 The Proposal by Anton Chekhov, translated by Julius West. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Proposal by Anton Chekhov. Characters Stepan Stepanovich Chubukov, a landowner. Read by John Eddings. Natalia Stepanovna, his daughter, twenty-five years old. Read by Ruth Golding. Ivan Vasilyevich Lomov, a neighbour of Chekhov, a large and hearty but very suspicious landowner. Read by Simon Lauer. The scene is laid at Chekhov's country house. The Proposal A drawing room in Chekhov's house. Lomov enters, wearing a dress jacket and white gloves. Chubukov rises to meet him. My dear fellow, whom do I see? Ivan Vasilyevich, I am extremely glad. Squeezes his hand. Now this is a surprise, my darling. How are you? Thank you. And how may you be getting on? We just get along somehow, my angel, to your prayers and so on. Sit down, please do. Now you know you shouldn't forget all about your neighbours, my darling. My dear fellow, why are you so formal in your get-up? Evening dress, clubs and so on? Can you be going anywhere, my treasure? No, I've only come to see you, Onid Stepanovich. Then why are you in evening dress, my precious, as if you're paying a new year's e-visit? Well, you see it's like this. Takes his arm. I've come to you, Onid Stepanovich, to trouble you with a request. Not once or twice have I already had the privilege of applying to you for help, and you have always, so to speak. I must ask your pardon, I am getting excited. I shall drink some water, Onid Stepanovich. Aside. He's come to borrow money. Now, chant, give him any. Allowed. What is it, my beauty? You see, Onid Stepanovich. I beg pardon, Stepanovich, I mean, I'm awfully excited as you will please notice. In short, you alone can help me, though I don't deserve it, of course, and haven't any right to count on your assistance. Oh, don't go round and round it, darling. Spit it out, will! One moment, this very minute. The fact is, I've come to ask the hand of your daughter, Natalia Stepanovich, in marriage. My job, Ivan Vasilyevich, say it again. I didn't hear it all. I have the honour to ask... My dear fellow, I'm so glad and so on. Yes, indeed, and all that sort of thing. Embraces and kisses, Lomoff. I've been hoping for it for a long time. It's been my continual desire. Sheds a tear. Oh, and I've always loved you, my angel, as if you were my own son. May God give you both His help and His love and so on. And I did so much hope. What am I behaving in this idiotic way for? I'm off my balance with joy. Absolutely off my balance. With all my soul. I'll go and call Natasha and all that. Honoured Stepan Stepanovich, do you think I may count on her consent? Why, of course, my darling, and as if she won't consent. She's in love. God, she's like a love-sick cat and so on. She can't be long. Exit. It's cold. I'm trembling all over, just as if I'd got an examination before me. The great thing is, I must have made my mind up. If I give myself time to think, to hesitate to talk a lot, to look for an ideal or for real love, then I'll never get married. It's cold. Natalia Stepanovich is an excellent housekeeper. Not bad looking, well educated. What more do I want? But I'm getting a noise in my ears from excitement. Drinks. And it's impossible for me not to marry. In the first place, I'm already 35, a critical age, so to speak. In the second place, I ought to lead a quiet and regular life. I suffer from palpitations. I'm excitable and always getting awfully upset. At this very moment, my lips are trembling and there's a twitch in my right eyebrow. But the very worst of all is the way I sleep. I know sooner get into bed and begin to go off when suddenly something in my left side gives a pull and I can feel it in my shoulder and head. I jump up like a lunatic and walk about a bit and lie down again, but as soon as I begin to get off to sleep, there's another pull. And this may happen twenty times. Natalia Stepanovna comes in. Well there, it's you. And Papar said, go, there's a merchant come for his goods. How do you do, Ivan Vasilyevich? How do you do, honoured Natalia Stepanovich? You must excuse my apron and negligee. We're shelling peas for drying. Why haven't you been here for such a long time? Sit down. They seat themselves. Won't you have some lunch? No, thank you. I've had some already. Then smoke. Here are the matches. The weather is splendid now, but yesterday it was so wet that the workman didn't do anything all day. How much hay have you stacked? Just think, I felt greedy and had a whole field cut, and now I'm not at all pleased about it because I'm afraid my hay may rot. I ought to have waited a bit. But what's this? Why are you in evening dress? Well, I never. Are you going to a ball or what? Though I must say you look better. Tell me, why you got up like that? You see, honoured Natalia Stepanovich, the fact is I've made my mind up to ask you to hear me out. Of course you'll be surprised and perhaps even angry, but... Aside. It's awfully cold. What's the matter? Well? I shall try to be brief. You must know, honoured Natalia Stepanovich, that I have long, since my childhood in fact, had the privilege of knowing your family. My late aunt and her husband, from whom as you know I inherited my land, always had the greatest respect for your father and your late mother. The Lamovs and the Chubukovs have always had the most friendly and I might almost say the most affectionate regard for each other. And as you know, my land is a near neighbour of yours. You will remember that my oxen meadows touch your birchwoods. Excuse my interrupting you. You say my oxen meadows, but are they yours? Yes, mine. What are you talking about? Oxen meadows are ours, not yours. No, mine, honoured Natalia Stepanovich. Well, I never knew that before. How do you make that out? How? I'm speaking of those oxen meadows which are wedged in between your birchwoods and the burnt marsh. Yes, yes, they're ours. No, you're mistaken, honoured Natalia Stepanovich. They're mine. Just think, Yvonne Vasilievich. How long have they been yours? How long? As long as I can remember. Really, you won't get me to believe that? But you can see from the documents, honoured Natalia Stepanovich. Oxen meadows, it's true, were once the subject of dispute, but now everybody knows that they are mine. There's nothing to argue about. You see, my aunt's grandmother gave the free use of these meadows in perpetuity to the peasants of your father's grandfather, in return for which they were to make bricks for her. The peasants, belonging to your father's grandfather, had the free use of the meadows for forty years, and had got into the habit of regarding them as their own, when it happens that... No, it isn't at all like that. Both my grandfather and great-grandfather reckoned that their land extended to burnt marsh, which means that oxen meadows were ours. I don't see what there is to argue about. It's simply silly. I'll show you the documents, Natalia Stepanovich. No! You're simply joking or making fun of me. What a surprise! We've had the land for nearly three hundred years, and then we're suddenly told that it isn't ours. If I'm the silly bitch, I can hardly believe my own ears. These meadows aren't worth much to me. They only come to five deschatins, and are worth perhaps three hundred roubles. But I can't stand unfairness. Say what you will, but I can't stand unfairness. Hear me out, I implore you. The peasants of your father's grandfather, as I have already had the honour of explaining to you, used to bake bricks for my aunt's grandmother. Now, my aunt's grandmother wishing to make them a pleasant... I can't make head or tail of all this about aunts and grandfathers and grandmothers. The meadows are ours, and that's all. Mine? Ours? You can go on proving it for two days on end. You can go and put on fifteen dress jackets, but I tell you they're ours, ours, ours. I don't want anything of yours, and I don't want to give up anything of mine, so there. Natalia Ivanova, I don't want the meadows, but I am acting on principle. If you like, I'll make you a present of them. I can make you a present of them myself because they're mine. Your behaviour, if I'm facility, which is strange to say the least. After this we've always thought of you as a good neighbour, a friend. Last year we lent you our threshing machine, although on that account we had to put off our own threshing till November. But you behave to us as if we were gypsies. Giving me my own land, indeed. No, really, that's not a tall neighbourly. In my opinion it's even impudent if you want to know. Then you make out that I'm a land-grabber? Madam, never in my life have I grabbed anybody else's land, and I shan't allow anybody to accuse me of having done so. Quickly steps to the carafe and drinks more water. Oxen meadows are mine. It's not true, they're ours. Mine! It's not true, I'll prove it. I'll send my mowers out to the meadows this very day. What? My mowers will be there this very day. I'll give it to them in the neck. You dare! Clutches at his heart. Oxen meadows are mine. You understand? Mine! Please don't shout. You can shout yourself, horse, in your own house. But here I must ask you to restrain yourself. If it wasn't madam for this awful excruciating palpitation, if my whole inside wasn't upset I'd talk to you in a different way. Oxen meadows are mine. Ours! Mine! Ours! Mine! Enter Chebukov. What's the matter, what are you shouting at? Papa, please tell to this gentleman who owns Oxen meadows, we or he? To Lomov. Darling, the meadows are ours. But please, Stepan Stepanich, how can they be yours? Do be a reasonable man. My aunt's grandmother gave the meadows for the temporary and free use of your grandfather's peasants. The peasants used the land for forty years and got as accustomed to it as if it was their own, when it happened that... Excuse me, my precious, you forget just this, that the peasants didn't pay your grandmother and all that because the meadows were in dispute and so on. And now everybody knows that they're ours. It means that you haven't seen the plan. I'll prove to you that they're mine. You won't prove it, my darling. I shall. Dear one, why yell like that? You won't prove anything just by yelling. I don't want anything of yours and don't intend to give up what I have. Why should I? And you know, my beloved, that if you proposed to go on arguing about it, I'd much sooner give up the meadows to the peasants than to you there. I don't understand. How have you the right to give away somebody else's property? You may take it that I know whether I have the right or not because, young man, I'm not used to being spoken to in that tone of voice and so on. I, young man, am twice your age and ask you to speak to me without agitating yourself and all that. No, you just think I'm a fool and want to have me on. You call my land yours and then you want me to talk to you calmly and politely. Good neighbours don't behave like that, Stepan Stepanich. You're not a neighbour. You're a grabber. What's that? What did you say? Papa, send the meadows out to the meadows at once. What did you say, sir? Oxen meadows are ours and I shan't give them up. I shan't give them up. We'll see. I'll have the matter taken to court and then I'll show you to court. You can take it to court and all that. You can. I know you. You're just on the lookout for a chance to go to court and all that. You petty fogger. All your people were like that, all of them. Never mind about my people. The Le Mans have all been honourable people and not one has ever been tried for embezzlement like your grandfather. You lumebs have had lunacy in your family, all of you. Oh, oh, oh! Your grandfather was a drunkard and your younger aunt, Nastasia Mihailovna, ran away with an architect and so on. And your mother was humpbacked. Clotches at his heart. Something pulling in my side. My head. Help. Water. Your father was a guzzling gambler. And there haven't been many backbiteers to equal your aunt. My left foot has gone to sleep. You're an intrigue. Oh, my heart. And it's an open secret that before the last elections you bruh... I can see stars. Where's my hat? So, it's dishonest. It's mean. And you're just a malicious, double-faced intrigue. Yes! Here's my hat. My heart. Which way? Where's the door? Oh, I think I'm dying. My foot's quite numb. Goes to the door. Following him. And don't set foot in my house again! Take it to court, we'll see! Lomov staggers out. Never take him. Walks about in excitement. What a rascal! What trust can one have in one's neighbours after that? The villain did this scarecrow. The monster! First he takes our land and then he has the impudence to abuse us. And that blind hen, yes, that turnip ghost has the confounded cheek to make a proposal and so on. What? A proposal? Proposal. Why, he came here so as to propose to you. To propose? Didn't you tell me so before? So he dresses up in evening clothes, this stuffed sausage, the whizzin' face to frump. Falls into an easy chair and wails. Bring whom here? What's the matter with you? Clotches at his head. Oh, unhappy man that I am. I'll shoot myself, I'll hang myself. We've done for her. I'm dying! Fetch him! At once, don't yell! Runs out. A pause. Natalia Stepanovna wails. They've done to me! Fetch him back! Fetch him! A pause. Chebukov runs in. He's coming and so on, devil, take him. Talk to him yourself, I don't want to. He's coming, I tell you. Oh, what a burden, Lord, to be the father of a grown-up daughter. I'll cut my throat, I will indeed. We cursed him, abused him, drove him out, and it's all you! You! You! I tell you, it's not my fault. Lomov appears at the door. Now you talk to him yourself. Exit. Lomov enters, exhausted. My heart's palpitating awfully. My foot's gone to sleep. There's something keeps pulling in my side. Forgive us, Yvonne Vasilievich. We were all a little heated. I remember now. Oxen meadows really are yours. My heart's beating awfully. My meadows. My eyebrows are both twitching. The meadows are yours. Yes, yours. Do sit down. They sit. We were wrong. I did it on principle. My land is worth little to me but the principle. Yes, the principle just so. Now let's talk of something else. The more so as I have evidence. My aunt's grandmother gave the land to your father's grandfather's peasants. Yes, yes, let that pass. Aside. I wish I knew how to get him started. Allowed. Are you going to start shooting soon? I'm thinking of having you go at the Blackcock. Honoured Natalya Stepanovna after the harvest. Oh, have you heard? Just think what a misfortune I've had. My dog, Guess, whom you know, has gone lame. What a pity. Why? I don't know. Must have got twisted or bitten by some other dog. My very best dog. To say nothing of the expense, I gave Mironov 125 roubles for him. It was too much, Ivan Vasilievich. I think it was very cheap. He's a first rate dog. Papa gave 85 roubles for his Squeezer, and Squeezer is heaps better than Guess. Squeezer better than Guess? What an idea. Squeezer better than Guess. Of course he's better. Of course Squeezer is young. He may develop a bit, but on points and pedigree, he's better than anything that even Volchanetsky has got. Excuse me, Natalia Stepanova, but you forget that he is overshot. And an overshot always means the dog is a bad hunter. Overshot is he? The first time I hear it. I assure you that his lower jaw is shorter than the upper. Have you measured? Yes. He's all right at following, of course, but if you want him to get hold of anything. In the first place, our Squeezer is a thoroughbred animal. The son of harness and chisels. Whilst there's no getting at the pedigree of your dog at all, he's old and as ugly as a worn-out cab horse. He is old, but I wouldn't take five Squeezers for him. Why, how can you? Guess is a dog. As for Squeezer, well, it's too funny to argue. Anybody you like has a dog as good as Squeezer. You may find them under every bush, almost. Twenty-five roubles would be a handsome price to pay for him. There's some demon of contradiction in you today, Vaughn Vasilievich. First you pretend that the meadows are yours, now that Guess is better than Squeezer. I don't like people who don't say what they mean, because you know perfectly well that Squeezer is a hundred times better than your silly Guess. Why do you want to say it isn't? I see, Natalia Stepanova, that you consider me either blind or a fool. You must realise that Squeezer is overshot. It's not true. He is? It's not true. Why shout, madam? Why talk rot, it's awful. It's time your Guess was shot, and you compare him with Squeezer. Excuse me, I cannot continue this discussion. My heart is palpitating. I've noticed that those hunters argue most who know least. Madam, please be silent. My heart is going to pieces. Shut up. I shan't shut up, until you acknowledge that Squeezer is a hundred times better than your Guess. A hundred times worse. Be hanged to your Squeezer, his head, eyes, shoulder. There's no need to hang your silly Guess, he's half dead already. Shut up. My heart's bursting. I shan't shut up. Enter Chebukov. What's the matter now? Papa, tell us truly, which is the better dog, our Squeezer or his Guess? Stupan, Stupanovich, I implore you to tell me just one thing. Is your Squeezer overshot or not? Yes or no? And suppose he is, what does it matter? He's the best dog in the district for all that and so on. But isn't my Guess better? Really now? Don't excite yourself, my precious one, allow me. Your Guess certainly has his good points. His pure bread, firm on his feet, has well sprung ribs and all that. But my dear man, if you want to know the truth, that dog has two defects. He's old and he's short in the muzzle. Excuse me, my heart. Let's take the facts. You will remember that on the Marusinski hunt, my Guess ran neck and neck with the Count's dog while your Squeezer was left a whole verse behind. He got left behind because the Count's whipper in hit him with his wit. And with good reason, the dogs are running after a fox when Squeezer goes and starts worrying a sheep. It's not true. My dear fellow, I'm very liable to lose my temper and so, just because of that, let's stop arguing. You started because everybody is always jealous of everybody else's dogs. Yes, we're all like that. You too, sir, aren't blameless. You no sooner notice that some dog is better than your Guess than you begin with this, that and the other and all that. I remember everything. I remember too. Teasing him. I remember too. What do you remember? My heart. My foot's gone to sleep. I can't. Teasing. Sort of a hunter, are you? You ought to go and lie on the kitchen oven and catch black beetles, not go after foxes. My heart. Yes, really, what sort of a hunter are you anyway? You ought to sit at home with your palpitations and not go tracking animals. You could go hunting, but you only go to argue with people and interfere with their dogs and so on. Let's change the subject in case I lose my temper. You're not a hunter at all anyway. And you, a hunter, you only go hunting to get in with a counten to intrigue. Oh, my heart. You're an intrigue. What? I an intrigue? Shut up. Intrigue. Boy, pup. Old rat. Jesuit. Shut up or I'll shoot you like a partridge, you fool. Everybody knows that, oh, my heart. Your late wife used to beat you. My feet, temples, sparks. I fall, I fall. And you are under the slipper of your housekeeper. The, the, the, no, my heart's burst. My shoulders come off. Where's my shoulder? I die. Falls into an armchair. A doctor. Faints. Boy, milk's up, fool. I'm sick. Drinks water. Sick. What sort of a hunter are you? You can't even sit on a horse. To her father. Papa? What's the matter with him? Papa? Look, Papa. He's dead. I'm sick. I can't breathe. He's dead. Pull this Lomoff's sleeve. He found the silly bitch. He found the silly bitch. What have you done to me? Falls into an armchair. A doctor. Oh, what is it? What's the matter? Who's dead? Looks at Lomoff. So he is? My word. A doctor. Drink this. Lifts a tumbler to Lomoff's mouth. No, he doesn't drink. It means he's dead and all that. Oh, I'm the most unhappy of men. Why don't I put a bullet in my brain? Why haven't I cut my throat yet? What am I waiting for? Give me a knife, give me a pistol. Lomoff moves. Oh, he seems to be coming around. Drink some water. That's right. I see stars. Missed. Where am I? Hurry up and get married and well to the devil with you. She's willing. He puts Lomoff's hand into his daughter's. She's willing and all that. I give you my blessing and so on only leave me in peace. Getting up. What? To whom? He's willing. Well, kiss and be damned to you. Oh, he's alive. Yes, yes. I'm willing. Kiss each other. Kiss whom? They kiss. Very nice too. Excuse me. What's it all about? Oh, now I understand. My heart. Stars. I'm happy. Natalia Stepanova. Kisses her hand. My foot's gone to sleep. Happy too. Oh, what a weight of my shoulders. But still, you will admit now that guess is worse than squeezer. Better. Worse. Well, that's a way to start your family bliss. Have some champagne. He's better. Worse! Worse! Worse! Champagne! Champagne! Curtin. End of The Proposal by Anton Chekov. Translated by Julius West.