TRIGORIN: I’m happy? [Shrugging his shoulders.] Hm ... you’re talking now about fame, happiness, some bright, interesting existence, but I’m sorry, I find all these good words just like jelly, which I never eat. You are very young and very kind.
NINA: Your life is splendid.
TRIGORIN: What is special about it? [Looking at his watch.] I must go now and write. Forgive me, I have no time ... [Laughs.] You’ve trodden, so to speak, on my very favourite corn, and I begin to get upset and a little cross. But let us talk. We’ll talk of my splendid, bright existence ... Well, where shall we begin? [After thinking a little.] You can have a compulsive imagination, when for example you think day and night of nothing but the moon, and I have my own moon like that. I am held day and night by one obsessive thought: I must write, I must write, I must ... I’ve no sooner finished a story than I’m already driven by something to write another, then a third, after that a fourth ... I write with no breaks, as if I were travelling with relays of post-horses,7 and I can’t do otherwise. What, I ask you, is there here that is splendid or bright? Oh, what an absurd life! I am here with you, I’m getting worked up, but meanwhile every single moment I remember that I have an unfinished story waiting for me. Over there I see a cloud like a grand piano. I think, somewhere in the story I should mention a cloud that looked like a piano. I can smell heliotrope. I quickly make a mental note: sickly sweet scent, widow’s colour, bring in when describing a summer evening. I catch my and your every sentence, every word, and quickly lock all these sentences and words into my literary storeroom — in case they come in useful. When I finish my work, I run off to the theatre or to fish; then you’d think I might be able to rest or forget, but no, that heavy iron piece of shot is rolling round in my head — a new plot, and I’m drawn to my desk and I must rush again to write and write. And so it remains always, always, and I have no rest from myself, and I feel that I’m devouring my own life, that in order to make the honey which I give away to someone out there, I rob my best flowers of their pollen, I tear apart the flowers themselves and trample their roots. Am I not a madman? Do my friends and dear ones treat me as a healthy human being? ‘What little thing are you writing? What treat are you going to give us?’ Always the same, the same, and I think this attention from my friends, these compliments and praises — it’s all lies, they tell you lies like a sick man, and I’m sometimes afraid they’ll creep up on me from behind and grab me and carry me off like Gogol’s Poprishchin8 to a lunatic asylum. And in the years when I was starting, my young years, my best years, my work was sheer agony. A young writer feels clumsy, awkward, out of place, especially when things are not going his way, his nerves are strained, in shreds; he hangs around close to those involved in literature and art, without recognition or acknowledgement, nervous of looking them straight in the eye, like a passionate gambler without any money. I couldn’t see my readers but somehow I imagined them as unfriendly, mistrustful. I was afraid of the public, to me they were terrifying, and when I had to put on a new play, every time I felt dark hair give out signs of hostility and fair hair chilly indifference. Oh how awful it was! What torment!
NINA: But, excuse me, don’t inspiration and the actual process of creation give you some elevated, happy moments?
TRIG0 R I N: Yes. When I’m writing something it feels good. And reading proofs feels good but — I can’t bear it when it’s just published and I see that it’s wrong, a mistake, that it shouldn’t have been written at all, and I feel irritated and low in spirit ... [Laughing] And the public reads it, ‘Yes, pleasing, talented, but a long way from Tolstoy’, or ‘A beautiful thing, but Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons9 is better.’ And to the tomb everything will remain just nice and talented, nice and talented — nothing more, and when I die my friends will say walking past my grave, ‘Here lies Trigorin. He was a good writer, but not as good as Turgenev.’
NINA: I’m sorry, I don’t want to understand you. You’re simply spoiled by success.
TRIG0RIN: What success? I never liked myself. I don’t admire myself as a writer. Worst of all, I live in a kind of daze and don’t understand what I write ... I love this water, the trees, the sky, I feel nature, which stirs a passion in me, an irresistible desire to write. But I’m not just a landscape artist, I am also a citizen, I love my country, the people, I feel that if I am a writer it is my duty to talk about the people, their sufferings, their future, to talk about science, the rights of man and so on, and so on, and I talk about everything, I hurry, people bear down on me from every direction, they get angry, I dart from side to side like a fox trapped by hounds, I see life and science advancing ever onward, and I get left further and further behind like a peasant who’s missed his train, and in the end I feel that I can only write about landscape, and that in everything else I am false — false to the marrow of my bones.
NINA : You’re overworked, and you’ve neither the time nor the will to recognize your own value. You may be dissatisfied with yourself but to others you are great and noble. If I were a writer like you, I would give up my whole life to the people, but I would know that its happiness only lay in rising to my level, and the crowd would carry me along in a chariot.
TRIGORIN: Hm, in a chariot ... Am I Agamemnon or someone?
[Both smile.]
NINA : For the happiness of being a writer or an actress I would bear family hostility, poverty, disappointment, I would live in an attic and eat only rye bread, I would suffer from dissatisfaction with myself, from the consciousness of my imperfections, but in return I would demand fame — real, noisy fame ... [Covers her face with her hands.] My head is spinning ... Ouf!
[The voice of ARKADINA from the house: ‘Boris Alekseyevich!’]
TRIGORIN: I’m being called ... probably to pack. But I don’t want to leave. [Turning to look at the lake] What blessedness ... So beautiful!
NINA: Do you see the house and garden on the far shore?
TRIGORIN: Yes.
NINA: That’s my dead mother’s house. I was born there. I’ve spent my entire life by this lake and know every little island on it.
TRIGORIN: You have a fine place here. [He sees the seagull.] But what’s this?
NINA: A seagull. Konstantin Gavrilych killed it.
TRIGORIN: A beautiful bird. I really don’t want to go. Persuade Irina Nikolayevna to stay.
[Writes in his notebook.]
NINA: What are you writing?
TRIGORIN: I’m making a note ... A plot flashed through my mind ... [Putting away the notebook.] A plot for a short story: a young girl has lived since childhood on the shores of a lake, a girl like you; she loves the lake, like a seagull, and is happy and free, like a seagull. But a man comes along, sees her and idly kills her — like this seagull.
[A pause.]
[ARKADINA appears in a window.]
ARKADINA: Boris Alekseyevich, where are you?
TRIGORIN: Coming! [Goes, and looks round at Nina; by the window, to Arkadina] What is it?
ARKADINA: We’re staying.
[TRIGORIN goes into the house.]
NINA [coming towards the footlights; after some thought]: It’s a dream!
[Curtain.]
Act Three
The dining-room in Sorin’s house. Doors to right and left. A sideboard. A cupboard with medicines. A table in the middle of the room. A trunk and cardboard boxes, preparations for departure are in evidence. TRIGORIN is having lunch. MASHA is standing by the table.
MASHA: I’m telling you all this as a writer. You can use it. I tell you frankly: if he’d wounded himself seriously, I couldn’t have lived a moment longer. But I’m brave. I went and decided: I’m going to rip this love from my heart, rip it out by the roots.
TRIGORIN: How?
MASHA: I’m getting married. To Medvedenko.
TRIGORIN: To the schoolmaster?
MASHA: Yes.
TRIGORIN: I don’t understand the need.
MASHA: To live without hope, to wait for something for years on end ... But when
I get married there won’t be any time for love, new cares will wipe out all the past. And anyway, you know, it’ll be a change. Shall we have another?
TRIGORIN: Won’t that be too much?
MASHA: Here you are, now. [Pours them each a glass.] Don’t look at me like that. Women drink more often than you think. A few drink openly like me, but most do it in secret. Yes. And they all drink vodka or brandy. [Clinks his glass.] Your good health. You’re a straightforward man, I’m sorry to say goodbye.
[They drink.]
TRIGORIN: I don’t want to go.
MASHA: Why don’t you ask her to stay.
TRIGORIN: No, now she won’t stay. Her son is behaving extraordinarily tactlessly. First he tries to shoot himself, and now I’ve heard he’s going to challenge me to a duel. And what for? He sulks, snorts, preaches new art forms ... But there’s enough space for all, new and old — why do we have to wrestle?
MASHA: Well, jealousy. But it’s none of my business.
[A pause. YAKOV walks through from left to right carrying a trunk; NINA enters and stays by the window.]
My schoolmaster isn’t very clever, he’s poor, but he’s a good man and he loves me very much. I’m sorry for him. And I’m sorry for his old mother. Well, I wish you all the best. Remember me kindly. [Shakes his hand vigorously.] I’m very grateful to you for being kind to me. Send me your books, inscribed please. Only please don’t write ‘To my dear friend’, but just ‘To Marya, parentage forgotten, purpose of existence in this world unknown.’ Goodbye. [Exit.]
NINA [holding out a fist towards Trigorin]: Odd or even?
TRIGORIN: Even.
NINA [sighing]: No. I’ve only one pea in my hand. I asked my fortune — should I become an actress or not? I wish someone would give me some advice.
TRIGORIN: One can’t give advice about that.
[A pause.]
NINA: We’re saying goodbye and ... probably won’t see each other any more. Please accept this little medallion from me as a memento. I’ve had your initials engraved ... and on this side the title of your book Days and Nights.
TRIGORIN: How graceful. [Kisses the medallion.] A charming present.
NINA: Remember me sometimes.
TRIGORIN: I will. I will remember you as you were on that bright day — do you remember? — a week ago, when you wore a light-coloured dress ... We talked ... there was a white seagull lying on the bench.
NINA [pensively]: Yes, the seagull ...
[A pause.]
We can’t talk any more, they’re coming ... before you go give me two minutes, I beg you ... [Goes off left; simultaneously ARKADINA enters right, with SORIN wearing a frock-coat and a decoration,1then YAKOV busy with the packing.]
ARKADINA: Stay at home, old thing. With your rheumatism ought you to be going about visiting? [To Trigorin] Who went out just now? Nina?
TRIGORIN: Yes.
ARKADINA: Pardon, we’re in the way ... [Sits down.] I think I’ve packed everything. I’m worn out.
TRIGORIN [reading from the medallion]: ‘Days and Nights, page 121, lines 11 and 12.’
YAKOV [clearing the table]: Do you want the fishing rods packed too?
TRIGORIN: Yes, I’ll be needing them again. But give the books away to someone.
YAKOV: Yes, sir.
TRIGORIN [to himself]: ‘Page 121, lines 11 and 12.’ What do those lines say? [To Arkadina] Are there any of my books in the house?
ARKADINA: In my brother’s study, in the corner cupboard.
TRIGORIN: ‘Page 121 ...’ [Exit.]
ARKADINA: Really, Petrusha, stay at home ...
SORIN: You’re leaving, it’ll be hard for me at home without you.
ARKADINA: And what will be going on in town?
SORIN: Nothing in particular, but all the same. [Laughs.] There’ll be the laying of the foundation stone of the Zemstvo2 council house and things like that ... I want to jump out of this mudfish existence for just an hour or two, and I’ve got very stale, like an old cigarette-holder. I’ve asked for the horses to be brought at one, we’ll leave at the same time.
ARKADINA [after a pause]: Stay here, don’t mope, don’t catch cold. Keep an eye on my son. Look after him. Advise him.
[A pause.]
I shall leave and still I won’t know why Konstantin tried to shoot himself. I think the main reason was jealousy, and the sooner I take Trigorin from here the better.
SORIN: How shall I tell you? There were other reasons. One can understand, a young man, clever, lives in the country, in the back of beyond, no money, no position, no future. No occupation. He’s ashamed and frightened of his idleness. I am exceptionally fond of him and he is attached to me, but in the end he thinks he’s an extra in the house, a sponger, a useless dependant. Understandably, pride ...
ARKADINA: The trouble he brings me! [Thinking]Should he go into government service ...
SORIN [whistles, then, irresolutely]: I think it would be better if you ... gave him a little money. First he should dress like a human being, and so on and so on. Look at him, he’s been wearing the same old jacket for three years, he goes about without an overcoat ... [Laughs.] And a few wild oats wouldn’t come amiss ... Let him go abroad or something ... It’s not expensive.
ARKADINA: Still ... I can probably go as far as a suit, but abroad ... No, at present, I can’t even manage a suit. [Firmly] I have no money.
[SORIN laughs.]
No money!
SORIN [whistling]: So. I’m sorry, my dear, don’t get cross. I believe you ... You are a noble, fine woman.
ARKADINA [with tears in her eyes]: I have no money!
SORIN: If I had money, of course I’d give him some myself, but I have nothing, not a five-kopeck piece. [Laughs.] My estate manager takes all my pension and spends it on farming, cattle, bee-keeping, and my money vanishes, to no purpose. The bees die, the cows die, I can’t ever have horses ...
ARKADINA : Yes, I do have money, but I am an actress; my clothes alone have quite ruined me.
SORIN: You are kind, my dear... I respect you ... Yes ... But there’s something the matter with me again ... [Staggers.] My head’s spinning. [Holds on to the table.] I feel quite ill, and so on and so on.
ARKADINA [in a frightened voice]: Petrusha! [Trying to support him.] Petrusha, my darling! [Shouting] Help me! Help!
[Enter TREPLYOV, with a bandage on his head, and MEDVEDENKO.]
He feels ill.
SORIN: It’s nothing, nothing ... [Smiles and drinks some water.] It’s over now ... and so on and so on ...
TREPLYOV [to hismother]: Don’t get frightened, Mama, it’s nothing dangerous. Uncle often has this now. [To his uncle] Uncle, you should lie down.
SORIN: Yes, for a little ... But I’ll still go to town ... I’ll lie down and then go ... of course I’ll go ... [Walks leaning on his stick.]
MEDVEDENKO [leading him by the arm]: A riddle: four legs in the morning, two legs at midday, three in the evening ...
SORIN [laughing]: Quite so. And at night flat on its back. Thank you. I can walk by myself ...
MEDVEDENKO: Come, don’t be polite! ... [He and SORIN go out.]
ARKADINA: He frightened me!
TREPLYOV: It’s not healthy for him to live in the country. He gets depressed. Mama, if you could show some sudden generosity and lend him fifteen hundred or two thousand roubles, he could live all year in town.
ARKADINA: I have no money. I am an actress, not a banker.
[A pause.]
TREPLYOV: Mama, change my bandage. You do it so well.
ARKADINA [getting iodoform and a box with bandage material from the first-aid cupboard]: And the doctor’s late.
TREPLYOV: He promised to be here towards ten, and it’s now midday.
ARKADINA: Sit down. [Takes the bandage from his head.] It’s like a turban on you. Yesterday a caller in the kitchen asked what nationality you were. But it’s almost healed. There’s next to nothing there. [Kisses him on the head.] And when we’ve left you won’t go bang-bang
again, will you?
TREPLYOV: No, Mama. It was a moment of crazy despair, when I couldn’t control myself. It won’t happen again. [Kisses her hand.] You have magic hands. I remember long, long ago when you were still working in state theatres — I was little then — there was a fight in our courtyard and the laundress who lived in the building was badly beaten up. Do you remember? They brought her in unconscious ... You went to look after her, took her medicines, washed her children in the tub. Don’t you remember?
ARKADINA: No. [Puts on a new bandage.]
TREPLYOV: There were two ballet-dancers who lived then in the same building as us ... They used to come to have coffee with you ...
ARKADINA: That I remember.
TREPLYOV: They were so religious.
[A pause.]
Recently, these last days, I’ve felt a love for you as tender and total as in my childhood. I now have no one left but you. Only, why, why do you give in to the influence of that man?
ARKADINA: You don’t understand him, Konstantin. He’s a most noble person ...
TREPLYOV: However, when he was told that I was planning to challenge him to a duel, his nobility didn’t prevent him playing the coward. He’s going away. Shameful flight!
ARKADINA : What nonsense! I myself asked him to leave here.
The Plays of Anton Chekhov Page 15
