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CHUBUKOV (runs back in). He’s coming right away and so on, damn him! Oof! Talk to him yourself, the thing of it is I don’t want to . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). Bring ‘im back!
CHUBUKOV (shouts). He’s on his way, I tell you. “Oh, Lord, a heavy burden this, Be father to a grown-up miss . . .”4 I’ll cut my throat! I’ll definitely cut my throat! We’ve cursed the man, heckled him, kicked him out, and it’s all because of you . . . you!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. No . . . you!
CHUBUKOV. So now the thing of it is it’s my fault!
LOMOV appears in the doorway.
Well, you talk to him! (Exits.)
VI
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA and LOMOV.
LOMOV (enters, utterly exhausted). The most awful palpitations . . . My leg’s numb . . . my side is throbbing . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Excuse me, we got a bit carried away, Ivan Vasi-lyevich . . . Now I remember: Bullock Fields are in fact yours.
LOMOV. My heart’s pounding horribly . . . The Fields are mine . . . There are spots before both my eyes . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. The fields are yours, yours . . . Do sit down . . .
They sit down.
We were wrong . . .
LOMOV. I insist on the principle of the thing . . . I don’t care about the land, but I do care about the principle . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. The principle, exactly . . . Let’s have a little talk about something else.
LOMOV. Especially since I’ve got proof. My auntie’s granny made over to your daddy’s granddaddy’s peasants . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. All right, all right, that’s enough of that . . . (Aside.) I don’t know how to begin . . . (To him.) Planning to go hunting soon?
LOMOV. For grouse, respected Nataliya Stepanovna, I think I’ll start when the harvest’s over. Oh, did you hear? Imagine my bad luck! My Dasher, whom you are good enough to know, has gone lame.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What a shame! How did it happen?
LOMOV. I don’t know. I suppose he dislocated something or some other dogs bit him . . . (Sighs.) My very best dog, not to mention what he cost me! I actually paid Mironov one hundred twenty-five rubles for him.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. You paid too much, Ivan Vasilyevich!
LOMOV. To my way of thinking, it was pretty cheap. He’s a wonderful dog.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa paid eighty-five rubles for his Splasher, and, after all, Splasher is far superior to your Dasher!
LOMOV. Splasher superior to Dasher! What are you talking about! (Laughs.) Splasher superior to Dasher!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Of course, he’s superior! It’s true, Splasher is still a pup, he’s not matured yet, but judging by his paws and his carriage you won’t find his better at Volchanetsky’s.5
LOMOV. Excuse me, Nataliya Stepanovna, but actually you’re forgetting that he’s got an underslung jaw, and a dog with an underslung jaw can’t get a good grip.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. An underslung jaw? That’s the first time I’ve heard that!
LOMOV. I assure you, the lower jawbone is shorter than the upper.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Did you measure it?
LOMOV. I did. He’ll be all right as far as tracking goes, of course, but when it comes to retrieving, he can hardly . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. In the first place, our Splasher is pedigreed, a thoroughbred greyhound, sired by Buckle-down and Chiseler, but as for that rust-colored mutt of yours there’s no point in talking about blood-lines . . . And besides he’s old and hideous as a swaybacked nag.
LOMOV. He may be old, but I wouldn’t take five of your Splashers for him . . . You must be kidding? Dasher is a dog, whereas Splasher . . . it’s ridiculous even to argue about it . . . Things like your Splasher you can find at any kennel — common as dirt. Twenty-five rubles would be asking too much.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Ivan Vasilyevich, you are possessed today by a certain demon of contradiction. First you decide that the Fields belong to you, next you think that Dasher is superior to Splasher. I don’t like it when a man doesn’t say what’s on his mind. After all, you know perfectly well that Splasher is a hundred times better than your . . . that stupid Dasher. Why do you have to contradict?
LOMOV. I see, Nataliya Stepanovna, that you take me for either a blind man or a fool. Why can’t you get it through your head that your Splasher has an underslung jaw!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That isn’t true.
LOMOV. His jaw is underslung!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (shouts). That isn’t true!
LOMOV. What are you yelling for, madam?
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Why do you talk such rubbish? This is really aggravating! It’s high time you put your Dasher to sleep, and yet you go on comparing him with Splasher!
LOMOV. Excuse me, I can’t prolong this argument. I have palpitations.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I’ve noticed that the hunters who argue the most are the ones who know the least.
LOMOV. Madam, I implore you to be quiet . . . My heart is pounding away . . . (Shouts). Be quiet!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I will not be quiet until you admit that Splasher is a hundred times better than your Dasher!
LOMOV. A hundred times worse! He should drop dead, your Splasher! Temples . . . eyes . . . shoulder . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Well, your stupid Dasher doesn’t have to drop dead, because he’s already dead on his feet!
LOMOV (weeps). Will you be quiet! I’m having a heart attack!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I will not be quiet!
VIII
The same and CHUBUKOV.
CHUBUKOV (enters). What’s going on now?
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa, tell me honestly, in all conscience: which dog is better—our Splasher or his Dasher?
LOMOV. Stepan Stepanovich, I entreat you, just tell me one thing: does your Splasher have an underslung jaw or not? Yes or no?
CHUBUKOV. And what if he does? A lot of difference that makes! On the other hand there’s no better dog in the district and so on.
LOMOV. But isn’t my Dasher actually better? In all honesty?
CHUBUKOV. Don’t get overexcited, my dear friend . . . Allow me . . . Your Dasher, the thing of it is, has his good points . . . He’s pedigreed, his paws are firm, his haunches ride high, and so forth. But that dog, if you must know, my beauty, has two fundamental flaws: he’s old and his bite’s too short.
LOMOV. Excuse me, I have palpitations . . . Let’s look at the facts . . . Please remember that on Maruskin Meadows my Dasher was coursing neck and neck with the Count’s Smasher, while your Splasher was lagging a whole half-mile behind.
CHUBUKOV. He was lagging behind, because the Count’s master of hounds struck him with his whip.