 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Seagull by Anton Shekhov. Irina Arkadina, an actress, read by Ruth Golding. Constantine Trepleev, her son, read by M.B. Peter Soren, brother of Irina Abkadina, read by Glenn Simonson. Nina Zaryechnaya, a young girl, the daughter of a rich landowner, read by J.C. Guan. Ilya Shamrev, the manager of Soren's estate, read by John Eddins. Paulina, his wife, read by Tricia G. Marsha, their daughter, read by Philippa. Baris Trigorin, an author, read by Derek George. Yejin Don, a doctor, read by Robert Steiner. Simon Medvedenko, a schoolmaster, read by Ernst Patinama. Yakov, a workman, read by David Munkaster. The Cook, read by Lorianne Walden. Stage Directions, read by Hannah Dowell. End of Characters, Act One of the Seagull. by Anton Shekov. Translated by Marianne Fell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Seagull, by Anton Shekov. A play in four acts. The scene is laid on Soren's estate. Two years elapse between the third and fourth acts. Act One. The scene is laid in the park on Soren's estate. A broad avenue of trees leads away from the audience, toward the lake, which lies lost in the depths of the park. The avenue is obstructed by a rough stage, temporarily erected for the performance of amateur theatricals, and which screens the lake from view. There is a dense growth of bushes to the left and right of the stage. A few chairs, and a little table. Are placed in front of the stage. The sun has just set. Jacob, and some other workmen, are heard hammering, and coughing on the stage behind the lowered curtain. Masha and Medvedenko come in from the left, returning from a walk. Why do you always wear mourning? I dress in black to match my life. I am unhappy. Why should you be unhappy? I don't understand it. You are healthy, and though your father is not rich, he has a good competency. My life is far harder than yours. I only have 23 rubles a month to live on, but I don't wear mourning. They sit down. Happiness does not depend on riches. Poor men are often happy. In theory, yes, but not in reality. Take my case, for instance. My mother, my two sisters, my little brother, and I must all live somehow on my salary of 23 rubles a month. We have to eat and drink, I take it. He wouldn't have us go without tea and sugar, would you? Or tobacco? Answer me that, if you can. Looking in the direction of the stage. The play will soon begin. Yes. Nina Zorichnaya is going to act in Triplioff's play. They love one another. And the two souls will unite tonight in the effort to interpret the same idea by different means. There is no ground on which your soul and mine can meet. I love you. Too restless and sad to stay at home. I tramp here every day, six miles and back, to be met by your indifference. I am poor. My family is large. You can have no inducement to marry a man who cannot even find sufficient food for his own mouth. It is not that. She takes snuff. I am touched by your affection, but I cannot return it, that is all. She offers him the snuff box. Will you take some? No, thank you. The air is sultry. A storm is brewing for tonight. You do nothing but moralise or else talk about money. To you, poverty is the greatest misfortune that can befall a man. But I think it is a thousand times easier to go begging in rags than to... You wouldn't understand that, though. Sorry, leaning on a cane. And Triplioff, come in. For some reason, my boy, country life doesn't suit me, and I'm sure I shall never get used to it. Last night I went to bed at ten and woke at nine this morning, feeling as if from oversleep. My brain had stuck to my skull. And yet I accidentally dropped off to sleep again after dinner, and feel utterly done up at this moment. It is like a nightmare. There is no doubt that you should live in town. He catches sight of Marsha, and lets you think who. You will be called when the play begins, my friends, but you must not stay here now. Go away, please. Miss Marsha, will you kindly ask your father to leave the dog unchained? It howled so last night that my sister was unable to sleep. You must speak to my father yourself. Please excuse me, I can't do so. To Metvidenko. Come, let us go. You will let us know when the play begins. Marsha and Metvidenko go out. I foresee that that dog is going to howl all night again. It is always this way in the country. I have never been able to live as I like here. I come down for a month's holiday to rest in all, and am plagued so by their nonsense that I long to escape after the first day. I have always been glad to get away from this place. But I have been retired now, and this was the only place I had to come to. Willy-nilly, one must live somewhere. To Trebleev. We are going to take a swim, Mr. Konstantin. Very well, but you must be back in ten minutes. We will, sir. Looking at the stage. Just like a real theatre. See, there we have the curtain, the foreground, the background and all. No artificial scenery is needed. The eye travels direct to the lake and rests on the horizon. The curtain will be raised as the moon rises at half past eight. Splendid. Of course, the whole effect will be ruined if Nina is late. She should be here by now, but her father and stepmother watch her so closely that it is like stealing her from a prison to get her away from home. He straightens Soren's collar. Your hair and beard are all on end. How did you have them trimmed? Smoothing his beard. They are the tragedy of my existence. Even when I was young, I always looked as if I were drunk and all. Women have never liked me. Sitting down. Why is my sister out of temper? Why? Because she is jealous and bored. Sitting down beside Soren. She is not acting this evening, but Nina is and so she has set herself against me and against the performance of the play and against the play itself, which she hates without ever having read it. Does she really? Yes, she is furious because Nina is going to have a success on this little stage. Looking at his watch. My mother is a psychological curiosity. Without doubt, brilliant and talented, capable of sobbing over a novel, of reciting all Nektrasov's poetry by heart, and of nursing the sick like an angel of heaven, you should see what happens if anyone begins praising Dusa to her. She alone must be praised and written about raved over her marvelous acting in Ladamo Chamelea extolled to the skies. As she cannot get all that rubbish in the country, she grows peevish and cross and thinks we are all against her and to blame for it all. She is superstitious too. She dreads burning three candles and fears the 13th day of the month. Then she is stingy. I know for a fact that she has 70,000 rubles in a bank at Odessa, but she is ready to burst into tears if you ask her to lend you a penny. You have taken it into your head that your mother dislikes your play and the thought of it has excited you in all. Keep calm. Your mother adores you. Pulling a flower to pieces. She loves me, loves me not. Loves, loves me not. Loves, loves me not. You see, she doesn't love me and why should she? She likes life and love and gay clothes and I am already 25 years old. A sufficient reminder to her that she is no longer young. When I am away she is only 32. In my presence she is 43 and she hates me for it. She knows too that I despise the modern stage. She adores it and imagines that she is working on it for the benefit of humanity and her sacred art. But to me the theatre is merely the vehicle of convention and prejudice. When the curtain rises on that little three-walled room, when those mighty geniuses, those high priests of art, show us people in the act of eating, drinking, loving, walking and wearing their coats, and attempt to extract a moral from their insipid talk. When playwrights give us under a thousand different guys the same, same old stuff, then I must need to run from it as Mopassant ran from the Eiffel power that was about to crush him by its vulgarity. But we can't do without a theatre. No, but we must have it under a new form if we can't do that. Let us rather not have it at all. Looking at his watch. I love my mother, I love her devotedly, but I think she leads a stupid life. She always has this man of letters on her mind. And the newspapers are always frightening her to death, and I am tired of it. Plain human egoism sometimes speaks in my heart, and I regret that my mother is a famous actress. If she were an ordinary woman, I think I should be a happier man. What could be more intolerable and foolish than my position, Uncle, when I find myself the only non-entity among a crowd of her guests, all celebrated authors and artists? I feel that they only endure me because I am her son. Personally, I am nothing, nobody. I poke through my third year at college by the skin of my teeth, as they say. I have neither money nor brains, and on my passport you may read that I am simply a citizen of Kiev. So was my father, but he was a well-known actor. When the celebrities that frequent my mother's drawing room deign to notice me at all, I know they only look at me to measure my insignificance. I read their thoughts and suffer from humiliation. Tell me, by the way, what is Tragorn like? I can't understand him. He is always so silent. Tragorn is clever, simple, well-mannered, and a little, I might say, melancholic in disposition. Though still under forty, he is surfeited with praise. As for his stories, they are, how shall I put it, pleasing, full of talent. But if you have read Tolstoy or Zola, you somehow don't enjoy Tragorn. Do you know, my boy, I like literary men. I once passionately desired two things, to marry and to become an author. I have succeeded in neither. It must be pleasant to be even an insignificant author. Listening. I hear footsteps. He embraces his uncle. I cannot live without her, even the sound of her footsteps is music to me. I am madly happy. He goes quickly to meet Nina, who comes in at that moment. My enchantress, my girl of dreams. It can't be that I am late. No, I am not late. Kissing her hands. No, no, no. I have been in a fever all day. I was so afraid my father would prevent my coming. But he and my stepmother have just gone driving. The sky is clear. The moon is rising. How I hurried to get here. How I urged my horse to go faster and faster. I am so glad to see you. She shakes hands with Soren. Oh ho, your eyes look as if you had been crying. You mustn't do that. It is nothing. Nothing. Do let us hurry. I must go in half an hour. No, no, for heaven's sake. Do not urge me to stay. My father doesn't know I am here. As a matter of fact, it is time to begin now. I must call the audience. Let me call them and all. I am going this minute. He goes towards the right. Begins to sing the two Grenadiers. Then stops. I was singing that once when a fellow lawyer said to me, You have a powerful voice, sir. Then he thought for a moment and added, But it is a disagreeable one. He goes out laughing. My father and his wife never will let me come here. They call this place Bohemia and are afraid I shall become an actress. But this lake attracts me as it does the goals. My heart is full of you. She glances about her. We are alone. Isn't that someone over there? No. They kiss one another. What is that tree? An Elm. Why does it look so dark? It is evening. Everything looks dark now. Don't go away early. I implore you. I must. What if I were to follow you, Nina? I shall stand in your garden all night with my eyes on your window. That would be impossible. The watchman would see you, and his treasurer is not used to you yet and would bark. I love you. Listen to approaching footsteps. Who is that? Is it you, Jacob? On the stage. Yes, sir. To your places then, the moon is rising. The play must commence. Yes, sir. Is the alcohol ready? Is the sulfur ready? There must be fumes of sulfur in the air when the red eyes shine out. To Nina. Go now. Everything is ready. Are you nervous? Yes, very. I am not so much afraid of your mother as I am of Trigren. I am terrified and ashamed to act before him. He is so famous. Is he young? Yes. What beautiful stories he writes. I have never read any of them, so I can't say. Your play is very hard to act. There are no living characters in it. Living characters? Life must be represented not as it is, but as it ought to be, as it appears in dreams. There is so little action. It seems more like a recitation. I think love should always come into every play. Nina and Trebleef, go up onto the little stage. Paulina and Dawn come in. It is getting damp. Go back and put on your galoshes. I am quite warm. You never will take care of yourself. You are quite obstinate about it, and yet you are a doctor and know quite well the damp air is bad for you. You like to see me suffer. That's what it is. You set out on the terrace all yesterday evening on purpose. Oh, tell me not that youth is wasted. You were so enchanted by the conversation of Madame Arcadena that you did not even notice the cold. Confess that you admire her. I am fifty-five years old. A trifle. That is not old for a man. You have kept your looks magnificently, and women still like you. What are you trying to tell me? You men are all ready to go down on your knees to an actress, all of you. Once more I stand before thee. It is only right that artists should be made much off by society and treated differently from, let us say, merchants. It is a kind of idealism. When women have loved you and thrown themselves at your head, has that been idealism? Shrugging his shoulders. I can't say. There has been a great deal that was admirable in my relations with women. In me they liked, above all, the superior doctor. Ten years ago, you remember, I was the only decent doctor they had in this part of the country. And then I have always acted like a man of honour. Seizes his hand. Dearest. Be quiet. Here they come. Arcadena comes in on Soren's arm. Also, Shrugorin, Shumrife, Medvedenko, and Masha. She acted most beautifully at the Poltava Fair in 1873. Oh, she was really magnificent. But tell me too, where Chadin the Comedian is now. He was inimitable as Rasplueth, better than Sadovsky. Where is he now? Don't ask me where all those anti-Diluvians are. I know nothing about them. She sits down. Pashka Chadin. There are none left like him. The stage is not what it was in his time. There were sturdy orcs growing on it then, where now but stumps remain. It is true that we have few dazzling geniuses these days, but, on the other hand, the average of acting is much higher. I cannot agree with you. However, that is a matter of taste. Enter Chepley from behind the stage. When will the play begin, my dear boy? In a moment, I must ask you to have patience. Quoting from Hamlet. My son, thou turned to mine eyes into my very soul, and there I see such black grained spots as will not leave their tinct. A horn is blown behind the stage. Attention, ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. I shall commence. He taps the door with a stick and speaks in a loud voice. O ye time-honoured ancient mists that drive at night across the surface of this lake, blind you our eyes with sleep and show us in our dreams that which will be in twice 10,000 years. There won't be anything in twice 10,000 years. Then let them now show us that nothingness. Yes, let them wear asleep. The curtain rises. A vista opens across the lake. The moon hangs low above the horizon and is reflected in the water. Nina, dressed in white, is seen ceaseless on a great rock. All men and beasts, lions, eagles and quails, horn stags, geese, spiders, silent fish that inhabit the waves, starfish from the sea, and creatures invisible to the eye, in one word, life. All, all life, completing the dreary round in post upon it, has died out at last. A thousand years have passed since the earth's last bore a living creature on her breast, and the unhappy moon now glides her lamp in vain. No longer are the cries of storks heard in the meadows, or the drone of beetles in the groves of limes. All is cold, cold. All is void, void, void. All is terrible, terrible. The bodies of all living creatures have dropped to dust. An eternal matter has transformed them into stones and water and clouds. But their spirits have flowed together into one, and that great world soul am I. In me is the spirit of the great Alexander, the spirit of Napoleon, of Caesar, of Shakespeare, and of the tiniest leech that swims. In me the consciousness of man has joined hands with the instinct of the animal. I understand all, all, all, and each life lives again in me. The will of the wisps flicker out along the lakeshore. What decadent rubbish is this? Mother! I am alone. Once in a hundred years my lips are opened, my voice echoes mournfully across the desert earth, and no one hears. And you, poor lights of the march, you do not hear me. You are engendered at sunset in the putrid mud, and flirt waveringly about the lake till dawn. Unconscious, unreasoning, unwormed by the breath of life. Satan, father of eternal matter, trembling lest the spark of life should glow in you, has ordered an unceasing movement of the atoms that compose you. And so you shift and change forever. I, the spirit of the universe, I alone, I'm immutable and internal, like a captive, in a dungeon deep and void. I know not where I am, nor what awaits me. One thing only is not hidden from me. In my fears an obstinate battle with Satan, the source of the forces of matter. I am destined to be victorious in the end. Matter and spirit will then be one at last in glorious harmony, and the reign of freedom will begin on earth. But this can only come to pass by slow degrees, when after countless eons the moon and earth, and shining serious himself, shall fall to dust. Until that hour, oh, horror, horror, horror. A pause, two glowing red points as seen shining across the lake. Satan, my mighty foe, advances. I see his dread and lurid eyes. I smell sulfur. Is that done on purpose? Yes. Oh, I see. That is part of the effect. Mother! He longs for man. To dawn. You have taken off your head again. Put it on. You will catch cold. The doctor has taken off his hat to Satan. Father of eternal matter. Enough of this. There is an end to the performance, down with the curtain. Why? What are you so angry about? Stumping his foot. The curtain, down with it. The curtain falls. Excuse me. I forgot that only a chosen few might write plays or act them. I have infringed the monopoly. I—I— He would like to say more, but waives his hand instead and goes out to the left. What is the matter with him? You should not handle youthful egoism so roughly, sister. What did I say to him? You heard his feelings. But he told me himself that this was all in fun, so I treated his play as if it were a comedy. Nevertheless— Now it appears that he has produced a masterpiece, if you please. I suppose it was not meant to amuse us at all, but that he arranged the performance and fumigated us with sulfur to demonstrate to us how plays should be written, and what is worth acting. I am tired of him. No one could stand his constant thrusts and sallies. He is a willful egotistic boy. He had hoped to give you pleasure. Is that so? I noticed, though, that he did not choose an ordinary play, but forced his decadent trash on us. I am willing to listen to any raving, so long as it's not meant seriously. But in showing us this, he pretended to be introducing us to a new form of art, and inaugurating a new era. In my opinion, there was nothing new about it. It was simply an exhibition of bad temper. Everybody must write as he feels and as best he may. Let him write as he feels and can, but let him spare me his nonsense. Though art angry, O Jove. I am a woman, not Jove. She lights a cigarette. And I am not angry. I am only sorry to see a young man foolishly wasting his time. I did not mean to hurt him. No one has any ground for separating life from matter, as the spirit may well consist of the union of material atoms. To Chagorin. Someday you should write a play and put on the stage the life of a schoolmaster. It is a hard, hard life. I agree with you, but do not let us talk about plays or atoms now. This is such a lovely evening. Listen to the singing, friends, how sweet it sounds. Yes, they are singing across the water. To Chagorin. Sit down beside me here. Ten or fifteen years ago we had music and singing on this lake almost all night. There are six houses on its shores. All was noise and laughter and romance then. Such romance. The young star and idol of them all in those days was this man here. Nults towards dawn. Dr. Eugene Dawn. He is fascinating now, but he was irresistible then. But my conscience is beginning to prick me. Why did I hurt my poor boy? I am uneasy about him. Constantine! Constantine! Shall I go and find him? If you please, my dear. Goes off to the left, calling. Mr. Constantine! Oh, Mr. Constantine! Comes in from behind the stage. I see that the play will never be finished. So now I can go home. Good evening. She kisses Arcadena and Paulina. Bravo, bravo! Bravo, bravo! We were quite charmed by your acting. With your looks and such a lovely voice, it is a crime for you to hide yourself in the country. You must be very talented. It is your duty to go on the stage. Do you hear me? It is the dream of my life which will never come true. Who knows? Perhaps it will. But let me present Mr. Boris Trigorin. I am delighted to meet you. I have read all your books. Drawing Nina down beside her. Don't be afraid of him, dear. He is a simple, good-natured soul, even if he is a celebrity. See, he is embarrassed himself. Couldn't the curtain be raised now? It is depressing to have it down. Your call, my man! Raise the curtain! Trigorin. It was a curious play, wasn't it? Very. I couldn't understand it at all, but I watched it with the greatest pleasure because you acted it with such sincerity. And the setting was beautiful. There must be a lot of fish in that lake. Yes, there are. I love fishing. I know of nothing pleasanter than to sit on a lakeshore in the evening with one's eye on a floating cork. Why, I should think that for one who has tasted the joys of creation, no other pleasure could exist. Don't talk like that. He always begins to flounder when people say nice things to him. I remember when the famous Silva was singing once in the opera house at Moscow. How delighted we all were when he took the low seat. Well, you can imagine our astonishment when one of the church campers who happened to be sitting in the gallery suddenly boomed out, Bravo Silva! A whole octave lower, like this. Bravo Silva! The audience was left breathless. An angel of silence is flying over our heads. I must go. Goodbye. Where to? Where must you go so early? We shan't allow it. My father is waiting for me. How cruel he is, really. They kiss each other. Then I suppose we can't keep you. But it is very hard indeed to let you go. If you only knew how hard it is for me to leave you all. Somebody must see you home, my pet. No, no. Don't go. I must. Stay just one more hour and all. Come now, really, you know. Struggling against the desire to stay through her tears. No, no, I can't. She shakes hands with him and quickly goes out. An unlucky girl. They say that her mother left the whole of an immense fortune to her husband. And now the child is penniless, because the father has already willed everything away to his second wife. It is pitiful. Yes, her papa is a perfect beast, and I don't mind saying so. It is what he deserves. Rubbing his chilled hands. Calm, let us go in. The night is damp and my legs are aching. Yes, you act as if they were turned to stone. You can hardly move them. Come, you unfortunate old man. She takes his arm. Offering his arm to his wife. Permit me, madame. I hear that dog howling again. Won't you please have an unchange, Shamriff? No, I really can't, sir. The granary is full of millet, and I am afraid thieves might break in if the dog were not there. Walking beside Medvedenko. Yes, a whole octave lower. Bravo, Silva! And he wasn't a singer, either. Just a simple church canter. What salary does a church pay its singers? All go out, except all. I may have lost my judgment in my wits, but I must confess I like that play. There was something in it. When the girl spoke of her solitude and the devil's eyes gleamed across the lake, I felt my hands shaking with excitement. It was so fresh and naive. But here he comes. Let me say something pleasant to him. Trip-leaf comes in. All gone already? I am here. Masha has been yelling for me all over the park. An insufferable creature. Constantine, your play delighted me. It was strange, of course, and I did not hear the end, but it made a deep impression on me. You have a great deal of talent and must persevere in your work. Trip-leaf seizes his hand and squeezes it hard, then kisses him impetuously. Ta-ta, how excited you are! Your eyes are full of tears. Listen to me. You choose your subject in the realm of abstract thought, and you do it quite right. A work of art should invariably embody some lofty idea, only that which seriously meant can ever be beautiful. How pale you are! So you advise me to persevere? Yes, but use your talent to express only deep and eternal truth. I have led a quite life, as you know, and am a contented man, but if I should ever experience the exaltation that an artist feels during his moments of creation, I think I should spurn this material envelope of my soul and everything connected with it, and should soar away into heights above this earth. I beg your pardon, but where is Nina? And yet another thing. Every work of art should have a definite object in view. You should know why you are writing, for if you follow the road of art without a goal before your eyes, you will lose yourself and your genius will be your ruin. Where is Nina? She has gone home. Gone home? What shall I do? I want to see her. I must see her. I shall follow her. My dear boy, keep quiet. I'm going. I must go. Masha comes in. Your mother wants you to come in, Mr. Constantine. She's waiting for you and is very uneasy. Tell her I've gone away, and for heaven's sake all of you leave me alone. Go away. Don't follow me about. Come, come, old chap. Don't act like this. It isn't kind at all. Through his tears. Goodbye, doctor. And thank you. Trebleave goes out. Ah, youth, youth. It is always youth, youth, when there is nothing else to be said. She takes snuff. Dawn takes a snuff box out of her hands and flings it into the bushes. Don't do that. It is horrid. I hear music in the house. I must go in. Wait a moment. What do you want? Let me tell you again. I feel like talking. I do not love my father, but my heart turns to you. For some reason I feel with all my soul that you are near to me. Help me. Help me, or I shall do something foolish and mock at my life and ruin it. I am at the end of my strength. What is the matter? How can I help you? I am in agony. No one, no one can imagine how I suffer. She lays her head on his shoulder and speaks softly. I love Constantine. Oh, how excitable you all are. And how much love there is about this lake of spells. But what can I do for you, my child? What? What? The curtain falls. End of Act 1. Act 2 of The Seagull by Anton Shekov This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 2. The Lawn in front of Soren's House The house stands in the background on a broad terrace. The lake, brightly reflecting the rays of the sun, lies to the left. There are flower beds here and there. It is noon. The day is hot. Arcadena, Dawn, and Masha are sitting on a bench on the lawn in the shade of an old linden. An open book is lying on Dawn's knees. To Masha. Come, get up. They both get up. Stand beside me. You are twenty-two and I am almost twice your age. Tell me, Doctor, which of us is the younger looking? You are, of course. You see. Now, why is it? Because I work. My heart and mind are always busy, whereas you never move off the same spot. You don't live. It is a maxim of mine never to look into the future. I never admit the thought of old age or death and just accept what comes to me. I feel as if I had been in the world a thousand years and I trail my life behind me like an endless scarf. Often I have no desire to live at all. Of course that is foolish. One ought to pull oneself together and shake off such nonsense. Tell her, O flowers. And then I keep myself as correct looking as an Englishman. I am always well groomed, as the saying is, and carefully dressed with my hair neatly arranged. Do you think I should ever permit myself to leave the house half-dressed with untidy hair? Certainly not. I have kept my looks by never letting myself slump, as some women do. She puts her arms akimbo and walks up and down on the lawn. See me tripping on Tito like a fifteen-year-old girl. I see. Nevertheless, I shall continue my reading. He takes up his book. Let me see. We had come to the grain dealer and the rats. And the rats? Go on. She sits down. No, give me the book. It is my turn to read. She takes the book and looks for the place. And the rats? Ah, here it is. She reads. It is as dangerous for society to attract and indulge authors as it is for grain dealers to raise rats in their granaries. Yet society loves authors. And so, when a woman has found one whom she wishes to make her own, she lays seed to him by indulging and flattering him. That may be so in France, but it certainly is not so in Russia. We do not carry out a programme like that. With us a woman is usually head over ears in love with an author before she attempts to lay seed to him. You have an example before your eyes in me and Trigorin. Sorin comes in, leaning on a cane, with Nina beside him. Medvedenko follows, pushing an armchair. So, we are happy now, eh? We are enjoying ourselves today, are we? Father and stepmother have gone away to Tver, and we are free for three whole days. Sits down beside Arcadena and embraces her. I am so happy. I belong to you now. Sits down in his armchair. She looks lovely today. Yes, she has put on her prettiest dress and looks sweet. That was nice of you. She kisses Nina. But we mustn't praise her too much, we shall spoil her. Where is Trigorin? He is fishing off the wharf. I wonder he isn't bored. She begins to read again. What are you reading? On the Water by Mopassant. She reads a few lines to herself. But the rest is neither true nor interesting. She lays down the book. I am uneasy about my son. Tell me what is the matter with him? Why is he so dull and depressed lately? He spends all his days on the lake, and I scarcely ever see him any more. His heart is heavy. To Nina. Please, recite something from his play. Shrugging her shoulders. Shall I? Is it so interesting? When he recites, his eyes shine, and his face grows pale. His voice is beautiful and sad, and he has the ways of a poet. Soren begins to snore. Pleasant dreams. Peter, eh? Are you asleep? Not a bit of it. A pause. You don't do a thing for your health, brother, but you really ought to. The idea of doing anything for one's health at sixty-five. One still wants to live at sixty-five. Ho! Take some chamomile tea. I think a journey to some watering place would be good for him. Why, yes. He might go as well as not. You don't understand. There is nothing to understand in this case. It is quite clear. You ought to give up smoking. What nonsense! No, that is not nonsense. Wine and tobacco destroy the individuality. After a cigar or a glass of vodka, you are no longer Peter Soren, but Peter Soren plus somebody else. Your ego breaks in two. You begin to think of yourself in the third person. It is easy for you to condemn smoking and drinking. You know what life is. But what about me? I have served in the Department of Justice for twenty-eight years, but I have never lived. I have never had any experiences. You are satiated with life, and that is why you have an inclination for philosophy. But I want to live, and that is why I drink my wine for dinner and smoke cigars and all. One must take life seriously, and to take a cure at sixty-five, and regret that one did not have more pleasure in you this. Forgive my saying so. Trifling. It must be lunchtime. She walks away languidly with a dragging step. My foot has gone to sleep. She is going to have a couple of drinks before lunch. The poor soul is unhappy. That is a trifle that you honour. You judge her like a man who has obtained all he wants in life. Oh, what could be duller than this dear tedium of the country? The air is hot and still. Nobody does anything but sit and philosophise about life. It is pleasant, my friends, to sit and listen to you here. But I had rather a thousand times sit alone in the room of a hotel learning a role by heart. You are quite right. I understand how you feel. Of course, it is pleasanter to live in town. One can sit in one's library with a telephone at one's elbow. No one comes in without being first announced by the footmen. The streets are full of cabs and all. Tell her, oh flowers. Shamraif comes in, followed by Paulina. Here they are. How do you do? He kisses Arcadena's hand and then Nina's. I am delighted to see you looking so well. To Arcadena. My wife tells me that you mean to go to town with her today. Is that so? Yes, that is what I had planned to do. That is splendid. But how do you intend to get there, madame? We are hauling a ride today and all the men are busy. What horses would you take? What horses? How do I know what horses we shall have? Why, we have the carriage horses. The carriage horses? And where am I to find the harness for them? This is astonishing, my dear madame. I have the greatest respect for your talents. And would gladly sacrifice ten years of my life for you. But I cannot let you have any horses today. But if I must go to town, what an extraordinary state of affairs. You do not know, madame, what it is to run a farm. That is an old story. Under these circumstances I shall go back to Moscow this very day. Order a carriage for me from the village or I shall go to the station on foot. Under these circumstances I resign my position. You must find yourself another manager. He goes out. It is like this every summer. Every summer I am insulted here. I shall never set foot here again. She goes out to the left in the direction of the wharf. In a few minutes she is seen entering the house. Followed by Trigorin, who carries a bucket and fishing rod. What the deuce did he mean by his impudence? I want all the horses brought here at once. To Polina. How could he refuse anything to Madame Arcadena, the famous actress? Is not every wish ever capricious enough hers more important than any farm work? This is incredible. What can I do about it? Put yourself in my place and tell me what I can do. To Nina. Let us go and find my sister and beg her not to go. He looked in the direction in which Shamrife went out. That man is insufferable. A regular tyrant. Preventing him from getting up. Sit still, sit still, and let us wheel you. She and Medvedenko push the chair before them. This is terrible. Yes, yes it is terrible, but he won't leave. I shall have a talk with him in a moment. They go out. Only Dawn and Polina are left. How tiresome people are. Your husband deserves to be thrown out of her neck and crop, but it will all end by this old granny, Saren, and his sister asking the man's pardon. See if it doesn't. He has sent the carriage horses into the fields too. These misunderstandings occur every day. If you only knew how they excite me. I am ill. See I am trembling all over. I cannot endure his rough ways. Eugene, my darling, my beloved, take me to you. Our time is short. We are no longer young. Let us end deception and concealment, even though it is only at the end of our lives. I am fifty-five years old. It is too late now for me to change my ways of living. I know that you refuse me because there are other women who are near to you, and you cannot take everybody. I understand. Excuse me, I see I am only bothering you. Nina is seen near the house, picking a bunch of flowers. No, it is all right. I am tortured by jealousy. Of course you are a doctor and cannot escape from women, I understand. To Nina, who comes toward him. How are things in there? Madame Arcadina is crying, and Saren is having an attack of asthma. Let us go and give them both some chamomile tea. Hands him a bunch of flowers. Here are some flowers for you. Thank you. He goes into the house, following him. What pretty flowers! As they reach the house, she says in a low voice, Give me those flowers, give them to me. Dawn hands her the flowers. She tears them to pieces and flings them away. They both go into the house. Alone. How strange to see a famous actress weeping, and for such a trifle. Is it not strange, too, that a famous author should sit fishing all day? He is the idol of the public. The papers are full of him. His photograph is for sale everywhere. His works have been translated into many foreign languages, and yet he is overjoyed if he catches a couple of minnows. I always thought famous people were distant and proud. I thought they despised the common crowd which exalts riches and burs, and avenged themselves on it by dazzling it with the inextinguishable honor and glory of their fame. But here I see them weeping and playing cards, and flying into passions like everybody else. Trebleef comes in without a hat on, carrying a gun and a dead seagull. Are you alone here? Yes. Trebleef lays a seagull at her feet. What do you mean by this? I was base enough today to kill this gull. I lay it at your feet. What is happening to you? She picks up the gull and stands looking at it. So shall I soon end my own life. You have changed so that I fail to recognize you. Yes. I have changed since the time that I ceased to recognize you. You have failed me. Your look is cold. You do not like to have me near you. You have grown so irritable lately, and you talk so darkly and symbolically that you must forgive me if I fail to follow you. I am too simple to understand you. All this began when my play failed so dismally. A woman never can forgive failure. I have burnt the manuscript to the last page. Oh, if you could only fathom my unhappiness. Your estrangement is to me terrible, incredible. It is as if I had suddenly waked to find this lake dried up and sunk into the earth. You say you are too simple to understand me, but oh, what is there to understand? You disliked my play. You have no faith in my powers. You already think of me as commonplace and worthless as many are. Stumping his foot. How well I can understand your feelings. And that understanding is to me like a dagger in the brain. May it be a cursed, together with my stupidity, which sucks my lifeblood like a snake. He sees Trigorin, who approaches, reading a book. There comes real genius, striding along like another hamlet and with a book, too. Words, words, words. You feel the warmth of the sun already. You smile. Your eyes melt and glow liquid in its rays. I shall not disturb you. He goes out, making notes in his book. Takes snuff, drinks vodka, always wears black dresses, is loved by school teacher. How do you do? How are you, Miss Nina? Owing to an unforeseen development of circumstances, it seems that we are leaving here today. You and I shall probably never see each other again, and I'm sorry for it. I seldom meet a young and pretty girl now. I can hardly remember how it feels to be 19, and the young girls in my books are seldom living characters. I should like to change places with you, but for an hour, to look out at the world through your eyes and so find out what sort of a little person you are. And I should like to change places with you. Why? To find out how a famous genius feels. What is it like to be famous? What sensations does it give you? What sensations? I don't believe it gives any. Either you exaggerate my fame or else if it exists, all I can say is that one simply doesn't feel fame in any way. But when you read about yourself in the papers? If the critics praise me, I am happy if they condemn me, I am out of sorts for the next two days. This is a wonderful world. If you only knew how I envy you, men are born to different destinies. Some dolly drag a weary, useless life behind them, lost in the crowd, unhappy. Well, to one out of a million, as to you, for instance, comes a bright destiny, full of interest and meaning. You are lucky. I lucky. He shrugs his shoulders. I hear you talking about fame and happiness and bright destinies, and those fine words of yours mean as much to me. Forgive me for saying so as sweet meats do, which I never eat. You are very young and very kind. Your life is beautiful. I see nothing especially lovely about it. He looks at his watch. Excuse me, I must go at once and begin writing again. I am in a hurry. You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I am getting excited in a little cross. Let us discuss this bright and beautiful life of mine, though. After a few moments thought. Violent obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man. He may, for instance, think day and night of nothing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting thought to write, write, write. Hardly have I finished one book, then something urges me to write another, and then a third, and then a fourth. I write ceaselessly. I am, as it were, on a treadmill. I hurry forever from one story to another, and I can't stop myself. And do you see anything bright and beautiful in that? Oh, it is a wild life. Even now, thrilled as I am to be talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me. My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano. I instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story a cloud floating by that looked like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope. I mutter to myself. I sickly smell. The color worn by widows. I must remember that in writing my next description of a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence of yours or of my own and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary storeroom, thinking that someday they may be useful to me. As soon as I stop working, I rush off to the theater or go fishing in the old that I may find oblivion there. But no, some new subject for a story is sure to come rolling through my brain like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling and have to go back to it and begin to write, write once more. And so it goes forever lasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am consuming my life to prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds. I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flower, to tear them from their stems and trample the roots that bore them underfoot. Am I not a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally diseased? Yet it is always the same, the same old story till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception that I am being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy. And sometimes I tremble, lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum. The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my writing. A young author, especially if at first he does not make a success, feels clumsy, ill at ease, and superfluous in the world. His nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of breaking. He is irresistibly attracted to literary and artistic people and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed, fearing to look them bravely in the eye, like a man with a passion for gambling whose money is all gone. I did not know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly. I was mortally afraid of the public, and when my first play appeared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with enmity and all the blue ones with cold indifference. Oh, how terrible it was! What agony! But don't your inspiration and the act of creation give you moments of lofty happiness? Yes, writing is a pleasure to me. And so is reading the proofs. But no sooner does a book leave the press than it becomes odious to me. It is not what I manage to be. I made a mistake to write it at all. I am provoked and discouraged. Then the public reads it and says, Yes, it is clever and pretty, but not nearly as good as Tolsoyer. It is a lovely thing, but not as good as Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, so it will always be to my dying day. I shall hear people say clever and pretty, clever and pretty and nothing more. And when I am gone, those that knew me will say as they pass my grave, your life's too grown. Well, clever writer, but me was not as good as Turgenev. You must excuse me, but I declined to understand what you were talking about. The fact is, you have been spoiled by your success. What success have I had? I have never pleased myself. As a writer, I do not like myself at all. The trouble is that I, I am make giddy as it were by the fumes of my brain and often hardly know what I am writing. I love this lake, these trees, the blue heaven, nature's voice speaks to me and wakes a feeling of passion in my heart and I am overcome by an uncontrollable desire to write. But I am not only a painter of landscapes, I am a man of the city besides. I love my country too and her people. I feel as a writer, it is my duty to speak of their sorrows, of their future, also of science, of the rights of man, and so forth. So I write on every subject and the public hounds me on all sides, sometimes in anger and I race and dodge like a fox with a pack of hounds on his trail. I see life and knowledge flitting away before me. I am left behind them like a peasant who has missed his train at a station and finally I come back to the conclusion that all I am fit for is to describe landscapes and that whatever elves I attempt rings abominably false. You work too hard to realize the importance of your writings. What if you are discontented with yourself? To others, you appear a great and splendid man. If I were a writer like you, I should devote my whole life to the service of the Russian people, knowing at the same time that their welfare depended on their power to rise to the heights I had attained and the people should send me before them in a chariot of triumph. In a chariot? Do you think I am agamemnon? They both smile for the bliss of being a writer or an actress. I could endure want and disillusionment and the hatred of my friends and the pangs of my own dissatisfaction with myself. But I should demand in return fame, real, resounding fame. She covers her face with her hands. Oh, my head reels. From inside the house. Boris! Ah, she is calling me. Probably to come and pack. But I don't want to leave this place. His eyes rest on the lake. What a blessing such beauty is. Do you see that house there on the far shore? Yes. That was my dead mother's home. I was born there and have lived all my life beside this lake. I know every little island on it. This is a beautiful place to live. He catches sight of the dead seagull. What is that? A gull. Constantine shot it. What a lovely bird. Really, I can't bear to go away. Can't you persuade arena to stay? He writes something in his notebook. What are you writing? Nothing much. Only an idea that occurred to me. He puts the book back in his pocket. An idea for a short story. A young girl grows up on the shores of a lake as you have. She loves the lake as the gulls do and is as happy and as free as they are. But a man sees her who chances to come that way. And he destroys her out of idleness as this gull here has been destroyed. A pause. Arcadena appears at one of the windows. Boris, where are you? I am coming this minute. She goes toward the house looking back at Nina. Arcadena remains at the window. What do you want? We are not going away after all. Dragorin goes into the house. Nina comes forward and stands lost in thought. It is a dream. The curtain falls. End of act two. Act three of the seagull. By Anton Shekov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act three. The dining room of Soren's house. Doors open out of it to the right and left. The table stands in the centre of the room. Drunks and boxes encumber the floor and the preparations for departure are evident. Dragorin is sitting at a table eating his breakfast, and Masha is standing beside him. I am telling you all these things because you write books, and they may be useful to you. I am telling you honestly, I should not have lived another day if he had wounded himself fatally. Yet I am courageous. I have decided to tear this love of mine out of my heart by the roots. How will you do it? By marrying Medvedenko. The schoolteacher? Yes. I don't see the necessity for that. Oh, if you knew what it is to love without hope for years and years, to wait for ever for something that will never come. I shall not marry for love, but marriage will at least be a change, and will bring new cares to deaden the memories of the past. Shall we have another drink? Haven't you had enough? Fiddlesticks. She fills a glass. Don't look at me with that expression in your face. Women drink oftener than you imagine, but most of them do it in secret and not openly as I do. They do indeed, and it is always either vodka or brandy. They touch glasses. To your good health. You are so easy to get on with that I am sorry to see you go. They drink. And I am sorry to leave. You should ask her to stay. She would not do that now. Her son has been behaving outrageously first he attempted suicide, and now I hear he's going to challenge me to a duel. Though what his provocation may be, I can't imagine. He is always sulking and sneering and preaching about a new form of art, as if the feel of art were not large enough to accommodate both old and new without the necessity of jostling. It is jealousy. However, that is none of my business. Jacob walks through the room carrying a trunk. Nina comes in and stands by the window. That school teacher of mine is not too clever, but he is a very good poor man, and he loves me dearly, and I am sorry for him. However, let me say goodbye and wish you a pleasant journey. Remember me kindly in your thoughts. She shakes hands with him. Thanks for your good will. Send me your books, and be sure to write something in them. Nothing formal, but simply this. To Marsha, who, forgetful of her origin, for some unknown reason, is living in this world. Goodbye. She goes out, holding out her closed hand to Dragorin. Is it odd or even? Even. No, it is odd. I had only one pee in my hand. I wanted to see if I was to become an actress or not, if only someone would advise me what to do. One cannot give advice in a case like this. We shall soon part, perhaps never to meet again. I should like you to accept this little medallion as a remembrance of me. I have had your initials engraved on it, and on this side is the name of one of your books, Days and Night. How sweet of you. He kisses the medallion. It is a lovely present. Think of me sometimes. I shall never forget you, I shall always remember you as I saw you on that bright day. Do you recall it a week ago, when you wore your light dress, and we talked together, and the white seagull lay on the bench beside us? Yes, the seagull. I beg you to let me see you alone for two minutes before you go. She goes out to the left. At the same moment, Arcadena comes in from the right, followed by Soren in a long coat, with his orders on his breast, and by Jacob, who is busy packing. Stay here at home, you poor old man. How could you pay visits with that rheumatism of yours? Tutor Gorin. Who left the room just now? Was it Nina? Yes. I beg your pardon. I'm afraid we interrupted you. She sits down. I think everything is packed. I am absolutely exhausted. Reading the inscription on the medallion. Days and nights, page 121, lines 11 and 12. Clearing the table. Shall I pack your fishing rods too, sir? Yes, I shall need them, but you can give my books away. Very well, sir. To himself. Page 121, lines 11 and 12. To Arcadena. Have we my books here in the house? Yes, they're in my brother's library in the corner cupboard. Page 121. He goes out. You are going away and I shall be lonely without you. What would you do in town? Oh, nothing in particular. But somehow. They are soon to lay the cornerstone of the new courthouse here. How I should like to leap out of this minopond. If but for an hour or two. I'm tired of lying here like an old cigarette stump. I have ordered the carriage for one o'clock. We can go away together. No, you must stay here. Don't be lonely and don't catch cold. Keep an eye on my boy. Take good care of him. Guide him along the proper paths. I am going away and so shall never find out why Constantine shot himself. But I think the chief reason was jealousy, and the sooner I take Trigor in a way, the better. There were, how shall I explain it to you? Other reasons besides jealousy for his act. Here is a clever young chap, living in the depths of the country without money or position, with no future ahead of him and with nothing to do. He is ashamed and afraid of being so idle. I am devoted to him and he is fond of me, but nevertheless he feels that he is useless here, that he is little more than a dependent in this house. It is the pride in him. He is a misery to me. He might possibly enter the army. It seems to me that the best thing for him would be if you were to let him have a little money. For one thing, he ought to be allowed to dress like a human being. See how he looks, wearing the same little old coat that he has had for three years. And he doesn't even possess an overcoat. And it wouldn't hurt the youngster to sew a few wild oats. Let him go abroad, say, for a time. It wouldn't cost much. Yes, but, however, I think I might manage about his clothes, but I couldn't let him go abroad. And no, I don't think I can let him have his clothes even now. I have no money at present. I haven't, indeed. Very well. Forgive me, darling. Don't be angry. You are a noble, generous woman. I really haven't the money. If I had any money, of course, I should let him have some myself. But I haven't even a penny. The farm manager takes my pension from me and puts it all into the farm, or into cattle or bees, and in that way it is always lost forever. The bees die, the cows die. They never let me have a horse. Of course I have some money, but I am an actress. And my expenses for dress alone are enough to bankrupt me. You are a dear friend, and I am very fond of you. Indeed I am. But something is the matter with me again. He staggers. I feel giddy. He leans against the table. I feel faint and all. Peter! She tries to support him. Peter, dearest! Help! Help! Treplief and Medvedenko come in. Treplief has a bandage around his head. He's fainting. I am all right. He smiles and drinks some water. It is all over now. To his mother. Don't be frightened, mother. These attacks are not dangerous. My uncle often has them now. To his uncle. You must go and lie down, uncle. Yes, I think I shall for a few minutes. I am going to Moscow all the same. But I shall lie down a bit before I start. He goes out, leaning on his cane. Giving him his arm. Do you know this riddle on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening? Yes, exactly. And on one's back at night. Thank you. I can walk alone. Dear me, what formality? He and Soren go out. He gave me a dreadful fright. It is not good for him to live in the country, mother. If only you would untie your purse strings for once and lend him a thousand rubles, he could then spend a whole year in town. I have no money. I am an actress and not a banker. Please change my bandage for me, mother. You do it so gently. Arkadena goes to the cupboard and takes out a box of bandages and a bottle of IDO form. The doctor is late. Yes, he promised to be here at nine, and now it is noon already. Sit down. She takes the bandage off his head. You look as if you had a turban on. A stranger that was in the kitchen yesterday asked to what nationality you belonged. Your wound is almost healed. She kisses his head. You won't be up to any more of these silly tricks again, will you, when I am gone? No, mother. I did that in a moment of insane despair when I had lost all control over myself. It will never happen again. He kisses her hand. Your touch is golden. I remember when you were still acting at the state theater long ago, when I was still a little chap. There was a fight one day in our court, and a poor washroom was almost beaten to death. She was picked up unconscious, and you nursed her till she was well and bathed her children in the wash tubs. Have you forgotten it? Yes, entirely. She puts on a new bandage. Two ballet dancers lived in the same house, and they used to come and drink coffee with you. I remember that. They were very pious. I love you again these last two days, as tenderly and trustingly as I did as a child. I have no one left me now but you. Why? Why do you let yourself be controlled by that man? You don't understand him, Constantine. He has a wonderfully noble personality. Nevertheless, when he has been told that I wish to challenge him to a duel, his nobility does not prevent him from playing the coward. He is about to beat an ignominious retreat. What nonsense I have asked him myself to go. A noble personality indeed. Here we are almost quarreling over him, and he is probably in the garden laughing at us at this very moment, or else enlightening Nina's mind, and trying to persuade her into thinking him a man of genius. You enjoy saying unpleasant things to me. I have the greatest respect for that man, and I must ask you not to speak ill of him in my presence. I have no respect for him at all. You want me to think him a genius, as you do, but I refuse to lie. His books make me sick. You envy him. There is nothing left for people with no talent and mighty pretensions to do, but to criticise those who are really gifted. I hope you enjoy the consolation it brings. Those who are really gifted, indeed. I am cleverer than any of you if it comes to that. He tears the bandage off his head. You are the slaves of convention. You have seized the upper hand, and now lay down his law, everything that you do. All else you strangle and treble on. I refuse to accept your point of view. Yours and his, I refuse. That is the talk of a decadent. Go back to your beloved stage and act the miserable ditchwater plays you so admire. I never acted in a play like that in my life. You couldn't write even the trashiest musical farce. You idle good for nothing. Miser. Radbag. Trebley sits down and begins to cry softly. Walking up and down in great excitement. Don't cry. You mustn't cry. You really mustn't. She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his head. My darling child, forgive me. Forgive your wicked mother. Embracing her. Oh, if only you could know what it is to have lost everything under heaven. She does not love me. I see I shall never be able to write. Every hope has deserted me. Don't despair. This will all pass. He is going away today, and she will love you once more. She wipes away his tears. Stop crying. We have made peace again. Kissing her hand. Yes, mother. Make your peace with him, too. Don't fight with him. You surely won't fight. I won't. But he must not insist on my seeing him again, mother. I couldn't stand it. Trigorin comes in. There he is. I'm going. He quickly puts the medicines away in the cupboard. The doctor will attempt my head. Looking through the pages of the book. Page 121, lines 11 and 12. Here it is. He reads. If at any time you shall have need of my life, come and take it. Shepleaf picks up the bandage off the floor and goes out. Looking at her watch. The carriage will soon be here. To himself. If at any time you should have need of my life, come and take it. I hope your things are all packed. Yes, yes. Why do I hear a note of sadness that rings my heart in this cry of a pure soul? If at any time you should have need of my life, come and take it. To Arcadena. Let us stay here one more day. Arcadena shakes her head. Do let us stay. I know, dearest, what keeps you here, but you must control yourself. Be sober. Your emotions have intoxicated you a little. You must be sober, too. Be sensible. Look upon what has happened as a true friend would. Taking her hand. You are capable of self-sacrifice. Be a friend to me and release me. Are you so much in love? Irresistibly impaled toward her. It may be that this is just what I need. What the love of a country girl? Oh, how little you know yourself. People sometimes walk in their sleep, and so I feel as if I were asleep and dreaming of her as I stand here talking to you. My imagination is shaken by the sweetest and most glorious visions. Release me. Shuddering. No, no. I am only an ordinary woman. You must not say such things to me. Do not torment me, Boris. You frighten me. You could be an extraordinary woman, if you only would. Love alone can bring happiness on earth. Love the enchanting, the poetic love of youth that sweeps away the sorrows of the world. I had no time for it when I was young and struggling with want and laying seeds to the literary fortress. But now at last this love has come to me. I see it beckoning. Why should I fly? You are mad. Release me. You have all conspired together to torture me today. Clutching his head desperately. She doesn't understand me. She won't understand me. Am I then so old and ugly already that you can talk to me like this without any shame about another woman? She embraces and kisses him. Oh, you have lost your senses. My splendid, my glorious friend. My love for you is the last chapter of my life. She falls on her knees. You are my pride, my joy, my light. She embraces his knees. I could never endure it should you desert me. If only for an hour I should go mad. Oh, my wonder, my marvel, my king. As someone might come in, he helps her to rise. Let them come. I am not ashamed of my love. She kisses his hands. My duel, my despair. You want to do a foolish thing, but I don't want you to do it. I shan't let you do it. No, you are mine. You are mine. This forehead is mine. These eyes are mine. This silky hair is mine. All your being is mine. You are so clever, so wise. The first of all living writers, you are the only hope of your country. You are so fresh, so simple, so deeply humorous. You can bring out every feature of a man or of a landscape in a single line. And your characters live and breathe. Do you think that these words are but the incense of flattery? Do you think I am not speaking the truth? Come, look into my eyes. Look deep. Do you find lies there? No, you see that I alone know how to treasure you. I alone tell you the truth. Oh, my very dear, you will go with me. You will? You will not forsake me? I have no will of my own. I never had I am too indolent, too submissive, too like Matic to have any. Is it possible that women like that? Take me. Take me with you. But do not let me stir a step from your side. To herself? Now he is mine. Of course you must stay here if you really want to. I shall go and you can follow in a week's time. Yes, really, why should you hurry away? Let us go together. As you like. Let us go together then. A pause. Trigorin writes something in his notebook. What are you writing? A happy expression I heard this morning. A grove of maiden pines. It may be useful. So, we are really off again, condemned once more to railway carriages to stations and restaurants to hamburger states and endless arguments. Shunriff comes in. I am sorry to have to inform you that your carriage is at the door. It is time to start, hon. madame. The train leaves at two five. Would you be kind enough, madame, to remember to inquire for me where Sudsdolz said the actor is now? Is he still alive, I wonder? Is he well? He and I have had many a jolly time together. He was inimitable in the stolen mail. A tragedian called Ismailov was in the same company, I remember, who was also quite remarkable. Don't hurry, madame. You still have five minutes. They were both of them conspirators once in the same melodrama, and one night, within the course of the play, they were suddenly discovered. Instead of saying, we have been trapped, Ismailov cried out, we have been wrapped. While he has been talking, Jacob has been busy with the trunks and the maid has brought Arcadena her hat, coat, parasol and gloves. The cook looks hesitatingly through the door on the right, and finally comes into the room. Paulina comes in, Medvedenko comes in. Presenting Arcadena with a little basket. Here are some plums for the journey. They are very sweet ones. You may want to nibble something good on the way. You are very kind, Paulina. Goodbye, my dearie. If things have not been quite as you could have wished, please forgive us. It has been delightful, delightful. You mustn't cry. Soren comes in through the door on the left, dressed in a long coat with a cape, and carrying his hat and cane. He crosses the room. Come, sister, it is time to start. Unless you want to miss the train. I am going to get into the carriage. He goes out. I shall walk quickly to the station and see you off there. He goes out. Goodbye, all. We shall meet again next summer, if we live. The maid's servant, Jacob, and the cook kiss her hand. Don't forget me. She gives the cook a ruble. There is a ruble for all three of you. Thank you, Mistress. A pleasant journey to you. God bless you, Mistress. Send us a line to cheer us up. Goodbye, sir. Where is Constantine? Tell him I am starting. I must say goodbye to him. To Jacob. I gave the cook a ruble for all three of you. All go out through the door on the right. The stage remains empty. Sounds of farewell are heard. The maid comes running back to fetch the basket of plums, which has been forgotten. Jogorin comes back. I had forgotten my cane. I think I left it on the terrace. He goes toward the door on the right and meets Nina, who comes in at that moment. Is that you? We are off. I knew we should meet again. I have come to an irrevocable decision. The die is cast. I am going on the stage. I am deserting my father and abandoning everything. I am beginning life anew. I am going as you are to Moscow. We shall meet there. Glancing about him. Go to the Hotel Slavonovsky Bazaar. Let me know as soon as you get there. I shall be at the Groshlovsky House in Molchanovska Street. I must go now. Just one more minute. You are so beautiful. What bliss to think that I shall see you again so soon. She sinks on his breast. I shall see in these glorious eyes again that wonderful and empherably tender smile. Those gentle features with their expression of angelic purity. My darling. A prolonged kiss. The curtain falls. Two years elapse between the third and fourth acts. End of Act Three.