsaken my home, and come out to you in the night? BORIS. You came of your own free will. KATERINA. I have no will. If I had had any will left of my own, I would not have come to you. (_Lifts her eyes and looks at Boris. A short silence_.) Your will is upon me now, don't you see that? [_Sinks on his neck_. BORIS (_puts his arms about Katerina_). My life! KATERINA. Ah, if death would come quickly now! BORIS. Why die when life is so sweet for us? KATERINA. No, life is not for me! I know it is not for me! BORIS. Don't say such things, please, don't torture me. KATERINA. Yes, you are happy, you are free as the air, but I! ... BORIS. No one shall know of our love. Do you think I have no feeling for you? KATERINA. Ah! Why feel for me, it's no one's fault. I have come to this of myself. Don't think of me! Anyone may know, anyone may see what I do! (_Takes Boris in her arms_.) Since I have not feared to do wrong for you, am I likely to fear the judgment of men? They do say, it will be better for one, if one has to suffer here on earth for any sin. BORIS. Come, why think of that, when we are happy now! KATERINA. Why, truly! I shall have long years to weep enough hereafter. BORIS. And I was so frightened, I thought you would send me away. KATERINA (_smiling_). Send you away! How could I? Not with my heart. If you had not come, think I should have gone to you myself. BORIS. I never even guessed you loved me. KATERINA. I have loved you for so long. It's as though, for my sins, you came here to torment me. Directly I saw you I ceased to belong to myself. From the first moment, I believe, if you had beckoned to me, I would have followed you; to the ends of the earth I would have followed you, and never looked back. BORIS. Has your husband gone away for long? KATERINA. For a fortnight. BORIS. O, then we will be happy! that is a long time. KATERINA. We will be happy. And then ... (_sinks into dreamy musing_). If they lock me up, that will be my death! And if they don't lock me up, I will find some way to see you again! [_Enter Kudriash and Varvara_. SCENE VIII The Same, with KUDRIASH and VARVARA. VARVARA. Well, have you made friends? (_Katerina hides her face on Boris's breast_). BORIS. Yes. VARVARA. You might go and walk about a bit and let us rest. When it's time to go in, Vania will shout. (_Boris and Katerina go away, Kudriash and Varvara sit down on the stone_.) KUDRIASH. This is a first-rate plan, getting out at the garden gate. It's fine and convenient for us. VARVARA. It's all my doing. KUDRIASH. There's no one like you for such things. But what if your mother catches you? VARVARA. Oh! How could she? It would never enter her head! KUDRIASH. But if by ill luck, it were to? VARVARA. Her first sleep is sound; in the early morning now, there is more chance of her being awake. KUDRIASH. But there's never any knowing! Some evil spirit might rouse her up. VARVARA. Well, even then! Our gate into the yard is locked on the inside, the garden side; she would knock and knock and then go away. And in the morning we'd declare we'd been sound asleep and heard nothing. Besides, Glasha's on the lookout; the faintest sound, she'd let us know in a minute. One can't do anything without some risk! No, indeed! the only thing is to mind what one's about and not get into a scrape. (_Kudriash strikes a few cords on the guitar. Varvara leans on the shoulder of Kudriash who plays softly, paying no attention to her. Varvara yawning_) How could we find out what time it is? KUDRIASH. It's one o'clock. VARVARA. How do you know? KUDRIASH. A watchman struck one blow on his board just now. VARVARA (_yawning_). It's late. Shout to them! We'll get out earlier tomorrow, so as to have longer. KUDRIASH (_gives a whistle and then sings loudly_) They're all going home! They're all going home! But I won't go home! BORIS (_behind the scenes_). I hear! VARVARA (_gets up_). Well, good-bye! (_yawns, then gives a cool kiss to Kudriash, as if he were an old and very intimate friend_). To-morrow mind you come earlier! (_Looks in the direction in which Boris and Katerina went away_) You've said good-bye enough, you're not parting for ever, you'll see each other to-morrow (_yawns and stretches, Katerina hurries in, followed by Boris_). SCENE IX KUDRIASH, VARVARA, BORIS and KATERINA. KATERINA. Come, let us go now, let us go! (_They go up the path, Katerina turns round_). Good-bye! BORIS. Till to-morrow. KATERINA. Yes, to-morrow! Tell me what you dream to-night! [_The girls reach the gate_. BORIS. Yes, yes. KUDRIASH (_sings and plays guitar_) Come out, lassie, while you may Till the glow of setting day! Ai-lalee, while you may, Till the glow of setting day! VARVARA (_at the gate_). Aye, my laddie, while I may, Till the glow of break of day! Ai-lalee, while I may, Till the glow of break of day! KUDRIASH. When the sun has risen fair And I may not linger mair. [_Exit singing._ ACT IV SCENE I In the foreground a narrow arcade running round an old building which has begun to fall into decay; bushes and grass about it; in the background the banks of the Volga and view beyond it. (_Several Persons of both Sexes approach the Arcade._) FIRST. It's spotting with rain, seems as though it might be a storm coming on. SECOND. Look, it's gathering yonder. FIRST. A good thing we've somewhere to take shelter. [_They all go under the arches._ A WOMAN. What a lot of folks out on the parade, too! To-day being a holiday, everyone's out walking. The merchants' ladies all pranked out in their best. FIRST. They'll stand up somewhere out of the rain. SECOND. Look, at the people hurrying this way now! FIRST (_staring round at the walls_). I say, old fellow, it must have been covered with paintings once, do you know. One can make them out even now, here and there. SECOND. To be sure! Of course the walls were covered with paintings. Now it's all been let go to rack and ruin, and the old place is falling to pieces. There's been nothing done to it since the fire. But to be sure you don't remember that fire, it will be forty years ago. FIRST. Whatever's this picture here, old fellow? It's not easy to make out what it's about. SECOND. That's a picture of the torments of hell. FIRST. Oh! so that's what it is! SECOND. And there's folks of all sorts and conditions going down into the fire, see? FIRST. To be sure, yes, I understand it now. SECOND. Of every sort and rank. FIRST. And niggers too? SECOND. Yes, niggers too. FIRST. And I say, old fellow, what's this? SECOND. That's the Lithuanian invasion. A battle, d'ye see? Our men fighting with the men of Lithuania. FIRST. Who were these Lithuanians? SECOND. Can't say. Lithuanians, to be sure. FIRST. But they do say, you know, they fell down on us from heaven. SECOND. I can't tell about that, I daresay they did. A WOMAN. What ignorance! Why, everyone knows the Lithuanians fell from heaven. Well to be sure! and it was in memory of the battle with them that these mounds were made. FIRST. There, old fellow! That's so, you see! [_Enter Dikoy and Kuligin, his head bare. All the bystanders bow and assume a respectful air on seeing Dikoy._ SCENE II The Same, DIKOY and KULIGIN. DIKOY. Ugh, I'm wet through. (_To Kuligin_) Get away from me! Let me alone! (_Angrily_) Fool of a man! KULIGIN. Saviol Prokofitch, it would be conferring a benefit, your worship, on all the residents in the town. DIKOY. Go along! A mighty benefit! Who wants such a benefit? KULIGIN. And on you, indeed, your worship, Saviol Prokofitch. To be set up, for instance, on the parade in the open space. And as for expense,--the expense would be trifling: a stone column (_indicates the size of each thing by gestures_), a copper disc, round like this, and a pivot, an upright pivot (_shows, gesticulating_) of the simplest description. I will put it all up and carve the figures on the face myself too. And, your worship, when you are pleased to take a walk, or any other people are out walking, you will go up to it, and see at once what o'clock it is. As it is, it's a fine position and a fine view and all, but, as it were, it wants something. And we have visitors too, your worship, who come here to see our views, and it will always be an ornament,--a pleasant object for the eye to rest on. DIKOY. But why on earth do you come pestering me with every sort of idiocy? It's possible, don't you see, that I don't want to talk to you. You ought first to ascertain whether I am disposed to listen to you or not, you dolt. What am I to you? ... am I your equal, eh? Damn the fellow! A mighty clever idea he's hit upon! And then up he must come and straightway start holding forth upon it. KULIGIN. If I were about my own business, I should be to blame certainly. But I am speaking in the public interest, your worship. And it's no great matter spending about a pound on a public object! More than that would not be needed, sir. DIKOY. I daresay you'd like to pocket the money; who knows anything of you? KULIGIN. Seeing that I want to give my services for nothing, your worship, how could I pocket anything? And everyone knows me here; no one can say any harm of me. DIKOY. They may know you, for all I care, but I don't want to know you. KULIGIN. Why insult an honest man, sir? DIKOY. Am I to account to you for what I say or do? Let me tell you I allow no one to criticise my actions--no, not folks of far more consequence than you. I shall think of you as I choose to think of you. Others may say you're an honest man, but I look upon you as a brigand, and that's all about it. You seem anxious to hear my opinion, so here it is! I say you're a brigand, and nothing else! Do you want to have the law of me, hey? Very well then, let me tell you you're a worm. If I choose, I spare you; if I choose, I can trample you under foot! KULIGIN. So be it, Saviol Prokofitch! I am only a poor man, sir, it costs little to be rude to me. But let me remind you, your honour, virtue is honourable even in rags! DIKOY. None of your insolence now! Mind that! KULIGIN. I am not being insolent to you in any way, sir, and I merely addressed you because I thought you might have a mind to do something for the town sometime. You have a great deal of power, your worship, if only you had the wish to do some good. Now, for instance, we've storms so often, and yet we don't put up lightning conductors. DIKOY (_haughtily_). It's all vanity! KULIGIN. How can it be vanity when experiments have been made. DIKOY. What sort of lightning conductors are you talking about? KULIGIN. Steel ones. DIKOY (_wrathfully_). Well, and what then? KULIGIN. Steel rods. DIKOY (_getting more and more furious_). I hear they're steel rods, you viper, but what of it? Granted they're steel rods! Well, what of it? KULIGIN. Nothing. DIKOY. And what is the cause of a storm to your notions, hey? Come, speak up! KULIGIN. Electricity. DIKOY (_stamping_). 'Lectricity he says! Ah, a brigand you are and no mistake! a storm is sent as a chastisement to make us feel our sins, and you want with rods and tackle of one sort and another, God forgive you, to ward it off! What, are you a Tartar or what? Are you a Tartar? Speak up! A Tartar, hey? KULIGIN. Saviol Prokofitch, your honour, Derzhavin said: In body, I languish in the dust, In mind, I command the tempest. DIKOY. For such words you ought to be led off to the police captain, he'd give it to you! Just listen, worthy citizens, what the fellow is saying! KULIGIN. There's no help for it, I must submit! But when I have made my fortune, then you'll see how I'll talk! [_With a wave of his hand goes out._ DIKOY. What! are you going to steal a fortune? Stop him! The false scoundrel! How ever is one to treat such people! I don't know. (_Turning to the crowd_) And you, damned rascals, you're enough to make anyone swear! Here I'd no wish to lose my temper, and he must needs go and put me out, as if it were on purpose. Curse the fellow! (_angrily_) Has the rain given over, eh? FIRST. I fancy it has. DIKOY. You fancy! go and see, you fool. Tell me, you fancy, indeed! FIRST (_going outside the arches_). It has left off! [_Dikoy goes out and all follow him. The scene is empty for a little while. Varvara runs quickly in under the arcade and, hiding herself, peeps out._ SCENE III VARVARA and later BORIS. VARVARA. I believe it's he! (_Boris advances from the background of the scene_.) Sss-sss! (_Boris looks round_.) Come here. (_She beckons, Boris goes up to her_.) What are we to do with Katerina? For mercy's sake tell me! BORIS. Why, what is it? VARVARA. It's terrible, that's all. Her husband has come back, do you know that? We didn't expect him, but he's here. BORIS. No, I didn't know it. VARVARA. She's simply beside herself. BORIS. It seems as if I had only lived for these ten short days that he has been away. And now not to see her! VARVARA. Oh, I've no patience with you! I've something to tell you! She's shaking all over, as if she were in a fever. She's so pale, she wanders about the house, as though she were looking for something. Her eyes are wild, she's like a mad thing! She began crying long ago in the morning, she simply sobs. Merciful Heavens, what am I to do with her? BORIS. But perhaps this will pass off. VARVARA. I doubt it. She daren't raise her eyes to her husband. Mamma's begun to notice it, and she follows her about and keeps a suspicious eye upon her. She looks daggers at her; and that makes her worse than ever. It makes one wretched to see her. And I'm afraid too. BORIS. What are you afraid of? VARVARA. You don't know her. She's a strange creature. One never knows what to expect from her! She will do things ... BORIS. My God! What's to be done? You must talk to her thoroughly. Can't you manage to soothe her? VARVARA. I've tried. She doesn't even hear. Better leave her alone. BORIS. Well, what do you suppose she may do? VARVARA. Why, simply this: fling herself down at her husband's feet, and tell him everything. That's what I'm afraid of. BORIS (_with horror_). Could she possibly! VARVARA. She may do anything. BORIS. Where is she now? VARVARA. At this moment she's out on the parade with her husband, and my mother's with them too. You go and meet them, if you like. But no, you'd better not go, or she'll very likely lose her head completely. (_A peal of thunder in the distance_) Isn't that thunder? _(Looks out)_ Yes, it's raining too. And here are people coming this way. Get somewhere out of sight, and I'll stand here where I can be seen, so that they won't notice anything. _(Enter several persons of both sexes and different classes.)_ SCENE IV VARVARA and various persons, and later, MME. KABANOVA, KABANOV, KATERINA and KULIGIN. FIRST. The good lady seems awfully frightened by the way she's hurrying for shelter. A WOMAN. No use seeking shelter! If it's written in the book of fate, there's no escaping! KATERINA _(running in)._ Ah, Varvara! _(Seizes her hand and holds it tight.)_ VARVARA. Come, be quiet! KATERINA. It will be my death! VARVARA. Come, come! Pull yourself together! KATERINA. No! I can't. I can do nothing. My heart aches so. MME. KABANOVA _(entering)._ Let me tell you, one should live so as to be always ready for anything. You would not be in such terror then. KABANOV. But what sins in special has she to frighten her, mamma? Her sins are no more than all of us have to repent; being afraid of storms is a matter of temperament. MME. KABANOVA. How do you know, pray? The heart of another is darkness. KABANOV _(jestingly)._ Oh well, maybe, something very wicked while I was away; certainly when I've been here she never did anything bad. MME. KABANOVA. Maybe, when you were away, then. KABANOV _(jesting)._ Katia, my girl, you'd better repent, if you've been sinful in any way. You can't have secrets from me, you know; no, you naughty girl, I know all about it. KATERINA _(looks him straight in the face)._ Dear Tihon! VARVARA. Come, why do you keep teazing her? Can't you see she's not well? [_Boris steps out of the crowd and bows to the Kabanovs._ KATERINA (_shrieks_). Ah! KABANOV. What are you frightened of? Did you think it was a stranger? This is a friend! Is your uncle quite well? BORIS. Quite, thank you. KATERINA (_to Varvara_). What more does he want of me? ... Isn't it enough that I am in torture like this. [_Leans against Varvara, sobs._ VARVARA (_aloud, so that her mother should hear_). We're simply tired out, and don't know what to do with her; and now outsiders must come up too! [_Gives Boris a sign and he walks away to the entrance of the arcade._ KULIGIN (coming into the middle of the scene and addressing the crowd). Why, what are you afraid of, I should like to know! every blade of grass, every flower is rejoicing now, while we try to get away and are as frightened as if it were a disaster! The storm kill us indeed! It's not a storm to be dreaded, it's a blessing! Yes, a blessing! Everything's dreadful to you. If the Northern Lights shine in the heavens--you ought to admire and marvel at "the dawn breaking in the land of midnight!" But you are in terror, and imagine it means war or flood. If a comet comes--I can't take my eyes from it! a thing so beautiful! the stars we have looked upon to our hearts' content, they are always with us, but that is something new; well, one must gaze and admire! But you're afraid even to look at the sky, and all in a tremble! You make a bogey out of everything. Ah, what a people! I'm not afraid, you see. Come, sir, let's go on! BORIS. Yes, let us go! it's more terrible here! [_Goes._ SCENE V The Same, without BORIS and KULIGIN. MME. KABANOVA. Well, that's a pretty sermon he gave us! Something worth hearing, and no mistake! What have the times come to, when such as he turn teacher! If an old man talks so, what can we expect from the young ones! A WOMAN. The whole sky's overcast. It's covered up all over, as it were, with a cap. FIRST. Eh, mate, see how the storm cloud is rolling into a ball, as though there were something alive turning round in it. And see how it's creeping up towards us, creeping like a live thing! SECOND. Mark my words, that storm's not coming up for nothing. It's the truth I tell you; I know. It'll strike someone dead, or set fire to a house; you'll see, look what an extraordinary colour! KATERINA _(listening)._ What are they saying? They say someone will be struck dead. KABANOV. You know what stuff they talk, any nonsense that comes into their heads. MME. KABANOVA. Don't you criticise your elders! They know better than you. Old people have forewarnings of all sorts. Old people don't talk at random. KATERINA _(to her husband)._ Dear Tihon, I know who will be struck dead. VARVARA _(to Katerina, softly)._ If only you would hold your tongue! KABANOV. How do you know? KATERINA. It will strike me. Pray for me, then. [_Enter Old Lady with footmen. Katerina with a shriek hides her face._ SCENE VI The Same and the OLD LADY. THE OLD LADY. Why hide your face? It's no use hiding! One can see you're afraid. You've no wish to die! She wants to live! To be sure she does!--look what a beauty! Ha, ha, ha! Beauty! Better pray to God to take away your beauty! It's beauty that is our ruin! Ruin to yourself, a snare to others, so rejoice in your beauty if you will! Many, many, you lead into sin! Giddy fellows fight duels over you, slash each other with swords for your sake. And you are glad! Old men, honourable men, forget that they must die, tempted by beauty! And who has to answer for all. Better go down into the abyss with your beauty! Yes, quick, quick. _(Katerina hides herself.)_ Where will you hide away, foolish one! There's no escaping God! _(A clap of thunder.)_ All of you will burn in fire unquenchable! [_Exit._ KATERINA. Ah, I am dying! VARVARA. Why do you torture yourself like this! Stand on one side and pray; you will feel better. KATERINA _(goes to the wall and drops on her knees, then jumps up quickly, seeing the picture on the wall)._ Ah! Hell! Hell! The fire unquenchable! _(Mme. Kabanova, Kabanov, and Varvara surround her.)_ My heart is torn! I can bear it no longer! Mother! Tihon! I have sinned against God and against you! Did I not swear to you I would not set eyes on anyone when you were away! You remember! you remember! And do you know what I have done in my sinfulness? The first night I went out of the house.... KABANOV _(in despair, in tears, pulls at her sleeve)._ You mustn't, you mustn't! don't! What are you saying? Mother is here! MME. KABANOVA _(severely)._ Come, come, speak, now you have begun. KATERINA. And every night the same.... _(Sobs, Kabanov tries to embrace her)._ MME. KABANOVA. Let her be! With whom? VARVARA. She's raving, she doesn't know what she is saying. MME. KABANOVA. You be quiet! So this is the meaning of it! Well, with whom? KATERINA. With Boris Grigoritch. _(A clap of thunder.)_ Ah! [_Falls unconscious in her husband's arms._ MME. KABANOVA. Well, son! You see what freedom leads to! I told you so, but you wouldn't heed me. See what you've brought on yourself! ACT V SCENE I Scene same as Act I. Twilight. KULIGIN (_sitting on a bench_). KABANOV (_walking along the parade_). KULIGIN (_sings_). "In dark of night are hid the skies In sleep now all have closed their eyes." (_seeing Kabanov_) Good-evening, sir, are you walking far? KABANOV. No, I am going home. You have heard talk, I expect, about us? The whole household's upside down. KULIGIN. I have heard so, sir, yes, I have heard so. KABANOV. I went away to Moscow, you know. Mamma sent me off with a sermon, oh, such a sermon, but as soon as I was well away, I went in for enjoying myself. I was glad to have escaped into freedom. And I was drinking all the journey, and in Moscow too I kept it up, and had a jolly time--as you may fancy! Of course I'd to get in fun enough to last me the whole year. I never once thought about home. Though, if I had thought of it, I never should have dreamed of what was going on here. You've heard about it? KULIGIN. Yes, sir. KABANOV. I'm a miserable man now! And so, for nothing, my life's spoiled, for nothing I have done. KULIGIN. Your mother is terribly hard. KABANOV. Yes, indeed, she's the cause of it all. And what am I suffering for, tell me that? Here I've just come from Dikoy's, and well, we drank a bit; I thought it would drown care; but it has only made me worse, Kuligin! Ah, the wrong my wife has done me! It couldn't be worse.... KULIGIN. It's a difficult business, sir. It's difficult to judge between you. KABANOV. No; nothing could be worse than what she's done! It wouldn't be much to kill her for it. There's mamma keeps saying: she ought to be buried alive to punish her! But I love her, I can't bear to lay a finger on her. I did give her a blow or two, but that was at mamma's bidding. It makes one wretched to see her, do you understand that, Kuligin. Mamma's just tormenting her to death, while she wanders about like a shadow, and makes no resistance. She only weeps, and she's wasting away like wax. It's simply breaking my heart to see her. KULIGIN. You must make it up somehow, sir! You ought to forgive her, and never refer to it again. You are not without sin yourself, I daresay! KABANOV. I should think not! KULIGIN. And you must never reproach her even when you're drunk! She would be a good wife to you yet, sir, better than any--believe me. KABANOV. But understand me, Kuligin; I'd never say a word, but mamma ... do you suppose one can get over her!... KULIGIN. It's time you were guided, sir, by your own good sense, sir. KABANOV. 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? KABANOV. 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? KABANOV. 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. KULIGIN. He's a good fellow, sir. KABANOV. He's packed up and ready, and the horses are ordered. He's so wretched, it's awful! I can see he wants to say good-bye to her. But that's too much! I can't have it. He's been an enemy to me, you know, Kuligin! He ought to be thrashed within an inch of his life to teach him ... KULIGIN. We must forgive our enemies, sir! KABANOV. You go and tell that to mamma, and see what she'll say to it. So, brother Kuligin, all our family is now split up and divided. We're not like relations but enemies to one another. Mamma kept nagging and nagging at Varvara; she couldn't stand it, and she soon made an end of it--she's simply gone away. KULIGIN. Where has she gone? KABANOV. No one knows. They do say she's run off with Vania Kudriash, and he can't be found anywhere either. It's all mamma's doing. I'll tell you frankly, Kuligin: she had started bullying her and locking her up. "Don't shut me up," she said, "or it will be the worse," and so it has turned out. What am I to do, tell me that! Tell me how I am to live now! My home is made loathsome to me, I'm put to shame before everyone, if I set about anything my hands drop listless and dejected. Here I'm on my way home now. Shall I find any happiness there, do you suppose? [_Enter Glasha._ GLASHA. Master, Tihon Ivanitch! KABANOV. What is it now? GLASHA. There's something wrong at home, sir! KABANOV. Mercy on us! It's one thing on top of another! Tell me, what is it? GLASHA. Why, your good lady.... KABANOV. Well, what? Is she dead? GLASHA. No, sir, she has disappeared; we can't find her anywhere. KABANOV. Kuligin! we must run and search for her. Do you know what I am afraid of? That she may be driven in her misery to lay hands on herself! She grieves and grieves,--ah, God! It rends my heart to see her. What were you thinking of? Has she been gone long? GLASHA. No, sir, not long! It's we're to blame, of course; we didn't keep an eye on her every minute. Though it's true, to be sure, the most watchful will be caught napping sooner or later. KABANOV. Well, don't stand there doing nothing; bestir yourself! _(Exit Glasha.)_ And let us go too, Kuligin! [_They go. The stage is empty for a little while. From the opposite side, Katerina enters and walks slowly about the stage._ SCENE II KATERINA alone. [_Throughout the whole monologue and in the following scenes she speaks slowly and disconnectedly, repeating words dreamily and, as it were, in a state of forgetfulness._ KATERINA. No, no, nowhere! What is he doing, my poor boy, now? All I want is to say good-bye to him, and then ... and then death. Why did I lead him into trouble. It's made it no better for me! I should have suffered alone! But I have ruined myself, ruined him, brought dishonour on myself,--everlasting disgrace on him--yes,--dishonour on myself, and on him everlasting disgrace. (_Silence_.) If I could remember what it was he said. How he felt for me? What were the words he said? (_Clutches at her head_) I can't remember, I have forgotten everything. The nights, oh, the nights are a weariness to me! All lie down to sleep, I too lie down; it is well with all of them, but I lie as in my grave. It is fearful in the darkness! There is a sound of singing as at some burial; but so soft, almost out of hearing, far away, far from me.... How one longs for the light! But I can't bear to get up--the same people again, the same talk, the same torture. Why do they look at me so? Why is it they don't kill one nowadays? Why don't they? In old days, they say, they used to kill women. If they would take me and throw me into the Volga, I would be glad. "If we kill you," they say, "your sin is taken from you; you must live, and suffer for your sin." But I have suffered for it already! Am I to suffer much longer? What have I to live for now, what for? I care for nothing, nothing is sweet to me, the light of day is not sweet to me! And still death does not come. One calls upon death and death comes not. Whatever I look upon, whatever I hear, it is nothing but aching here _(touching her heart)._ If I could be with him, there might perhaps be still some joy for me.... Nay, it's all the same, my soul is lost now. How sick I am with longing for him! If I cannot see thee, hear me at least from far away! Wild winds, bear my grief and longing to him! My God! I am weary, I am weary! _(goes to the river bank and cries loudly at the top of her voice)_ My sweet, my heart, my soul, I love you! Answer! [_Falls a-weeping. Enter Boris._ SCENE III KATERINA and BORIS. BORIS (_not seeing Katerina_). My God! It's her voice! Where is she? _(Looks round.)_ KATERINA _(runs to him and falls on his neck)._ At last I see you again! _(Weeps on his bosom. Silence.)_ BORIS. We are weeping together, God has brought us together. KATERINA. You have not forgotten me? BORIS. Me forget you? Don't! KATERINA. Oh no, oh no! You're not angry? BORIS. How could I be angry? KATERINA. Forgive me, anyway! I did not mean to harm you; but I was not free myself. I did not know what I was doing, what I was saying. BORIS. Oh don't! how can you! how can you! KATERINA. Well, how is it with you? how are you now? BORIS. I am going away. KATERINA. Where are you going? BORIS. Far away, Katia, to Siberia. KATERINA. Take me with you, away from here! BORIS. I cannot, Katia. I am not going of my own free will; my uncle is sending me, he has the horses waiting for me already; I only begged for a minute, I wanted to take a last farewell of the spot where we used to see each other. KATERINA. Go and God be with you! Don't grieve over me. At first your heart will be heavy perhaps, poor boy, and then you will begin to forget. BORIS. Why talk of me! I am free at least; how about you? what of your husband's mother? KATERINA. She tortures me, she locks me up. She tells everyone and tells my husband: "don't trust her, she's sly and deceitful." They all follow me about all day long and laugh at me before my face. At every word they reproach me with you. BORIS. And your husband? KATERINA. One minute he's kind, one minute he's angry, but he's drinking all the while. He is loathsome to me, loathsome; his kindness is worse than his blows. BORIS. You are wretched, Katia? KATERINA. So wretched, so wretched, that it were better to die! BORIS. Who could have dreamed that we should have to suffer such anguish for our love! I'd better have run away then! KATERINA. It was an evil day for me when I saw you. Joy I have known little of, but of sorrow, of sorrow, how much! And how much is still before me! But why think of what is to be! I am seeing you now, that they cannot take away from me; and I care for nothing more. All I wanted was to see you. Now my heart is much easier; as though a load had been taken off me. I kept thinking you were angry with me, that you were cursing me.... BORIS. How can you! How can you! KATERINA. No, that's not what I mean; that's not what I wanted to say! I was sick with longing for you, that's it; and now, I have seen you.... BORIS. They must not come upon us here! KATERINA. Stay a minute! Stay a minute! Something I meant to say to you! I've forgotten! Something I had to say! Everything is in confusion in my head, I can remember nothing. BORIS. It's time I went, Katia! KATERINA. Wait a minute, a minute! BORIS. Come, what did you want to say? KATERINA. I will tell you directly. _(Thinking a moment.)_ Yes! As you travel along the highroads, do not miss over one beggar, give to everyone, and bid them pray for my sinful soul. BORIS. Ah, if these people knew what it is to me to part from you! My God! God grant they may one day know such bitterness as I know now. Farewell, Katia! _(embraces her and tries to go away)._ Miscreants! monsters! Ah, if I were strong! KATERINA. Stay, stay! Let me look at you for the last time _(gazes into his face)._ Now all's over with me. The end is come for me. Now, God be with thee. Go, go quickly! BORIS _(moves away a few steps and stands still)._ Katia, I feel a dread of something! You have something fearful in your mind? I shall be in torture as I go, thinking of you. KATERINA. No, no! Go in God's name! (_Boris is about to go up to her._) No, no, enough. BORIS (_sobbing_). God be with thee! There's only one thing to pray God for, that she may soon be dead, that she may not be tortured long! Farewell! KATERINA. Farewell! [_Boris goes out. Katerina follows him with her eyes and stands for some time, lost in thought._ SCENE IV KATERINA (_alone_). Where am I going now? Home? No, home or the grave--it's the same. Yes, home or the grave! ... the grave! Better the grave.... A little grave under a tree ... how sweet.... The sunshine warms it, the sweet rain falls on it ... in the spring the grass grows on it, soft and sweet grass ... the birds will fly in the tree and sing, and bring up their little ones, and flowers will bloom; golden, red and blue ... all sorts of flowers, (_dreamily_) all sorts of flowers ... how still! how sweet! My heart's as it were lighter! But of life I don't want to think! Live again! No, no, no use ... life is not good! ... And people are hateful to me, and the house is hateful, and the walls are hateful! I will not go there! No, no, I will not go! If I go to them, they'll come and talk, and what do I want with that? Ah, it has grown dark! And there is singing again somewhere! What are they singing? I can't make out.... To die now.... What are they singing? It is just the same whether death comes, or of myself ... but live I cannot! A sin to die so! ... they won't pray for me! If anyone loves me he will pray ... they will fold my arms crossed in the grave! Oh yes.... I remember. But when they catch me, and take me home by force.... Ah, quickly, quickly! _(Goes to the river bank. Aloud)_ My dear one! My sweet! Farewell! [_Exit._ [_Enter Mme. Kabanova, Kabanov, Kuligin and workmen with torches._ SCENE V MME. KABANOVA, KABANOV and KULIGIN. KULIGIN. They say she was seen here. KABANOV. Is it certain? KULIGIN. They say they saw her. KABANOV. Thank God, if she has been seen alive. MME. KABANOVA. And you in such a fright already and crying over it! There's no need. She's not worth fretting about! Don't worry yourself, we shall have our hands full with her for many a long year yet. KABANOV. Who would have dreamed of her coming here! A place so frequented. No one would ever think of hiding here. MME. KABANOVA. That's just her way! The shameless hussy! She wants to keep up her character, it seems! [_A crowd with torches collects, coming in from different directions._ ONE OF THE CROWD. Well, is she found? MME. KABANOVA. It seems not. She seems to have vanished into the earth. SEVERAL VOICES. How strange! It's a queer thing. And where could she hide? ONE OF THE CROWD. Oh, she'll be found! A SECOND. Of course she'll be found! A THIRD. To be sure, she'll come back of herself. [_A voice behind the scene: "Hi, boat there!"_ KULIGIN _(from the bank)._ Who's calling? What is it? [_The voice: "A woman's thrown herself into the water!" Kuligin and several men after him run out._ SCENE VI MME. KABANOVA, and KABANOV and Crowd. KABANOV. Merciful Heavens, it is she! _(tries to run off. Mme. Kabanova holds his arm)_ Mamma, let me go! I will save her! or I too ... What can I do without her! MME. KABANOVA. I'm not going to let you go, and don't you suppose it! Kill yourself on her account; she's worth that, isn't she? As if she'd not brought disgrace enough on us already, to plot to do a thing like this too! KABANOV. Let me go! MME. KABANOVA. There are plenty to help without you. I'll curse you if you go. KABANOV _(falling on his knees)._ Oh, to look upon her at least! MME. KABANOVA. They'll pull her out--you'll look upon her, right enough. KABANOV (_gets up. To the crowd_). Well, my lads, do you see anything? ONE OF THE CROWD. It's dark down below, there's nothing in sight. [_A noise behind the scene._ A SECOND. They seemed to be shouting something, but I couldn't make out what. THE FIRST. That's Kuligin's voice. THE SECOND. They're coming along the bank with torches. THE FIRST. They're coming this way, and they're carrying her. [_Several people come back._ ONE OF THOSE WHO HAVE COME BACK. That Kuligin's a brave fellow! It was close here in a deep pool, near the bank; with the torchlight we could see a long way off in the water; he saw her dress and pulled her out. KABANOV. Alive? THE MAN. How could she be alive? She had thrown herself from the height; the bank is steep there, and she must have fallen upon the anchor, she was so injured, poor thing! But she looks as though she were alive! Only one little wound on the temple, and one single stain of blood on it. [_Kabanov runs across the scene, meets Kuligin with the crowd, carrying in Katerina._ SCENE VII The Same and KULIGIN. KULIGIN. Here is your Katerina. You may do what you like with her. Her body is here, take it; but her soul is not yours now; she is before a Judge more merciful than you are, now! [_Lays her on the ground and exit._ KABANOV _(rushes to Katerina)._ Katia! Katia! MME. KABANOVA. Hush! It's a sin even to weep for her! KABANOV. Mother, you have murdered her! you! you! you! MME. KABANOVA. What do you mean? Think what you're saying! You forget whom you're speaking to! KABANOV. You have murdered her! you! you! MME. KABANOVA. Come, I'll talk to you at home. (_Bows low to the assembled people_) I thank you, good people, for your services! [_All bow low._ KABANOV. It is well with you, Katia! But why am I left to live and suffer! [_Falls on his wife's body._ 
1756	----	UNCLE VANYA SCENES FROM COUNTRY LIFE IN FOUR ACTS By Anton Checkov CHARACTERS ALEXANDER SEREBRAKOFF, a retired professor HELENA, his wife, twenty-seven years old SONIA, his daughter by a former marriage MME. VOITSKAYA, widow of a privy councilor, and mother of Serebrakoff's first wife IVAN (VANYA) VOITSKI, her son MICHAEL ASTROFF, a doctor ILIA (WAFFLES) TELEGIN, an impoverished landowner MARINA, an old nurse A WORKMAN The scene is laid on SEREBRAKOFF'S country place UNCLE VANYA ACT I A country house on a terrace. In front of it a garden. In an avenue of trees, under an old poplar, stands a table set for tea, with a samovar, etc. Some benches and chairs stand near the table. On one of them is lying a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock in the afternoon of a cloudy day. MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table knitting a stocking. ASTROFF is walking up and down near her. MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son. ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to want any. MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead? ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other? MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord--help me to remember. You first came here, into our parts--let me think--when was it? Sonia's mother was still alive--it was two winters before she died; that was eleven years ago--[thoughtfully] perhaps more. ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then? MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too. ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest; at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then, existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse, but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child. MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat? ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been deadened awoke again, my conscience tortured me as if I had killed the man. I sat down and closed my eyes--like this--and thought: will our descendants two hundred years from now, for whom we are breaking the road, remember to give us a kind word? No, nurse, they will forget. MARINA. Man is forgetful, but God remembers. ASTROFF. Thank you for that. You have spoken the truth. Enter VOITSKI from the house. He has been asleep after dinner and looks rather dishevelled. He sits down on the bench and straightens his collar. VOITSKI. H'm. Yes. [A pause] Yes. ASTROFF. Have you been asleep? VOITSKI. Yes, very much so. [He yawns] Ever since the Professor and his wife have come, our daily life seems to have jumped the track. I sleep at the wrong time, drink wine, and eat all sorts of messes for luncheon and dinner. It isn't wholesome. Sonia and I used to work together and never had an idle moment, but now Sonia works alone and I only eat and drink and sleep. Something is wrong. MARINA. [Shaking her head] Such a confusion in the house! The Professor gets up at twelve, the samovar is kept boiling all the morning, and everything has to wait for him. Before they came we used to have dinner at one o'clock, like everybody else, but now we have it at seven. The Professor sits up all night writing and reading, and suddenly, at two o'clock, there goes the bell! Heavens, what is that? The Professor wants some tea! Wake the servants, light the samovar! Lord, what disorder! ASTROFF. Will they be here long? VOITSKI. A hundred years! The Professor has decided to make his home here. MARINA. Look at this now! The samovar has been on the table for two hours, and they are all out walking! VOITSKI. All right, don't get excited; here they come. Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRAKOFF, HELENA, SONIA, and TELEGIN come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk. SEREBRAKOFF. Superb! Superb! What beautiful views! TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency. SONIA. To-morrow we shall go into the woods, shall we, papa? VOITSKI. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready. SEREBRAKOFF. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the library? I still have some work to finish. SONIA. I am sure you will love the woods. HELENA, SEREBRAKOFF, and SONIA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at the table beside MARINA. VOITSKI. There goes our learned scholar on a hot, sultry day like this, in his overcoat and goloshes and carrying an umbrella! ASTROFF. He is trying to take good care of his health. VOITSKI. How lovely she is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a more beautiful woman. TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing, we are all living in peace and contentment--what more could the soul desire? [Takes a glass of tea.] VOITSKI. [Dreaming] Such eyes--a glorious woman! ASTROFF. Come, Ivan, tell us something. VOITSKI. [Indolently] What shall I tell you? ASTROFF. Haven't you any news for us? VOITSKI. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps worse, because I have become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about the emancipation of woman, with one eye on her grave and the other on her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new life. ASTROFF. And the Professor? VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as usual-- "Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow, We write, write, write, Without respite Or hope of praise in the future or now." Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth like a demi-god! ASTROFF. I believe you envy him. VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom to him. Why? What for? ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him? VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately she is. ASTROFF. Why unfortunately? VOITSKI. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch. It sounds well, but there is no logic in it. It is thought immoral for a woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire from her heart. TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so. Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is faithless, and could also betray his country. VOITSKI. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles. TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day after our wedding, because my exterior was unprepossessing. I have never failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day. I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the daughter of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept? HELENA and SONIA come in; after them comes MME. VOITSKAYA carrying a book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of tea which she drinks without looking up. SONIA. [Hurriedly, to the nurse] There are some peasants waiting out there. Go and see what they want. I shall pour the tea. [Pours out some glasses of tea.] MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the hammock. ASTROFF. I have come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had rheumatism and I know not what else, and that he was very ill, but he appears to be as lively as a cricket. HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of pains in his legs, but he seems all right again to-day. ASTROFF. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No matter, though, it is not the first time. Once here, however, I am going to stay until to-morrow, and at any rate sleep _quantum satis._ SONIA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had dinner yet? ASTROFF. No. SONIA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks her tea] This tea is cold! TELEGIN. Yes, the samovar has grown cold. HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then. TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilia, ma'am--Ilia Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my pock-marked face. I am Sonia's godfather, and his Excellency, your husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate, and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every day. SONIA. He is our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear godfather, let me pour you some tea. MME. VOITSKAYA. Oh! Oh! SONIA. What is it, grandmother? MME. VOITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander--I have lost my memory--I received a letter to-day from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkoff. He has sent me a new pamphlet. ASTROFF. Is it interesting? MME. VOITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he defended seven years ago. It is appalling! VOITSKI. There is nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma. MME. VOITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say. Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an illuminating personality---- VOITSKI. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't say anything more biting. I am forty-seven years old. Until last year I endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the truths of life. But now--Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I have wasted my time when I might have been winning from life everything which my old age now forbids. SONIA. Uncle Vanya, how dreary! MME. VOITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, were at fault. You have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead letter. You should have done something. VOITSKI. Done something! Not every man is capable of being a writer _perpetuum mobile_ like your Herr Professor. MME. VOITSKAYA. What do you mean by that? SONIA. [Imploringly] Mother! Uncle Vanya! I entreat you! VOITSKI. I am silent. I apologise and am silent. [A pause.] HELENA. What a fine day! Not too hot. [A pause.] VOITSKI. A fine day to hang oneself. TELEGIN tunes the guitar. MARINA appears near the house, calling the chickens. MARINA. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. What did the peasants want, nurse? MARINA. The same old thing, the same old nonsense. Chick, chick, chick! SONIA. Why are you calling the chickens? MARINA. The speckled hen has disappeared with her chicks. I am afraid the crows have got her. TELEGIN plays a polka. All listen in silence. Enter WORKMAN. WORKMAN. Is the doctor here? [To ASTROFF] Excuse me, sir, but I have been sent to fetch you. ASTROFF. Where are you from? WORKMAN. The factory. ASTROFF. [Annoyed] Thank you. There is nothing for it, then, but to go. [Looking around him for his cap] Damn it, this is annoying! SONIA. Yes, it is too bad, really. You must come back to dinner from the factory. ASTROFF. No, I won't be able to do that. It will be too late. Now where, where--[To the WORKMAN] Look here, my man, get me a glass of vodka, will you? [The WORKMAN goes out] Where--where--[Finds his cap] One of the characters in Ostroff's plays is a man with a long moustache and short wits, like me. However, let me bid you good-bye, ladies and gentlemen. [To HELENA] I should be really delighted if you would come to see me some day with Miss Sonia. My estate is small, but if you are interested in such things I should like to show you a nursery and seed-bed whose like you will not find within a thousand miles of here. My place is surrounded by government forests. The forester is old and always ailing, so I superintend almost all the work myself. HELENA. I have always heard that you were very fond of the woods. Of course one can do a great deal of good by helping to preserve them, but does not that work interfere with your real calling? ASTROFF. God alone knows what a man's real calling is. HELENA. And do you find it interesting? ASTROFF. Yes, very. VOITSKI. [Sarcastically] Oh, extremely! HELENA. You are still young, not over thirty-six or seven, I should say, and I suspect that the woods do not interest you as much as you say they do. I should think you would find them monotonous. SONIA. No, the work is thrilling. Dr. Astroff watches over the old woods and sets out new plantations every year, and he has already received a diploma and a bronze medal. If you will listen to what he can tell you, you will agree with him entirely. He says that forests are the ornaments of the earth, that they teach mankind to understand beauty and attune his mind to lofty sentiments. Forests temper a stern climate, and in countries where the climate is milder, less strength is wasted in the battle with nature, and the people are kind and gentle. The inhabitants of such countries are handsome, tractable, sensitive, graceful in speech and gesture. Their philosophy is joyous, art and science blossom among them, their treatment of women is full of exquisite nobility---- VOITSKI. [Laughing] Bravo! Bravo! All that is very pretty, but it is also unconvincing. So, my friend [To ASTROFF] you must let me go on burning firewood in my stoves and building my sheds of planks. ASTROFF. You can burn peat in your stoves and build your sheds of stone. Oh, I don't object, of course, to cutting wood from necessity, but why destroy the forests? The woods of Russia are trembling under the blows of the axe. Millions of trees have perished. The homes of the wild animals and birds have been desolated; the rivers are shrinking, and many beautiful landscapes are gone forever. And why? Because men are too lazy and stupid to stoop down and pick up their fuel from the ground. [To HELENA] Am I not right, Madame? Who but a stupid barbarian could burn so much beauty in his stove and destroy that which he cannot make? Man is endowed with reason and the power to create, so that he may increase that which has been given him, but until now he has not created, but demolished. The forests are disappearing, the rivers are running dry, the game is exterminated, the climate is spoiled, and the earth becomes poorer and uglier every day. [To VOITSKI] I read irony in your eye; you do not take what I am saying seriously, and--and--after all, it may very well be nonsense. But when I pass peasant-forests that I have preserved from the axe, or hear the rustling of the young plantations set out with my own hands, I feel as if I had had some small share in improving the climate, and that if mankind is happy a thousand years from now I will have been a little bit responsible for their happiness. When I plant a little birch tree and then see it budding into young green and swaying in the wind, my heart swells with pride and I--[Sees the WORKMAN, who is bringing him a glass of vodka on a tray] however--[He drinks] I must be off. Probably it is all nonsense, anyway. Good-bye. He goes toward the house. SONIA takes his arm and goes with him. SONIA. When are you coming to see us again? ASTROFF. I can't say. SONIA. In a month? ASTROFF and SONIA go into the house. HELENA and VOITSKI walk over to the terrace. HELENA. You have behaved shockingly again. Ivan, what sense was there in teasing your mother and talking about _perpetuum mobile?_ And at breakfast you quarreled with Alexander again. Really, your behaviour is too petty. VOITSKI. But if I hate him? HELENA. You hate Alexander without reason; he is like every one else, and no worse than you are. VOITSKI. If you could only see your face, your gestures! Oh, how tedious your life must be. HELENA. It is tedious, yes, and dreary! You all abuse my husband and look on me with compassion; you think, "Poor woman, she is married to an old man." How well I understand your compassion! As Astroff said just now, see how you thoughtlessly destroy the forests, so that there will soon be none left. So you also destroy mankind, and soon fidelity and purity and self-sacrifice will have vanished with the woods. Why cannot you look calmly at a woman unless she is yours? Because, the doctor was right, you are all possessed by a devil of destruction; you have no mercy on the woods or the birds or on women or on one another. VOITSKI. I don't like your philosophy. HELENA. That doctor has a sensitive, weary face--an interesting face. Sonia evidently likes him, and she is in love with him, and I can understand it. This is the third time he has been here since I have come, and I have not had a real talk with him yet or made much of him. He thinks I am disagreeable. Do you know, Ivan, the reason you and I are such friends? I think it is because we are both lonely and unfortunate. Yes, unfortunate. Don't look at me in that way, I don't like it. VOITSKI. How can I look at you otherwise when I love you? You are my joy, my life, and my youth. I know that my chances of being loved in return are infinitely small, do not exist, but I ask nothing of you. Only let me look at you, listen to your voice-- HELENA. Hush, some one will overhear you. [They go toward the house.] VOITSKI. [Following her] Let me speak to you of my love, do not drive me away, and this alone will be my greatest happiness! HELENA. Ah! This is agony! TELEGIN strikes the strings of his guitar and plays a polka. MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the leaves of her pamphlet. The curtain falls. ACT II The dining-room of SEREBRAKOFF'S house. It is night. The tapping of the WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden. SEREBRAKOFF is dozing in an arm-chair by an open window and HELENA is sitting beside him, also half asleep. SEREBRAKOFF. [Rousing himself] Who is here? Is it you, Sonia? HELENA. It is I. SEREBRAKOFF. Oh, it is you, Nelly. This pain is intolerable. HELENA. Your shawl has slipped down. [She wraps up his legs in the shawl] Let me shut the window. SEREBRAKOFF. No, leave it open; I am suffocating. I dreamt just now that my left leg belonged to some one else, and it hurt so that I woke. I don't believe this is gout, it is more like rheumatism. What time is it? HELENA. Half past twelve. [A pause.] SEREBRAKOFF. I want you to look for Batushka's works in the library to-morrow. I think we have him. HELENA. What is that? SEREBRAKOFF. Look for Batushka to-morrow morning; we used to have him, I remember. Why do I find it so hard to breathe? HELENA. You are tired; this is the second night you have had no sleep. SEREBRAKOFF. They say that Turgenieff got angina of the heart from gout. I am afraid I am getting angina too. Oh, damn this horrible, accursed old age! Ever since I have been old I have been hateful to myself, and I am sure, hateful to you all as well. HELENA. You speak as if we were to blame for your being old. SEREBRAKOFF. I am more hateful to you than to any one. HELENA gets up and walks away from him, sitting down at a distance. SEREBRAKOFF. You are quite right, of course. I am not an idiot; I can understand you. You are young and healthy and beautiful, and longing for life, and I am an old dotard, almost a dead man already. Don't I know it? Of course I see that it is foolish for me to live so long, but wait! I shall soon set you all free. My life cannot drag on much longer. HELENA. You are overtaxing my powers of endurance. Be quiet, for God's sake! SEREBRAKOFF. It appears that, thanks to me, everybody's power of endurance is being overtaxed; everybody is miserable, only I am blissfully triumphant. Oh, yes, of course! HELENA. Be quiet! You are torturing me. SEREBRAKOFF. I torture everybody. Of course. HELENA. [Weeping] This is unbearable! Tell me, what is it you want me to do? SEREBRAKOFF. Nothing. HELENA. Then be quiet, please. SEREBRAKOFF. It is funny that everybody listens to Ivan and his old idiot of a mother, but the moment I open my lips you all begin to feel ill-treated. You can't even stand the sound of my voice. Even if I am hateful, even if I am a selfish tyrant, haven't I the right to be one at my age? Haven't I deserved it? Haven't I, I ask you, the right to be respected, now that I am old? HELENA. No one is disputing your rights. [The window slams in the wind] The wind is rising, I must shut the window. [She shuts it] We shall have rain in a moment. Your rights have never been questioned by anybody. The WATCHMAN in the garden sounds his rattle. SEREBRAKOFF. I have spent my life working in the interests of learning. I am used to my library and the lecture hall and to the esteem and admiration of my colleagues. Now I suddenly find myself plunged in this wilderness, condemned to see the same stupid people from morning till night and listen to their futile conversation. I want to live; I long for success and fame and the stir of the world, and here I am in exile! Oh, it is dreadful to spend every moment grieving for the lost past, to see the success of others and sit here with nothing to do but to fear death. I cannot stand it! It is more than I can bear. And you will not even forgive me for being old! HELENA. Wait, have patience; I shall be old myself in four or five years. SONIA comes in. SONIA. Father, you sent for Dr. Astroff, and now when he comes you refuse to see him. It is not nice to give a man so much trouble for nothing. SEREBRAKOFF. What do I care about your Astroff? He understands medicine about as well as I understand astronomy. SONIA. We can't send for the whole medical faculty, can we, to treat your gout? SEREBRAKOFF. I won't talk to that madman! SONIA. Do as you please. It's all the same to me. [She sits down.] SEREBRAKOFF. What time is it? HELENA. One o'clock. SEREBRAKOFF. It is stifling in here. Sonia, hand me that bottle on the table. SONIA. Here it is. [She hands him a bottle of medicine.] SEREBRAKOFF. [Crossly] No, not that one! Can't you understand me? Can't I ask you to do a thing? SONIA. Please don't be captious with me. Some people may like it, but you must spare me, if you please, because I don't. Besides, I haven't the time; we are cutting the hay to-morrow and I must get up early. VOITSKI comes in dressed in a long gown and carrying a candle. VOITSKI. A thunderstorm is coming up. [The lightning flashes] There it is! Go to bed, Helena and Sonia. I have come to take your place. SEREBRAKOFF. [Frightened] No, n-o, no! Don't leave me alone with him! Oh, don't. He will begin to lecture me. VOITSKI. But you must give them a little rest. They have not slept for two nights. SEREBRAKOFF. Then let them go to bed, but you go away too! Thank you. I implore you to go. For the sake of our former friendship do not protest against going. We will talk some other time---- VOITSKI. Our former friendship! Our former---- SONIA. Hush, Uncle Vanya! SEREBRAKOFF. [To his wife] My darling, don't leave me alone with him. He will begin to lecture me. VOITSKI. This is ridiculous. MARINA comes in carrying a candle. SONIA. You must go to bed, nurse, it is late. MARINA. I haven't cleared away the tea things. Can't go to bed yet. SEREBRAKOFF. No one can go to bed. They are all worn out, only I enjoy perfect happiness. MARINA. [Goes up to SEREBRAKOFF and speaks tenderly] What's the matter, master? Does it hurt? My own legs are aching too, oh, so badly. [Arranges his shawl about his legs] You have had this illness such a long time. Sonia's dead mother used to stay awake with you too, and wear herself out for you. She loved you dearly. [A pause] Old people want to be pitied as much as young ones, but nobody cares about them somehow. [She kisses SEREBRAKOFF'S shoulder] Come, master, let me give you some linden-tea and warm your poor feet for you. I shall pray to God for you. SEREBRAKOFF. [Touched] Let us go, Marina. MARINA. My own feet are aching so badly, oh, so badly! [She and SONIA lead SEREBRAKOFF out] Sonia's mother used to wear herself out with sorrow and weeping. You were still little and foolish then, Sonia. Come, come, master. SEREBRAKOFF, SONIA and MARINA go out. HELENA. I am absolutely exhausted by him, and can hardly stand. VOITSKI. You are exhausted by him, and I am exhausted by my own self. I have not slept for three nights. HELENA. Something is wrong in this house. Your mother hates everything but her pamphlets and the professor; the professor is vexed, he won't trust me, and fears you; Sonia is angry with her father, and with me, and hasn't spoken to me for two weeks; I am at the end of my strength, and have come near bursting into tears at least twenty times to-day. Something is wrong in this house. VOITSKI. Leave speculating alone. HELENA. You are cultured and intelligent, Ivan, and you surely understand that the world is not destroyed by villains and conflagrations, but by hate and malice and all this spiteful tattling. It is your duty to make peace, and not to growl at everything. VOITSKI. Help me first to make peace with myself. My darling! [Seizes her hand.] HELENA. Let go! [She drags her hand away] Go away! VOITSKI. Soon the rain will be over, and all nature will sigh and awake refreshed. Only I am not refreshed by the storm. Day and night the thought haunts me like a fiend, that my life is lost for ever. My past does not count, because I frittered it away on trifles, and the present has so terribly miscarried! What shall I do with my life and my love? What is to become of them? This wonderful feeling of mine will be wasted and lost as a ray of sunlight is lost that falls into a dark chasm, and my life will go with it. HELENA. I am as it were benumbed when you speak to me of your love, and I don't know how to answer you. Forgive me, I have nothing to say to you. [She tries to go out] Good-night! VOITSKI. [Barring the way] If you only knew how I am tortured by the thought that beside me in this house is another life that is being lost forever--it is yours! What are you waiting for? What accursed philosophy stands in your way? Oh, understand, understand---- HELENA. [Looking at him intently] Ivan, you are drunk! VOITSKI. Perhaps. Perhaps. HELENA. Where is the doctor? VOITSKI. In there, spending the night with me. Perhaps I am drunk, perhaps I am; nothing is impossible. HELENA. Have you just been drinking together? Why do you do that? VOITSKI. Because in that way I get a taste of life. Let me do it, Helena! HELENA. You never used to drink, and you never used to talk so much. Go to bed, I am tired of you. VOITSKI. [Falling on his knees before her] My sweetheart, my beautiful one---- HELENA. [Angrily] Leave me alone! Really, this has become too disagreeable. HELENA goes out. A pause. VOITSKI [Alone] She is gone! I met her first ten years ago, at her sister's house, when she was seventeen and I was thirty-seven. Why did I not fall in love with her then and propose to her? It would have been so easy! And now she would have been my wife. Yes, we would both have been waked to-night by the thunderstorm, and she would have been frightened, but I would have held her in my arms and whispered: "Don't be afraid! I am here." Oh, enchanting dream, so sweet that I laugh to think of it. [He laughs] But my God! My head reels! Why am I so old? Why won't she understand me? I hate all that rhetoric of hers, that morality of indolence, that absurd talk about the destruction of the world----[A pause] Oh, how I have been deceived! For years I have worshipped that miserable gout-ridden professor. Sonia and I have squeezed this estate dry for his sake. We have bartered our butter and curds and peas like misers, and have never kept a morsel for ourselves, so that we could scrape enough pennies together to send to him. I was proud of him and of his learning; I received all his words and writings as inspired, and now? Now he has retired, and what is the total of his life? A blank! He is absolutely unknown, and his fame has burst like a soap-bubble. I have been deceived; I see that now, basely deceived. ASTROFF comes in. He has his coat on, but is without his waistcoat or collar, and is slightly drunk. TELEGIN follows him, carrying a guitar. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN. But every one is asleep. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN begins to play softly. ASTROFF. Are you alone here? No women about? [Sings with his arms akimbo.] "The hut is cold, the fire is dead; Where shall the master lay his head?" The thunderstorm woke me. It was a heavy shower. What time is it? VOITSKI. The devil only knows. ASTROFF. I thought I heard Helena's voice. VOITSKI. She was here a moment ago. ASTROFF. What a beautiful woman! [Looking at the medicine bottles on the table] Medicine, is it? What a variety we have; prescriptions from Moscow, from Kharkoff, from Tula! Why, he has been pestering all the towns of Russia with his gout! Is he ill, or simply shamming? VOITSKI. He is really ill. ASTROFF. What is the matter with you to-night? You seem sad. Is it because you are sorry for the professor? VOITSKI. Leave me alone. ASTROFF. Or in love with the professor's wife? VOITSKI. She is my friend. ASTROFF. Already? VOITSKI. What do you mean by "already"? ASTROFF. A woman can only become a man's friend after having first been his acquaintance and then his beloved--then she becomes his friend. VOITSKI. What vulgar philosophy! ASTROFF. What do you mean? Yes, I must confess I am getting vulgar, but then, you see, I am drunk. I usually only drink like this once a month. At such times my audacity and temerity know no bounds. I feel capable of anything. I attempt the most difficult operations and do them magnificently. The most brilliant plans for the future take shape in my head. I am no longer a poor fool of a doctor, but mankind's greatest benefactor. I evolve my own system of philosophy and all of you seem to crawl at my feet like so many insects or microbes. [To TELEGIN] Play, Waffles! TELEGIN. My dear boy, I would with all my heart, but do listen to reason; everybody in the house is asleep. ASTROFF. Play! TELEGIN plays softly. ASTROFF. I want a drink. Come, we still have some brandy left. And then, as soon as it is day, you will come home with me. [He sees SONIA, who comes in at that moment.] ASTROFF. I beg your pardon, I have no collar on. [He goes out quickly, followed by TELEGIN.] SONIA. Uncle Vanya, you and the doctor have been drinking! The good fellows have been getting together! It is all very well for him, he has always done it, but why do you follow his example? It looks dreadfully at your age. VOITSKI. Age has nothing to do with it. When real life is wanting one must create an illusion. It is better than nothing. SONIA. Our hay is all cut and rotting in these daily rains, and here you are busy creating illusions! You have given up the farm altogether. I have done all the work alone until I am at the end of my strength--[Frightened] Uncle! Your eyes are full of tears! VOITSKI. Tears? Nonsense, there are no tears in my eyes. You looked at me then just as your dead mother used to, my darling--[He eagerly kisses her face and hands] My sister, my dearest sister, where are you now? Ah, if you only knew, if you only knew! SONIA. If she only knew what, Uncle? VOITSKI. My heart is bursting. It is awful. No matter, though. I must go. [He goes out.] SONIA. [Knocks at the door] Dr. Astroff! Are you awake? Please come here for a minute. ASTROFF. [Behind the door] In a moment. He appears in a few seconds. He has put on his collar and waistcoat. ASTROFF. What do you want? SONIA. Drink as much as you please yourself if you don't find it revolting, but I implore you not to let my uncle do it. It is bad for him. ASTROFF. Very well; we won't drink any more. I am going home at once. That is settled. It will be dawn by the time the horses are harnessed. SONIA. It is still raining; wait till morning. ASTROFF. The storm is blowing over. This is only the edge of it. I must go. And please don't ask me to come and see your father any more. I tell him he has gout, and he says it is rheumatism. I tell him to lie down, and he sits up. To-day he refused to see me at all. SONIA. He has been spoilt. [She looks in the sideboard] Won't you have a bite to eat? ASTROFF. Yes, please. I believe I will. SONIA. I love to eat at night. I am sure we shall find something in here. They say that he has made a great many conquests in his life, and that the women have spoiled him. Here is some cheese for you. [They stand eating by the sideboard.] ASTROFF. I haven't eaten anything to-day. Your father has a very difficult nature. [He takes a bottle out of the sideboard] May I? [He pours himself a glass of vodka] We are alone here, and I can speak frankly. Do you know, I could not stand living in this house for even a month? This atmosphere would stifle me. There is your father, entirely absorbed in his books, and his gout; there is your Uncle Vanya with his hypochondria, your grandmother, and finally, your step-mother-- SONIA. What about her? ASTROFF. A human being should be entirely beautiful: the face, the clothes, the mind, the thoughts. Your step-mother is, of course, beautiful to look at, but don't you see? She does nothing but sleep and eat and walk and bewitch us, and that is all. She has no responsibilities, everything is done for her--am I not right? And an idle life can never be a pure one. [A pause] However, I may be judging her too severely. Like your Uncle Vanya, I am discontented, and so we are both grumblers. SONIA. Aren't you satisfied with life? ASTROFF. I like life as life, but I hate and despise it in a little Russian country village, and as far as my own personal life goes, by heaven! there is absolutely no redeeming feature about it. Haven't you noticed if you are riding through a dark wood at night and see a little light shining ahead, how you forget your fatigue and the darkness and the sharp twigs that whip your face? I work, that you know--as no one else in the country works. Fate beats me on without rest; at times I suffer unendurably and I see no light ahead. I have no hope; I do not like people. It is long since I have loved any one. SONIA. You love no one? ASTROFF. Not a soul. I only feel a sort of tenderness for your old nurse for old-times' sake. The peasants are all alike; they are stupid and live in dirt, and the educated people are hard to get along with. One gets tired of them. All our good friends are petty and shallow and see no farther than their own noses; in one word, they are dull. Those that have brains are hysterical, devoured with a mania for self-analysis. They whine, they hate, they pick faults everywhere with unhealthy sharpness. They sneak up to me sideways, look at me out of a corner of the eye, and say: "That man is a lunatic," "That man is a wind-bag." Or, if they don't know what else to label me with, they say I am strange. I like the woods; that is strange. I don't eat meat; that is strange, too. Simple, natural relations between man and man or man and nature do not exist. [He tries to go out; SONIA prevents him.] SONIA. I beg you, I implore you, not to drink any more! ASTROFF. Why not? SONIA. It is so unworthy of you. You are well-bred, your voice is sweet, you are even--more than any one I know--handsome. Why do you want to resemble the common people that drink and play cards? Oh, don't, I beg you! You always say that people do not create anything, but only destroy what heaven has given them. Why, oh, why, do you destroy yourself? Oh, don't, I implore you not to! I entreat you! ASTROFF. [Gives her his hand] I won't drink any more. SONIA. Promise me. ASTROFF. I give you my word of honour. SONIA. [Squeezing his hand] Thank you. ASTROFF. I have done with it. You see, I am perfectly sober again, and so I shall stay till the end of my life. [He looks his watch] But, as I was saying, life holds nothing for me; my race is run. I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead. I could never attach myself to any one again. I love no one, and never shall! Beauty alone has the power to touch me still. I am deeply moved by it. Helena could turn my head in a day if she wanted to, but that is not love, that is not affection-- [He shudders and covers his face with his hands.] SONIA. What is it? ASTROFF. Nothing. During Lent one of my patients died under chloroform. SONIA. It is time to forget that. [A pause] Tell me, doctor, if I had a friend or a younger sister, and if you knew that she, well--loved you, what would you do? ASTROFF. [Shrugging his shoulders] I don't know. I don't think I should do anything. I should make her understand that I could not return her love--however, my mind is not bothered about those things now. I must start at once if I am ever to get off. Good-bye, my dear girl. At this rate we shall stand here talking till morning. [He shakes hands with her] I shall go out through the sitting-room, because I am afraid your uncle might detain me. [He goes out.] SONIA. [Alone] Not a word! His heart and soul are still locked from me, and yet for some reason I am strangely happy. I wonder why? [She laughs with pleasure] I told him that he was well-bred and handsome and that his voice was sweet. Was that a mistake? I can still feel his voice vibrating in the air; it caresses me. [Wringing her hands] Oh! how terrible it is to be plain! I am plain, I know it. As I came out of church last Sunday I overheard a woman say, "She is a dear, noble girl, but what a pity she is so ugly!" So ugly! HELENA comes in and throws open the window. HELENA. The storm is over. What delicious air! [A pause] Where is the doctor? SONIA. He has gone. [A pause.] HELENA. Sonia! SONIA. Yes? HELENA. How much longer are you going to sulk at me? We have not hurt each other. Why not be friends? We have had enough of this. SONIA. I myself--[She embraces HELENA] Let us make peace. HELENA. With all my heart. [They are both moved.] SONIA. Has papa gone to bed? HELENA. No, he is sitting up in the drawing-room. Heaven knows what reason you and I had for not speaking to each other for weeks. [Sees the open sideboard] Who left the sideboard open? SONIA. Dr. Astroff has just had supper. HELENA. There is some wine. Let us seal our friendship. SONIA. Yes, let us. HELENA. Out of one glass. [She fills a wine-glass] So, we are friends, are we? SONIA. Yes. [They drink and kiss each other] I have long wanted to make friends, but somehow, I was ashamed to. [She weeps.] HELENA. Why are you crying? SONIA. I don't know. It is nothing. HELENA. There, there, don't cry. [She weeps] Silly! Now I am crying too. [A pause] You are angry with me because I seem to have married your father for his money, but don't believe the gossip you hear. I swear to you I married him for love. I was fascinated by his fame and learning. I know now that it was not real love, but it seemed real at the time. I am innocent, and yet your clever, suspicious eyes have been punishing me for an imaginary crime ever since my marriage. SONIA. Peace, peace! Let us forget the past. HELENA. You must not look so at people. It is not becoming to you. You must trust people, or life becomes impossible. SONIA. Tell me truly, as a friend, are you happy? HELENA. Truly, no. SONIA. I knew it. One more question: do you wish your husband were young? HELENA. What a child you are! Of course I do. Go on, ask something else. SONIA. Do you like the doctor? HELENA. Yes, very much indeed. SONIA. [Laughing] I have a stupid face, haven't I? He has just gone out, and his voice is still in my ears; I hear his step; I see his face in the dark window. Let me say all I have in my heart! But no, I cannot speak of it so loudly. I am ashamed. Come to my room and let me tell you there. I seem foolish to you, don't I? Talk to me of him. HELENA. What can I say? SONIA. He is clever. He can do everything. He can cure the sick, and plant woods. HELENA. It is not a question of medicine and woods, my dear, he is a man of genius. Do you know what that means? It means he is brave, profound, and of clear insight. He plants a tree and his mind travels a thousand years into the future, and he sees visions of the happiness of the human race. People like him are rare and should be loved. What if he does drink and act roughly at times? A man of genius cannot be a saint in Russia. There he lives, cut off from the world by cold and storm and endless roads of bottomless mud, surrounded by a rough people who are crushed by poverty and disease, his life one continuous struggle, with never a day's respite; how can a man live like that for forty years and keep himself sober and unspotted? [Kissing SONIA] I wish you happiness with all my heart; you deserve it. [She gets up] As for me, I am a worthless, futile woman. I have always been futile; in music, in love, in my husband's house--in a word, in everything. When you come to think of it, Sonia, I am really very, very unhappy. [Walks excitedly up and down] Happiness can never exist for me in this world. Never. Why do you laugh? SONIA. [Laughing and covering her face with her hands] I am so happy, so happy! HELENA. I want to hear music. I might play a little. SONIA. Oh, do, do! [She embraces her] I could not possibly go to sleep now. Do play! HELENA. Yes, I will. Your father is still awake. Music irritates him when he is ill, but if he says I may, then I shall play a little. Go, Sonia, and ask him. SONIA. Very well. [She goes out. The WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden.] HELENA. It is long since I have heard music. And now, I shall sit and play, and weep like a fool. [Speaking out of the window] Is that you rattling out there, Ephim? VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN. It is I. HELENA. Don't make such a noise. Your master is ill. VOICE OF THE WATCHMAN. I am going away this minute. [Whistles a tune.] SONIA. [Comes back] He says, no. The curtain falls. ACT III The drawing-room of SEREBRAKOFF'S house. There are three doors: one to the right, one to the left, and one in the centre of the room. VOITSKI and SONIA are sitting down. HELENA is walking up and down, absorbed in thought. VOITSKI. We were asked by the professor to be here at one o'clock. [Looks at his watch] It is now a quarter to one. It seems he has some communication to make to the world. HELENA. Probably a matter of business. VOITSKI. He never had any business. He writes twaddle, grumbles, and eats his heart out with jealousy; that's all he does. SONIA. [Reproachfully] Uncle! VOITSKI. All right. I beg your pardon. [He points to HELENA] Look at her. Wandering up and down from sheer idleness. A sweet picture, really. HELENA. I wonder you are not bored, droning on in the same key from morning till night. [Despairingly] I am dying of this tedium. What shall I do? SONIA. [Shrugging her shoulders] There is plenty to do if you would. HELENA. For instance? SONIA. You could help run this place, teach the children, care for the sick--isn't that enough? Before you and papa came, Uncle Vanya and I used to go to market ourselves to deal in flour. HELENA. I don't know anything about such things, and besides, they don't interest me. It is only in novels that women go out and teach and heal the peasants; how can I suddenly begin to do it? SONIA. How can you live here and not do it? Wait awhile, you will get used to it all. [Embraces her] Don't be sad, dearest. [Laughing] You feel miserable and restless, and can't seem to fit into this life, and your restlessness is catching. Look at Uncle Vanya, he does nothing now but haunt you like a shadow, and I have left my work to-day to come here and talk with you. I am getting lazy, and don't want to go on with it. Dr. Astroff hardly ever used to come here; it was all we could do to persuade him to visit us once a month, and now he has abandoned his forestry and his practice, and comes every day. You must be a witch. VOITSKI. Why should you languish here? Come, my dearest, my beauty, be sensible! The blood of a Nixey runs in your veins. Oh, won't you let yourself be one? Give your nature the reins for once in your life; fall head over ears in love with some other water sprite and plunge down head first into a deep pool, so that the Herr Professor and all of us may have our hands free again. HELENA. [Angrily] Leave me alone! How cruel you are! [She tries to go out.] VOITSKI. [Preventing her] There, there, my beauty, I apologise. [He kisses her hand] Forgive me. HELENA. Confess that you would try the patience of an angel. VOITSKI. As a peace offering I am going to fetch some flowers which I picked for you this morning: some autumn roses, beautiful, sorrowful roses. [He goes out.] SONIA. Autumn roses, beautiful, sorrowful roses! [She and HELENA stand looking out of the window.] HELENA. September already! How shall we live through the long winter here? [A pause] Where is the doctor? SONIA. He is writing in Uncle Vanya's room. I am glad Uncle Vanya has gone out, I want to talk to you about something. HELENA. About what? SONIA. About what? [She lays her head on HELENA'S breast.] HELENA. [Stroking her hair] There, there, that will do. Don't, Sonia. SONIA. I am ugly! HELENA. You have lovely hair. SONIA. Don't say that! [She turns to look at herself in the glass] No, when a woman is ugly they always say she has beautiful hair or eyes. I have loved him now for six years, I have loved him more than one loves one's mother. I seem to hear him beside me every moment of the day. I feel the pressure of his hand on mine. If I look up, I seem to see him coming, and as you see, I run to you to talk of him. He is here every day now, but he never looks at me, he does not notice my presence. It is agony. I have absolutely no hope, no, no hope. Oh, my God! Give me strength to endure. I prayed all last night. I often go up to him and speak to him and look into his eyes. My pride is gone. I am not mistress of myself. Yesterday I told Uncle Vanya I couldn't control myself, and all the servants know it. Every one knows that I love him. HELENA. Does he? SONIA. No, he never notices me. HELENA. [Thoughtfully] He is a strange man. Listen, Sonia, will you allow me to speak to him? I shall be careful, only hint. [A pause] Really, to be in uncertainty all these years! Let me do it! SONIA nods an affirmative. HELENA. Splendid! It will be easy to find out whether he loves you or not. Don't be ashamed, sweetheart, don't worry. I shall be careful; he will not notice a thing. We only want to find out whether it is yes or no, don't we? [A pause] And if it is no, then he must keep away from here, is that so? SONIA nods. HELENA. It will be easier not to see him any more. We won't put off the examination an instant. He said he had a sketch to show me. Go and tell him at once that I want to see him. SONIA. [In great excitement] Will you tell me the whole truth? HELENA. Of course I will. I am sure that no matter what it is, it will be easier for you to bear than this uncertainty. Trust to me, dearest. SONIA. Yes, yes. I shall say that you want to see his sketch. [She starts out, but stops near the door and looks back] No, it is better not to know--and yet--there may be hope. HELENA. What do you say? SONIA. Nothing. [She goes out.] HELENA. [Alone] There is no greater sorrow than to know another's secret when you cannot help them. [In deep thought] He is obviously not in love with her, but why shouldn't he marry her? She is not pretty, but she is so clever and pure and good, she would make a splendid wife for a country doctor of his years. [A pause] I can understand how the poor child feels. She lives here in this desperate loneliness with no one around her except these colourless shadows that go mooning about talking nonsense and knowing nothing except that they eat, drink, and sleep. Among them appears from time to time this Dr. Astroff, so different, so handsome, so interesting, so charming. It is like seeing the moon rise on a dark night. Oh, to surrender oneself to his embrace! To lose oneself in his arms! I am a little in love with him myself! Yes, I am lonely without him, and when I think of him I smile. That Uncle Vanya says I have the blood of a Nixey in my veins: "Give rein to your nature for once in your life!" Perhaps it is right that I should. Oh, to be free as a bird, to fly away from all your sleepy faces and your talk and forget that you have existed at all! But I am a coward, I am afraid; my conscience torments me. He comes here every day now. I can guess why, and feel guilty already; I should like to fall on my knees at Sonia's feet and beg her forgiveness, and weep. ASTROFF comes in carrying a portfolio. ASTROFF. How do you do? [Shakes hands with her] Do you want to see my sketch? HELENA. Yes, you promised to show me what you had been doing. Have you time now? ASTROFF. Of course I have! He lays the portfolio on the table, takes out the sketch and fastens it to the table with thumb-tacks. ASTROFF. Where were you born? HELENA. [Helping him] In St. Petersburg. ASTROFF. And educated? HELENA. At the Conservatory there. ASTROFF. You don't find this life very interesting, I dare say? HELENA. Oh, why not? It is true I don't know the country very well, but I have read a great deal about it. ASTROFF. I have my own desk there in Ivan's room. When I am absolutely too exhausted to go on I drop everything and rush over here to forget myself in this work for an hour or two. Ivan and Miss Sonia sit rattling at their counting-boards, the cricket chirps, and I sit beside them and paint, feeling warm and peaceful. But I don't permit myself this luxury very often, only once a month. [Pointing to the picture] Look there! That is a map of our country as it was fifty years ago. The green tints, both dark and light, represent forests. Half the map, as you see, is covered with it. Where the green is striped with red the forests were inhabited by elk and wild goats. Here on this lake, lived great flocks of swans and geese and ducks; as the old men say, there was a power of birds of every kind. Now they have vanished like a cloud. Beside the hamlets and villages, you see, I have dotted down here and there the various settlements, farms, hermit's caves, and water-mills. This country carried a great many cattle and horses, as you can see by the quantity of blue paint. For instance, see how thickly it lies in this part; there were great herds of them here, an average of three horses to every house. [A pause] Now, look lower down. This is the country as it was twenty-five years ago. Only a third of the map is green now with forests. There are no goats left and no elk. The blue paint is lighter, and so on, and so on. Now we come to the third part; our country as it appears to-day. We still see spots of green, but not much. The elk, the swans, the black-cock have disappeared. It is, on the whole, the picture of a regular and slow decline which it will evidently only take about ten or fifteen more years to complete. You may perhaps object that it is the march of progress, that the old order must give place to the new, and you might be right if roads had been run through these ruined woods, or if factories and schools had taken their place. The people then would have become better educated and healthier and richer, but as it is, we have nothing of the sort. We have the same swamps and mosquitoes; the same disease and want; the typhoid, the diphtheria, the burning villages. We are confronted by the degradation of our country, brought on by the fierce struggle for existence of the human race. It is the consequence of the ignorance and unconsciousness of starving, shivering, sick humanity that, to save its children, instinctively snatches at everything that can warm it and still its hunger. So it destroys everything it can lay its hands on, without a thought for the morrow. And almost everything has gone, and nothing has been created to take its place. [Coldly] But I see by your face that I am not interesting you. HELENA. I know so little about such things! ASTROFF. There is nothing to know. It simply isn't interesting, that's all. HELENA. Frankly, my thoughts were elsewhere. Forgive me! I want to submit you to a little examination, but I am embarrassed and don't know how to begin. ASTROFF. An examination? HELENA. Yes, but quite an innocent one. Sit down. [They sit down] It is about a certain young girl I know. Let us discuss it like honest people, like friends, and then forget what has passed between us, shall we? ASTROFF. Very well. HELENA. It is about my step-daughter, Sonia. Do you like her? ASTROFF. Yes, I respect her. HELENA. Do you like her--as a woman? ASTROFF. [Slowly] No. HELENA. One more word, and that will be the last. You have not noticed anything? ASTROFF. No, nothing. HELENA. [Taking his hand] You do not love her. I see that in your eyes. She is suffering. You must realise that, and not come here any more. ASTROFF. My sun has set, yes, and then I haven't the time. [Shrugging his shoulders] Where shall I find time for such things? [He is embarrassed.] HELENA. Bah! What an unpleasant conversation! I am as out of breath as if I had been running three miles uphill. Thank heaven, that is over! Now let us forget everything as if nothing had been said. You are sensible. You understand. [A pause] I am actually blushing. ASTROFF. If you had spoken a month ago I might perhaps have considered it, but now--[He shrugs his shoulders] Of course, if she is suffering--but I cannot understand why you had to put me through this examination. [He searches her face with his eyes, and shakes his finger at her] Oho, you are wily! HELENA. What does this mean? ASTROFF. [Laughing] You are a wily one! I admit that Sonia is suffering, but what does this examination of yours mean? [He prevents her from retorting, and goes on quickly] Please don't put on such a look of surprise; you know perfectly well why I come here every day. Yes, you know perfectly why and for whose sake I come! Oh, my sweet tigress! don't look at me in that way; I am an old bird! HELENA. [Perplexed] A tigress? I don't understand you. ASTROFF. Beautiful, sleek tigress, you must have your victims! For a whole month I have done nothing but seek you eagerly. I have thrown over everything for you, and you love to see it. Now then, I am sure you knew all this without putting me through your examination. [Crossing his arms and bowing his head] I surrender. Here you have me--now, eat me. HELENA. You have gone mad! ASTROFF. You are afraid! HELENA. I am a better and stronger woman than you think me. Good-bye. [She tries to leave the room.] ASTROFF. Why good-bye? Don't say good-bye, don't waste words. Oh, how lovely you are--what hands! [He kisses her hands.] HELENA. Enough of this! [She frees her hands] Leave the room! You have forgotten yourself. ASTROFF. Tell me, tell me, where can we meet to-morrow? [He puts his arm around her] Don't you see that we must meet, that it is inevitable? He kisses her. VOITSKI comes in carrying a bunch of roses, and stops in the doorway. HELENA. [Without seeing VOITSKI] Have pity! Leave me, [lays her head on ASTROFF'S shoulder] Don't! [She tries to break away from him.] ASTROFF. [Holding her by the waist] Be in the forest tomorrow at two o'clock. Will you? Will you? HELENA. [Sees VOITSKI] Let me go! [Goes to the window deeply embarrassed] This is appalling! VOITSKI. [Throws the flowers on a chair, and speaks in great excitement, wiping his face with his handkerchief] Nothing--yes, yes, nothing. ASTROFF. The weather is fine to-day, my dear Ivan; the morning was overcast and looked like rain, but now the sun is shining again. Honestly, we have had a very fine autumn, and the wheat is looking fairly well. [Puts his map back into the portfolio] But the days are growing short. HELENA. [Goes quickly up to VOITSKI] You must do your best; you must use all your power to get my husband and myself away from here to-day! Do you hear? I say, this very day! VOITSKI. [Wiping his face] Oh! Ah! Oh! All right! I--Helena, I saw everything! HELENA. [In great agitation] Do you hear me? I must leave here this very day! SEREBRAKOFF, SONIA, MARINA, and TELEGIN come in. TELEGIN. I am not very well myself, your Excellency. I have been limping for two days, and my head-- SEREBRAKOFF. Where are the others? I hate this house. It is a regular labyrinth. Every one is always scattered through the twenty-six enormous rooms; one never can find a soul. [Rings] Ask my wife and Madame Voitskaya to come here! HELENA. I am here already. SEREBRAKOFF. Please, all of you, sit down. SONIA. [Goes up to HELENA and asks anxiously] What did he say? HELENA. I'll tell you later. SONIA. You are moved. [looking quickly and inquiringly into her face] I understand; he said he would not come here any more. [A pause] Tell me, did he? HELENA nods. SEREBRAKOFF. [To TELEGIN] One can, after all, become reconciled to being an invalid, but not to this country life. The ways of it stick in my throat and I feel exactly as if I had been whirled off the earth and landed on a strange planet. Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen. Sonia! [SONIA does not hear. She is standing with her head bowed sadly forward on her breast] Sonia! [A pause] She does not hear me. [To MARINA] Sit down too, nurse. [MARINA sits down and begins to knit her stocking] I crave your indulgence, ladies and gentlemen; hang your ears, if I may say so, on the peg of attention. [He laughs.] VOITSKI. [Agitated] Perhaps you do not need me--may I be excused? SEREBRAKOFF. No, you are needed now more than any one. VOITSKI. What is it you want of me? SEREBRAKOFF. You--but what are you angry about? If it is anything I have done, I ask you to forgive me. VOITSKI. Oh, drop that and come to business; what do you want? MME. VOITSKAYA comes in. SEREBRAKOFF. Here is mother. Ladies and gentlemen, I shall begin. I have asked you to assemble here, my friends, in order to discuss a very important matter. I want to ask you for your assistance and advice, and knowing your unfailing amiability I think I can count on both. I am a book-worm and a scholar, and am unfamiliar with practical affairs. I cannot, I find, dispense with the help of well-informed people such as you, Ivan, and you, Telegin, and you, mother. The truth is, _manet omnes una nox,_ that is to say, our lives are in the hands of God, and as I am old and ill, I realise that the time has come for me to dispose of my property in regard to the interests of my family. My life is nearly over, and I am not thinking of myself, but I have a young wife and daughter. [A pause] I cannot continue to live in the country; we were not made for country life, and yet we cannot afford to live in town on the income derived from this estate. We might sell the woods, but that would be an expedient we could not resort to every year. We must find some means of guaranteeing to ourselves a certain more or less fixed yearly income. With this object in view, a plan has occurred to me which I now have the honour of presenting to you for your consideration. I shall only give you a rough outline, avoiding all details. Our estate does not pay on an average more than two per cent on the money invested in it. I propose to sell it. If we then invest our capital in bonds, it will earn us four to five per cent, and we should probably have a surplus over of several thousand roubles, with which we could buy a summer cottage in Finland-- VOITSKI. Hold on! Repeat what you just said; I don't think I heard you quite right. SEREBRAKOFF. I said we would invest the money in bonds and buy a cottage in Finland with the surplus. VOITSKI. No, not Finland--you said something else. SEREBRAKOFF. I propose to sell this place. VOITSKI. Aha! That was it! So you are going to sell the place? Splendid. The idea is a rich one. And what do you propose to do with my old mother and me and with Sonia here? SEREBRAKOFF. That will be decided in due time. We can't do everything at once. VOITSKI. Wait! It is clear that until this moment I have never had a grain of sense in my head. I have always been stupid enough to think that the estate belonged to Sonia. My father bought it as a wedding present for my sister, and I foolishly imagined that as our laws were made for Russians and not Turks, my sister's estate would come down to her child. SEREBRAKOFF. Of course it is Sonia's. Has any one denied it? I don't want to sell it without Sonia's consent; on the contrary, what I am doing is for Sonia's good. VOITSKI. This is absolutely incomprehensible. Either I have gone mad or--or-- MME. VOITSKAYA. Jean, don't contradict Alexander. Trust to him; he knows better than we do what is right and what is wrong. VOITSKI. I shan't. Give me some water. [He drinks] Go ahead! Say anything you please--anything! SEREBRAKOFF. I can't imagine why you are so upset. I don't pretend that my scheme is an ideal one, and if you all object to it I shall not insist. [A pause.] TELEGIN. [With embarrassment] I not only nourish feelings of respect toward learning, your Excellency, but I am also drawn to it by family ties. My brother Gregory's wife's brother, whom you may know; his name is Constantine Lakedemonoff, and he used to be a magistrate-- VOITSKI. Stop, Waffles. This is business; wait a bit, we will talk of that later. [To SEREBRAKOFF] There now, ask him what he thinks; this estate was bought from his uncle. SEREBRAKOFF. Ah! Why should I ask questions? What good would it do? VOITSKI. The price was ninety-five thousand roubles. My father paid seventy and left a debt of twenty-five. Now listen! This place could never have been bought had I not renounced my inheritance in favour of my sister, whom I deeply loved--and what is more, I worked for ten years like an ox, and paid off the debt. SEREBRAKOFF. I regret ever having started this conversation. VOITSKI. Thanks entirely to my own personal efforts, the place is entirely clear of debts, and now, when I have grown old, you want to throw me out, neck and crop! SEREBRAKOFF. I can't imagine what you are driving at. VOITSKI. For twenty-five years I have managed this place, and have sent you the returns from it like the most honest of servants, and you have never given me one single word of thanks for my work, not one--neither in my youth nor now. You allowed me a meagre salary of five hundred roubles a year, a beggar's pittance, and have never even thought of adding a rouble to it. SEREBRAKOFF. What did I know about such things, Ivan? I am not a practical man and don't understand them. You might have helped yourself to all you wanted. VOITSKI. Yes, why did I not steal? Don't you all despise me for not stealing, when it would have been only justice? And I should not now have been a beggar! MME. VOITSKAYA. [Sternly] Jean! TELEGIN. [Agitated] Vanya, old man, don't talk in that way. Why spoil such pleasant relations? [He embraces him] Do stop! VOITSKI. For twenty-five years I have been sitting here with my mother like a mole in a burrow. Our every thought and hope was yours and yours only. By day we talked with pride of you and your work, and spoke your name with veneration; our nights we wasted reading the books and papers which my soul now loathes. TELEGIN. Don't, Vanya, don't. I can't stand it. SEREBRAKOFF. [Wrathfully] What under heaven do you want, anyway? VOITSKI. We used to think of you as almost superhuman, but now the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see you as you are! You write on art without knowing anything about it. Those books of yours which I used to admire are not worth one copper kopeck. You are a hoax! SEREBRAKOFF. Can't any one make him stop? I am going! HELENA. Ivan, I command you to stop this instant! Do you hear me? VOITSKI. I refuse! [SEREBRAKOFF tries to get out of the room, but VOITSKI bars the door] Wait! I have not done yet! You have wrecked my life. I have never lived. My best years have gone for nothing, have been ruined, thanks to you. You are my most bitter enemy! TELEGIN. I can't stand it; I can't stand it. I am going. [He goes out in great excitement.] SEREBRAKOFF. But what do you want? What earthly right have you to use such language to me? Ruination! If this estate is yours, then take it, and let me be ruined! HELENA. I am going away out of this hell this minute. [Shrieks] This is too much! VOITSKI. My life has been a failure. I am clever and brave and strong. If I had lived a normal life I might have become another Schopenhauer or Dostoieffski. I am losing my head! I am going crazy! Mother, I am in despair! Oh, mother! MME. VOITSKAYA. [Sternly] Listen, Alexander! SONIA falls on her knees beside the nurse and nestles against her. SONIA. Oh, nurse, nurse! VOITSKI. Mother! What shall I do? But no, don't speak! I know what to do. [To SEREBRAKOFF] And you will understand me! He goes out through the door in the centre of the room and MME. VOITSKAYA follows him. SEREBRAKOFF. Tell me, what on earth is the matter? Take this lunatic out of my sight! I cannot possibly live under the same roof with him. His room [He points to the centre door] is almost next door to mine. Let him take himself off into the village or into the wing of the house, or I shall leave here at once. I cannot stay in the same house with him. HELENA. [To her husband] We are leaving to-day; we must get ready at once for our departure. SEREBRAKOFF. What a perfectly dreadful man! SONIA. [On her knees beside the nurse and turning to her father. She speaks with emotion] You must be kind to us, papa. Uncle Vanya and I are so unhappy! [Controlling her despair] Have pity on us. Remember how Uncle Vanya and Granny used to copy and translate your books for you every night--every, every night. Uncle Vanya has toiled without rest; he would never spend a penny on us, we sent it all to you. We have not eaten the bread of idleness. I am not saying this as I should like to, but you must understand us, papa, you must be merciful to us. HELENA. [Very excited, to her husband] For heaven's sake, Alexander, go and have a talk with him--explain! SEREBRAKOFF. Very well, I shall have a talk with him, but I won't apologise for a thing. I am not angry with him, but you must confess that his behaviour has been strange, to say the least. Excuse me, I shall go to him. [He goes out through the centre door.] HELENA. Be gentle with him; try to quiet him. [She follows him out.] SONIA. [Nestling nearer to MARINA] Nurse, oh, nurse! MARINA. It's all right, my baby. When the geese have cackled they will be still again. First they cackle and then they stop. SONIA. Nurse! MARINA. You are trembling all over, as if you were freezing. There, there, little orphan baby, God is merciful. A little linden-tea, and it will all pass away. Don't cry, my sweetest. [Looking angrily at the door in the centre of the room] See, the geese have all gone now. The devil take them! A shot is heard. HELENA screams behind the scenes. SONIA shudders. MARINA. Bang! What's that? SEREBRAKOFF. [Comes in reeling with terror] Hold him! hold him! He has gone mad! HELENA and VOITSKI are seen struggling in the doorway. HELENA. [Trying to wrest the revolver from him] Give it to me; give it to me, I tell you! VOITSKI. Let me go, Helena, let me go! [He frees himself and rushes in, looking everywhere for SEREBRAKOFF] Where is he? Ah, there he is! [He shoots at him. A pause] I didn't get him? I missed again? [Furiously] Damnation! Damnation! To hell with him! He flings the revolver on the floor, and drops helpless into a chair. SEREBRAKOFF stands as if stupefied. HELENA leans against the wall, almost fainting. HELENA. Take me away! Take me away! I can't stay here--I can't! VOITSKI. [In despair] Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? SONIA. [Softly] Oh, nurse, nurse! The curtain falls. ACT IV VOITSKI'S bedroom, which is also his office. A table stands near the window; on it are ledgers, letter scales, and papers of every description. Near by stands a smaller table belonging to ASTROFF, with his paints and drawing materials. On the wall hangs a cage containing a starling. There is also a map of Africa on the wall, obviously of no use to anybody. There is a large sofa covered with buckram. A door to the left leads into an inner room; one to the right leads into the front hall, and before this door lies a mat for the peasants with their muddy boots to stand on. It is an autumn evening. The silence is profound. TELEGIN and MARINA are sitting facing one another, winding wool. TELEGIN. Be quick, Marina, or we shall be called away to say good-bye before you have finished. The carriage has already been ordered. MARINA. [Trying to wind more quickly] I am a little tired. TELEGIN. They are going to Kharkoff to live. MARINA. They do well to go. TELEGIN. They have been frightened. The professor's wife won't stay here an hour longer. "If we are going at all, let's be off," says she, "we shall go to Kharkoff and look about us, and then we can send for our things." They are travelling light. It seems, Marina, that fate has decreed for them not to live here. MARINA. And quite rightly. What a storm they have just raised! It was shameful! TELEGIN. It was indeed. The scene was worthy of the brush of Aibazofski. MARINA. I wish I'd never laid eyes on them. [A pause] Now we shall have things as they were again: tea at eight, dinner at one, and supper in the evening; everything in order as decent folks, as Christians like to have it. [Sighs] It is a long time since I have eaten noodles. TELEGIN. Yes, we haven't had noodles for ages. [A pause] Not for ages. As I was going through the village this morning, Marina, one of the shop-keepers called after me, "Hi! you hanger-on!" I felt it bitterly. MARINA. Don't pay the least attention to them, master; we are all dependents on God. You and Sonia and all of us. Every one must work, no one can sit idle. Where is Sonia? TELEGIN. In the garden with the doctor, looking for Ivan. They fear he may lay violent hands on himself. MARINA. Where is his pistol? TELEGIN. [Whispers] I hid it in the cellar. VOITSKI and ASTROFF come in. VOITSKI. Leave me alone! [To MARINA and TELEGIN] Go away! Go away and leave me to myself, if but for an hour. I won't have you watching me like this! TELEGIN. Yes, yes, Vanya. [He goes out on tiptoe.] MARINA. The gander cackles; ho! ho! ho! [She gathers up her wool and goes out.] VOITSKI. Leave me by myself! ASTROFF. I would, with the greatest pleasure. I ought to have gone long ago, but I shan't leave you until you have returned what you took from me. VOITSKI. I took nothing from you. ASTROFF. I am not jesting, don't detain me, I really must go. VOITSKI. I took nothing of yours. ASTROFF. You didn't? Very well, I shall have to wait a little longer, and then you will have to forgive me if I resort to force. We shall have to bind you and search you. I mean what I say. VOITSKI. Do as you please. [A pause] Oh, to make such a fool of myself! To shoot twice and miss him both times! I shall never forgive myself. ASTROFF. When the impulse came to shoot, it would have been as well had you put a bullet through your own head. VOITSKI. [Shrugging his shoulders] Strange! I attempted murder, and am not going to be arrested or brought to trial. That means they think me mad. [With a bitter laugh] Me! I am mad, and those who hide their worthlessness, their dullness, their crying heartlessness behind a professor's mask, are sane! Those who marry old men and then deceive them under the noses of all, are sane! I saw you kiss her; I saw you in each other's arms! ASTROFF. Yes, sir, I did kiss her; so there. [He puts his thumb to his nose.] VOITSKI. [His eyes on the door] No, it is the earth that is mad, because she still bears us on her breast. ASTROFF. That is nonsense. VOITSKI. Well? Am I not a madman, and therefore irresponsible? Haven't I the right to talk nonsense? ASTROFF. This is a farce! You are not mad; you are simply a ridiculous fool. I used to think every fool was out of his senses, but now I see that lack of sense is a man's normal state, and you are perfectly normal. VOITSKI. [Covers his face with his hands] Oh! If you knew how ashamed I am! These piercing pangs of shame are like nothing on earth. [In an agonised voice] I can't endure them! [He leans against the table] What can I do? What can I do? ASTROFF. Nothing. VOITSKI. You must tell me something! Oh, my God! I am forty-seven years old. I may live to sixty; I still have thirteen years before me; an eternity! How shall I be able to endure life for thirteen years? What shall I do? How can I fill them? Oh, don't you see? [He presses ASTROFF'S hand convulsively] Don't you see, if only I could live the rest of my life in some new way! If I could only wake some still, bright morning and feel that life had begun again; that the past was forgotten and had vanished like smoke. [He weeps] Oh, to begin life anew! Tell me, tell me how to begin. ASTROFF. [Crossly] What nonsense! What sort of a new life can you and I look forward to? We can have no hope. VOITSKI. None? ASTROFF. None. Of that I am convinced. VOITSKI. Tell me what to do. [He puts his hand to his heart] I feel such a burning pain here. ASTROFF. [Shouts angrily] Stop! [Then, more gently] It may be that posterity, which will despise us for our blind and stupid lives, will find some road to happiness; but we--you and I--have but one hope, the hope that we may be visited by visions, perhaps by pleasant ones, as we lie resting in our graves. [Sighing] Yes, brother, there were only two respectable, intelligent men in this county, you and I. Ten years or so of this life of ours, this miserable life, have sucked us under, and we have become as contemptible and petty as the rest. But don't try to talk me out of my purpose! Give me what you took from me, will you? VOITSKI. I took nothing from you. ASTROFF. You took a little bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case. [A pause] Listen! If you are positively determined to make an end to yourself, go into the woods and shoot yourself there. Give up the morphine, or there will be a lot of talk and guesswork; people will think I gave it to you. I don't fancy having to perform a post-mortem on you. Do you think I should find it interesting? SONIA comes in. VOITSKI. Leave me alone. ASTROFF. [To SONIA] Sonia, your uncle has stolen a bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case and won't give it up. Tell him that his behaviour is--well, unwise. I haven't time, I must be going. SONIA. Uncle Vanya, did you take the morphine? ASTROFF. Yes, he took it. [A pause] I am absolutely sure. SONIA. Give it up! Why do you want to frighten us? [Tenderly] Give it up, Uncle Vanya! My misfortune is perhaps even greater than yours, but I am not plunged in despair. I endure my sorrow, and shall endure it until my life comes to a natural end. You must endure yours, too. [A pause] Give it up! Dear, darling Uncle Vanya. Give it up! [She weeps] You are so good, I am sure you will have pity on us and give it up. You must endure your sorrow, Uncle Vanya; you must endure it. VOITSKI takes a bottle from the drawer of the table and hands it to ASTROFF. VOITSKI. There it is! [To SONIA] And now, we must get to work at once; we must do something, or else I shall not be able to endure it. SONIA. Yes, yes, to work! As soon as we have seen them off we shall go to work. [She nervously straightens out the papers on the table] Everything is in a muddle! ASTROFF. [Putting the bottle in his case, which he straps together] Now I can be off. HELENA comes in. HELENA. Are you here, Ivan? We are starting in a moment. Go to Alexander, he wants to speak to you. SONIA. Go, Uncle Vanya. [She takes VOITSKI 'S arm] Come, you and papa must make peace; that is absolutely necessary. SONIA and VOITSKI go out. HELENA. I am going away. [She gives ASTROFF her hand] Good-bye. ASTROFF. So soon? HELENA. The carriage is waiting. ASTROFF. Good-bye. HELENA. You promised me you would go away yourself to-day. ASTROFF. I have not forgotten. I am going at once. [A pause] Were you frightened? Was it so terrible? HELENA. Yes. ASTROFF. Couldn't you stay? Couldn't you? To-morrow--in the forest-- HELENA. No. It is all settled, and that is why I can look you so bravely in the face. Our departure is fixed. One thing I must ask of you: don't think too badly of me; I should like you to respect me. ASTROFF. Ah! [With an impatient gesture] Stay, I implore you! Confess that there is nothing for you to do in this world. You have no object in life; there is nothing to occupy your attention, and sooner or later your feelings must master you. It is inevitable. It would be better if it happened not in Kharkoff or in Kursk, but here, in nature's lap. It would then at least be poetical, even beautiful. Here you have the forests, the houses half in ruins that Turgenieff writes of. HELENA. How comical you are! I am angry with you and yet I shall always remember you with pleasure. You are interesting and original. You and I will never meet again, and so I shall tell you--why should I conceal it?--that I am just a little in love with you. Come, one more last pressure of our hands, and then let us part good friends. Let us not bear each other any ill will. ASTROFF. [Pressing her hand] Yes, go. [Thoughtfully] You seem to be sincere and good, and yet there is something strangely disquieting about all your personality. No sooner did you arrive here with your husband than every one whom you found busy and actively creating something was forced to drop his work and give himself up for the whole summer to your husband's gout and yourself. You and he have infected us with your idleness. I have been swept off my feet; I have not put my hand to a thing for weeks, during which sickness has been running its course unchecked among the people, and the peasants have been pasturing their cattle in my woods and young plantations. Go where you will, you and your husband will always carry destruction in your train. I am joking of course, and yet I am strangely sure that had you stayed here we should have been overtaken by the most immense desolation. I would have gone to my ruin, and you--you would not have prospered. So go! E finita la comedia! HELENA. [Snatching a pencil off ASTROFF'S table, and hiding it with a quick movement] I shall take this pencil for memory! ASTROFF. How strange it is. We meet, and then suddenly it seems that we must part forever. That is the way in this world. As long as we are alone, before Uncle Vanya comes in with a bouquet--allow me--to kiss you good-bye--may I? [He kisses her on the cheek] So! Splendid! HELENA. I wish you every happiness. [She glances about her] For once in my life, I shall! and scorn the consequences! [She kisses him impetuously, and they quickly part] I must go. ASTROFF. Yes, go. If the carriage is there, then start at once. [They stand listening.] ASTROFF. E finita! VOITSKI, SEREBRAKOFF, MME. VOITSKAYA with her book, TELEGIN, and SONIA come in. SEREBRAKOFF. [To VOITSKI] Shame on him who bears malice for the past. I have gone through so much in the last few hours that I feel capable of writing a whole treatise on the conduct of life for the instruction of posterity. I gladly accept your apology, and myself ask your forgiveness. [He kisses VOITSKI three times.] HELENA embraces SONIA. SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing MME. VOITSKAYA'S hand] Mother! MME. VOITSKAYA. [Kissing him] Have your picture taken, Alexander, and send me one. You know how dear you are to me. TELEGIN. Good-bye, your Excellency. Don't forget us. SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing his daughter] Good-bye, good-bye all. [Shaking hands with ASTROFF] Many thanks for your pleasant company. I have a deep regard for your opinions and your enthusiasm, but let me, as an old man, give one word of advice at parting: do something, my friend! Work! Do something! [They all bow] Good luck to you all. [He goes out followed by MME. VOITSKAYA and SONIA.] VOITSKI [Kissing HELENA'S hand fervently] Good-bye--forgive me. I shall never see you again! HELENA. [Touched] Good-bye, dear boy. She lightly kisses his head as he bends over her hand, and goes out. ASTROFF. Tell them to bring my carriage around too, Waffles. TELEGIN. All right, old man. ASTROFF and VOITSKI are left behind alone. ASTROFF collects his paints and drawing materials on the table and packs them away in a box. ASTROFF. Why don't you go to see them off? VOITSKI. Let them go! I--I can't go out there. I feel too sad. I must go to work on something at once. To work! To work! He rummages through his papers on the table. A pause. The tinkling of bells is heard as the horses trot away. ASTROFF. They have gone! The professor, I suppose, is glad to go. He couldn't be tempted back now by a fortune. MARINA comes in. MARINA. They have gone. [She sits down in an arm-chair and knits her stocking.] SONIA comes in wiping her eyes. SONIA. They have gone. God be with them. [To her uncle] And now, Uncle Vanya, let us do something! VOITSKI. To work! To work! SONIA. It is long, long, since you and I have sat together at this table. [She lights a lamp on the table] No ink! [She takes the inkstand to the cupboard and fills it from an ink-bottle] How sad it is to see them go! MME. VOITSKAYA comes slowly in. MME. VOITSKAYA. They have gone. She sits down and at once becomes absorbed in her book. SONIA sits down at the table and looks through an account book. SONIA. First, Uncle Vanya, let us write up the accounts. They are in a dreadful state. Come, begin. You take one and I will take the other. VOITSKI. In account with [They sit silently writing.] MARINA. [Yawning] The sand-man has come. ASTROFF. How still it is. Their pens scratch, the cricket sings; it is so warm and comfortable. I hate to go. [The tinkling of bells is heard.] ASTROFF. My carriage has come. There now remains but to say good-bye to you, my friends, and to my table here, and then--away! [He puts the map into the portfolio.] MARINA. Don't hurry away; sit a little longer with us. ASTROFF. Impossible. VOITSKI. [Writing] And carry forward from the old debt two seventy-five-- WORKMAN comes in. WORKMAN. Your carriage is waiting, sir. ASTROFF. All right. [He hands the WORKMAN his medicine-case, portfolio, and box] Look out, don't crush the portfolio! WORKMAN. Very well, sir. SONIA. When shall we see you again? ASTROFF. Hardly before next summer. Probably not this winter, though, of course, if anything should happen you will let me know. [He shakes hands with them] Thank you for your kindness, for your hospitality, for everything! [He goes up to MARINA and kisses her head] Good-bye, old nurse! MARINA. Are you going without your tea? ASTROFF. I don't want any, nurse. MARINA. Won't you have a drop of vodka? ASTROFF. [Hesitatingly] Yes, I might. MARINA goes out. ASTROFF. [After a pause] My off-wheeler has gone lame for some reason. I noticed it yesterday when Peter was taking him to water. VOITSKI. You should have him re-shod. ASTROFF. I shall have to go around by the blacksmith's on my way home. It can't be avoided. [He stands looking up at the map of Africa hanging on the wall] I suppose it is roasting hot in Africa now. VOITSKI. Yes, I suppose it is. MARINA comes back carrying a tray on which are a glass of vodka and a piece of bread. MARINA. Help yourself. ASTROFF drinks MARINA. To your good health! [She bows deeply] Eat your bread with it. ASTROFF. No, I like it so. And now, good-bye. [To MARINA] You needn't come out to see me off, nurse. He goes out. SONIA follows him with a candle to light him to the carriage. MARINA sits down in her armchair. VOITSKI. [Writing] On the 2d of February, twenty pounds of butter; on the 16th, twenty pounds of butter again. Buckwheat flour--[A pause. Bells are heard tinkling.] MARINA. He has gone. [A pause.] SONIA comes in and sets the candle stick on the table. SONIA. He has gone. VOITSKI. [Adding and writing] Total, fifteen--twenty-five-- SONIA sits down and begins to write. [Yawning] Oh, ho! The Lord have mercy. TELEGIN comes in on tiptoe, sits down near the door, and begins to tune his guitar. VOITSKI. [To SONIA, stroking her hair] Oh, my child, I am miserable; if you only knew how miserable I am! SONIA. What can we do? We must live our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others without rest, both now and when we are old; and when our last hour comes we shall meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we have suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and God will have pity on us. Ah, then dear, dear Uncle, we shall see that bright and beautiful life; we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrow here; a tender smile--and--we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate faith. [SONIA kneels down before her uncle and lays her head on his hands. She speaks in a weary voice] We shall rest. [TELEGIN plays softly on the guitar] We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. [She wipes away her tears] My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are crying! [Weeping] You have never known what happiness was, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait! We shall rest. [She embraces him] We shall rest. [The WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden; TELEGIN plays softly; MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the margin of her pamphlet; MARINA knits her stocking] We shall rest. The curtain slowly falls. 
26666	----	[ Transcriber's Note: This e-book belongs to Tolstoy's Plays (Complete Edition). The front matter, including the table of contents, can be found in e-book #26660; it lists the other plays in the collection. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this file. ] THE LIGHT SHINES IN DARKNESS DRAMA CHARACTERS NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH SARÝNTSOV. MARY IVÁNOVNA SARÝNTSOVA. His wife. LYÚBA. Their daughter. STYÓPA. Their son. VÁNYA. A younger son. MISSY. Their daughter. THE SARÝNTSOVS' LITTLE CHILDREN. ALEXANDER MIKÁYLOVICH STARKÓVSKY. (Lyúba's betrothed in Act IV). MITROFÁN ERMÍLYCH. Ványa's tutor. THE SARÝNTSOVS' GOVERNESS. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA KÓHOVTSEVA. Mary Ivánovna's sister. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH KÓHOVTSEV. Her husband. LISA. Their daughter. PRINCESS CHEREMSHÁNOV. BORÍS. Her son. TÓNYA. Her daughter. A YOUNG PRIEST. THE SARÝNTSOVS' NURSE. THE SARÝNTSOVS' MEN-SERVANTS. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. A peasant. A PEASANT WOMAN. His wife. MALÁSHKA. His daughter (carrying her baby-brother). PETER. A peasant. A RURAL POLICEMAN. FATHER GERÁSIM. A priest. A NOTARY. A CARPENTER. A GENERAL. HIS ADJUTANT. A COLONEL. A REGIMENTAL CLERK. A SENTINEL. TWO SOLDIERS. A GENDARME OFFICER. HIS CLERK. THE CHAPLAIN OF THE REGIMENT. THE CHIEF DOCTOR IN A MILITARY ASYLUM. AN ASSISTANT DOCTOR. WARDERS. AN INVALID OFFICER. PIANIST. COUNTESS. ALEXANDER PETRÓVICH. PEASANT MEN AND WOMEN, STUDENTS, LADIES, DANCING COUPLES. THE LIGHT SHINES IN DARKNESS ACT I SCENE 1 The scene represents the verandah of a fine country-house, in front of which a croquet-lawn and tennis-court are shown, also a flower-bed. The children are playing croquet with their governess. Mary Ivánovna Sarýntsova, a handsome elegant woman of forty; her sister, Alexándra Ivánovna Kóhovtseva, a stupid, determined woman of forty-five; and her husband, Peter Semyónovich Kóhovtsef, a fat flabby man, dressed in a summer suit, with a pince-nez, are sitting on the verandah at a table with a samovár and coffee-pot. Mary Ivánovna Sarýntsova, Alexándra Ivánovna Kóhovtseva, and Peter Semyónovich Kóhovtsev are drinking coffee, and the latter is smoking. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. If you were not my sister, but a stranger, and Nicholas Ivánovich not your husband, but merely an acquaintance, I should think all this very original, and perhaps I might even encourage him, _J'aurais trouvé tout ça très gentil_;[1] but when I see that _your_ husband is playing the fool--yes, simply playing the fool--then I can't help telling you what I think about it. And I shall tell your husband, Nicholas, too. _Je lui dirai son fait, ma chère._[2] I am not afraid of anyone. [1] I should have considered it all very pretty. [2] I will tell him the plain fact, my dear. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I don't feel the least bit hurt; don't I see it all myself? but I don't think it so very important. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. No. You don't think so, but I tell you that, if you let it go on, you will be beggared. _Du train que cela va ..._[3] [3] At the rate things are going. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Come! Beggared indeed! Not with an income like theirs. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, beggared! And please don't interrupt me, my dear! Anything a _man_ does always seems right to you! PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Oh! I don't know. I was saying---- ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But you never do know what you are saying, because when you men begin playing the fool, _il n'y a pas de raison que ça finisse_.[4] I am only saying that if I were in your place, I should not allow it. _J'aurais mis bon ordre à toutes ces lubies._[5] What does it all mean? A husband, the head of a family, has no occupation, abandons everything, gives everything away, _et fait le généreux à droite et à gauche_.[6] I know how it will end! _Nous en savons quelque chose._[7] [4] There is no reason for it to stop. [5] I should put an end to all these fads. [6] And plays the bountiful left and right. [7] We know something about it. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH [to Mary Ivánovna]. But do explain to me, Mary, what is this new movement? Of course I understand Liberalism, County Councils, the Constitution, schools, reading-rooms, and _tout ce qui s'en suit_;[8] as well as Socialism, strikes, and an eight-hour day; but what is this? Explain it to me. [8] All the rest of it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But he told you about it yesterday. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. I confess I did not understand. The Gospels, the Sermon on the Mount--and that churches are unnecessary! But then how is one to pray, and all that? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes. That is the worst of it. He would destroy everything, and give us nothing in its place. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. How did it begin? MARY IVÁNOVNA. It began last year, after his sister died. He was very fond of her, and her death had a very great effect on him. He became quite morose, and was always talking about death; and then, you know, he fell ill himself with typhus. When he recovered, he was quite a changed man. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But, all the same, he came in spring to see us again in Moscow, and was very nice, and played bridge. _Il était très gentil et comme tout le monde._[9] [9] He was very nice, and like everybody else. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But, all the same, he was then quite changed. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. In what way? MARY IVÁNOVNA. He was completely indifferent to his family, and purely and simply had _l'idée fixe_. He read the Gospels for days on end, and did not sleep. He used to get up at night to read, made notes and extracts, and then began going to see bishops and hermits--consulting them about religion. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And did he fast, or prepare for communion? MARY IVÁNOVNA. From the time of our marriage--that's twenty years ago--till then he had never fasted nor taken the sacrament, but at that time he did once take the sacrament in a monastery, and then immediately afterwards decided that one should neither take communion nor go to church. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. That's what I say--thoroughly inconsistent! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, a month before, he would not miss a single service, and kept every fast-day; and then he suddenly decided that it was all unnecessary. What can one do with such a man? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I have spoken and will speak to him again. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Yes! But the matter is of no great importance. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. No? Not to you! Because you men have no religion. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Do let me speak. I say that that is not the point. The point is this: if he denies the Church, what does he want the Gospels for? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, so that we should live according to the Gospels and the Sermon on the Mount, and give everything away. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. But how is one to live if one gives everything away? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And where has he found in the Sermon on the Mount that we must shake hands with footmen? It says "Blessed are the meek," but it says nothing about shaking hands! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, of course, he gets carried away, as he always used to. At one time it was music, then shooting, then the school. But that doesn't make it any the easier for me! PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Why has he gone to town to-day? MARY IVÁNOVNA. He did not tell me, but I know it is about some trees of ours that have been felled. The peasants have been cutting trees in our wood. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. In the pine-tree plantation? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, they will probably be sent to prison and ordered to pay for the trees. Their case was to be heard to-day, he told me of it, so I feel certain that is what he has gone about. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. He will pardon them, and to-morrow they will come to take the trees in the park. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, that is what it leads to. As it is, they break our apple-trees and tread down the green cornfields, and he forgives them everything. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Extraordinary! ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. That is just why I say that it must not be allowed to go on. Why, if it goes on like that, _tout y passera_.[10] I think it is your duty as a mother to _prendre tes mesures_.[11] [10] Everything will be lost. [11] To take measures. MARY IVÁNOVNA. What can I do? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. What indeed! Stop him! Explain to him that this cannot go on. You have your children! What sort of an example is it for them? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Of course, it is hard; but I go on bearing it, and hoping it will pass, like his former infatuations. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, but "_Aide toi et Dieu t'aidera!_"[12] You must make him feel that he has not only himself to think of, and that one can't live like that. [12] God helps those who help themselves. MARY IVÁNOVNA. The worst of all is that he no longer troubles about the children, and I have to decide everything myself. I have an unweaned baby, besides the older children: girls and boys, who have to be looked after, and need guidance. And I have to do it all single-handed. He used to be such an affectionate and attentive father, but now he seems no longer to care. Yesterday I told him that Ványa is not studying properly, and will not pass his exam., and he replied that it would be by far the best thing for him to leave school altogether. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. To go where? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Nowhere! That's the most terrible thing about it; everything we do is wrong, but he does not say what would be right. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. That's odd. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. What is there odd about it? It is just _your_ usual way. Condemn everything, and do nothing yourself! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Styópa has now finished at the University, and ought to choose a career; but his father says nothing about it. He wanted to take a post in the Civil Service, but Nicholas Ivánovich says he ought not to do so. Then he thought of entering the Horse-Guards, but Nicholas Ivánovich quite disapproved. Then the lad asked his father: "What am I to do then--not go and plough after all?" and Nicholas Ivánovich said: "Why not plough? It is much better than being in a Government Office." So what was he to do? He comes to me and asks, and I have to decide everything, and yet the authority is all in his hands. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, you should tell him so straight out. MARY IVÁNOVNA. So I must! I shall have to talk to him. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And tell him straight out that you can't go on like this. That you do your duty, and he must do his; or if not--let him hand everything over to you. MARY IVÁNOVNA. It is all so unpleasant! ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I will tell him, if you like. _Je lui dirai son fait._[13] [13] I'll tell him the truth. Enter a young priest, confused and agitated. He carries a book, and shakes hands all round. PRIEST. I have come to see Nicholas Ivánovich. I have, in fact, come to return a book. MARY IVÁNOVNA. He has gone to town, but will be back soon. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. What book are you returning? PRIEST. Oh, it's Mr. Renan's _Life of Jesus_. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Dear me! What books you read! PRIEST [much agitated, lights a cigarette] It was Nicholas Ivánovich gave it to me to read. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA [contemptuously] Nicholas Ivánovich gave it you! And do you agree with Nicholas Ivánovich and Mr. Renan? PRIEST. No, of course not. If I really did agree, I should not, in fact, be what is called a servant of the Church. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But if you are, as it is called, a faithful servant of the Church, why don't you convert Nicholas Ivánovich? PRIEST. Everyone, in fact, has his own views on these matters, and Nicholas Ivánovich really maintains much that is quite true, only he goes astray, in fact, on the main point, the Church. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA [contemptuously] And what are the many things that Nicholas Ivánovich maintains that are quite true? Is it true that the Sermon on the Mount bids us give our property away to strangers and let our own families go begging? PRIEST. The Church, in fact, sanctions the family, and the Holy Fathers of the Church, in fact, blessed the family; but the highest perfection really demands the renunciation of worldly advantages. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Of course the Anchorites acted so, but ordinary mortals, I should imagine, should act in an ordinary way, as befits all good Christians. PRIEST. No one can tell unto what he may be called. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And, of course, you are married? PRIEST. Oh yes. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And have you any children? PRIEST. Two. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Then why don't you renounce worldly advantages, and not go about smoking a cigarette? PRIEST. Because of my weakness, in fact, my unworthiness. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Ah! I see that instead of bringing Nicholas Ivánovich to reason, you support him. That, I tell you straight out, is wrong! Enter Nurse. NURSE. Don't you hear baby crying? Please come to nurse him. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I'm coming, coming! [Rises and exit]. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I'm dreadfully sorry for my sister. I see how she suffers. Seven children, one of them unweaned, and then all these fads to put up with. It seems to me quite plain that he has something wrong here [touching her forehead. To Priest] Now tell me, I ask you, what new religion is this you have discovered? PRIEST. I don't understand, in fact ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Oh, please don't beat about the bush. You know very well what I am asking you about. PRIEST. But allow me ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I ask you, what creed is it that bids us shake hands with every peasant and let them cut down the trees, and give them money for vódka, and abandon our own families? PRIEST. I don't know that ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. He says it is Christianity. You are a priest of the Orthodox Greek Church, and therefore you must know and must say whether Christianity bids us encourage robbery. PRIEST. But I ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Or else, why are you a priest, and why do you wear long hair and a cassock? PRIEST. But we are not asked ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Not asked, indeed! Why, I am asking you! He told me yesterday that the Gospels say, "Give to him that asketh of thee." But then in what sense is that meant? PRIEST. In its plain sense, I suppose. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And I think not in the plain sense; we have always been taught that everybody's position is appointed by God. PRIEST. Of course, but yet ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Oh, yes. It's just as I was told; you take his side, and that is wrong! I say so straight out. If some young school teacher, or some young lad, lickspittles to him, it's bad enough--but you, in your position, should remember the responsibility that rests on you. PRIEST. I try to ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. What sort of religion is it, when he does not go to church, and does not believe in the sacraments? And instead of bringing him to his senses, you read Renan with him, and interpret the Gospels in a way of your own. PRIEST [excitedly] I cannot answer. I am, in fact, upset, and will hold my tongue. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Oh! If only I were your Bishop; I'd teach you to read Renan and smoke cigarettes. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. _Mais cessez, au nom du ciel. De quel droit?_[14] [14] But do stop, for heaven's sake. What right have you? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Please don't teach me. I am sure the Reverend Father is not angry with me. What if I have spoken plainly. It would have been worse had I bottled up my anger. Isn't that so? PRIEST. Forgive me if I have not expressed myself as I should. [Uncomfortable pause]. Enter Lyúba and Lisa. Lyúba, Mary Ivánovna's daughter, is a handsome energetic girl of twenty. Lisa, Alexándra Ivánovna's daughter, is a little older. Both have kerchiefs on their heads, and are carrying baskets, to go gathering mushrooms. They greet Alexándra Ivánovna, Peter Semyónovich, and the priest. LYÚBA. Where is Mamma? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Just gone to the baby. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Now mind you bring back plenty of mushrooms. A little village girl brought some lovely white ones this morning. I'd go with you myself, but it's too hot. LISA. Do come, Papa! ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, go, for you are getting too fat. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Well, perhaps I will, but I must first fetch some cigarettes. [Exit]. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Where are all the young ones? LYÚBA. Styópa is cycling to the station, the tutor has gone to town with papa. The little ones are playing croquet, and Ványa is out there in the porch, playing with the dogs. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, has Styópa decided on anything? LYÚBA. Yes. He has gone himself to hand in his application to enter the Horse-Guards. He was horribly rude to papa yesterday. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Of course, it's hard on him too.... _Il n'y a pas de patience qui tienne._[15] The young man must begin to live, and he is told to go and plough! [15] There are limits to human endurance. LYÚBA. That's not what papa told him; he said ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Never mind. Still Styópa must begin life, and whatever he proposes, it's all objected to. But here he is himself. The Priest steps aside, opens a book, and begins to read. Enter Styópa cycling towards the verandah. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. _Quand on parle du soleil on en voit les rayons._[16] We were just talking about you. Lyúba says you were rude to your father. [16] Speak of the sun and you see its rays. STYÓPA. Not at all. There was nothing particular. He gave me his opinion, and I gave him mine. It is not my fault that our views differ. Lyúba, you know, understands nothing, but must have her say about everything. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, and what have you decided on? STYÓPA. I don't know what Papa has decided. I'm afraid he does not quite know himself; but as for me, I have decided to volunteer for the Horse-Guards. In our house some special objection is made to every step that is taken; but this is all quite simple. I have finished my studies, and must serve my time. To enter a line regiment and serve with tipsy low-class officers would be unpleasant, and so I'm entering the Horse-Guards, where I have friends. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes; but why won't your father agree to it? STYÓPA. Papa! What is the good of talking about him? He is now possessed by his _idée fixe_.[17] He sees nothing but what he wants to see. He says military service is the basest kind of employment, and that therefore one should not serve, and so he won't give me any money. [17] Fixed idea. LISA. No! Styópa. He did not say that! You know I was present. He says that if you cannot avoid serving, you should go when you are called; but that to volunteer, is to choose that kind of service of your own free will. STYÓPA. But it's I, not he, who is going to serve. He himself was in the army! LISA. Yes, but he does not exactly say that he will not give you the money; but that he cannot take part in an affair that is contrary to his convictions. STYÓPA. Convictions have nothing to do with it. One must serve--and that's all! LISA. I only say what I heard. STYÓPA. I know you always agree with Papa. Do you know, Aunt, that Lisa takes Papa's side entirely in everything? LISA. What is true ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Don't I know that Lisa always takes up with any kind of nonsense. She scents nonsense. _Elle flaire cela de loin._[18] [18] She scents it from afar. Enter Ványa running in with a telegram in his hand, followed by the dogs. He wears a red shirt. VÁNYA [to Lyúba]. Guess who is coming? LYÚBA. What's the use of guessing? Give it here [stretching towards him. Ványa does not let her have the telegram]. VÁNYA. I'll not give it you, and I won't say who it is from. It's someone who makes you blush! LYÚBA. Nonsense! Who is the telegram from? VÁNYA. There, you're blushing! Aunty, she is blushing, isn't she? LYÚBA. What nonsense! Who is it from? Aunty, who is it from? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. The Cheremshánovs. LYÚBA. Ah! VÁNYA. There you are! Why are you blushing? LYÚBA. Let me see the telegram, Aunt. [Reads] "Arriving all three by the mail train. Cheremshánovs." That means the Princess, Borís, and Tónya. Well, I am glad! VÁNYA. There you are, you're glad! Styópa, look how she is blushing. STYÓPA. That's enough--teasing over and over again. VÁNYA. Of course, because you're sweet on Tónya! You'd better cast lots; for two men must not marry one another's sisters.[19] [19] In Russia the relationships that are set up by marriage debar a marriage between a woman's brother-in-law and her sister. STYÓPA. Don't humbug! Shut up! How often have you been told to? LISA. If they are coming by the mail train, they will be here directly. LYÚBA. That's true, so we can't go for mushrooms. Enter Peter Semyónovich with his cigarettes. LYÚBA. Uncle Peter, we are not going! PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Why not? LYÚBA. The Cheremshánovs are coming directly. Better let's play tennis till they come. Styópa, will you play? STYÓPA. I may as well. LYÚBA. Ványa and I against you and Lisa. Agreed? Then I'll get the balls and call the boys. [Exit]. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. So I'm to stay here after all! PRIEST [preparing to go]. My respects to you. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. No, wait a bit, Father. I want to have a talk with you. Besides, Nicholas Ivánovich will be here directly. PRIEST [sits down, and lights another cigarette]. He may be a long time. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. There, someone is coming. I expect it's he. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Which Cheremshánova is it? Can it be Golitzin's daughter? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, of course. It's the Cheremshánova who lived in Rome with her aunt. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Dear me, I shall be glad to see her. I have not met her since those days in Rome when she used to sing duets with me. She sang beautifully. She has two children, has she not? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, they are coming too. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. I did not know that they were so intimate with the Sarýntsovs. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Not intimate, but they lodged together abroad last year, and I believe that _la princesse a des vues sur Lyúba pour son fils. C'est une fine mouche, elle flaire une jolie dot._[20] [20] The princess has her eye on Lyúba for her son. She is a knowing one, and scents a nice dowry. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. But the Cheremshánovs themselves were rich. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. They _were_. The prince is still living, but he has squandered everything, drinks, and has quite gone to the dogs. She petitioned the Emperor, left her husband, and so managed to save a few scraps. But she has given her children a splendid education. _Il faut lui rendre cette justice._[21] The daughter is an admirable musician; and the son has finished the University, and is charming. Only I don't think Mary is quite pleased. Visitors are inconvenient just now. Ah! here comes Nicholas. [21] One must do her that much justice. Enter Nicholas Ivánovich. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How d'you do, Alína;[22] and you, Peter Semyónovich. [To the Priest] Ah! Vasíly Nikanórych. [Shakes hands with them]. [22] Alína is an abbreviation, and a pet name, for Alexándra. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. There is still some coffee left. Shall I give you a cup? It's rather cold, but can easily be warmed up. [Rings]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, thank you. I have had something. Where is Mary? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Feeding Baby. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Is she quite well? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Pretty well. Have you done your business? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I have. Yes. If there _is_ any tea or coffee left, I will have some. [To Priest] Ah! you've brought the book back. Have you read it? I've been thinking about you all the way home. Enter man-servant, who bows. Nicholas Ivánovich shakes hands with him. Alexándra Ivánovna shrugs her shoulders, exchanging glances with her husband. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Re-heat the samovár, please. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That's not necessary, Alína. I don't really want any, and I'll drink it as it is. Missy, on seeing her father, leaves her croquet, runs to him, and hangs round his neck. MISSY. Papa! Come with me. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [caressing her]. Yes, I'll come directly. Just let me eat something first. Go and play, and I'll soon come. Exit Missy. Nicholas Ivánovich sits down to the table, and eats and drinks eagerly. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, were they sentenced? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes! They were. They themselves pleaded guilty. [To Priest] I thought you would not find Renan very convincing ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And you did not approve of the verdict? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [vexed]. Of course I don't approve of it. [To Priest] The main question for you is not Christ's divinity, or the history of Christianity, but the Church ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Then how was it? _They_ confessed their guilt, _et vous leur avez donné un démenti_?[23] They did not steal them--but only took the wood? [23] And you contradicted them. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [who had begun talking to the priest, turns resolutely to Alexándra Ivánovna]. Alína, my dear, do not pursue me with pinpricks and insinuations. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But not at all ... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And if you really want to know why I can't prosecute the peasants about the wood they needed and cut down ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I should think they also need this samovár. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, if you want me to tell you why I can't agree with those people being shut up in prison, and being totally ruined, because they cut down ten trees in a forest which is considered to be mine ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Considered so by everybody. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Oh dear! Disputing again. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Even if I considered that forest mine, which I cannot do, we have 3000 acres of forest, with about 150 trees to the acre. In all, about 450,000 trees--is that correct? Well, they have cut down ten trees--that is, one 45-thousandth part. Now is it worth while, and can one really decide, to tear a man away from his family and put him in prison for that? STYÓPA. Ah! but if you don't hold on to this one 45-thousandth, all the other 44,990 trees will very soon be cut down also. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But I only said _that_ in answer to your aunt. In reality I have no right to this forest. Land belongs to everyone; or rather, it can't belong to anyone. We have never put any labour into this land. STYÓPA. No, but you saved money and preserved this forest. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How did I get my savings? What enabled me to save up? And I didn't preserve the forest myself! However, this is a matter which can't be proved to anyone who does not himself feel ashamed when he strikes at another man-- STYÓPA. But no one is striking anybody! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Just as when a man feels no shame at taking toll from others' labour without doing any work himself, you cannot prove to him that he ought to be ashamed; and the object of all the Political Economy you learnt at the University is merely to justify the false position in which we live. STYÓPA. On the contrary; science destroys all prejudices. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. However, all this is of no importance to me. What is important is that in Yefím's[24] place I should have acted as he did, and I should have been desperate had I been imprisoned. And as I wish to do to others as I wish them to do to me--I cannot condemn him, but do what I can to save him. [24] Yefím was the peasant who had cut down the tree. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. But, if one goes on that line, one cannot possess anything. Alexándra Ivánovna and Styópa-- Both speak together { ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Then it is much more profitable to steal than to { work. { { STYÓPA. You never reply to one's arguments. I say that a man who { saves, has a right to enjoy his savings. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [smiling] I don't know which I am to reply to. [To Peter Semyónovich] It's true. One should not possess anything. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But if one should not possess anything, one can't have any clothes, nor even a crust of bread, but must give away everything, so that it's impossible to live. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And it should be impossible to live as we do! STYÓPA. In other words, we must die! Therefore, that teaching is unfit for life.... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No. It is given just that men may live. Yes. One should give everything away. Not only the forest we do not use and hardly ever see, but even our clothes and our bread. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. What! And the children's too? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, the children's too. And not only our bread, but ourselves. Therein lies the whole teaching of Christ. One must strive with one's whole strength to give oneself away. STYÓPA. That means to die. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, even if you gave your life for your friends, that would be splendid both for you and for others. But the fact is that man is not solely a spirit, but a spirit within a body; and the flesh draws him to live for itself, while the spirit of light draws him to live for God and for others: and the life in each of us is not solely animal, but is equipoised between the two. But the more it is a life for God, the better; and the animal will not fail to take care of itself. STYÓPA. Why choose a middle course: an equipoise between the two? If it is right to do so--why not give away everything and die? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That would be splendid. Try to do it, and it will be well both for you and for others. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. No, that is not clear, not simple. _C'est tiré par les cheveux._[25] [25] It's too fine spun. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, I can't help it, and it can't be explained by argument. However, that is enough. STYÓPA. Yes, quite enough, and I also don't understand it. [Exit]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [turns to Priest] Well, what impression did the book make on you? PRIEST [agitated] How shall I put it? Well, the historic part is insufficiently worked out, and it is not fully convincing, or let us say, quite reliable; because the materials are, as a matter of fact, insufficient. Neither the Divinity of Christ, nor His lack of Divinity, can be proved historically; there is but one irrefragable proof.... During this conversation first the ladies and then Peter Semyónovich go out. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You mean the Church? PRIEST. Well, of course, the Church, and the evidence, let's say, of reliable men--the Saints for instance. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Of course, it would be excellent if there existed a set of infallible people to confide in. It would be very desirable; but its desirability does not prove that they exist! PRIEST. And I believe that just _that is_ the proof. The Lord could not in fact have exposed His law to the possibility of mutilation or misinterpretation, but must in fact have left a guardian of His truth to prevent that truth being mutilated. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Very well; but we first tried to prove the truth itself, and now we are trying to prove the reliability of the guardian of the truth. PRIEST. Well here, as a matter of fact, we require faith. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Faith--yes, we need faith. We can't do without faith. Not, however, faith in what other people tell us, but faith in what we arrive at ourselves, by our own thought, our own reason ... faith in God, and in true and everlasting life. PRIEST. Reason may deceive. Each of us has a different mind. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [hotly] There, that is the most terrible blasphemy! God has given us just one sacred tool for finding the truth--the only thing that can unite us all, and we do not trust it! PRIEST. How can we trust in it, when there are contradictions? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Where are the contradictions? That twice two are four; and that one should not do to others what one would not like oneself; and that everything has a cause? Truths of that kind we all acknowledge because they accord with all our reason. But that God appeared on Mount Sinai to Moses, or that Buddha flew up on a sunbeam, or that Mahomet went up into the sky, and that Christ flew there also--on matters of that kind we are all at variance. PRIEST. No, we are not at variance, those of us who abide in the truth are all united in one faith in God, Christ. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, even there, you are not united, but have all gone asunder; so why should I believe you rather than I would believe a Buddhist Lama? Only because I happened to be born in your faith? [The tennis players dispute] "Out!" "Not out!" VÁNYA. I saw it ...: During the conversation, men-servants set the table again for tea and coffee. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You say the Church unites. But, on the contrary, the worst dissensions have always been caused by the Church. "How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathers her chickens." ... PRIEST. That was until Christ. But Christ did gather them all together. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, Christ united; but we have divided: because we have understood him the wrong way round. He destroyed all Churches. PRIEST. Did he not say: "Go, tell the Church." NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. It is not a question of words! Besides those words don't refer to what we call "Church." It is the spirit of the teaching that matters. Christ's teaching is universal, and includes all religions, and does not admit of anything exclusive; neither of the Resurrection nor the Divinity of Christ, nor the Sacraments--nor of anything that divides. PRIEST. That, as a matter of fact, if I may say so, is your own interpretation of Christ's teaching. But Christ's teaching is all founded on His Divinity and Resurrection. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That's what is so dreadful about the Churches. They divide by declaring that they possess the full indubitable and infallible truth. They say: "It has pleased us and the Holy Ghost." That began at the time of the first Council of the Apostles. They then began to maintain that they had the full and _exclusive_ truth. You see, if I say there is a God: the first cause of the Universe, everyone can agree with me; and _such_ an acknowledgment of God will unite us; but if I say there is a God: Brahma, or Jehovah, or a Trinity, such a God divides us. Men wish to unite, and to that end devise all means of union, but neglect the one indubitable means of union--the search for truth! It is as if people in an enormous building, where the light from above shone down into the centre, tried to unite in groups around lamps in different corners, instead of going towards the central light, where they would naturally all be united. PRIEST. And how are the people to be guided--without any really definite truth? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That's what is terrible! Each _one_ of us has to save _his own_ soul, and has to do God's work _himself_, but instead of that we busy ourselves saving _other people_ and teaching _them_. And what do we teach them? We teach them now, at the end of the nineteenth century, that God created the world in six days, then caused a flood, and put all the animals in an ark, and all the rest of the horrors and nonsense of the Old Testament. And then that Christ ordered everyone to be baptized with water; and we make them believe in all the absurdity and meanness of an Atonement essential to salvation; and then that he rose up into the heavens which do not really exist, and there sat down at the right hand of the Father. We have got used to all this, but really it is dreadful! A child, fresh and ready to receive all that is good and true, asks us what the world is, and what its laws are; and we, instead of revealing to him the teaching of love and truth that has been given to us, carefully ram into his head all sorts of horrible absurdities and meannesses, ascribing them all to God. Is that not terrible? It is as great a crime as man can commit. And we--you and your Church--do this! Forgive me! PRIEST. Yes, if one looks at Christ's teaching from a rationalistic point of view, it is so. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Whichever way one looks, it is so. [Pause]. Enter Alexándra Ivánovna. Priest bows to take his leave. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Good-bye, Father. He will lead you astray. Don't you listen to him. PRIEST. No. Search the Scriptures! The matter is too important, as a matter of fact, to be--let's say--neglected. [Exit]. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Really, Nicholas, you have no pity on him! Though he is a priest, he is still only a boy, and can have no firm convictions or settled views.... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Give him time to settle down and petrify in falsehood? No! Why should I? Besides, he is a good, sincere man. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But what will become of him if he believes you? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. He need not believe _me_. But if he saw the truth, it would be well for him and for everybody. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. If it were really so good, everyone would be ready to believe you. As it is, no one believes you, and your wife least of all. She _can't_ believe you. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Who told you that? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, just you try and explain it to her! She will never understand, nor shall I, nor anyone else in the world, that one must care for other people and abandon one's own children. Go and try to explain that to Mary! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, and Mary will certainly understand. Forgive me, Alexándra, but if it were not for other people's influence, to which she is very susceptible, she would understand me and go with me. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. To beggar your children for the sake of drunken Yefím and his sort? Never! But if I have made you angry, please forgive me. I can't help speaking out. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I am not angry. On the contrary, I am even glad you have spoken out and given me the opportunity--challenged me--to explain to Mary my whole outlook on life. On my way home to-day I was thinking of doing so, and I will speak to her at once; and you will see that she will agree, because she is wise and good. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, as to that, allow me to have my doubts. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But I have no doubts. For you know, this is not any invention of my own; it is only what we all of us know, and what Christ revealed to us. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Yes, you think Christ revealed this, but I think he revealed something else. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. It cannot be anything else. Shouts from the tennis ground. LYÚBA. Out! VÁNYA. No, we saw it. LISA. I know. It fell just here! LYÚBA. Out! Out! Out! VÁNYA. It's not true. LYÚBA. For one thing, it's rude to say "It's not true." VÁNYA. And it's rude to say what is not true! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Just wait a bit, and don't argue, but listen. Isn't it true that at any moment we may die, and either cease to exist, or go to God who expects us to live according to His will? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, what can I do in this life other than what the supreme judge in my soul, my conscience--God--requires of me? And my conscience--God--requires that I should regard everybody as equal, love everybody, serve everybody. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Your own children too? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Naturally, my own too, but obeying all that my conscience demands. Above all, that I should understand that my life does not belong to me--nor yours to you--but to God, who sent us into the world and who requires that we should do His will. And His will is ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And you think that you will persuade Mary of this? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Certainly. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And that she will give up educating the children properly, and will abandon them? Never! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Not only will she understand, but you too will understand that it is the only thing to do. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Never! Enter Mary Ivánovna. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, Mary! I didn't wake you this morning, did I? MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, I was not asleep. And have you had a successful day? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, very. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Why, your coffee is quite cold! Why do you drink it like that? By the way, we must prepare for our visitors. You know the Cheremshánovs are coming? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, if you're glad to have them, I shall be very pleased. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I like her and her children, but they have chosen a rather inconvenient time for their visit. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA [rising] Well, talk matters over with him, and I'll go and watch the tennis. A pause, then Mary Ivánovna and Nicholas Ivánovich begin both talking at once. MARY IVÁNOVNA. It's inconvenient, because we must have a talk. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I was just saying to Aline ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. What? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, you speak first. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, I wanted to have a talk with you about Styópa. After all, something _must_ be decided. He, poor fellow, feels depressed, and does not know what awaits him. He came to me, but how can I decide? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Why decide? He can decide for himself. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But, you know, he wants to enter the Horse-Guards as a volunteer, and in order to do that he must get you to countersign his papers, and he must also be in a position to keep himself; and you don't give him anything. [Gets excited]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Mary, for heaven's sake don't get excited, but listen to me. I don't give or withhold anything. To enter military service of one's own free will, I consider either a stupid, insensate action, suitable for a savage if the man does not understand the evil of his action, or despicable if he does it from an interested motive.... MARY IVÁNOVNA. But nowadays everything seems savage and stupid to you. After all, he must live; you lived! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [getting irritable] I lived when I did not understand; and when nobody gave me good advice. However, it does not depend on me but on him. MARY IVÁNOVNA. How not on you? It's you who don't give him an allowance. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I can't give what is not mine! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Not yours? What do you mean? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. The labour of others does not belong to me. To give him money, I must first take it from others. I have no right to do that, and I cannot do it! As long as I manage the estate I must manage it as my conscience dictates; and I cannot give the fruits of the toil of the overworked peasants to be spent on the debaucheries of Life-Guardsmen. Take over my property, and then I shall not be responsible! MARY IVÁNOVNA. You know very well that I don't want to take it, and moreover I can't. I have to bring up the children, besides nursing them and bearing them. It is cruel! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Mary, dear one! That is not the main thing. When you began to speak I too began and wanted to talk to you quite frankly. We must not go on like this. We are living together, but don't understand one another. Sometimes we even seem to misunderstand one another on purpose. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I want to understand, but I don't. No, I don't understand you. I do not know what has come to you. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well then, try and understand! This may not be a convenient time, but heaven knows when we shall find a convenient time. Understand not me--but yourself: the meaning of your own life! We can't go on living like this without knowing what we are living for. MARY IVÁNOVNA. We have lived so, and lived very happily. [Noticing a look of vexation on his face] All right, all right, I am listening. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, I too lived so--that is to say, without thinking why I lived; but a time came when I was terror-struck. Well, here we are, living on other people's labour--making others work for us--bringing children into the world and bringing them up to do the same. Old age will come, and death, and I shall ask myself: "Why have I lived?" In order to breed more parasites like myself? And, above all, we do not even enjoy this life. It is only endurable, you know, while, like Ványa, you overflow with life's energy. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But everybody lives like that. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And they are all unhappy. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Not at all. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Anyhow, I saw that I was terribly unhappy, and that I made you and the children unhappy, and I asked myself: "Is it possible that God created us for this end?" And as soon as I thought of it, I felt at once that he had not. I asked myself: "What, then, has God created us for?" Enter Man-servant. MARY IVÁNOVNA [Not listening to her husband, turns to Servant] Bring some boiled cream. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And in the Gospels I found the answer, that we certainly should not live for our own sake. That revealed itself to me very clearly once, when I was pondering over the parable of the labourers in the vineyard. You know? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, the labourers. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That parable seemed to show me more clearly than anything else where my mistake had been. Like those labourers I had thought that the vineyard was my own, and that my life was my own, and everything seemed dreadful; but as soon as I had understood that my life is not my own, but that I am sent into the world to do the will of God ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. But what of it? We all know that! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, if we know it we cannot go on living as we are doing, for our whole life--far from being a fulfilment of His will--is, on the contrary, a continual transgression of it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But how is it a transgression--when we live without doing harm to anyone? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But are we doing no harm? Such an outlook on life is just like that of those labourers. Why we ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, I know the parable--and that he paid them all equally. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [after a pause] No, it's not that. But do, Mary, consider one thing--that we have only one life, and can live it well, or can waste it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I can't think and argue! I don't sleep at night; I am nursing. I have to manage the whole house, and instead of helping me, you say things to me that I don't understand. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Mary! MARY IVÁNOVNA. And now these visitors. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, let us come to an understanding. [Kisses her] Shan't we? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, only be like you used to be. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I can't, but now listen. The sound of bells and an approaching vehicle are heard. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I can't now--they have arrived! I must go to meet them. [Exit behind corner of house. Styópa and Lyúba follow her]. VÁNYA. We shan't abandon it; we must finish the game later. Well, Lyúba, what now? LYÚBA [seriously] No nonsense, please. Alexándra Ivánovna, with her husband and Lisa, come out on to the verandah. Nicholas Ivánovich paces up and down wrapt in thought. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Well, have you convinced her? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Alína, what is going on between us is very important. Jokes are out of place. It is not I who am convincing her, but life, truth, God: they are convincing her--therefore she cannot help being convinced, if not to-day then to-morrow, if not to-morrow ... It is awful that no one ever has time. Who is it that has just come? PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. It's the Cheremshánovs. Catiche Cheremshánov, whom I have not met for eighteen years. The last time I saw her we sang together: "La ci darem la mano." [Sings]. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Please don't interrupt us, and don't imagine that I shall quarrel with Nicholas. I am telling the truth. [To Nicholas Ivánovich] I am not joking at all, but it seemed to me strange that you wanted to convince Mary just when she had made up her mind to have it out with you! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Very well, very well. They are coming. Please tell Mary I shall be in my room. [Exit]. Curtain. ACT II SCENE 1 In the same country-house, a week later. The scene represents a large dining-hall. The table is laid for tea and coffee, with a samovár. A grand piano and a music-stand are by the wall. Mary Ivánovna, the Princess and Peter Semyónovich are seated at the table. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Ah, Princess, it does not seem so long ago since you were singing Rosina's part, and I ... though nowadays I am not fit even for a Don Basilio. PRINCESS. Our children might do the singing now, but times have changed. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. Yes, these are matter-of-fact times ... But your daughter plays really seriously and well. Where are the young folk? Not asleep still, surely? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, they went out riding by moonlight last night, and returned very late. I was nursing baby and heard them. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. And when will my better-half be back? Have you sent the coachman for her? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, they went for her quite early; I expect she will be here soon. PRINCESS. Did Alexándra Ivánovna really go on purpose to fetch Father Gerásim? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, the idea occurred to her yesterday, and she was off at once. PRINCESS. _Quelle énergie! Je l'admire._[26] [26] What energy, I do admire her. PETER SEMYÓNOVICH. _Oh, pour ceci, ce n'est pas ça qui nous manque._[27] [Takes out a cigar] But I will go and have a smoke and take a stroll through the park with the dogs till the young people are up. [Exit]. [27] Oh, as far as that goes, we are not lacking. PRINCESS. I don't know, dear Mary Ivánovna, whether I am right, but it seems to me that you take it all too much to heart. I understand him. He is in a very exalted state of mind. Well, even supposing he does give to the poor? Don't we anyway think too much about ourselves? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, if that were all, but you don't know him; nor all he is after. It is not simply helping the poor, but a complete revolution, the destruction of everything. PRINCESS. I do not wish to intrude into your family life, but if you will allow me ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. Not at all--I look upon you as one of the family--especially now. PRINCESS. I should advise you to put your demands to him openly and frankly, and to come to an agreement as to the limits ... MARY IVÁNOVNA [excitedly] There are no limits! He wants to give away everything. He wishes me now, at my age, to become a cook and a washerwoman. PRINCESS. No, is it possible! That is extraordinary. MARY IVÁNOVNA [takes a letter out of her pocket] We are by ourselves and I am glad to tell you all about it. He wrote me this letter yesterday. I will read it to you. PRINCESS. What? He lives in the same house with you, and writes you letters? How strange! MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, I understand him there. He gets so excited when he speaks. I have for some time past felt anxious about his health. PRINCESS. What did he write? MARY IVÁNOVNA. This [reading] "You reproach me for upsetting our former way of life, and for not giving you anything new in exchange, and not saying how I should like to arrange our family affairs. When we begin to discuss it we both get excited, and that's why I am writing to you. I have often told you already why I cannot continue to live as we have been doing; and I cannot, in a letter, show you why that is so, nor why we must live in accord to Christ's teaching. You can do one of two things: either believe in the truth and voluntarily go with me, or believe in me and trusting yourself entirely to me--follow me." [Stops reading] I can do neither the one nor the other. I do not consider it necessary to live as he wishes us to. I have to consider the children, and I cannot rely on him. [Reads] "My plan is this: We shall give our land to the peasants, retaining only 135 acres besides the orchards and kitchen-garden and the meadow by the river. We will try to work ourselves, but will not force one another, nor the children. What we keep should still bring us in about £50 a year." PRINCESS. Live on £50 a year--with seven children! Is it possible! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, here follows his whole plan: to give up the house and have it turned into a school, and ourselves to live in the gardener's two-roomed cottage. PRINCESS. Yes, now I begin to see that there is something abnormal about it. What did you answer? MARY IVÁNOVNA. I told him I couldn't; that were I alone I would follow him anywhere, but I have the children.... Only think! I am still nursing little Nicholas. I tell him we can't break up everything like that. After all, was that what I agreed to when I married? And now I am no longer young or strong. Think what it has meant to bear and nurse nine children. PRINCESS. I never dreamed that things had gone so far. MARY IVÁNOVNA. That is how things are and I don't know what will happen. Yesterday he excused the Dmítrovka peasants their rent; and he wants to give the land to them altogether. PRINCESS. I do not think you should allow it. It is your duty to protect your children. If he cannot deal with the estate, let him hand it over to you. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But I don't want that. PRINCESS. You ought to take it for the children's sake. Let him transfer the property to you. MARY IVÁNOVNA. My sister Alexándra told him so; but he says he has no right to do it; and that the land belongs to those who work it, and that it is his duty to give it to the peasants. PRINCESS. Yes, now I see that the matter is far more serious than I thought. MARY IVÁNOVNA. And the Priest! The Priest takes his side, too. PRINCESS. Yes, I noticed that yesterday. MARY IVÁNOVNA. That's why my sister has gone to Moscow. She wanted to talk things over with a lawyer, but chiefly she went to fetch Father Gerásim that he may bring his influence to bear. PRINCESS. Yes, I do not think that Christianity calls upon us to ruin our families. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But he will not believe even Father Gerásim. He is so firm; and when he talks, you know, I can't answer him. That's what is so terrible, that it seems to me he is right. PRINCESS. That is because you love him. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I don't know, but it's terrible, and everything remains unsettled--and that is Christianity! Enter Nurse. NURSE. Will you please come. Little Nicholas has woke up and is crying for you. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Directly! When I am excited he gets stomach ache. Coming, coming! Nicholas Ivánovich enters by another door, with a paper in his hand. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, this is impossible! MARY IVÁNOVNA. What has happened? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Why, Peter is to be imprisoned on account of some wretched pine-trees of ours. MARY IVÁNOVNA. How's that? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Quite simply! He cut it down, and they informed the Justice of Peace, and he has sentenced him to three months' imprisonment. His wife has come about it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, and can't anything be done? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Not now. The only way is not to possess any forest. And I will not possess any. What is one to do? I shall, however, go and see whether what we have done can be remedied. [Goes out on to the verandah and meets Borís and Lyúba]. LYÚBA. Good morning, papa [kisses him], where are you going? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I have just returned from the village and am going back again. They are just dragging a hungry man to prison because he ... LYÚBA. I suppose it's Peter? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, Peter. [Exit, followed by Mary Ivánovna]. LYÚBA [sits down in front of samovár] Will you have tea or coffee? BORÍS. I don't mind. LYÚBA. It's always the same, and I see no end to it! BORÍS. I don't understand him. I know the people are poor and ignorant and must be helped, but not by encouraging thieves. LYÚBA. But how? BORÍS. By our whole activity. By using all our knowledge in their service, but not by sacrificing one's own life. LYÚBA. And papa says, that that is just what is wanted. BORÍS. I don't understand. One can serve the people without ruining one's own life. That is the way I want to arrange my life. If only you ... LYÚBA. I want what you want, and am not afraid of anything. BORÍS. How about those earrings--that dress ... LYÚBA. The earrings can be sold and the dresses must be different, but one need not make oneself quite a guy. BORÍS. I should like to have another talk with him. Do you think I should disturb him if I followed him to the village? LYÚBA. Not at all. I see he has grown fond of you, and he addressed himself chiefly to you last night. BORÍS [finishes his coffee] Well, I'll go then. LYÚBA. Yes, do, and I'll go and wake Lisa and Tónya. Curtain. SCENE 2 Village street. Iván Zyábrev, covered with a sheepskin coat, is lying near a hut. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Maláshka! A tiny girl comes out of the hut with a baby in her arms. The baby is crying. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Get me a drink of water. Maláshka goes back into the hut, from where the baby can be heard screaming. She brings a bowl of water. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Why do you always beat the youngster and make him howl? I'll tell mother. MALÁSHKA. Tell her then. It's hunger makes him howl! IVÁN ZYÁBREV [drinks] You should go and ask the Démkins for some milk. MALÁSHKA. I went, but there wasn't any. And there was no one at home. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Oh! if only I could die! Have they rung for dinner? MALÁSHKA. They have. Here's the master coming. Enter Nicholas Ivánovich. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Why have you come out here? IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Too many flies in there, and it's too hot. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Then you're warm now? IVÁN ZYÁBREV. Yes, now I'm burning all over. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And where is Peter? Is he at home? IVÁN ZYÁBREV. At home, at this time? Why, he's gone to the field to cart the corn. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And I hear that they want to put him in prison. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. That's so, the Policeman has gone to the field for him. Enter a pregnant Woman, carrying a sheaf of oats and a rake. She immediately hits Maláshka on the back of the head. WOMAN. What d'you mean by leaving the baby? Don't you hear him howling! Running about the streets is all _you_ know. MALÁSHKA [howling] I've only just come out. Daddy wanted a drink. WOMAN. I'll give it you. [She sees the land-owner, N. I. Sarýntsov] Good-day, sir. Children are a trouble! I'm quite done up, everything on my shoulders, and now they're taking our only worker to prison, and this lout is sprawling about here. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. What are you saying? He's quite ill! WOMAN. He's ill, and what about me? Am I not ill? When it's work, he's ill; but to merry-make or pull my hair out, he's not too ill. Let him die like a hound! What do I care? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How can you say such wicked things? WOMAN. I know it's a sin; but I can't subdue my heart. I'm expecting another child, and I have to work for two. Other people have their harvest in already, and we have not mowed a quarter of our oats yet. I ought to finish binding the sheaves, but can't. I had to come and see what the children were about. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. The oats shall be cut--I'll hire someone, and to bind the sheaves too. WOMAN. Oh, binding's nothing. I can do that myself, if it's only mown down quick. What d'you think, Nicholas Ivánovich, will he die? He is very ill! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I don't know. But he really is very ill. I think we must send him to the hospital. WOMAN. Oh God! [Begins to cry] Don't take him away, let him die here.[28] [To her husband, who utters something] What's the matter? [28] The woman, for all her roughness, is sorry to part from her husband. IVÁN ZYÁBREV. I want to go to the hospital. Here I'm treated worse than a dog. WOMAN. Well, I don't know. I've lost my head. Maláshka, get dinner ready. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. What have you for dinner? WOMAN. What? Why, potatoes and bread, and not enough of that. [Enters hut. A pig squeals, and children are crying inside]. IVÁN ZYÁBREV [groans] Oh Lord, if I could but die! Enter Borís. BORÍS. Can I be of any use? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Here no one can be of use to another. The evil is too deeply rooted. Here we can only be of use to ourselves, by seeing on what we build our happiness. Here is a family: five children, the wife pregnant, the husband ill, nothing but potatoes to eat, and at this moment the question is being decided whether they are to have enough to eat next year or not. Help is not possible. How can one help? Suppose I hire a labourer; who will he be? Just such another man: one who has given up his farming, from drink or from want. BORÍS. Excuse me, but if so, what are you doing here? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I am learning my own position. Finding out who weeds our gardens, builds our houses, makes our garments, and feeds and clothes us. [Peasants with scythes and women with rakes pass by and bow. Nicholas Ivánovich, stopping one of the Peasants] Ermíl, won't you take on the job of carting for these people? ERMÍL [shakes his head] I would with all my heart, but I can't possibly do it. I haven't carted my own yet. We are off now to do some carting. But is Iván dying? ANOTHER PEASANT. Here's Sebastian, he may take on the job. I say, Daddy Sebastian! They want a man to get the oats in. SEBASTIAN. Take the job on yourself. At this time of year one day's work brings a year's food. [The Peasants pass on]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. They are all half-starved; they have only bread and water, they are ill, and many of them are old. That old man, for instance, is ruptured and is suffering, and yet he works from four in the morning to ten at night, though he is only half alive. And we? Is it possible, realising all this, to live quietly and consider oneself a Christian? Or let alone a Christian--simply not a beast? BORÍS. But what can one do? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Not take part in this evil. Not own the land, nor devour the fruits of their labour. How this can be arranged, I don't yet know. The fact of the matter is--at any rate it was so with me--I lived and did not realise how I was living. I did not realise that I am a son of God and that we are all sons of God--and all brothers. But as soon as I realised it--realised that we have all an equal right to live--my whole life was turned upside down. But I cannot explain it to you now. I will only tell you this: I was blind, just as my people at home are, but now my eyes are opened and I cannot help seeing; and seeing it all, I can't continue to live in such a way. However, that will keep till later. Now we must see what can be done. Enter Policeman, Peter, his wife, and boy. PETER [falls at Nicholas Ivánovich's feet] Forgive me, for the Lord's sake, or I'm ruined. How can the woman get in the harvest? If at least I might be bailed out. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I will go and write a petition for you. [To Policeman] Can't you let him remain here for the present? POLICEMAN. Our orders are to take him to the police-station now. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [to Peter] Well then go, and I'll do what I can. This is evidently my doing. How can one go on living like this? [Exit]. Curtain. SCENE 3 In the same country-house. It is raining outside. A drawing-room with a grand piano. Tónya has just finished playing a sonata of Schumann's and is sitting at the piano. Styópa is standing by the piano. Borís is sitting. Lyúba, Lisa, Mitrofán Ermílych and the young Priest are all stirred by the music. LYÚBA. That andante! Isn't it lovely! STYÓPA. No, the scherzo. Though really the whole of it is beautiful. LISA. Very fine. STYÓPA. But I had no idea you were such an artist. It is real masterly play. Evidently the difficulties no longer exist for you, and you think only of the feeling, and express it with wonderful delicacy. LYÚBA. Yes, and with dignity. TÓNYA. While _I_ felt that it was not at all what I meant it to be. A great deal remained unexpressed. LISA. What could be better? It was wonderful. LYÚBA. Schumann is good, but all the same Chopin takes a stronger hold of one's heart. STYÓPA. He is more lyrical. TÓNYA. There is no comparison. LYÚBA. Do you remember his prelude? TÓNYA. Oh, the one called the George Sand prelude? [Plays the commencement]. LYÚBA. No, not that one. That is very fine, but so hackneyed. Do play this one. [Tónya plays what she can of it, and then breaks off]. TÓNYA. Oh, that is a lovely thing. There is something elemental about it--older than creation. STYÓPA [laughs] Yes, yes. Do play it. But no, you are too tired. As it is, we have had a delightful morning, thanks to you. TÓNYA [rises and looks out of window] There are some more peasants waiting outside. LYÚBA. That is why music is so precious. I understand Saul. Though I'm not tormented by devils, I still understand him. No other art can make one so forget everything else as music does. [Approaches the window. To Peasants] Whom do you want? PEASANTS. We have been sent to speak to Nicholas Ivánovich. LYÚBA. He is not in. You must wait. TÓNYA. And yet you are marrying Borís who understands nothing about music. LYÚBA. Oh, surely not. BORÍS [absently] Music? Oh no. I like music, or rather I don't dislike it. Only I prefer something simpler--I like songs. TÓNYA. But is not this sonata lovely? BORÍS. The chief thing is, that it is not important; and it rather hurts me, when I think of the lives men live, that so much importance is attached to music. They all eat sweetmeats, which are standing on the table. LISA. How nice it is to have a fiancé here and sweetmeats provided! BORÍS. Oh that is not my doing. It's mamma's. TÓNYA. And quite right too. LYÚBA. Music is precious because it seizes us, takes possession of us, and carries us away from reality. Everything seemed gloomy till you suddenly began to play, and really it has made everything brighter. LISA. And Chopin's valses. They are hackneyed, but all the same ... TÓNYA. This ... [plays]. Enter Nicholas Ivánovich. He greets Borís, Tónya, Styópa, Lisa, Mitrofán Ermílych and the Priest. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Where's mamma? LYÚBA. I think she's in the nursery. Styópa calls the Man-servant. LYÚBA. Papa, how wonderfully Tónya plays! And where have you been? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. In the village. Enter servant, Afanásy. STYÓPA. Bring another samovár. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [greets the Man-servant, and shakes hands with him[29]] Good-day. [Servant becomes confused. Exit Servant. Nicholas Ivánovich also goes off]. [29] People shake hands much more often in Russia than in England, but it is quite unusual to shake hands with a servant, and Nicholas Ivánovich does it in consequence of his belief that all men are brothers. STYÓPA. Poor Afanásy! He was terribly confused. I can't understand papa. It is as if we were guilty of something. Enter Nicholas Ivánovich. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I was going back to my room without having told you what I feel. [To Tónya] If what I say should offend you--who are our guest--forgive me, but I cannot help saying it. You, Lisa, say that Tónya plays well. All you here, seven or eight healthy young men and women, have slept till ten o'clock, have eaten and drunk and are still eating; and you play and discuss music: while there, where I have just been, they were all up at three in the morning, and those who pastured the horses at night have not slept at all; and old and young, the sick and the weak, children and nursing-mothers and pregnant women are working to the utmost limits of their strength, so that we here may consume the fruits of their labour. Nor is that all. At this very moment, one of them, the only breadwinner of a family, is being dragged to prison because he has cut down one of a hundred thousand pine-trees that grow in the forest that is called _mine_. And we here, washed and clothed, having left the slops in our bedrooms to be cleaned up by slaves, eat and drink and discuss Schumann and Chopin and which of them moves us most or best cures our ennui? That is what I was thinking when I passed you, so I have spoken. Consider, is it possible to go on living in this way? [Stands greatly agitated]. LISA. True, quite true! LYÚBA. If one lets oneself think about it, one can't live. STYÓPA. Why? I don't see why the fact that people are poor should prevent one talking about Schumann. The one does not exclude the other. If one ... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [angrily] If one has no heart, if one is made of wood ... STYÓPA. Well, I'll hold my tongue. TÓNYA. It is a terrible problem; it is the problem of our day; and we should not be afraid of it, but look it straight in the face, in order to solve it. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. We cannot wait for the problem to be solved by public measures. Every one of us must die--if not to-day, then to-morrow. How can I live without suffering from this internal discord? BORÍS. Of course there is only one way; that is, not to take part in it at all. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, forgive me if I have hurt you. I could not help saying what I felt. [Exit]. STYÓPA. Not take part in it? But our whole life is bound up with it. BORÍS. That is why he says that the first step is to possess no property; to change our whole way of life and live so as not to be served by others but to serve others. TÓNYA. Well, I see _you_ have quite gone over to Nicholas Ivánovich's side. BORÍS. Yes, I now understand it for the first time--after what I saw in the village.... You need only take off the spectacles through which we are accustomed to look at the life of the people, to realise at once the connection between their sufferings and our pleasures--that is enough! MITROFÁN ERMÍLYCH. Yes, but the remedy does not consist in ruining one's own life. STYÓPA. It is surprising how Mitrofán Ermílych and I, though we usually stand poles asunder, come to the same conclusion: those are my very words, "not ruin one's own life." BORÍS. Naturally! You both of you wish to lead a pleasant life, and therefore want life arranged so as to ensure that pleasant life for you. [To Styópa] You wish to maintain the present system, while Mitrofán Ermílych wants to establish a new one. Lyúba and Tónya whisper together. Tónya goes to the piano and plays a nocturne by Chopin. General silence. STYÓPA. That's splendid; that solves everything. BORÍS. It obscures and postpones everything! While Tónya is playing, Mary Ivánovna and the Princess enter quietly and sit down to listen. Before the end of the nocturne carriage bells are heard outside. LYÚBA. It is Aunt. [Goes to meet her]. The music continues. Enter Alexándra Ivánovna, Father Gerásim (a priest with a cross round his neck) and a Notary. All rise. FATHER GERÁSIM. Please go on, it is very pleasant. The Princess approaches to receive his blessing, and the young Priest does the same. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I have done exactly what I said I would do. I found Father Gerásim, and you see I have persuaded him to come--he was on his way to Koursk--so I have done my part; and here is the Notary. He has got the deed ready; it only needs signing. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Won't you have some lunch? Notary puts down his papers on the table, and exit. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I am very grateful to Father Gerásim. FATHER GERÁSIM. What else could I do--though it was out of my way--yet as a Christian I considered it my duty to visit him. Alexándra Ivánovna whispers to the young people. They consult together and go out on to the verandah, all except Borís. The young Priest also wants to go. FATHER GERÁSIM.[30] No. You as a pastor and spiritual father must remain here! You may benefit by it yourself, and may be of use to others. Stay here, if Mary Ivánovna has no objection. [30] Father Gerásim is modelled on the lines of the celebrated Father John of Cronstadt. MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, I am as fond of Father Vasíly as if he were one of the family. I have even consulted him; but being so young he has not much authority. FATHER GERÁSIM. Naturally, naturally. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA [approaching] Well, you see now, Father Gerásim, that you are the only person who can help and can bring him to reason. He is a clever, well-read man, but learning, you know, can only do harm. He is suffering from some sort of delusion. He maintains that the Christian law forbids a man to own any property; but how is that possible? FATHER GERÁSIM. Temptation, spiritual pride, self-will! The Fathers of the Church have answered the question satisfactorily. But how did this befall him? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, to tell you everything ... when we married he was quite indifferent to religion, and we lived so, and lived happily, during our best years--the first twenty years. Then he began to reflect. Perhaps he was influenced by his sister, or by what he read. Anyhow, he began thinking and reading the Gospels, and then suddenly he grew extremely religious, began going to church and visiting the monks. Then all at once he gave all this up and changed his way of life completely. He began doing manual labour, would not let the servants wait on him, and above all he is now giving away his property. He yesterday gave away a forest--both the trees and land. It frightens me, for I have seven children. Do talk to him. I'll go and ask him whether he will see you. [Exit]. FATHER GERÁSIM. Nowadays many are falling away. And is the estate his or his wife's? PRINCESS. His! That's what is so unfortunate. FATHER GERÁSIM. And what is his official rank? PRINCESS. His rank is not high. Only that of a cavalry captain, I believe. He was once in the army. FATHER GERÁSIM. There are many who turn aside in that way. In Odessa there was a lady who was carried away by Spiritualism and began to do much harm. But all the same, God enabled us to lead her back to the Church. PRINCESS. The chief thing, please understand, is that my son is about to marry his daughter. I have given my consent, but the girl is used to luxury and should therefore be provided for, and not have to depend entirely on my son. Though I admit he is a hard-working and an exceptional young man. Enter Mary Ivánovna and Nicholas Ivánovich. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How d'you do, Princess? How d'you do? [To Father Gerásim] I beg your pardon. I don't know your name.[31] [31] He knows that the priest is Father Gerásim, but wishes to address him not as a priest, but by his Christian name and patronymic, as one gentleman would usually address another. FATHER GERÁSIM. Do you not wish to receive my blessing? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, I don't. FATHER GERÁSIM. My name is Gerásim Sédorovitch. Very pleased to meet you. Men-servants bring lunch and wine. FATHER GERÁSIM. Pleasant weather, and good for the harvest. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I suppose you came, at Alexándra Ivánovna's invitation, to divert me from my errors and direct me in the path of truth. If that is so, don't let us beat about the bush, but let us get to business at once. I do not deny that I disagree with the teaching of the Church. I used to agree with it, and then left off doing so. But with my whole heart I wish to be in the truth and will at once accept it if you show it to me. FATHER GERÁSIM. How is it you say you don't believe the teaching of the Church? What is there to believe in, if not the Church? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. God and His law, given to us in the Gospels. FATHER GERÁSIM. The Church teaches that very law. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. If it did so, I should believe in the Church, but unfortunately it teaches the contrary. FATHER GERÁSIM. The Church cannot teach the contrary, because it was established by the Lord himself. It is written, "I give you power," and, "Upon this rock I will build my Church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That was not said in this connection at all, and proves nothing. But even if we were to admit that Christ established the Church, how do I know that it was _your_ Church? FATHER GERÁSIM. Because it is said, "Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them." NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That, too, was not said in this connection, and proves nothing. FATHER GERÁSIM. How _can_ one deny the Church? It alone provides salvation. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I did not deny the Church until I found it supported everything that is contrary to Christianity. FATHER GERÁSIM. It can make no mistakes, for it alone has the truth. Those who leave it go astray, but the Church is sacred. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I have already told you that I do not accept that. I do not accept it because, as is said in the Gospels, "By their deeds shall ye know them, by their fruit shall ye know them." I have found out that the Church blesses oaths, murders and executions. FATHER GERÁSIM. The Church acknowledges and sanctifies the Powers ordained by God. During the conversation, Styópa, Lyúba, Lisa and Tónya at different times enter the room and sit or stand listening. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I know that the Gospels say, not only "Do not kill," but "Do not be angry," yet the Church blesses the army. The Gospel says, "Swear not at all," yet the Church administers oaths. The Gospel says ... FATHER GERÁSIM. Excuse me. When Pilate[32] said, "I adjure thee by the living God," Christ accepted his oath by replying "I am." [32] Father Gerásim attributes to Pilate what was said by Caiaphas the high priest. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Dear me! What are you saying? That is really absurd. FATHER GERÁSIM. That is why the Church does not permit everyone to interpret the Gospel, lest he should go astray, but like a mother caring for her child gives him an interpretation suitable to his strength. No, let me finish! The Church does not lay on its children burdens too heavy for them to bear, but demands that they should keep the Commandments: love, do no murder, do not steal, do not commit adultery. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes! Do not kill me, do not steal from me my stolen goods. We have all robbed the people, we have stolen their land and have then made a law forbidding them to steal it back; and the Church sanctions all these things. FATHER GERÁSIM. Heresy and spiritual pride are speaking through you. You ought to conquer your intellectual pride. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. It is not pride. I am only asking you what should I do according to Christ's law, when I have become conscious of the sin of robbing the people and enslaving them by means of the land. How am I to act? Continue to own land and to profit by the labour of starving men: putting them to this kind of work [points to Servant who is bringing in the lunch and some wine], or am I to return the land to those from whom my ancestors stole it? FATHER GERÁSIM. You must act as behoves a son of the Church. You have a family and children, and you must keep and educate them in a way suitable to their position. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Why? FATHER GERÁSIM. Because God has placed you in that position. If you wish to be charitable, be charitable by giving away part of your property and by visiting the poor. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But how is it that the rich young man was told that the rich cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven? FATHER GERÁSIM. It is said, "If thou wouldest be perfect." NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But I _do_ wish to be perfect. The Gospels say, "Be ye perfect as your Father in Heaven ..." FATHER GERÁSIM. But we have to understand in what connection a thing is said. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I do try to understand, and all that is said in the Sermon on the Mount is plain and comprehensible. FATHER GERÁSIM. Spiritual pride. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Where is the pride, since it is said that what is hidden from the wise is revealed to babes? FATHER GERÁSIM. Revealed to the meek, but not to the proud. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But who is proud? I, who consider myself a man like the rest of mankind, and one who therefore must live like the rest by his own labour and as poorly as his brother men, or those who consider themselves to be specially selected sacred people, knowing the whole truth and incapable of error; and who interpret Christ's words their own way? FATHER GERÁSIM [offended] Pardon me, Nicholas Ivánovich, I did not come here to argue which of us is right, nor to receive an admonition, but I called, at Alexándra Ivánovna's request, to talk things over with you. But since you know everything better than I do, we had better end our conversation. Only, once again, I must entreat you in God's name to come to your senses. You have gone cruelly astray and are ruining yourself. [Rises]. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Won't you have something to eat? FATHER GERÁSIM. No, I thank you. [Exit with Alexándra Ivánovna]. MARY IVÁNOVNA [to young Priest] And what now? PRIEST. Well, in my opinion, Nicholas Ivánovich spoke the truth, and Father Gerásim produced no argument on his side. PRINCESS. He was not allowed to speak, and he did not like having a kind of debate with everybody listening. It was his modesty that made him withdraw. BORÍS. It wasn't modesty at all. All he said was so false. It was evident that he had nothing to say. PRINCESS. Yes, with your usual instability I see that you are beginning to agree with Nicholas Ivánovich about everything. If you believe such things you ought not to marry. BORÍS. I only say that truth is truth, and I can't help saying it. PRINCESS. You of all people should not talk like that. BORÍS. Why not? PRINCESS. Because you are poor, and have nothing to give away. However, all this is not our business. [Exit, followed by all except Nicholas Ivánovich and Mary Ivánovna]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [sits pondering, then smiles at his own thoughts] Mary! What is all this for? Why did you invite that wretched, erring man? Why do those noisy women and that priest come into our most intimate life? Can we not settle our own affairs? MARY IVÁNOVNA. What am I to do, if you want to leave the children penniless? That is what I cannot quietly submit to. You know that I am not grasping, and that I want nothing for myself. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I know, I know and believe it. But the misfortune is that you do not trust the truth. I know you see it, but you can't make up your mind to rely on it. You rely neither on the truth nor on me. Yet you trust the crowd--the Princess and the rest of them. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I believe in you, I always did; but when you want to let the children go begging ... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That means that you do not rely on me. Do you think I have not struggled and have not feared! But afterwards I became convinced that this course is not only possible but obligatory, and that it is the one thing necessary and good for the children themselves. You always say that were it not for the children you would follow me, but I say that if we had no children we might live as we are doing; we should then only be injuring ourselves, but now we are injuring them too. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But what am I to do, if I don't understand? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. And what am I to do? Don't I know why that wretched man--dressed up in his cassock and wearing that cross--was sent for, and why Alexándra Ivánovna brought the Notary? You want me to hand the estate over to you, but I can't. You know that I have loved you all the twenty years we have lived together. I love you and wish you well, and therefore cannot sign away the estate to you. If I sign it away at all, it can only be to give it back to those from whom it has been taken--the peasants. And I can't let things remain as they are, but must give it to them. I'm glad the Notary has come; and I will do it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, that is dreadful! Why this cruelty? Though you think it a sin, still give it to me. [Weeps]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You don't know what you are saying. If I give it to you, I cannot go on living with you; I shall have to go away. I cannot continue to live under these conditions. I shall not be able to look on while the life-blood is squeezed out of the peasants and they are imprisoned, in your name if not in mine. So choose! MARY IVÁNOVNA. How cruel you are! Is this Christianity? It is harshness! I cannot, after all, live as you want me to. I cannot rob my own children and give everything away to other people; and that is why you want to desert me. Well--do so! I see you have ceased loving me, and I even know why. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Very well then--I will sign; but, Mary, you demand the impossible of me. [Goes to writing-table and signs] You wished it, but I shall not be able to go on living like this. Curtain. ACT III SCENE 1 The scene is laid in Moscow. A large room. In it a carpenter's bench; a table with papers on it; a book-cupboard; a looking-glass and pictures on the wall behind, with some planks leaning in front of them. A Carpenter and Nicholas Ivánovich wearing a carpenter's apron are working at the bench, planing. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [takes a board from the vice] Is that all right? CARPENTER [setting a plane] Not quite, you must do it more boldly--like this. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. It is easy to say boldly, but I can't manage it. CARPENTER. But why should your honour trouble to learn to be a carpenter? There are such a lot of us nowadays that we can hardly get a living as it is. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [at work again] I'm ashamed to lead an idle life. CARPENTER. Yours is that kind of position. God has given you property. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That's just where it is. I don't believe that God gave it, but that some of us have taken it, and taken it from our brother men. CARPENTER [taken aback] That's so! But still you've no need to do this. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I understand that it must seem strange to you that while living in this house where there is such superfluity, I should wish to earn something. CARPENTER [laughs] No. Everybody knows that gentlefolk want to master everything. Well, now go over it again with the smoothing plane. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You won't believe me and will laugh, but still I must tell you that formerly I was not ashamed to live in this way, but now that I believe in Christ's law, which tells us we are all brothers--I am ashamed to live so. CARPENTER. If you are ashamed of it, give away your property. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I wanted to, but failed, and gave it to my wife. CARPENTER. But after all it would not be possible for you to do it--you are too used to comforts. [Voice outside the door] Papa, may I come in? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You may, you always may. Enter Lyúba. LYÚBA. Good-day, Jacob! CARPENTER. Good-day, Miss! LYÚBA. Borís has gone to his regiment. I am afraid of what he may do or say there. What do you think? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. What can I think? He will do what is natural to him. LYÚBA. It is awful. He has such a short time to serve[33] and may go and ruin his whole life. [33] The period of compulsory service for a University graduate would be short in any case. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. He did well not to come to see me. He understands that I can't say anything to him but what he knows himself. He told me that he handed in his resignation because he sees that not only is there no more immoral, lawless, cruel and brutal occupation than this one, the object of which is to kill, but also that there is nothing more degrading and mean than to have to submit implicitly to any man of higher rank who happens to come along. He knows all that. LYÚBA. That's just why I am afraid. He knows that, and may want to take some action. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. His conscience--the God that dwells within him--will decide that. Had he come to me I should have given him only one piece of advice: not to do anything in which he is guided by his reason alone--nothing is worse than that--but only to act when his whole being demands it. Now I, for instance, wished to act according to Christ's injunction: to leave father, wife and children and to follow Him, and I left home, but how did it end? It ended by my coming back and living with you in luxury in town. Because I was trying to do more than I had strength for, I have landed myself in this degrading and senseless position: I wish to live simply and to work with my hands, but in these surroundings, with lackeys and porters, it seems a kind of affectation. I see that, even now, Jacob Nikonórych is laughing at me. CARPENTER. Why should I laugh? You pay me, and give me my tea. I am grateful to you. LYÚBA. I wonder if I had not better go to him. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. My dear, my darling, I know you find it hard and are frightened, though you should not be so. After all, I am a man who understands life. Nothing evil can happen. All that appears evil really makes one's heart more joyful; only understand that a man who has started on that path will have to choose, and it sometimes happens that God's side and the Devil's weigh so equally that the scales oscillate, and it is then that the great choice has to be made. At that point any interference from outside is terribly dangerous and tormenting. It is as though a man were making such terrible efforts to draw a weight over a ridge that the slightest touch would cause him to break his back. LYÚBA. Why should he suffer so? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That is as though a mother were to ask why she should suffer. There can be no childbirth without suffering, and it is the same in spiritual life. One thing I can tell you. Borís is a true Christian, and consequently is free, and if you cannot as yet be like him, or believe in God as he does, then believe in God through him. MARY IVÁNOVNA [behind door] May I come in? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You may always come in. What a reception I'm having here to-day. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Our priest, Vasíly Nikonórovich, has come. He is going to the Bishop, and has resigned his living! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Impossible! MARY IVÁNOVNA. He is here! Lyúba, go and call him! He wants to see you. [Exit Lyúba]. I had another reason for coming. I want to speak to you about Ványa. He behaves abominably, and does his lesson so badly that he can't possibly pass; and when I speak to him he is rude. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Mary, you know I am out of sympathy with the whole manner of life you are all leading, and with the education you are giving to the children. It is a terrible question for me, whether I have a right to see them perishing before my very eyes ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. Then you should suggest something else, something definite. But what do you offer? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I cannot say what. But can only say that first we should get rid of all this depraving luxury. MARY IVÁNOVNA. So that they should become peasants! I cannot agree to that. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Then don't consult me. The things that grieve you are natural and inevitable. Enter Priest and Lyúba. The Priest and Nicholas Ivánovich kiss[34] one another. [34] It is not unusual among Russians for men-friends to kiss one another; but it is quite unusual for a man of position to kiss a village priest who calls as a visitor--and it indicates great intimacy or great emotion. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Is it possible that you have thrown it all up? PRIEST. I could stand it no longer. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I did not expect it so soon. PRIEST. But it was really impossible. In our calling we cannot be indifferent. We have to hear confessions, and to administer the Sacrament, and when once one has become convinced that it is all not true ... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, and what now? PRIEST. Now I am going to the Bishop to be questioned. I am afraid he will exile me to the Solovétsk Monastery. At one time I thought of asking you to help me to escape abroad, but then I considered that it would seem cowardly. Only, there is my wife! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Where is she? PRIEST. She has gone to her father's. My mother-in-law came and took our boy away. That hurt me very much. I should much like ... [pauses, restraining his tears]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, may God help you! Are you staying with us? PRINCESS [running into the room] There now, it has happened. He has refused to serve, and has been put under arrest. I have just been there but was not admitted. Nicholas Ivánovich, you must go. LYÚBA. Has he refused? How do you know? PRINCESS. I was there myself! Vasíly Andréevich, who is a Member of the Council, told me all about it. Borís just walked in and told them he would serve no longer, would take no oath, and in fact said everything Nicholas Ivánovich has taught him. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Princess! Can such things be taught? PRINCESS. I don't know. Only this is not Christianity! What is your opinion, Father? PRIEST. I am no longer "Father." PRINCESS. Well, all the same. However, you are also one of them! No, I cannot leave things in this state. And what cursed Christianity it is that makes people suffer and perish. I hate this Christianity of yours. It's all right for you, who know you won't be touched; but I have only one son, and you have ruined him! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Do be calm, Princess. PRINCESS. Yes you, you have ruined him! And having ruined him, you must save him. Go and persuade him to abandon all this nonsense. It's all very well for rich people, but not for us. LYÚBA [crying] Papa, what can be done? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I will go. Perhaps I can be of some use. [Takes off his apron]. PRINCESS [helping him on with his coat] They would not let me in, but now we will go together and I shall get my way. [Exeunt]. Curtain. SCENE 2 A Government office. A Clerk is seated at a table, and a Sentinel is pacing up and down. Enter a General with his Adjutant. The Clerk jumps up, the Sentinel presents arms. GENERAL. Where is the Colonel? CLERK. Gone to see that new conscript, Your Excellency. GENERAL. Ah, very well. Ask him to come here to me. CLERK. Yes, Your Excellency. GENERAL. And what are you copying out? Isn't it the conscript's evidence? CLERK. Yes, sir, it is. GENERAL. Give it here. The Clerk hands General the paper and exit. The General hands it to his Adjutant. GENERAL. Please read it. ADJUTANT [reading] "These are my answers to the questions put to me, namely: (1) Why I do not take my oath. (2) Why I refuse to fulfil the demands of the Government. (3) What induced me to use words offensive not only to the army but also to the Highest Authorities. In reply to the first question: I cannot take the oath because I accept Christ's teaching, which directly and clearly forbids taking oaths, as in St. Matthew's Gospel, ch. 5 vv. 33-37, and in the Epistle of St. James, ch. 5 v. 12." GENERAL. Of course he must be arguing! Putting his own interpretations! ADJUTANT [goes on reading] "The Gospel says: 'Swear not at all, but let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay; and what is more than these is of the evil one!' St. James's Epistle says: 'Before all things, brethren, swear not by the heavens nor by the earth, nor by any other oath; but let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay, that ye fall not into temptation!' But apart from the fact that the Bible gives us such clear injunctions not to swear--or even if it contained no such injunctions--I should still be unable to swear to obey the will of men, because as a Christian I must always obey the will of God, which does not always coincide with the will of men." GENERAL. He must be arguing! If I had my way, there would be none of this. ADJUTANT [reading] "I refuse to fulfil the demands of men calling themselves the Government, because ..." GENERAL. What insolence! ADJUTANT. "Because those demands are criminal and wicked. They demand of me that I should enter the army, and learn and prepare to commit murder, though this is forbidden both in the Old and the New Testaments, and above all by my conscience. To the third question ..." Enter Colonel followed by Clerk. The General shakes hands with Colonel. COLONEL. You are reading the evidence? GENERAL. Yes. Unpardonably insolent language. Well, go on. ADJUTANT. "To the third question: What induced me to use offensive words before the Court, my answer is: that I was induced to do so by the wish to serve God, and in order to expose the fraud carried on in His name. This desire, I hope to retain till I die, and therefore ..." GENERAL. Come; that's enough; one can't listen to all this balderdash. The fact is all this sort of thing must be eradicated, and action taken to prevent the people being perverted. [To Colonel] Have you spoken to him? COLONEL. I have been doing so all the time. I tried to shame him, and also to convince him that it would only be worse for himself, and that he would gain nothing by it. Besides that, I spoke of his relations. He was very excited, but holds to his opinions. GENERAL. A pity you talked to him so much. We are in the army not to reason, but to act. Call him here! Exit Adjutant with Clerk. GENERAL [sits down] No, Colonel, that's not the way. Fellows of this kind must be dealt with in a different manner. Decisive measures are needed to cut off the diseased limb. One maggoty sheep infects the whole flock. In these cases one must not be too squeamish. His being a Prince, and having a mother and a fiancée, is none of our business. We have a soldier before us and we must obey the Tsar's will. COLONEL. I only thought that we could move him more easily by persuasion. GENERAL. Not at all--by firmness; only by firmness! I have dealt with men of that sort before. He must be made to feel that he is a nonentity--a grain of dust beneath a chariot wheel, and that he cannot stop it. COLONEL. Well, we can try! GENERAL [getting irritable] No need to try! I don't need to try! I have served the Tsar for forty-four years, I have given and am giving my life to the service, and now this fellow wants to teach me and wants to read me theological lectures! Let him take that to the Priest, but to me--he is either a soldier or a prisoner. That's all! Enter Borís guarded by two Soldiers and followed by Adjutant and Clerk. GENERAL [pointing with a finger] Place him there. BORÍS. I need no placing. I shall stand or sit where I like, for I do not recognise your authority. GENERAL. Silence! You don't recognise authority? I will make you recognise it. BORÍS [sits down on a stool] How wrong it is of you to shout so! GENERAL. Lift him, and make him stand! Soldiers raise him. BORÍS. That you can do, and you can kill me; but you cannot make me submit ... GENERAL. Silence, I tell you. Hear what I have to say to you. BORÍS. I don't in the least want to hear what you have to say. GENERAL. He is mad! He must be taken to the hospital to be examined. That is the only thing to do. COLONEL. The order was to send him to be examined at the Gendarmes' office. GENERAL. Well, then, send him there. Only put him into uniform. COLONEL. He resists. GENERAL. Bind him. [To Borís] Please hear what I have to say to you. I don't care what happens to you, but for your own sake I advise you, bethink yourself. You will rot in a fortress, and not do any good to anyone. Give it up. Well, you flared up a bit and I flared up. [Slaps him on the shoulder] Go, take the oath and give up all that nonsense. [To Adjutant] Is the Priest here? [To Borís] Well? [Borís is silent] Why don't you answer? Really you had better do as I say. You can't break a club with a whip. You can keep your opinions, but serve your time! We will not use force with you. Well? BORÍS. I have nothing more to say, I have said all I had to. GENERAL. There, you see, you wrote that there are such and such texts in the Gospels. Well, the Priest knows all about that. Have a talk with the Priest, and then think things over. That will be best. Good-bye, and I hope "au revoir," when I shall be able to congratulate you on having entered the Tsar's service. Send the Priest here. [Exit, followed by Colonel and Adjutant]. BORÍS [To Clerk and Convoy Soldiers] There you see how they deceive you. They know that they are deceiving you. Don't submit to them. Lay down your rifles and go away. Let them put you into the Disciplinary Battalions and flog you; it will not be as bad as it is to serve such impostors. CLERK. But how could one get on without an army? It's impossible. BORÍS. That is not for us to consider. We have to consider what God demands of us; and God wants us. ONE OF THE SOLDIERS. But how is it that they speak of "the Christian army"? BORÍS. That is not said anywhere in the Bible. It's these impostors who invented it. Enter a Gendarme Officer with Clerk. GENDARME OFFICER. Is it here that the conscript, Prince Cheremshánov, is being kept? CLERK. Yes, sir. Here he is. GENDARME OFFICER. Come here, please. Are you Prince Borís Siménovich Cheremshánov, who refuses to take the oath? BORÍS. I am. GENDARME OFFICER [sits down and points to a seat opposite] Please sit down. BORÍS. I think our conversation will be quite useless. GENDARME OFFICER. I don't think so. At any rate not useless to you. You see it's like this. I am informed that you refuse military service and the oath, and are therefore suspected of belonging to the Revolutionary Party, and that is what I have to investigate. If it is true, we shall have to withdraw you from the service and imprison you or banish you according to the share you have taken in the revolution. If it is not true, we shall leave you to the military authorities. You see I express myself quite frankly to you, and I hope you will treat us in the same way. BORÍS. In the first place I cannot trust men who wear this sort of thing [pointing to the Gendarme Officer's uniform]. Secondly, your very occupation is one I cannot respect, and for which I have the greatest aversion. But I do not refuse to answer your questions. What do you wish to know? GENDARME OFFICER. In the first place, tell me your name, your calling, and your religion? BORÍS. You know all that and I will not reply. Only one of the questions is of great importance to me. I am _not_ what is called an Orthodox Christian. GENDARME OFFICER. What then is your religion? BORÍS. I do not label it. GENDARME OFFICER. But still?... BORÍS. Well then, the Christian religion, according to the Sermon on the Mount. GENDARME OFFICER. Write it down [Clerk writes. To Borís] Still you recognise yourself as belonging to some nationality or rank. BORÍS. No, I don't. I recognise myself as a man, and a servant of God. GENDARME OFFICER. Why don't you consider yourself a member of the Russian Empire? BORÍS. Because I do not recognise any empires. GENDARME OFFICER. What do you mean by not recognising? Do you wish to overthrow them? BORÍS. Certainly I wish it, and work for it. GENDARME OFFICER [To Clerk] Put that down. [To Borís] How do you work for it? BORÍS. By exposing fraud and lies, and by spreading the truth. When you entered I was telling these soldiers not to believe in the fraud into which they have been drawn. GENDARME OFFICER. But beside this method of exposing and persuading, do you approve of any others? BORÍS. No, I not only disapprove, but I consider all violence to be a great sin; and not only violence, but all concealment and craftiness ... GENDARME OFFICER. Write that down. Very well. Now kindly let me know whom you are acquainted with. Do you know Ivashénko? BORÍS. No. GENDARME OFFICER. Klein? BORÍS. I have heard of him, but never met him. Enter Priest (an old man wearing a cross and carrying a Bible). The Clerk goes up to him and receives his blessing. GENDARME OFFICER. Well, I think I may stop. I consider that you are not dangerous, and not within our jurisdiction. I wish you a speedy release. Good-day. [Presses Borís's hand]. BORÍS. One thing I should like to say to you. Forgive me, but I can't help saying it. Why have you chosen this wicked, cruel profession? I should advise you to give it up. GENDARME OFFICER [smiles] Thank you for your advice, but I have my reasons. My respects to you. [To Priest] Father, I relinquish my place to you [Exit with Clerk]. PRIEST. How can you so grieve the authorities by refusing to fulfil the duty of a Christian, to serve the Tsar and your Fatherland? BORÍS [smiling] Just because I want to fulfil my duty as a Christian, I do not wish to be a soldier. PRIEST. Why don't you wish it? It is said that, "To lay down one's life for a friend" is to be a true Christian.... BORÍS. Yes, to "lay down one's life," but not to take another man's. That is just what I want to do, to "lay down my life." PRIEST. You do not reason rightly, young man. John the Baptist said to the soldiers ... BORÍS [smiling] That only goes to prove that even in those days the soldiers used to rob, and he told them not to! PRIEST. Well, but why don't you wish to take your oath? BORÍS. You know that the Gospels forbid it! PRIEST. Not at all. You know that when Pilate said: "I adjure thee by the living God, art thou the Christ?" the Lord Jesus Christ answered "I am." That proves that oaths are not forbidden. BORÍS. Are not you ashamed to talk so? You--an old man. PRIEST. Take my advice and don't be obstinate. You and I cannot change the world. Just take your oath and you'll be at ease. Leave it to the Church to know what is a sin and what is not. BORÍS. Leave it to you? Are you not afraid to take so much sin upon yourself? PRIEST. What sin? Having been brought up firmly in the faith, and having worked as a priest for thirty years, I can have no sins on my shoulders. BORÍS. Whose then is the sin, when you deceive such numbers of people? What have these poor fellows got in their heads? [Points to Sentinel]. PRIEST. You and I, young man, will never settle that. It is for us to obey those placed above us. BORÍS. Leave me alone! I am sorry for you and--I confess--it disgusts me to listen to you. Now if you were like that General--but you come here with a cross and the Testament to persuade me in the name of Christ, to deny Christ! Go [excitedly]. Leave me--Go. Let me be taken back to the cell that I may not see anyone. I am tired, dreadfully tired! PRIEST. Well, if that is so, good-bye. Enter Adjutant. ADJUTANT. Well? PRIEST. Great obstinacy, great insubordination. ADJUTANT. So he has refused to take the oath and to serve? PRIEST. On no account will he. ADJUTANT. Then he must be taken to the hospital. PRIEST. And reported as ill? That no doubt would be better, or his example may lead others astray. ADJUTANT. To be put under observation in the ward for the mentally diseased. Those are my orders. PRIEST. Certainly. My respects to you. [Exit]. ADJUTANT [approaches Borís] Come, please. My orders are to conduct you---- BORÍS. Where to? ADJUTANT. First of all to the hospital, where it will be quieter for you, and where you will have time to think things over. BORÍS. I've thought them over long ago. But let us go! [Exeunt]. Curtain. SCENE 3 Room in Hospital. Head Doctor, Assistant Doctor, an Officer-Patient in a dressing-gown, and two Warders wearing blouses. PATIENT. I tell you that you are only leading me to perdition. I have already several times felt quite well. HEAD DOCTOR. You must not get excited. I should be glad to sign an order for you to leave the hospital, but you know yourself that liberty is dangerous for you. If I were sure that you would be looked after ... PATIENT. You think I should take to drink again? No, I have had my lesson, but every extra day I spend here only does me harm. You are doing [gets excited] the opposite of what you ought to do. You are cruel. It's all very well for _you_! HEAD DOCTOR. Don't get excited. [Makes a sign to Warders; who come up from behind]. PATIENT. It's easy for you to argue, being at liberty; but how about us who are kept among madmen! [To Warders] What are you after? Be off! HEAD DOCTOR. I beg of you to be calm. PATIENT. But I beg and I demand that you set me free. [Yells, and rushes at the Doctor, but the Warders seize him. A struggle; after which he is taken out]. ASSISTANT DOCTOR. There! Now it has begun again. He nearly got at you that time. HEAD DOCTOR. Alcoholic ... nothing can be done. But there is some improvement. Enter Adjutant. ADJUTANT. How d'you do. HEAD DOCTOR. Good morning! ADJUTANT. I have brought you an interesting fellow, a certain Prince Cheremshánov, who has been conscripted, but on religious grounds refuses to serve. He was sent to the Gendarmes, but they say he does not come within their jurisdiction, not being a political conspirator. The Priest exhorted him, but also without effect. HEAD DOCTOR [laughing] And then as usual you bring him to us, as the highest Court of Appeal. Well, let's have him. Exit Assistant Doctor. ADJUTANT. He is said to be a highly educated young man, and he is engaged to a rich girl. It's extraordinary! I really consider this is the right place for him! HEAD DOCTOR. Yes, it's a mania. Borís is brought in. HEAD DOCTOR. Glad to see you. Please take a seat and let's have a chat. [To Adjutant] Please leave us. [Exit Adjutant]. BORÍS. I should like to ask you, if possible, if you mean to lock me up somewhere, to be so good as to do it quickly and let me rest. HEAD DOCTOR. Excuse me, we must keep the rules. Only a few questions. What do you feel? What are you suffering from? BORÍS. Nothing. I am perfectly well. HEAD DOCTOR. Yes, but you are not behaving like other people. BORÍS. I am behaving as my conscience demands. HEAD DOCTOR. Well, you see you have refused to perform your military service. On what grounds do you do so? BORÍS. I am a Christian, and therefore cannot commit murder. HEAD DOCTOR. But one must defend one's country from her foes, and keep those who want to destroy the social order from evil-doing. BORÍS. No one is attacking our country; and there are more among the governors who destroy social order, than there are among those whom they oppress. HEAD DOCTOR. Yes? But what do you mean by that? BORÍS. I mean this: the chief cause of evil--vódka--is sold by the Government; false and fraudulent religion is also fostered by the Government; and this military service which they demand of me--and which is the chief means of demoralising the people--is also demanded by the Government. HEAD DOCTOR. Then, in your opinion, Government and the State are unnecessary. BORÍS. That I don't know; but I know for certain that I must take no part in evil-doing. HEAD DOCTOR. But what is to become of the world? Is not our reason given in order to enable us to look ahead. BORÍS. It is also given in order to enable us to see that social order should not be maintained by violence, but by goodness; and that one man's refusal to participate in evil cannot be at all dangerous. HEAD DOCTOR. Well now, allow me to examine you a bit. Will you have the goodness to lie down? [Begins touching him] You feel no pain here? BORÍS. No. HEAD DOCTOR. Nor here? BORÍS. No. HEAD DOCTOR. Take a deep breath, please. Now don't breathe. Now allow me [takes out a measure and measures forehead and nose]. Now be so good as to shut your eyes and walk. BORÍS. Are you not ashamed to do all this? HEAD DOCTOR. What do you mean? BORÍS. All this nonsense? You know that I am quite well and that I am sent here because I refuse to take part in their evil deeds, and because they have no answer to give to the truth I told them; and that is why they pretend to think me mad. And you co-operate with them. It is horrid and it is shameful. Don't do it! HEAD DOCTOR. Then you don't wish to walk? BORÍS. No, I don't. You may torture me, but you must do it yourself; I won't help you. [Hotly] Let me alone! [The Doctor presses button of bell. Enter two Warders]. HEAD DOCTOR. Don't get excited. I quite understand that your nerves are strained. Will you please go to your ward? Enter Assistant Doctor. ASSISTANT DOCTOR. Some visitors have just come to see Cheremshánov. BORÍS. Who are they? ASSISTANT DOCTOR. Sarýntsov and his daughter. BORÍS. I should like to see them. HEAD DOCTOR. There is no reason why you shouldn't. Ask them in. You may see them here. [Exit, followed by Assistant and Warders]. Enter Nicholas Ivánovich and Lyúba. The Princess looks in at the door and says, "_Go in, I'll come later._" LYÚBA [goes straight to Borís, takes his head in her hands and kisses him] Poor Borís. BORÍS. No, don't pity me. I feel so well, so joyful, so light. How d'you do. [Kisses Nicholas Ivánovich]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I have come to say chiefly one thing to you. First of all, in such affairs it is worse to overdo it than not to do enough. And in this matter you should do as is said in the Gospels, and not think beforehand, "I shall say this, or do that": "When they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it is not ye that speak, but the Spirit of your Father who speaketh in you." That is to say, do not act because you have reasoned out beforehand that you should do so and so, but act only when your whole being feels that you cannot act otherwise. BORÍS. I have done so. I did not think I should refuse to serve; but when I saw all this fraud, those Mirrors of Justice, those Documents, the Police and Officers smoking, I could not help saying what I did. I was frightened, but only till I had begun, after that it was all so simple and joyful. Lyúba sits down and cries. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Above all, do nothing for the sake of being praised, or to gain the approval of those whose opinion you value. For myself I can say definitely, that if you take the oath at once, and enter the service, I shall love and esteem you not less but more than before; because not the things that take place in the external world are valuable, but that which goes on within the soul. BORÍS. Of course, for what happens within the soul must make a change in the outside world. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, I have said my say. Your mother is here. She is terribly upset. If you can do what she asks, do it--that is what I wished to say to you. From the corridor outside hysterical weeping is heard. A Lunatic rushes in, followed by Warders who drag him out again. LYÚBA. How terrible! And you will be kept here? [Weeps]. BORÍS. I am not afraid of it, I'm afraid of nothing now! I feel so happy, the only thing I fear is what you feel about it. Do help me; I am sure you will! LYÚBA. Can I be glad about it? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Not glad, that is impossible. I myself am not glad. I suffer on his account and would gladly take his place, but though I suffer I yet know that it is well. LYÚBA. It may be well; but when will they set him free? BORÍS. No one knows. I do not think of the future. The present is so good, and you can make it still better. Enter the Princess, his mother. PRINCESS. I can wait no longer! [To Nicholas Ivánovich] Well, have you persuaded him? Does he agree? Bórya, my darling, you understand, don't you, what I suffer? For thirty years I have lived but for you; rearing you, rejoicing in you. And now when everything has been done and is complete--you suddenly renounce everything. Prison and disgrace! Oh no! Bórya! BORÍS. Mamma! Listen to me. PRINCESS [to Nicholas Ivánovich] Why do you say nothing? You have ruined him, it is for you to persuade him. It's all very well for you! Lyúba, do speak to him! LYÚBA. I cannot! BORÍS. Mamma, do understand that there are things that are as impossible as flying; and I cannot serve in the army. PRINCESS. You think that you can't! Nonsense. Everybody has served and does serve. You and Nicholas Ivánovich have invented some new sort of Christianity which is not Christianity, but a devilish doctrine to make everybody suffer! BORÍS. As is said in the Gospels! PRINCESS. Nothing of the kind, or if it is, then all the same it is stupid. Darling, Bórya, have pity on me. [Throws herself on his neck, weeps] My whole life has been nothing but sorrow. There was but one ray of joy, and you are turning it into torture. Bórya--have pity on me! BORÍS. Mamma, this is terribly hard on me. But I cannot explain it to you. PRINCESS. Come now, don't refuse--say you will serve! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Say you will think it over--and do think it over. BORÍS. Very well then. But you too, Mamma, should have pity on me. It is hard on me too. [Cries are again heard from the corridor]. You know I'm in a lunatic asylum, and might really go mad. Enter Head Doctor. HEAD DOCTOR. Madam, this may have very bad consequences. Your son is in a highly excited condition. I think we must put an end to this interview. You may call on visiting days--Thursdays and Sundays. Please come to see him before twelve o'clock. PRINCESS. Very well, very well, I will go. Bórya, good-bye! Think it over. Have pity on me and meet me next Thursday with good news! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [shaking hands with Borís] Think it over with God's help, and as if you knew you were to die to-morrow. Only so will you decide rightly. Good-bye. BORÍS [approaching Lyúba] And what do you say to me? LYÚBA. I cannot lie; and I do not understand why you should torment yourself and everybody. I do not understand--and can say nothing. [Goes out weeping. Exeunt all except Borís]. BORÍS [alone] Oh how hard it is! Oh, how hard, Lord help me! [Prays]. Enter Warders with dressing-gown. WARDER. Please change. Borís puts on dressing-gown. Curtain. ACT IV SCENE 1 In Moscow a year later. A drawing-room in the Sarýntsov's town house is prepared for a dance. Footmen are arranging plants round the grand piano. Enter Mary Ivánovna in an elegant silk dress, with Alexándra Ivánovna. MARY IVÁNOVNA. A ball? No, Only a dance! A "Juvenile Party" as they once used to say. My children took part in the Theatricals at the Mákofs, and have been asked to dances everywhere, so I must return the invitations. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I am afraid Nicholas does not like it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I can't help it. [To Footmen] Put it here! [To Alexándra Ivánovna] God knows how glad I should be not to cause him unpleasantness. But I think he has become much less exacting. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. No, no! Only he does not show it so much. I saw how upset he was when he went off to his own room after dinner. MARY IVÁNOVNA. What can I do? After all, people must live. We have seven children, and if they find no amusement at home, heaven knows what they may be up to. Anyhow I am quite happy about Lyúba now. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Has he proposed, then? MARY IVÁNOVNA. As good as proposed. He has spoken to her, and she has said, Yes! ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. That again will be a terrible blow to Nicholas. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Oh, he knows. He can't help knowing. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. He does not like him. MARY IVÁNOVNA [to the Footmen] Put the fruit on the side-board. Like whom? Alexander Mikáylovich? Of course not; because he is a living negation of all Nicholas's pet theories. A nice pleasant kindly man of the world. But oh! That terrible night-mare--that affair of Borís Cheremshánov's. What has happened to him? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Lisa has been to see him. He is still there. She says he has grown terribly thin, and the Doctors fear for his life or his reason. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Yes, he is one of the terrible sacrifices caused by Nicholas's ideas. Why need he have been ruined? I never wished it. Enter Pianist. MARY IVÁNOVNA [to Pianist] Have you come to play? PIANIST. Yes, I am the pianist. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Please take a seat and wait a little. Won't you have a cup of tea? PIANIST [goes to piano] No, thank you! MARY IVÁNOVNA. I never wished it. I liked Bórya, but still he was not a suitable match for Lyúba--especially after he let himself be carried away by Nicholas Ivánovich's ideas. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. But still, the strength of his convictions is astonishing. See what he endures! They tell him that as long as he persists in refusing to serve, he will either remain where he is or be sent to the fortress; but his reply is always the same. And yet Lisa says he is full of joy and even merry! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Fanatic! But here comes Alexander Mikáylovich! Enter Alexander Mikáylovich Starkóvsky,[35] an elegant man in evening dress. [35] Alexander in his Christian name, Mikáylovich (= son of Michael) is his patronymic, and Starkóvsky in his surname which is seldom used in ordinary social life. STARKÓVSKY. I am afraid I have come too soon. [Kisses the hands of both ladies]. MARY IVÁNOVNA. So much the better. STARKÓVSKY. And Lyúbov Nikoláyevna?[36] She proposed to dance a great deal so as to make up for the time she has lost, and I have undertaken to help her. [36] Lyúbov Nikoláyevna (= Love daughter of Nicholas) is the courteous way of naming Lyúba. The latter is a pet name. MARY IVÁNOVNA. She is sorting favours for the cotillion. STARKÓVSKY. I will go and help her, if I may? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Certainly. As Starkóvsky is going out he meets Lyúba in evening, but not low-necked, dress carrying a cushion with stars and ribbons. LYÚBA. Ah! here you are. Good! Now you can help me. There are three more cushions in the drawing-room. Go and fetch them all. STARKÓVSKY. I fly to do so! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Now, Lyúba; friends are coming, and they will be sure to hint and ask questions. May we announce it? LYÚBA. No, Mamma, no. Why? Let them ask! Papa will not like it. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But he knows or guesses; and he will have to be told sooner or later. I think it would be better to announce it to-day. Why, _C'est le secret de la comédie_.[37] [37] It is only a comedy secret. LYÚBA. No, no, Mamma, please don't. It would spoil our whole evening. No, no, you must not. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, as you please. LYÚBA. All right then: after the dance, just before supper. Enter Starkóvsky. LYÚBA. Well, have you got them? MARY IVÁNOVNA. I'll go and have a look at the little ones. [Exit with Alexándra Ivánovna]. STARKÓVSKY [carrying three cushions, which he steadies with his chin, and dropping things on the way] Don't trouble, Lyúbov Nikoláyevna, I'll pick them up. Well, you have prepared a lot of favours. If only I can manage to lead the dance properly! Ványa, come along. VÁNYA [bringing more favours] This is the whole lot. Lyúba, Alexander Mikáylovich and I have a bet on, which of us will win the most favours. STARKÓVSKY. It will be easy for you, for you know everybody here, and will gain them easily, while I shall have to charm the young ladies first before winning anything. It means that I am giving you a start of forty points. VÁNYA. But then you are a fiancé, and I am a boy. STARKÓVSKY. Well no, I am not a fiancé yet, and I am worse than a boy. LYÚBA. Ványa, please go to my room and fetch the gum and the pin-cushion from the what-not. Only for goodness' sake don't break anything. VÁNYA. I'll break everything! [Runs off]. STARKÓVSKY [takes Lyúba's hand] Lyúba, may I? I am so happy. [Kisses her hand] The mazurka is mine, but that is not enough. One can't say much in a mazurka, and I must speak. May I wire to my people that I have been accepted and am happy? LYÚBA. Yes, to-night. STARKÓVSKY. One word more: how will Nicholas Ivánovich take it? Have you told him? Yes? LYÚBA. No, I haven't; but I will. He will take it as he now takes everything that concerns the family. He will say, "Do as you think best." But he will be grieved at heart. STARKÓVSKY. Because I am not Cheremshánov? Because I am a Maréchal de la Noblesse? LYÚBA. Yes. But I have struggled with myself and deceived myself for his sake; and it is not because I love him less that I am now doing not what he wants, but it is because I can't lie. He himself says so. I do so want to _live_! STARKÓVSKY. And life is the only truth! Well, and what of Cheremshánov? LYÚBA [excitedly] Don't speak of him to me! I wish to blame him, to blame him whilst he is suffering; and I know it is because I feel guilty towards him. All I know is that I feel there is a kind of love--and I think a more real love than I ever felt for him. STARKÓVSKY. Lyúba, is that true? LYÚBA. You wish me to say that I love you with that real love--but I won't say it. I do love you with a different kind of love; but it is not the real thing either! Neither the one nor the other is the real thing--if only they could be mixed together! STARKÓVSKY. No, no, I am satisfied with mine. [Kisses her hand] Lyúba! LYÚBA [pushes him away] No, let us sort these things. They are beginning to arrive. Enter Princess with Tónya and a little girl. LYÚBA. Mamma will be here in a moment. PRINCESS. Are we the first? STARKÓVSKY. Some one must be! I have suggested making a gutta-percha dummy to be the first arrival! Enter Styópa, also Ványa carrying the gum and pin-cushion. STYÓPA. I expected to see you at the Italian opera last night. TÓNYA. We were at my Aunt's, sewing for the charity-bazaar. Enter Students, Ladies, Mary Ivánovna and a Countess. COUNTESS. Shan't we see Nicholas Ivánovich? MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, he never leaves his study to come to our gathering. STARKÓVSKY. Quadrille, please! [Claps his hands. The dancers take their places and dance]. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA [approaches Mary Ivánovna] He is terribly agitated. He has been to see Borís, and he came back and saw there was a ball, and now he wants to go away! I went up to his door and overheard him talking to Alexander Petróvich. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well? STARKÓVSKY. _Rond des dames. Les cavaliers en avant!_[38] [38] Starkóvsky, directing the dance, says: "Ladies form a circle. Gentlemen advance!" ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. He has made up his mind that it is impossible for him to live so, and he is going away. MARY IVÁNOVNA. What a torment the man is! [Exit]. Curtain. SCENE 2 Nicholas Ivánovich's room. The dance music is heard in the distance. Nicholas Ivánovich has an overcoat on. He puts a letter on the table. Alexander Petróvich, dressed in ragged clothes, is with him. ALEXANDER PETRÓVICH. Don't worry, we can reach the Caucasus without spending a penny, and there you can settle down. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. We will go by rail as far as Túla, and from thence on foot. Well, I'm ready. [Puts letter in the middle of the table, and goes to the door, where he meets Mary Ivánovna] Oh! Why have you come here? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Why indeed? To prevent your doing a cruel thing. What's all this for? Why d'you do it? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Why? Because I cannot continue living like this. I cannot endure this terrible, depraved life. MARY IVÁNOVNA. It is awful. My life--which I give wholly to you and the children--has all of a sudden become "depraved." [Sees Alexander Petróvich] _Renvoyez au moins cet homme. Je ne veux pas qu'il soit témoin de cette conversation._[39] [39] At least send that man away. I don't wish him to be a witness of our conversation. ALEXANDER PETRÓVICH. _Comprenez. Toujours moi partez._[40] [40] Alexander Petróvich replies in very bad French: "I understand! I am always to go away!" NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Wait for me out there, Alexander Petróvich, I'll come in a minute. Exit Alexander Petróvich. MARY IVÁNOVNA. And what can you have in common with such a man as that? Why is he nearer to you than your own wife? It is incomprehensible! And where are you going? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I have left a letter for you. I did not want to speak; it is too hard; but if you wish it, I will try to say it quietly. MARY IVÁNOVNA. No, I don't understand. Why do you hate and torture your wife, who has given up everything for you? Tell me, have I been going to balls, or gone in for dress, or flirted? My whole life has been devoted to the family. I nursed them all myself; I brought them up, and this last year the whole weight of their education, and the managing our affairs, has fallen on me.... NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [interrupting] But all this weight falls on you, because you do not wish to live as I proposed. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But that was impossible! Ask anyone! It was impossible to let the children grow up illiterate, as you wished them to do, and for me to do the washing and cooking. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I never wanted that! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Well, anyhow it was something of that kind! No, you are a Christian, you wish to do good, and you say you love men; then why do you torture the woman who has devoted her whole life to you? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How do I torture you? I love you, but ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. But is it not torturing me to leave me and to go away? What will everybody say? One of two things, either that I am a bad woman, or that you are mad. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Well, let us say I am mad; but I can't live like this. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But what is there so terrible in it, even if once in a winter (and only once, because I feared you would not like it) I do give a party--and even then a very simple one, only ask Mánya and Barbara Vasílyevna! Everybody said I could not do less--and that it was absolutely necessary. And now it seems even a crime, for which I shall have to suffer disgrace. And not only disgrace. The worst of all is that you no longer love me! You love everyone else--the whole world, including that drunken Alexander Petróvich--but I still love you and cannot live without you. Why do you do it? Why? [Weeps]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But you don't even wish to understand my life; my spiritual life. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I do wish to understand it, but I can't. I see that your Christianity has made you hate your family and hate me; but I don't understand why! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You see the others do understand! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Who? Alexander Petróvich, who gets money out of you? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. He and others: Tónya and Vasíly Nikonórovich. But even if nobody understood it, that would make no difference. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Vasíly Nikonórovich has repented, and has got his living back, and Tónya is at this very moment dancing and flirting with Styópa. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I am sorry to hear it, but it does not turn black into white, and it cannot change my life. Mary! You do not need me. Let me go! I have tried to share your life and to bring into it what for me constitutes the whole of life; but it is impossible. It only results in torturing myself and you. I not only torment myself, but spoil the work I try to accomplish. Everybody, including that very Alexander Petróvich, has the right to tell me that I am a hypocrite; that I talk but do not act! That I preach the Gospel of poverty while I live in luxury, pretending that I have given up everything to my wife! MARY IVÁNOVNA. So you are ashamed of what people say? Really, can't you rise above that? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. It's not that I am ashamed (though I am ashamed), but that I am spoiling God's work. MARY IVÁNOVNA. You yourself often say that it fulfils itself despite man's opposition; but that's not the point. Tell me, what do you want of me? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Haven't I told you? MARY IVÁNOVNA. But, Nicholas, you know that that is impossible. Only think, Lyúba is now getting married; Ványa is entering the university; Missy and Kátya are studying. How can I break all that off? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Then what am I to do? MARY IVÁNOVNA. Do as you say one should do: have patience, love. Is it too hard for you? Only bear with us and do not take yourself from us! Come, what is it that torments you? Enter Ványa running. VÁNYA. Mamma, they are calling you! MARY IVÁNOVNA. Tell them I can't come. Go, go! VÁNYA. Do come! [He runs off]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. You don't wish to see eye to eye--nor to understand me. MARY IVÁNOVNA. It is not that I don't wish to, but that I can't. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No, you don't wish to, and we drift further and further apart. Only enter into my feelings; put yourself for a moment in my place, and you will understand. First, the whole life here is thoroughly depraved. You are vexed with the expression, but I can give no other name to a life built wholly on robbery; for the money you live on is taken from the land you have stolen from the peasants. Moreover, I see that this life is demoralising the children: "Whoso shall cause one of these little ones to stumble," and I see how they are perishing and becoming depraved before my very eyes. I cannot bear it when grown-up men dressed up in swallow-tail coats serve us as if they were slaves. Every dinner we have is a torture to me. MARY IVÁNOVNA. But all this was so before. Is it not done by everyone--both here and abroad? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. But _I_ can't do it. Since I realised that we are all brothers, I cannot see it without suffering. MARY IVÁNOVNA. That is as you please. One can invent anything. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [hotly] It's just this want of understanding that is so terrible. Take for instance to-day! I spent this morning at Rzhánov's lodging-house, among the outcasts there; and I saw an infant literally die of hunger; a boy suffering from alcoholism; and a consumptive charwoman rinsing clothes outside in the cold. Then I returned home, and a footman with a white tie opens the door for me. I see my son--a mere lad--ordering that footman to fetch him some water; and I see the army of servants who work for us. Then I go to visit Borís--a man who is sacrificing his life for truth's sake. I see how he, a pure, strong, resolute man, is deliberately being goaded to lunacy and to destruction, that the Government may be rid of him! I know, and they know, that his heart is weak, and so they provoke him, and drag him to a ward for raving lunatics. It is too dreadful, too dreadful. And when I come home, I hear that the one member of our family who understood--not me but the truth--has thrown over both her betrothed to whom she had promised her love, and the truth, and is going to marry a lackey, a liar ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. How very Christian! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Yes, it is wrong of me, and I am to blame, but I only want you to put yourself in my place. I mean to say that she has turned from the truth ... MARY IVÁNOVNA. You say, "from the truth"; but other people--the majority--say from "an error." You see Vasíly Nikonórovich once thought he was in error, but now has come back to the Church. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. That's impossible ---- MARY IVÁNOVNA. He has written to Lisa! She will show you the letter. That sort of conversion is very unstable. So also in Tónya's case; I won't even speak of that fellow Alexander Petróvich, who simply considers it profitable! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [getting angry] Well, no matter. I only ask _you_ to understand me. I still consider that truth is truth! All this hurts me very much. And here at home I see a Christmas-tree, a ball, and hundreds of roubles being spent while men are dying of hunger. I cannot live so. Have pity on me, I am worried to death. Let me go! Good-bye. MARY IVÁNOVNA. If you go, I will go with you. Or if not with you, I will throw myself under the train you leave by; and let them all go to perdition--and Missy and Kátya too. Oh my God, my God. What torture! Why? What for? [Weeps]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [at the door] Alexander Petróvich, go home! I am not going. [To his wife] Very well, I will stay. [Takes off his overcoat]. MARY IVÁNOVNA [embracing him] We have not much longer to live. Don't let us spoil everything after twenty-eight years of life together. Well, I'll give no more parties; but do not punish me so. Enter Ványa and Kátya running. VÁNYA and KATYA. Mamma, be quick--come. MARY IVÁNOVNA. Coming, coming. So let us forgive one another! [Exit with Kátya and Ványa]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. A child, a regular child; or a cunning woman? No, a cunning child. Yes, yes. It seems Thou dost not wish me to be Thy servant in this Thy work. Thou wishest me to be humiliated, so that everyone may point his finger at me and say, "He preaches, but he does not perform." Well, let them! Thou knowest best what Thou requirest: submission, humility! Ah, if I could but rise to that height! Enter Lisa. LISA. Excuse me. I have brought you a letter from Vasíly Nikonórovich. It is addressed to me, but he asks me to tell you. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Can it be really true? LISA. Yes. Shall I read it? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Please do. LISA [reading] "I write to beg you to communicate this to Nicholas Ivánovich. I greatly regret the error which led me openly to stray from the Holy Orthodox Church, to which I rejoice to have now returned. I hope you and Nicholas Ivánovich will follow the same path. Please forgive me!" NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. They have tortured him into this, poor fellow. But still it is terrible. LISA. I also came to tell you that the Princess is here. She came upstairs to me in a dreadfully excited state and is determined to see you. She has just been to see Borís. I think you had better not see her. What good can it do for her to see you? NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. No. Call her in. Evidently this is fated to be a day of dreadful torture. LISA. Then I'll go and call her. [Exit]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [alone] Yes--could I but remember that life consists only in serving Thee; and that if Thou sendest a trial, it is because Thou holdest me capable of enduring it, and knowest that my strength is equal to it: else it would not be a trial.... Father, help me--help me to do Thy will. Enter Princess. PRINCESS. You receive me? You do me that honour? My respects to you. I don't give you my hand, for I hate you and despise you. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. What has happened? PRINCESS. Just this, that they are moving him to the Disciplinary Battalion; and it is you who are the cause of it. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Princess, if you want anything, tell me what it is; but if you have come here merely to abuse me, you only injure yourself. You cannot offend me, for with my whole heart I sympathise with you and pity you! PRINCESS. What charity! What exalted Christianity! No, Mr. Sarýntsov, you cannot deceive me! We know you now. You have ruined my son, but you don't care; and you go giving balls; and your daughter--my son's betrothed--is to be married and make a good match, that you approve of; while you pretend to lead a simple life, and go carpentering. How repulsive you are to me, with your new-fangled Pharisaism. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Don't excite yourself so, Princess. Tell me what you have come for--surely it was not simply to scold me? PRINCESS. Yes, that too! I must find vent for all this accumulated pain. But what I want is this: He is being removed to the Disciplinary Battalion, and I cannot bear it. It is you who have done it. You! You! You! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Not I, but God. And God knows how sorry I am for you. Do not resist this will. He wants to test you. Bear the trial meekly. PRINCESS. I cannot bear it meekly. My whole life was wrapped up in my son; and you have taken him from me and ruined him. I cannot be calm. I have come to you--it is my last attempt to tell you that you have ruined him and that it is for you to save him. Go and prevail on them to set him free. Go and see the Governor-General, the Emperor, or whom you please. It is your duty to do it. If you don't do it, I know what I shall do. You will have to answer to me for it! NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Teach me what to do. I am ready to do anything. PRINCESS. I again repeat it--you must save him! If you do not--beware! Good-bye. [Exit]. Nicholas Ivánovich (alone). Lies down on sofa. Silence. The door opens and the dance music sounds louder. Enter Styópa. STYÓPA. Papa is not here, come in! Enter the adults and the children, dancing in couples. LYÚBA [noticing Nicholas Ivánovich] Ah, you _are_ here. Excuse us. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH [rising] Never mind. [Exit dancing couples]. NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. Vasíly Nikonórovich has recanted. I have ruined Borís. Lyúba is getting married. Can it be that I have been mistaken? Mistaken in believing in Thee? No! Father help me! Curtain. Tolstoy left the following notes for a fifth act which was never written. ACT V Disciplinary Battalion. A cell. Prisoners sitting and lying. Borís is reading the Gospel and explaining it. A man who has been flogged is brought in. "Ah, if there were but a Pugachev[41] to revenge us on such as you." The Princess bursts in, but is turned out. Conflict with an officer. Prisoners led to prayers. Borís sent to the Penitentiary Cell: "He shall be flogged!" [41] Pugachev was the leader of a formidable rebellion in Russia in the eighteenth century. Scene changes. The Tsar's Cabinet. Cigarettes; jokes; caresses. The Princess is announced. "Let her wait." Enter petitioners, flattery, then the Princess. Her request is refused. Exit. Scene changes. Mary Ivánovna talks about illness with the doctor. "He has changed, has become more gentle, but is dispirited." Enter Nicholas Ivánovich and speaks to Doctor about the uselessness of treatment. But for his wife's sake he agrees to it. Enter Tónya with Styópa. Lyúba with Starkóvsky. Conversation about land. Nicholas Ivánovich tries not to offend them. Exeunt all. Nicholas Ivánovich with Lisa. "I am always in doubt whether I have done right. I have accomplished nothing. Borís has perished, Vasíly Nikonórovich has recanted. I set an example of weakness. Evidently God does not wish me to be his servant. He has many other servants--and can accomplish his will without me, and he who realises this is at peace." Exit Lisa. He prays. The Princess rushes in and shoots him. Everybody comes running into the room. He says he did it himself by accident. He writes a petition to the Emperor. Enter Vasíly Nikonórovich with Doukhobors.[42] Dies rejoicing that the fraud of the Church is exposed, and that he has understood the meaning of his life. [42] Tolstoy did not fully realise the facts (described in _A Peculiar People_) of the Doukhobors' submission to their leader, or of their belief in him as an incarnation of the Deity. In fact, when he wrote this play, Tolstoy regarded the Doukhobors as a type of what all Christians should be. _This play was begun in the 'eighties, and continued in 1900 and 1902._ END OF "THE LIGHT SHINES IN DARKNESS." [ Transcriber's Note: The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. forty-five; and her husband, Peter Semyónovich Kóhovstsef, a fat forty-five; and her husband, Peter Semyónovich Kóhovtsef, a fat on the verandah at a table with a samovar and coffee-pot. Mary on the verandah at a table with a samovár and coffee-pot. Mary [9] He was very nice, and like everybody else [9] He was very nice, and like everybody else. is your duty as a mother to _prendre tes mésures_.[11] is your duty as a mother to _prendre tes mesures_.[11] MARY IVÁNOVNA. I'm coming, coming? [Rises and exit]. MARY IVÁNOVNA. I'm coming, coming! [Rises and exit]. for vodka, and abandon our own families. for vódka, and abandon our own families? ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Re-heat the samovar, please. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Re-heat the samovár, please. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I should think they also need this samovar. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. I should think they also need this samovár. other 44,990 trees will very soon be cut down also. There are 449,990 trees remaining. This might either be a typesetting mistake or an error made by Styópa. can be proved historically; there is but one irrefragible proof.... can be proved historically; there is but one irrefragable proof.... PRIEST. How can we trust in it, when there are contradictions. PRIEST. How can we trust in it, when there are contradictions? [Enter Nurse]. Enter Nurse. coming coming! LYÚBA. Yes, do, and I'll go and wake Lisa and Tánya. LYÚBA. Yes, do, and I'll go and wake Lisa and Tónya. what I feel. (To Tónya) If what I say should offend you--who are our what I feel. [To Tónya] If what I say should offend you--who are our SCENE 2. [in ACT II] SCENE 2 STARKÓVSKY. And Lyubóv Nikoláyevna?[36] She proposed to dance a great STARKÓVSKY. And Lyúbov Nikoláyevna?[36] She proposed to dance a great [36] Lyúbov Nikolávna (= Love daughter of Nicholas) is the courteous [36] Lyúbov Nikoláyevna (= Love daughter of Nicholas) is the courteous ]