 Always wear black. Morning for my life. Why? I don't understand why. You're healthy. Your father is not rich, but he provides. My life is much harder than yours. I make 23 roubles a month. That's before deductions. You don't see me going around in morning. Money's got nothing to do with it. Even a pauper can be happy. The happy pauper theory. Well, looking at an actual family in practice, there's me, my two sisters, my brother, and my mother, all of whom have to live and eat on those 23 roubles a month. I have to buy tea. I have to buy sugar for the tea. I have to buy tobacco. Oh, it makes me dizzy. Look, the play's about to start. Oh, yes. Constantin wrote a play. And he cast Nina to start. They're in love. And tonight, their two souls will unite to create a single work of art. Your soul and my soul, however, refuse to unify. I love you. I want you so badly. It drives me here every day, four miles here and four miles back. And what do I have to show for it? Indifferentism. There's no surprise there. I have no money. I already have a family to feed. Who could love a man without means? Nonsense. Your love touches me very deeply. It's just I can't return it. Take some snuff. No, I don't want it. God, why is it so humid? There's bound to be a storm later. All you ever talk about is money. To hear you think the worst case is poverty, when really it's 1,000 times better to go around dressed in rags, living from hand to mouth on the street than to you wouldn't understand. I could try. What I know is that living in the countryside isn't for me. Instead, I won't get used to it. Last night, I went to sleep at 10 and woke this morning at 9. It felt like my brain was stuck to my skull from sleeping too much, not a pleasant experience. So what happens after lunch? I fall asleep. Another unintentional nap. So now, you can bet I'm just exhausted. Nightmares and all that. You should live in town. No, you can't be here right now. I'll call you when it's time to start. Please, go away. Marcia, would you please ask your father to let the dog off its chain tonight? Otherwise, he just barks all night. My sister couldn't sleep. Ask him yourself. I'm not involved. Anyway, let us know when it's time to start. So the dog will howl again tonight. It's the same story when I live in the country. I don't get to live my way. I used to get 28 days off, and I'd come down here to rest. But after one day of crap like this, I'd be on my way. The most relaxing part of the trip was leaving here. But now, I'm retired, and I can't go anywhere else. So like it or not, I'm going for a swim. All right, just be back at places in 10. Yes, sir. Now, this is what I call a theater, a curtain. Two wings, beyond that, empty space, no scenery whatsoever. Just a view of the lake and the horizon. At exactly 8.30, the curtain will open, and the moon will rise. Spectacular. If Nina's late, though, the whole effect would be ruined. She should be here by now. Her father and her stepmother keep such a tight watch on her. It's like breaking her out of a prison. Your hair and your beard are a mess. We should get you a haircut. Ah, it's a tragedy of my life. Even as a young man, I look the part of a whino. Women never love me. So why is my sister so dispirited? Why? She's bored. She's jealous. She's against me, the performance, and my play, because Nina's acting might catch the eye of her novelist. She's never read my play, and she hates it. Oh, you're imagining that. She's jealous, because on this tiny stage, Nina will succeed, not her. There's a psychological curiosity, my mother. Sure, talented, no question. Intelligent, recite social protest poetry to a drop of a hat. A tender nurse to the sick, really, but don't try bringing up Eleanor Deuce in a presence. No, no, no. You're supposed to talk about her, write about her, praise her, be transported by the wonders of her acting and the dumb alchemy or some similar trickle. Here in the countryside, she can't get her praise fixed, so she gets bored and vindictive. Everyone is against me. Everything is our fault that she's prone to superstition, afraid of the number 13, afraid to have three candles on the table, and she's singy. I know she has 70,000 in a bank in Odessa, yet you ask her for our small loan and she'll start to cry. You're just upset because you imagine your mother won't like the play. Take a deep breath, your mother adores you. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. See? She doesn't love me. She wants to live and to love and to wear fancy clothes and here I am, a 25-year-old reminder that she's not so young. My absence, she's 32. In my presence, 43. Thus, as our hatred explained, also I refuse to tolerate her kind of theater. She loves the theater and believes her acting serves humanity and the sacred cause of art while I see theater today as prejudicial and conventional. The curtain rises, bright lights come on and you're in a wall room with three walls and behold, the talented ones, the priests of the art who demonstrate how to eat, drink, love, walk and wear coats. And then they try to draw some moral from the same vulgar, tasteless scenes in dialogue as a tidy, oversimplified moral. It's useful around the house. You go to the theater and they feed you a thousand variations on the same thing again and again and again and I have to run away like, remember how my bassoins had to run from the Eiffel Tower because it was so ugly? You've got to have theater? We need new forms of theater. We need new forms and if not, then maybe we're better off without theater at all. I love my mother. I love her. But she leads her life running around with that novelist, getting her names in the paper. It makes me ill. Yes, it's a selfish desire but sometimes I hate my mother for being a famous actress and wish she were just an ordinary woman. Uncle, it's a ridiculous situation to be in. She has guests over and they're all famous actors, artists and writers and I'm the only nobody tolerated because I'm her son. Who am I? Left university after three years under circumstances beyond our control. No talent, no money of my own and my passport says I'm not even Russian, just a Bushwa from Kyiv. My father actually was a Bushwa from Kyiv but he was also a famous actor. Sort of these actors and writers gather around my mother. One, one will inquire kindly about my worthlessness. That's humiliation for you. I'd like to hear more about that writer of hers but he never seems to speak. He's all right. Intelligent, modest, a touch of the melancholic, not yet 40 and he got of anything he wants about his writing, sure, there's talent and a charming style but after reading Tolstoy or Zola, you wouldn't want to read Trigori. I love writers. When I was young, my two desires were to get married and to become a writer. Neither wish came about. Yes, I think that even if you weren't that successful, it would still be nice. I hear footsteps. I can't live without her. Even the sounds of footsteps is wonderful. Nina, my entrantress, my darling, my dream. No, no, no. He just went out with my step-mothers but the moon was rising past and the sky was turning red but I, I drove my horse out to go so. Your eyes, have you been crying? No, no, that's not good. Oh, I just gotta go back so let's hurry. Please, for the love of God, there's no way I can stay any longer. My father doesn't know I'm here. Actually, it's time to start. I better call everybody. No, I'll go right this moment. Towards France, what two grandadiers. Once I was singing that song and my assistant said to me, your excellency has a powerful voice. He thought a moment powerful and ugly. My father and his wife don't want me over here with the Bohemians. They're afraid of me becoming an actress that attracts me like a seagull. Now I'm happy with all of you. Well, there's someone over there, I heard. There's no one. What country is that? A Ginko. Why is it so dark? Because at night, everything gets dark. Don't go so soon. Stay with me. Then I'll go with you and I'll stand under your window all night long. I don't know if our kids aren't used to you yet. I love you. Is that you, Yakov? Yes, sir. Have you got the methylated spirits in the sulfur? Yes, sir. When the red eyes glow, we'll need the smell of sulfur. Go on. Hm. Everything's ready for you. Nervous? Very nervous. Your mother's all right with that. Tragoran's here. He is? Those wonderful stories he writes. I wouldn't know. I've never read them. It's not easy acting in your play. I know living people in it. Living people? I don't show life as it is or life as it should be. Only life as it appears in a dream. This isn't your play. It's all one long speech and I think every play needs a love interest. Mary gets damp. Go back in and put on some more clothes. I'm hot enough as it is. Oh, you don't take care of yourself. You stubborn pig. As a doctor, you know the damp air is bad for you, but you want me to suffer. So what happens? Last night, you deliberately sit the whole evening on the veranda. Say, no, youth was wasted. Transported by the sparkling conversation of Irina Nikolayevna, you fail to notice the cold. Admit it, you're infatuated with her. I am 55. Chuck, 55 is an old for a man and you're beautifully preserved, which is why women everywhere are attracted to you. I say not my love. I stand before you, enchanted. People love actresses. Yeah. They are naturally drawn to them over shopkeepers. People seek the ideal look. Well, that could certainly help explain why women constantly fall in love with you. No. I've been with a great number of women and I have had great relationships with almost all of them. Mostly they are attracted to my being a doctor. You remember 10 or 15 years ago, I was the only decent doctor in the county delivering babies. And I was always quiet. The others are here. It was 25 years ago at the Poltava Fair, 1873. I saw her give the most exquisite performance. Oh, she was ravishing. What acting. Oh, and that comic, Pavel Shadin, oh, you must remember him. Oh, truly the best Ruskly have in my experience. Better than Sarkdavsky madam, I swear to God. Where is he now? You always ask after these prehistoric actors. How should I know about any of them? Pavel Shadin, now there was an actor. You don't see his like nowadays. They were mighty oaks back then. And I'm afraid we've only stumps left. Of course, geniuses are rare these days, but overall, acting has improved. No, no, there I disagree. Though it is a matter of taste, de gustobus ought bene ought ne hill. When do we start, dear? In a minute, please be patient. Oh, Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turned mine eyes into my very soul, and I see there such black and green as their tinct. Nay, but to live in the rank sweat of an intimate bed, stewed in corruption, honey-ing and making love over thy nasty stye. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to begin. I begin. Oh, Venerable Ancient Shades who haunt the mist above this lake, lead us into the arms of sleep where we may dream of what will be in 200,000 years from now. In 200,000 years there'll be nothing left. And let the shades show us that nothing. Yes, please, the magic of making us sleepy. Eagles and partridges, the antler deer, the geese and the spiders, the silent fish who dwell in the sea and the starfish and creatures invisible. All living things, the life itself, all living things have come to an end. They're sad, a lot of rounds complete. For over 1,000 centuries, earth has been lifeless. No single creature yet remains. And the pitiful moon has let your land to no avail. The cranes no longer waken the meadows with their cries. And the linden groves no longer hum with the flight of beetles. All is cold, cold, all is hollow, tear, tear. The bodies of all living things have returned to dust. Satan, the father of eternal matter, has transmuted them into stones and water and clouds. Their souls mingle as one. I am that universal soul. In me are united the souls of Alexander the Great, of Caesar and Shakespeare and Napoleon. As well as that is the lowest creeping worm I used to gather the consciousness of man with the animal instinct. And I remember it all. Every life that lives in me, she is symbolism. Mama. Over 100 years, I opened my mouth, then my voice resonates across the void, a plaintive cry on her. Help us, you cannot hear me. We were born before the day in an evil swamp and wandered earth until dawn, lacking thought, lacking any vibration of life. For fear of life's reemergence in you, he kicked all out of the buzz and the endless. Interchanged, just a stone from water never rests nor remain the same in all of the universe. Only I remain unchanging. Then matter and spirit were merged in splendid harmony and so began the reign of a universal will. Yet that moment will only arrive gradually, dropped by drop after many thousands of years after moon and sun and brilliant, serious, have long since turned to dust. But until that time, poor, poor, he had protested my mighty enemy there. I see his crimson eyes. I saw sulfur. Is that intentional? Yes. A special effect. Mama. The doctor has very civilly thought to remove the cat in the presence of Satan, father of eternal man. That's it. The placeover. Close the curtain. Close the curtain. My sincere apologies. I forgot only the chosen view. They write, plays, or act in them. There's no sense in breaking that one up. Constantin, really, Irina, you shouldn't talk to him like that. He has his pride. That's what I said. You offended him. Oh, he said himself his play was only a joke. So I laughed at his joke. Nonetheless. It turns out he did not write a joke. He wrote a masterpiece. The entire sulfur extravaganza was written and staged as an object lesson for us in how to write and how to act. The lesson bored us. Why these constant attacks and snide remarks about me? I don't care what you say. It's enough to try the patience of a saint. He's just a petulant conceit of the boy. He did this to please you. Oh, really? And yet he did not select an ordinary play, but instead forced us to sit through this symbolic garbage. Oh, for the sake of a joke, I'll happily sit through garbage, but what is all this pretentiousness? New forms, new art, for a new age. I don't see new forms just bad manners. Everyone writes the way they want. Yes. As best they can. Yes. He is welcome to write the way he wants as best he can, as long as I don't have to sit through the performance. Jupiter! Not Jupiter. I'm a woman. And I'm not angry yet. My annoyance is derived from the thought of this young man, Fridrimoy, his time on this nothing. I didn't mean to insult him. Where is this supposition that spirit is separate from matter? I mean, for all we know, spirit could be like an inclamoration of atoms. Somebody should write a play about school teachers and the difficulties of their lives. That could be stage work. There's one next play. This may be true. But let's not talk theater or atoms tonight. The sky is glorious. I hear singing. Oh, ladies and gentlemen, lovely. From the far side of the lake. Come sit by me. 10 or 15 years ago, there was music and singing almost every night around this lake. On this shore alone were six biggest state houses. Oh, I remember the parties and the laughter. People were always shooting guns off during the night. And love affairs, endless love affairs. And guess who played the romantic lead in all six houses? Dr. Yevgeny Dorn. Oh, yes. Oh, he's fascinating now. But back then, oh, the law. Sabrina. Oh, my conscience is acting up. Why did I have to be so rude to the child? What is this, something? Oh, and now I'm worried. Costia. Costia, my son. I'll find him for you. On the tree side, there's talent in this girl. You must go on the stage. That is my dream. But it won't happen. Oh, who knows? Let me introduce you. This is Barissa Alexeyevich. I'm very honored. I've read all of your work. Don't be embarrassed, dear. He may be a celebrity, but he has a simple soul. You see how he's embarrassed, too. Does something sinister about that clothes curtain? Yuck off. It could open the curtain, will you? That a strange play. I didn't understand anything, but I did enjoy watching. You acted with such sincerity. Sincerity. And the scenery, beautiful. There must be a lot of fish out in that lake. Oh, yes, I expect so. I love the fish. Nothing gives me more pleasure than sitting on the dock and watching the float bob up and down. Well, surely once you've expressed the pleasure of creating art, nothing else can compare. Oh, you mustn't talk like that to him. When people discuss art, he always clams up. You know, I was in Moscow at the opera years ago. And the famous basso Silva, he hit a low C. Now later in the same evening, the bass from our church choir was in the second balcony. And suddenly you hear him sing out, bravo, Silva. The whole octave lower. It was like this. Bravo, Silva. The whole theater was silent as a tomb. The angel of silence must have flown over us. Others waiting for me. Nothing for it. We hate to let you go. I want you to see you, pause. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. Stand, pause, get, no, no, no. Just have some more. Please stay. I can't. For one hour only. That girl, apparently, the father died and left. No, no, the mother, the mother died, left an enormous fortune to the father. He's willed all to the stepmother, and that girl won't have a penny to her name. It's a scandal. Give the father his due. He's a pig. Can we go inside now? I'm getting a chill from the damp air. My leg's the ache. He needs to walk. You're crying. You're stiff as a boar. Oh, come on, you boar. Get him walking. He'll be fine. Oh, there's the dog barking again. Please let the dog up. It's changed. I'm right here. It's impossible for Piotr Nikolayevich. He's a stethoscope born to guard against thieves. All my millets stored there. Who's going to steal the millet? A whole octave lower. Yet he wasn't even a real singer, just someone in our church choir. Maybe I'm crazy, but I liked that play. There was something to it when that kid was speaking about loneliness. He's appeared. It was new, different. Everyone's gone. I'm still here. I can't stand watch her. She follows me everywhere. Constantin, I liked your play. It was strange. And of course, we didn't get to hear the ending, but it made a powerful impression on me. You are a very gifted young man, and you should keep writing. Oh, why so upset? What I mean to say is sure you took your subject matter from abstract ideas as you should, for art should express our highest, greatest ideals. Art is a serious matter. Why are you so pale? You're saying I should keep writing? Yes, but only address eternal, serious topics. You know, I've had a decent life full of great variety. I've enjoyed my time, and I am content. But if I could ever have the experience of creating an artistic expression, but I would throw off this personal material and fly off into the Imperium. Where is Nina? She went home. What am I going to do? I have to see her. I'll catch up to her. Oh, calm down. I have to go. I don't have a choice. Constantin, you should go back to the house. Your mother's waiting for you, and she's upset. Then tell her I've gone. And please, everyone, leave me be. Don't follow me around. Castor, this is no way to behave. Goodbye, doctor. I'm very grateful to you. You know, that's what people say when they don't know what else to say. Are you? Disgusting. I hear music in the house. We should go in. Wait. Wait? What for? I have something to tell you. I need someone to talk to. My father, I don't love him. But somehow I feel I can trust you. Why is it that I feel we have something in common? I just feel like, I feel like, help me. Help me before I do something foolish. I can't stand it. I'll ruin my life. What can I do to help you? I'm unhappy. No one knows how unhappy I am. I'm sancin. Oh. Oh, come here. You're all so very sensitive. So oversensitive. It's the magic of the lake. It is strong. How can I help you, my child? Mitch, which of us looks younger? You do, of course. You look younger, but you don't have to go to your spot. And haven't really lived. Also, I have a rule. I never think about the future. I never think about old age or death. What will be will be. Yeah. I feel like I was born a very long time in the past. My entire life trails behind me, praying on my dress. Often, I don't even want to go on living. But I should just throw that off, get myself together. How ridiculous. Tell her I love flowers of mine. Also, I'm as proper as an English lady. I stay in training, as they say. And I'm always dressed, and I have my hair done. Come you'll fall. Can I be found beyond the house, even down to the garden with my hair down or in a dressing gown? Certainly not, which is why I look so young. There's nothing dowdy about me. I haven't let myself go, as some women do. Look, look, light is a little bird. Play a girl of 15. Perhaps I should continue with our reading. We left off with the grain merchant and the rats. Oh, yes, the rats. Pray continue. One second thought. I will read. Here, it's my turn. It is as dangerous for people to pamper and lure novelists into their homes, as it would be for a flower merchant to raise wraps in his granary. And yet the practice enjoys a vogue. When a woman has fixed her desire upon a particular writer she wishes to acquire, she lays siege to him with compliments, attentions, and other indulgences. Oh, yes. Yes, if we are speaking of French women, I have no doubt this is the case, but not us. A Russian woman, if she is trying to seduce a writer, is probably smitten to the toenails herself. Take any example at random. Take myself and Trigorin. Are we very happy? Are we very happy? Today, we will enjoy ourselves. Father and stepmother have gone off to Tibet, and we are alone for three whole days. I am happy now. Isn't she pretty today? Yes. Yes, elegant and well-dressed. You're clever at that. But we mustn't pay her too many compliments, so we're liable to bring the evil eye on her child. I wonder if he doesn't get paid. Mauvisant, darling, on the water, but what comes next is neither interesting nor true. Be calm, my nervelies on the lake. I never see him. He's sick in his soul. Nina, would you mind maybe residing something from his plane? What for? So uninteresting. Well, when I've heard him read his work, his face and eyes burn with emotion. His voice is beautiful and sad. The voice of a real poet. Good night. Patricia. Were you sleeping? Certainly not. You haven't been taking your medicine. I'd like to take my medicine, but the doctor here won't prescribe. Medicine? At 60 years of age, medicine won't help. Even 60-year-olds want to live. So take an aspirin. Take two. Patricia needs a rest cure at a spa somewhere with mineral water. So he can drink mineral water. He cannot drink mineral water. Anything is fine. What do you mean? Just as I said, everything is clear. Peter Nicolayevitch should stop smoking. Nonsense. No, that I can agree with. Alcohol and tobacco diminish your individuality. After a cigar or a shot of vodka, you stop being Peuta and begin being Peuta and someone else. You stop being the real... That's easy for you to say. You've had an interesting life. Me? I worked for 28 years in the Department of Justice without ever actually living. I finished life with no experience, so understandably, I am desirous to live. Since your life has been rich and varied, you could afford to be philosophical and leave things to be, but I still care. That's why after dinner, I drink sherry and smoke a cigar and so on and so on. You know this. Hey, live and live seriously by all means. But at 60 years of age to go on about going to a spa or lamenting on a misspent youth, just seems silly to me. She will be two drinks in before we get to the table. You watch. Life's been hard on her. That's meaningless. Oh, since the man who's had everything. Since the man who has everything. Oh, this is my kind of tedium. He rolls out the philosophy. Happy to be with you. I enjoy being with you and I'm listening to you, but if I could be alone in an empty hotel room, memorizing a new role, that would be bliss. Well, that goes without saying. A life in town is categorically better. You could have your own office. People don't break into pester you without permission. So I'd be a doctor. And telephone on your desk and getting around is as easy as hailing a cab and so on. Teller of love, flowers of mine. Ah, good afternoon. Every time he comes into anywhere. Wonderful to see everyone is in good health. My wife informed me the two of you are planning a trip into town today. Yes, that's the plan. I see. Blended to here. How to put this exactly by what means were you planning on taking, dear lady? We are harvesting the rye today and all the men are working as are all the horses. What horses were you planning on taking? What horses? How should I know what horses? We do have carriage horses. Carriage horses? And where am I to find harnesses for them? Harnesses, you hear? The astonishing beyond belief. Adam, I bow to your talent. You have my utmost esteem. I'll give you 10 years of my life, but I can give you no horses. This is utterly ridiculous. I have to go to town. Dear Adam, do you have the slightest notion of what it takes to run this farm? Oh, the same story, for God's sake. If that's the way it is, I'm leaving. Be returned to Moscow. Have it your way. In that case, don't tell them to bring the horses around immediately. We must go to my sister and beg her not to leave. We'll all beg her. Agreed? Agreed? You know, such an impudent, such a tyrant, she said. Oh, get him inside. Get his beat up. That's the one that's a master in my medicine bag. All rights, your husband should be out on his ear. The outcome of this, however, will be pure, Nikolayovitch, the old woman, and his sister begging for his forgiveness. You watch. Oh, he sent the carriage horses out to the fields along with the rest. Misunderstanding of the same sort. Crane, you see? My hands shake. You have Gany. My dear darling beloved, take me into your home. Our moment is passing by. We are no longer young. And if perhaps now, at the end of our lives, we could stop deceiving and lying. I am 55 years old. It is too late to change my life. Oh, I know you refuse me because there are other women close to you. You can't harbour them all. I'm sorry. You're tired of me. No, no, not at all. You know I'm jealous. Naturally, as a doctor, you can't avoid women entirely. I understand, suppose. How are the others inside the house? Evna's crying and Piotr Nikolayovitch is having an asthma attack. We shall go in. They're going to need some aspirin. Mercy be in. Give me those flowers. Give me those flowers. It's to see a great actress weep over nothing and even more strange to see a great writer. I mean, everyone knows his art. His name is on all the papers. Nearest desires to fish. And the pride he felt today when he caught a few perch in the lake. I thought famous people would be serious and elude that they would disdain publicity and use the reputation to get back at the world for putting such value on wealth and birth. But no, they cry and go fishing and laugh and play cards and go mad, like all of us. Are you alone? Yes, I'm alone. What does that mean? I did something reprehensible today. Killed the seagull. I'll help me to lay it at your feet. What is wrong with you? Soon I'll kill myself the same way. Ever since I ceased knowing you, you don't act the same towards me. You look through me with cold eyes and my presence embarrasses you. The slightest thing sets you off now. Everything you say is vexed with some kind of symbolic language. This seagull is clearly a symbol for you. I'm sorry if I don't understand what you mean. I'm too simple to understand what you mean. It all started on the night of my play's stupid failure. Women don't forgive failure. I burned every page of my manuscript. If you could only see how unhappy I am, your cold eyes frightened me. I've woken up to find the lake has evaporated. The lake, it leads to way into the earth. Are you too simple to understand me? What is there to understand? My play failed to please. You despise my inspiration as commonplace. Devoid a value as so many others do. I certainly understand that much. I understand that much like a nail driven through my brain. Damn my insurmountability and the blood. It sucks for my heart. Behold, the real master. Amulating about like Hamlet, even armed with a book. Words, words, words. His sun rises. His rays shine close. And already, your face has melted before his warmth into a smile. I won't get in your way. She takes snuff. She drinks a lot. She's always wearing black. This girl teacher's in love with her. But it's how I see her, bitch. Good afternoon. Some unanticipated advance means that we will be leaving today or so I gather. And before you and I have had a chance to get acquainted. Such a shame. I so rarely get the chance to meet interesting young girls your age. So much that I forget what you are like. I can't think back to being 18 or 19. And therefore the girls in my stories, they always were in false. I'd love to be in your shoes for an hour just to learn how you think, how you feel and how you generally are. And I would give anything to be in your shoes. Why? No, what it's like to be a talented and famous writer. To know how you feel and experience being famous. That's hard to say. I never really think about it. You might be overestimating my fame or else there's no feeling of the kind. I certainly don't feel anything. Well, what about when you read your name in the papers? Good reviews, they're fine. Bad reviews. I'll be in a bad mood for a day or two. It's a strange world. You know, I think deeply envious of you, you know. We each have a different faith and some people hardly manage to keep body and soul together through a tedious, anonymous existence. Each one, like every other in the crowd is unhappy. Others like you, for example, receive the gift of an interesting, meaningful life. You have happiness. I do. You're talking about fame and happiness of a bright, interesting, meaningful life, but those words, those words are meaningless to me. I'm sorry, but they're like gumdrops and I don't eat gumdrops. You're very young. You're very sweet, but I must be going now. Your life is beautiful. How is that? I need to go right. Please forgive me. I just don't have time. You stepped on a sore spot. I'm afraid it made me upset, angry. So you would like to talk. Fine, let's talk, shall we? Let's go through my brilliant and interesting life. Where should we begin? Okay, you know how some people, they obsess. They obsess over a thing or an idea like the man who spends all his time thinking of the moon. I've got such a moon. I must write. I must write, I must write. I'm obsessed with writing. No sooner have I finished one story that I've already started a second, I started a third and a fourth. I write continuously as if writing in relays with the postal horses. It's really the only way I know how. Tell me, does that strike you as bright and beautiful? No, no, no, mad. Mad is a more apt description, yes. Even now, I can't get out of my mind the fact that I have a story that's waiting to be finished. Loud, I see. And it's shaped like a grand piano. I think somewhere in my story, I must mention that a cloud passed by, shaped like a grand piano. Heliotrope, you smell it, but I think make a note, widow's color. Use when describing a summer's evening. This whole conversation, every word that we speak, I lock up in my brain somewhere for future use. Now when I get done working, I go to the theater, or if I'm lucky, out to the lake so I can fish. And I just try to rest and try to forget, but what do you think happens? There's an iron cannibal that just rolls around in my brain with new plot lines, new ideas, and it waits for me on my desk. It waits to be shot off. So I rush back to right, to right, and so it remains. I have no rest for myself. I devour my own life, making honey for others. I rip the flowers up from my own garden. I tear them out by their roots. Surely I am insane. My friends and my family, they certainly treat me as such. What are you working on now, they ask. And it's always the same. And sometimes I wonder if all their praise and all their adulation is somehow a delusion that they're stringing me along in the hopes that I am sane and all reality I am not. Then one day they will sneak up behind me and carry me out to the madhouse. What about my early years? When I was young, I could have enjoyed my youth and myself, but no, writing. Writing was sheer torture. Unless you're lucky, the life of a beginning writer is the life of a pariah. You're obsessed with famous writers, successful artists. You end up at parties mingling about, always unnoticed. You don't have the gumption to even look them in the eye. It's like being a gambling addict without even a penny. Now my vision of readers, not that I know, but I picture hostility and indifference. The sheer panic I'd feel when a new play of mine opened to the theater public. I imagine that opinion was divided by those with dark hair. Patriot and those with light hair, indifference. That's my brilliant and interesting life, yes. Don't you get satisfaction from the moment of creation? A moment of ecstasy and bliss? Yes, I enjoy the writing. I enjoy reading proofs. But the minute that something is published and I see the mistakes, I see what went wrong. It should never have been written in the first place. Oh, I feel so miserable, but public, they manage the stomach to trite. Oh yes, well-turned. The man has talent, not on Toy Story's level, naturally. Finally crotted though, not as good as Targanious, fathers and sons, until the day I die. The commentary would be very nice, very nice. At my funeral, my friends, they will walk past my grave and say, here lies Tragorn, a good writer, but not as good as Targanious. There, I must respectfully disagree with you. You've been spoiled by your success. Success? What success? I've never been satisfied with my writing. I don't like being a writer. And by far the worst. So when I'm inspired to the point that I am in a daze and I don't even know what I'm writing about. Now, what I truly love, I truly love is the lake. I love, I love the countryside. I love the sky. It's nature that sparks me. It inspires passion within me and gives me a true desire to write. But I can't simply remain a landscape painter. I am also a citizen. I love my country and I love the people of this country. So I feel if I must write, then it's my duty to write about them. I should write about their suffering. I should write about their rights. I should write about the progress of science. And as I hurry to do this, out from every corner, they come out to criticize and attack me like a pack of vicious hounds after a fox. So that as life and science, they continue their advances, I fall behind, pin through the earth, so that finally I believe I can only write landscapes. Everything else is false. It's too hard. It just takes away your sense of who you are. Like yourself. We all love you. And this writer like you, I'd give my whole life to my readers knowing that they would achieve happiness by reaching up to my image and pulling my chariot to the streets. A chariot? And who would I be? Agamemnon? Heh, coming a writer and I just, I would injure poverty and rejection, disappointment. I would live in a garret and eat bread and water. I could tolerate mortification and hating myself so long as I was well and truly famous. They're calling for me. It must be time I got packed. I don't wanna leave. Such beauty. What bliss. Oh yes, you see the house on the father's shore? Yes. That's my mother's house. She's dead. I was born there. My whole life I lived by this island and I know every island. Such a lovely place. And what is this? A seagull. Constantin shot it. Such a lovely bird. I really don't want to go. Could you persuade her to stay? What are you writing? Just some notes for a plot, an idea for a short story. A girl who has lived her life on the shore of a lake. A girl like you. She loves the lake like a seagull. And there she is happy and free like a seagull. And then one day a man comes by and sees her and having nothing else to do, ruins her. Like this seagull. I'm out here. I'm telling you this because you're a writer. You can use it for material if you want to. Oh, I swear to God if he'd hurt himself badly I wouldn't have gone on living another minute. But I made a decision to have courage and rip the love out of my heart. Rip it out by the roots. How? By getting married to Medvedenko. A school teacher. Yes. Is that necessary? Oh, what's the use of loving someone hopelessly for years on end? Once I'm married I won't have time for love. I'll have responsibilities. Which at least there'll be a change from now. Let's have another round. Look at me like that. Another. Come on. Women drink more often than you think. Just most prefer to keep it a secret. It's always vodka or cognac. Yes. To your health. Oh, you're a simple man. It's too bad you're leaving. I don't want to go. Why not ask her to stay? No. She won't stay now. Her son. He's acting rather tactlessly. First he tries to shoot himself. Now he wants to challenge me to a duel. Hi. He pouts and pups these new forms, always preaching them. But surely there is room enough for both old and new. Why push and shove? Well, jealousy's got something to do with it. Though that's none of my concern. Oh, my school teacher isn't bright. But he's kind and he's poor and he loves me so much. I pity him. And his poor mom, all my best wishes for your journey. Please don't think badly of us. And, oh, thank you for being so nice. Send me all your books. And don't forget to inscribe them. Only don't write anything formal. Simply write, to Maria, ancestry unknown, who has no idea why she goes on living on this earth. I only had one seed in my hands. I'm trying to decide whether I should become an actress or not. If only there was someone who could advise me. No one can. You just goodbye. Maybe we won't see each other again, so. Take this to remember me, but I told him a dahlia. I asked them to inscribe their niches on this side and the title of your book, Days and Nights. How gracious. This is a very thoughtful present. Back on me, sometimes. I will. I'll think about you on that, on that sunny afternoon. Do you remember? One week ago, you wore a light colored dress. And we were talking and there was a white seagull on the bench. Ah, yes, the seagull. It's a combination here. I think it's still coming, but you can't go gallivanting about on visits with your rheumatism. What went out just now was that Nina? Yes. Oh, Peldon even dropped it something. Days and nights. Packings done. Pages 121, lines 11 and 12. Oh, I'm worn out. Should I pack the Fischer Rods as well? Yes, I'll need those, but the books you can give away. Yes, sir. Pages 121, lines 11 and 12. I wonder, do you keep my books in the house? In pure study. The cabinet bookshelf. Patricia, you really should stay home. But you're all leaving, I'll be alone. What would you do in town? Well, nothing in particular, except they're laying the foundation stone for the town hall events like that. I need to get away from here for one hour. I need to stop living the Philistine life, not live in a stagnant pond. I need to do something instead of being a cigarette holder on a shelf. I've ordered the horses to be sent round at one o'clock. We can leave together. Well, you should live the way you want and avoid boredom, but just don't make yourself sick. And look after my son. Watch over him and take care of him, mentor him, advise him. I'm leaving, so I still won't know why he shot himself, though. I believe the main reason was jealousy. So the sooner I get Trigorin away from here, the better. Not sure how to say this, but there are other reasons. Oh, it's no mystery. He's an intelligent young man living in the country out in the middle of nowhere with no job, no prospects, no money. He has no hobbies to keep him busy. The endless holiday embarrasses him. I love him. He's attached to me, but in the end, he feels the purples here, like a guest who overstayed, like a dependent sponge. It's no mystery. He has his pride. He always gives me trouble. Maybe he should apply for a government job. Whew, well, I think that the right thing to do would be to give him a little money. He should be able to dress like a human at least. I mean, look at the clothes he wears, the same ragged coat for three years now. And I don't think he even owns an overcoat. And where's the harm in letting him wander to go abroad? It doesn't cost that much. I know, but maybe I could buy him a new suit, not a trip abroad. No, I can't afford a new suit right now either. I don't have any money. I don't. Oh, sure. Yes, of course. Look, I apologize, sweetheart. Please don't be angry with me. You have a great heart, a noble heart. I haven't got any money. Well, you could be sure he'd have money from me, had I any. I don't have five co-packs to my name. Shamraev spends my entire pension on managing the farm, the animals, the beekeeping, till I never see a co-pack out of it. The bees die, the cows die, of course, and they won't even give me a horse. All right, I do have money, but don't forget, I'm an actress. I could hardly cover the cost of my work. Oh, you're very kind, honey. I have great respect for you. Oh, oh, oh, here we go again. Patricia! Patricia! Oh, my dear. I feel faint. Oh, oh! It's all right now. It's all, it's all over, it's all done. See? All better. Don't be frightened, mama. He has spells all the time. It's nothing dangerous. You should go lie down on gold. Yes, I should take a rest. Yes, I should. However, I will be going to town. Take a rest, then go to town. There you have it. Yes. Ah, ah, ah, ah, here's a riddle. What goes on? Four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, three legs in the afternoon. I know, and flat on his back at night. Yes. Thank you, I can walk alone, flat on my neck. Oh, he frightened me. Country life is unhealthy for him. He longs for more. You should think about giving him a small loan. Be generous and give him a couple thousand so we can live in town for a year. I haven't got any money! I'm an actress, not a banker. Mom! Would you change my bandage for me? You do it so well. Doctor's late. Said he'd be here by 10, it's already noon. Come and sit down. It's like you're wearing a turban. There was a tramp in the kitchen last night and he asked what country you're from. Only a tiny scratch, isn't it? Tell me you won't go playing with the guns again after I leave. No, mama, that was wild desperation and it won't happen again. You have golden hands. I remember a long time ago you were working for a state theater. I was a little child. There was a fight in our car yard between tenants. There was a washerwoman who was nearly beaten to death, remember? They brought her up to our place, she was knocked unconscious. We gave her medicine, bathed their kids in the bathtub. You don't remember that. There were two ballerinas, they lived one floor above us. They would stop in for coffee. They were very quiet. For the last few days, I've felt the love for you, the same as when I was a little child. Gentle, devoted love. You're the only family I have left. Why'd you let that man stand between us? Oh, you don't understand him. He has a very honorable character. It wasn't so honorable when he found out I was challenging him to a duel. He decided to run away. He's leaving. Oh, rubbish. He's leaving because I'm taking him away. I know you are an intelligent young man, so even if you don't like our being close, I expect you to respect my choice. I respect your choice, and you should respect mine to act towards that character as I wish. An honorable character. Here we are quarreling over him, while he's out in the garden cultivating Nina, convincing her that he is a genius. Oh, I'm rejoicing these terrible things to me, don't you? I respect him. I must ask you not to speak ill of him in my presence. I have no respect for him. You want me to believe he's a genius? I'm sorry, but I can't lie. His writing makes me sick. That's jealousy. Like all talentless people full of pretension, you do nothing but condemn those with real talent. Must be such a comfort. Real talent. I have more talent than all of you put together. You're all hacks. Just because you've got a strangled hold on legitimacy, you say I've got anything different from your own way. I'm sorry, but I will not be suppressed. I will not respect you nor him. You're just a pretentious little symbolist. And you can go back to your worthless trashy theater and keep acting in your worthless second rate plays. I have never acted in anything second rate. Leave me alone. You couldn't write a measly Vaudeville sketch. You're from Kiev. A petty bourgeois, nobody from Kiev. Of all places, the parasite isn't even Russian. Miser! Good for nothing but crying. My darling beautiful child, forgive your awful mother. Forgive me. I'm a horrible mother. I wish you could understand. What do I have left? She doesn't love me. I can't write anymore and my hopes are gone. You mustn't give up hope. I'm taking him away today. She'll be in love with you again. You're all right. We've already made up. Yes, Mama. And you should make up with him again too, huh? Before we leave. There's no reason to fight a duel, am I right? Yes, you're right. Only I couldn't see him again. I couldn't talk to him. That would be beyond my strength. He's here. I'll go. The doctor can fix my bandages. Here we are. Pages 121, lines 11 and 12. The carriage will be here soon. Do you ever have the need, my life is yours. You ever have- Roll packed, I hope? Yes, yes. If you ever have the need, my life is yours. Why? Why do I hear this sad call? The pill of a pure soul. If you ever have the need, my life is yours. She has my heart and advice. Let's stay, one more day, please. Let's, let's stay. Please have some self-control, your tipsy. Time to sober up. No, I need you to be sober. You should be wise and sensible enough for this. Please, I'm begging you. Think about this as, as my faithful friend. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. You are capable of sacrifice. Be my friend. Let me go. Oh, are you so amused by her? Something draws me to her. This may be what I've always needed. To fall in love with a provincial girl. How little you know yourself. Some people, they, they walk in their sleep. And while we're here talking, I am asleep. I'm dreaming of her. I'm overcome with sweet, imperian dreams. Let me go. Don't talk to me like that. Maurice, I'm an ordinary woman. Maurice, don't tempt me. You're scaring me. If you want to, you, you can rise above the ordinary. Love, a young, wonderful, political love. It's love that can transport us to a, a higher world of visions. It's our only chance at happiness on earth. I've never felt this love before. Being so occupied as a younger man, I spent all my time on the doorsteps of editors fighting poverty, but, but now that love has arrived, she is back getting to me. Why should I withdraw? You've lost your mind. Then let me be. Let me go. Why has everyone conspired to torment me today? She doesn't understand. She, she just won't understand. Have praised another woman to my face. The divine lover, you've lost your mind. Then let me be. Let me go. My joy, my pride, me. Even for an hour, I couldn't survive it. I'd go mad. Someone can see us. Oh, let them see. I'm not ashamed to love you, my treasure. You want to be free to run around, but I don't want you to. I won't let you, your mind. This face is mine. These eyes are mine. This silken hair is mine. You belong entirely to me. And your talent is unmatched to your intelligence. You are the greatest author in Russia today, the only hope for Russia. Every line has meaning and truth, one line and create a living person. The power of your work can be felt by everyone who reads it. Oh, you think this is flattery? Am I lying to you? No, look at me. Look in my eyes and tell me I lie. Only I know your true worth. Only I will ever tell you the truth, my darling, my dearest. You will come with me, won't you? You won't leave me. I don't have a will of my own. I never have. How can a woman love someone so spineless? So feeble, fine, take me away, carry me on. Just don't ever let me out of your sight. That was mine. Well, you know, if you need to stay, you certainly could. I could go on, you could join me next week. No, we'll go together. If you like. Yes. Together. What's that? I heard a good expression this morning. Virgin forest, I'll use it. So, back on the road, all those trains, all those stations, terrible food, insistent conversations. I'm bad. Someone's here. I regret to inform you that the carriage has arrived. It's time to depart for the station. Your train arrives at five after two. Just as a personal favor, madam, if you might inquire after the actors who start sale, is he alive? Is he well? We used to drink together, and I remember him playing brilliantly in a dynamite play. Great male robbery. Oh, also on that subject, another tragedy, and it named his my love, also in the same company at the Elizabeth Grodd, an honorable man. There's no need to rush, you have five minutes. Now, once these two were playing a couple of Blackguard conspirators in a melodron, when all of a sudden they're discovered, and he cries out, we've been bought. We've been caught. Everything wasn't, you know, everything was lost. There's no need to cry. Sister, we need to leave or we'll be late. That's, I'm getting in the carriage. If you do the station ride, don't worry, I'll walk. I'm a very fast walker. What are you being, Ben? Here, sir, a ruble, that's for both of you. This is a good station. Tell him we're leaving, we have to say goodbye now. Right to us if there's time. Goodbye, Boris Alexievich. Welcome, have a safe journey. All our best. May God protect you. I gave a ruble to the cook, that's for both of you. I think I might have forgot my walking stick. It might be out of the garanda. I knew I would see you again. Boris Alexievich, I've decided. I'm going to become an actress. Tomorrow I won't be here. I'll leave my father and throw caution to the wind to begin a new life. I'm going to Moscow, same as you. We'll see each other there. Stay at the Hotel Slavyansky Bazaar, right to me as soon as you arrive. I'm at Shonoka Street, Konolosky House. I have to go now. Just one more minute, please. You are so beautiful. I am so happy to think that we will see each other again soon, and I'll get to see these perfect eyes again. And this indescribably beautiful, soft smile. My darling, your face in this light. You have the face of an angel. The weather's so horrible. Today is of storms. Oh, look how high the waves on the lake are. It's so dark out there. Somebody had to tear down that old theater stage. It's just hanging out there like a big old ugly naked skeleton, curtain flapping in the wind. The other night when I was walking by, I swore to I heard someone crying. Let's go home, Marsha. I'm staying here tonight. Our son will be hungry. Nonsense. He has matronia to feed him. Our child has not seen his mother in three days. Oh, incredible nag, at least before you used to spout philosophy. Now all I hear from you is just baby, home, home, baby, home. Let's go, Marsha. You go. I can't. Your father won't give me a horse. He will. Just ask. All right, I'll ask. But you'll come home tomorrow? Yes, I'll be there. Fine. Just leave me alone. Stephanie Goliath has asked me to make up a bed from here in Kostya's room tonight. Let me do that. Old people like children again. Well, I'll be leaving. Good night, Marsha. Good night, mother. Please leave if you're going to go. Good night, Consentant. I've never predicted that you would become a real rider, Kostya. And the magazine's even paying you now. And you've grown to be so handsome. Kostya, my dear, could you be a little nicer to my Marshenka? Leave him alone, mama. She's a dear. She's precious to me. Women don't need so much, Kostya. Just a kind smile once in a while. I know what that can mean. Now you've made him angry. Why do you pester him? Because I feel sorry for you, Marsha. But that's not helpful. I know why your heart is. I see everything. I understand everything. The entire thing is assonering to the last degree. Unrequited love only happens in novels. It's ridiculous. You sit on a bench, waiting, hoping for a change in the winds of fortune, disintegrating. Flood flowers in your heart tell it to get the hell out. My husband will be transferred to another district. They promised him that soon as that happens, you're going to rip the love out of my heart. Rip it out by the roof. Kostya's playing. He's lonely. You know, the important thing is just not to see him all the time. When Semyon gets his transfer, I'll forget about him in a month. Believe me, the entire thing is nonsense. Make sure it's thin. You can laugh. Money's a joke to you. Money, a joke. After 30 years of medicine, my friend, 30 years working day and night without a moment's rest, working without peace. And from that, I was able to save 2,000 rubles. Last year, I spent the whole lot on a trip to Italy, every ruble. Haven't you gone yet? I can't. He won't give me a horse. I wish to God I'd never seen you. You've changed. This whole room around a parlor is now a writer's study. Yes. Konstantin gets more work than in here. Now he can just go straight out into the garden to think whenever he wants. Where's my sister? She went to the station to meet Tregor and she'll be back soon. Well, if you sent for her, I must be on my last legs. You see how he is? I'm falling apart and still no medicine. Medicine? What would you like? Aspirin, bicarbonate, or soda? Quiet, I'm just say the word. There he goes again, tormenting me with philosophy again. Was that for me? Yes, for you, Kirsten Nikolayevich. You are most gracious. The bright moon sails the midnight sky. I thought of this plot for a short story. The title needs to be The Man Who Wanted, Long Kiabulu. You see, when I was young, I wanted to become a writer. Well, that didn't work out. I wanted to give beautiful public speeches. My speeches were terrible. Listen to how I talk, or this, or this, or this, so on. When I did try to deliver a speech, the best I could do was break a sweat. That I did succeed at. I wanted to get married. No such luck. I wanted to live in the city and see, here I am, dying in the countryside, the end. You wanted to be a state counselor, and you did? No, that was not intentional. That just happened. Still, at 62 years of age, to be going on and on about a misspent youth seems less than magnanimous. See how stubborn he is. Try to understand. I want to live. That is ridiculous. All lives must end. It's the law of nature. Since a man who's been everywhere and done everything so that it no longer matters one way or the other, you will be afraid to die, just like me. All animals instinctively fear death. We should overcome this instinct. It would make sense to fear death if you believed in an afterlife, which included punishment for your sins. But firstly, you don't believe in such an afterlife. And secondly, put sins of you committed other than working in a government office for 25 years. 28. We're keeping constant in from his work. Doctor, if you don't mind my asking, what city was it that you visited that was your favorite? Genoa. Why Genoa? The spectacle of the crowds and the streets. In the evening, when you leave your hotel, the streets are overflowing with people. You begin to drift with them, no destination in mind, going back and forth. The crowd begins to animate into a living being, and you become part of it. For a moment, you begin to believe in the reality of a universal soul, like the one in your play, Constantin. Remember, I am that universal soul. Nina girl who acted in your play. Whatever happened to her? Where is she? How is she? She's all right, so far as I'm concerned. I heard she's been leading an irregular sort of life. That's a long story, doctor. Tell me the short version. She ran away from home, and she got together with Trigorion. Did you know that? Yes. She had a child. The child died. Trigorion fell out of love with her, and returned to his former attachments as one might have expected. Of course, he never left his old way, so he continuously fooled them both, typically spineless of him. So far as I know, Nina's personal life has been disastrous. And her acting career? Even worse at scenes. She started off at a summer theater near Moscow, then she began to tour in the provinces. I used to follow her from place to place in those days. She took on the most difficult roles, but her actions were rough and childish. She couldn't control her voice, and her gestures were abrupt. For a moment, her talent would appear. For example, she had a talent for dying, loudly. But those were just brief moments. So you will admit she has some talent? She may. Although it's hard to say for certain, I went to see her, but she would never see me. The maid never admitted me to her hotel. Her feelings were understandable, and I didn't insist on seeing her. What else can I tell you? When I got home, she began writing to me. Interesting letters. Intelligent, warm, though she never complained, I could tell she was unhappy. Every line was a nerve-stretched thought, and her imagination also seemed under tension. She would be getting siding her letters. The seagull, like the Miller and Pushkin's play, who would say over and over, I'm the Raven. Well, she would write over and over. I'm the seagull, and she's here now. Here, what do you mean? She's in town, at the railway station hotel. Five days, I think she's been there. I wanted to go see her. Masha's already been, but she won't see anyone. I mean, it's where he saw her in a field a few miles from here. I did, she looked like she was heading into town. I said hi, and asked when she'd come by to say hello. She said, soon. She won't come here. Her father and her stepmother want nothing to do with her. They had censories posted around their estate to keep her from visiting her childhood home. It's one thing to be a philosopher in writing, another one to be one in life. She was a wonderful girl. What? I said she was wonderful, that girl. State Councilor Soren was once even a little in love with her. The old fox. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. They must have gotten back from the station. I hear, Mama, continue to age. We crumble under the weathering elements, but you, Madam, you become younger with this piece and your bright-colored dress. I'm saying you're under the weather again. Your vim, your gray. Oh, you boring old man. Stop trying to jinx me. Masha? You remember me? Did you get married? A long time ago. Happy? Oh. Good evening, Madam. What did he say I'd say good? Did she move in? Good evening, sir, and see you. Doctor. Your mother says that you've forgotten the past and you are no longer angry with me. And Boris brought the magazine with your new story. Thank you, Your Honor, you're too kind. You've got people intrigued. In Moscow and Petersburg, everyone's talking about you. They all are asking about you. They want to know what's he like? How old is he? Is his hair dark or light? I cannot consensus that you are no longer young, but beyond that, your identity that remains hidden behind your pseudonym, like the man in the iron mask. Will you be staying here longer? No, I'm thinking back to Moscow. Probably tomorrow, definitely tomorrow. I've got a story to finish this collection. You know how it is. Oh, but my bad luck, it follows me with this weather. It's a terrible wind, but if it calms down any, I'd like to go up to the lake and get in some fishing. Which reminds me, if you wanted to have a look around that place that you staged or played, do you remember that? I have an idea for a story and I needed to refresh my memory of the setting and the location, so I thought tomorrow morning after I got in some fishing, I could go up to the lake. Boris, he needs to go home. Oh, horse nonsense. What is this needs to go home? You know they just came back from the station. They can't go out again directly. A different horse then. Don'ts don't have a different heart. What's the point of talking in here? I'll walk. Walk back in this weather? All right, ladies and gentlemen, please. It's only four miles. I wouldn't do the father if not for the child. Good night, Lusia. Good night, mother. Good night, everybody. They hope he survives the journey. Then give him a horse. Don't take him. Walk. He's not a general. Please, ladies and gentlemen, stop wasting time. We'll be called to dinner soon. For autumn nights like this, we always play lotto. See, this is the same set we used as children. My dear mother used to play with us when we were children. We'll sit here and play till supper. Truth be told, it's a boring game. He read his own story with the pages of minor uncut. Do you want to play? No, thank you, mama. I'm not in the mood for some reason. All right. Everyone, anti-out. Ten co-backs. Doctor, would you kindly anti for me? Yes, of course. Everyone paid up? Mm-hmm. All right, here we go. Twenty-two. Oh, right here. Three. Ah, yes. No. Did you cover the three? Yes. Eight. Eighty-one. Ten. Oh, not so fast. You should have seen the reception I had in Karkov. They made me give you thirty-four. A group of students arranged the ovation. They gave me three baskets of flowers and two bouquets. Look at this. Ooh, that's something. Fifty. Fifty even. Yes. I wore the most explicit dress you can imagine. People can say what they want about me, but they have to admit I know what to wear. Yes, you really do. He cost his plane again. He's an anguish. Those nasty reviewers taking their shots again. Why does he pay any attention? He's had some bad luck. It could be hard for a young writer to find his voice. But his stories, they're strange and big sometimes, and it could be so incoherent. Like, there is a lunatic raving in them, but yet there are no real living people in his stories. Eleven. Patricia, are you bored sitting there? State Councilor Sorrell is sleeping. Seven. Thank you. Well, if I lived out here by this lake, I might have trouble writing also, but perhaps I would then just give up writing and fish. Twenty-eight. Yes, catching a perch or a pike. What bliss. I believe in Constantin. I do. He's got talent. His words make images, and his stories are colorful. I can feel them working on me. It's just a shame he has nothing distinctive to say. His words make impressions, but nothing more, and one impression can only take you so far. Oh, Lina, aren't you proud that your son has become a writer? I haven't actually read any of his writing yet. There's never enough time. Twenty-six. You know, we still have that item you left here kicking around. What item? The seagull that Constantin shot. You asked me to have it stuffed, remember? No, I don't remember doing that. Sixty-six. One. It's so dark out here. Why do I feel anxious? Because you closed the door. The wind is too strong. Eighty-eight. Ladies and gentlemen, I've won. Bravo! This man is lucky. Let's have supper, shall we? I think our celebrity has eaten since breakfast. Manuscripts come and have supper with us. No, thank you. No, no, I'm not hungry. Trisha, time for supper. Oh, they adored me in Carthage. I'll tell you. Well, first of all, I need to know what to do next. I talk big when it comes to new forms and art, but recently I started to realize that little by little my writing has worn down into cliches. The banner on the fence heralded. Her pale face framed by dark hair. Heralded. Framed at such an amateur crap. I'll start with the hero wakes up in the rain and then I'll throw out the rest. The description of the moon lighting up the land at night is so precious. Trigorin has his technique set. It's easy for him. The neck of a broken glass bottle leaning down on the dam, the black shadow of a mill wheel. There's your moonlit night right there. And what do I use? A shimmering light. The mute glimmer of stars. The distant ring of a piano dying in the quiet, fragrant air. It's painfully unnecessary. The more and more I go on, it's not the forms that count. Old or new, it doesn't matter. What is is writing from the soul with no thought for four. Who's there? Nina, is that you? All day, I knew you'd be here today. My sweet and beautiful Nina, let's not cry. No, we won't. There's no one. No one will come in. I know it in any way. This one doesn't lock, so don't be frightened. No one will come in. It's warm inside, that's good. I was a parlor before. Have I changed a lot? You seem a little thinner in your eyes, but a little larger. It's so strange to be seeing you. Why? Didn't you let me before? Why? Why didn't you come here earlier? I know you've been at the hotel for almost a week every day. I went to you several times and I stood below your window like a beggar! My face, you only met me many times as I arrived, but I couldn't come inside. Listen up. Here we can sit and talk. It's just the conversation. Here, it's nice and warm and cozy. There's a Tagani passage. Happy the man on such a night who has his own roof in a place beside the fire. I am the seagull. What was I thinking for hours? Tagani, yes. And may the Lord help all homeless wanderers. Not important. You don't need to... I feel better. I haven't cried in two years. Last night I went down to the garden to see if our theater was still there. It was. And I began crying for the first time in two years. And I felt better. Everything clarified for me. Stop now. We were both pulled into the mouth from you and me. I was just like a happy little child. I would wake up in the morning and... I'm seeing I was and none of you. And I dreamt I'd become famous. And now, tomorrow, early I have a train to catch down again let's third class with all the peasants. And upon arrival, I'll be putting up with unwelcome attentions of wealthy businessmen who claim to love art. It's a rude, harsh life. Why are you going to Yelts? I did hate you. I cursed your memory. And I tore up your photographs even so I knew that my soul was bonded to yours forever. Not, love you, Nina. I can't. Ever since you left and my work began to be published, my life has been a complete hell. I can't bear up. I don't feel young any longer. I feel 90 years old. I call for you. I kiss the ground you once walked in. I remember, I remember your soft smile shining on the best years of my life. I have no warmth. No connections to others. I feel cold as if I live in a grotto. My writing is dry and worthless. Stay, stay here. Stay here with me, Nina. Or with me. Go with you. I beg of you. Where are you going? On Thursday, my uncle, he got very sick so he sent her by telegram. I would just say you kissed the ground that I walked on. I should be killed. He's here. What's the difference? No faith in a life in the theater. He laughed at my dreams and eventually I no longer believed in them myself. Being in love is difficult and being jealous. And the constant fear for my little one. What to do at a stand? You know when you're back, how you shot the seagull. Let a man arise, sees her and ruins her because it is nothing good as if walking over here days taking some kind of self thinking. Telling my soul to drink and growing daily and I understand coach. I just didn't let the man get off out of the service. You, you continue to believe what I think of my vocation and I don't fear life. I don't believe. I don't know what my vocation is. You found your way in life. You know your direction. I drift through images and chaos and dreams. I don't know the use of my work who could possibly need it. About him alone, huh? When you talk to Tjugorj, don't talk about me. He has such a innocent happy life. With feelings like little flower petals. People, lions, eagles and partridges. That looked to you as a case of the spiders. The silent fish who dwell in the sea and the starfish and creatures invisible. All living things in life itself. All living things have cooked to an end. They're sad, a lot of browns completely. And the pituitable moon has let her life to no avail. The cranes no longer waken the meadows with their cries and the linen grows no longer hung with the flight of beetles. I hope no one sees her in the garden and then tells mama, mama might get upset. When I was in Venice, aha, that is a city. You know, with, what, why is the door blocked? Welcome to the obstacle course. You can put on the table and we'll have our drinks during the game. And you can bring in the teen app, please. Here. This is what I was telling you about. You asked me to do this. No, I don't remember. I can't remember. Oh! Oh! So it exploded in my medicine bag. It's from America. Lots of human interest in this story and I wanted to talk to you about it. Ah, yes. Find a way to get a arena out of here. Constantin has just shot him.