VOYNITSKY. [Dreamily] Such eyes -- a glorious woman!
ASTROV. Come, Ivan, tell us something.
VOYNITSKY. [Indolently] What do you want me to say?
ASTROV. Haven't you any news for us?
VOYNITSKY. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps worse, because I've become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about the emancipation of women, with one eye on her grave and the other on her learned books, in which she's always looking for the dawn of a new life.
ASTROV. And the Professor?
VOYNITSKY. The Professor sits in his study from morning till night, as usual and writes, as the poet says --
"Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow,
We write, write, write,
Without respite
Or hope of praise in the future or now."
Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. [Agitated] Only think what luck he's had! He's the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth like a demi-god!
ASTROV. I believe you envy him.
VOYNITSKY. Yes, I do. Look at the success he's had with women! Don Juan himself wasn't more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second wife is, as you see, a beautiful, intelligent woman; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom and youth to him. Why? What for?
ASTROV. Is she faithful to him?
VOYNITSKY. Yes, unfortunately she is.
ASTROV. Why unfortunately?
VOYNITSKY. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch. It sounds well, but there's no logic in it. It's thought immoral for a woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every spark of life from her heart.
TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so. Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is an unfaithful person, and could also betray his country.
VOYNITSKY. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles.
TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day after our wedding, because my face was unattractive. I have never failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day. I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the children of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept?
HELENA and SONYA come in; after them comes MME. VOYNITSKAYA carrying a book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of tea which she drinks without looking up.
SONYA. [Hurriedly, to MARINA] Nanny, dear, there are some peasants waiting out there. Go and see what they want. I'll pour the tea. [Pours out some glasses of tea.]
MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the swing.
ASTROV. [To HELENA] I've come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had rheumatism and I don't know what else, and that he was very ill, but he appears to be as lively as a cricket.
HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of pains in his legs, but he seems all right again today.
ASTROV. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No matter, though, it's not the first time. Once here, however, I'm going to stay until tomorrow, and at any rate sleep well -- quantum satis.
SONYA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had dinner yet?
ASTROV. No, I haven't.
SONYA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks her tea] This tea is cold!
TELEGIN. Yes, the temperature in the samovar has indeed considerably diminished.
HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then.
TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilya, ma'am -- Ilya Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my pock-marked face. I am Sonya's godfather, and his Excellency, your husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate, and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every day.
SONYA. He's our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear godfather, let me pour you some tea.
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. Oh! Oh!
SONYA. What is it, grandmother?
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander -- it slipped my mind -- I received a letter today from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkov. He has sent me a new pamphlet.
ASTROV. Is it interesting?
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he defended seven years ago. It is appalling!
VOYNITSKY. There's nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma.
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. But I want to talk.
VOYNITSKY. For fifty years we've talked and talked and read pamphlets. It's about time we stopped.
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say. Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an illuminating personality ---
VOYNITSKY. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't have made a more bitter joke. I'm forty-seven years old. Until last year I endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the truths of life. But now -- Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I've wasted my time when I might have been winning from life everything -- but now I'm too old.
SONYA. Uncle Vanya, how boring!
MME. VOYNITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, are at fault. You have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead letter. You should have done something.