LOMOV. For good reason. The rest of the dogs are chasing the fox, while Splasher starts to worry a sheep.
CHUBUKOV. That’s not true, sir! . . . Laddy, I’m a hot-tempered fellow, and, the thing of it is, I suggest that you drop this argument. He struck him because everyone gets jealous when he looks at another man’s dog . . . Yessiree! They’re all haters! And you, my good sir, are not blameless! The thing of it is, the minute you spot any man’s dog that’s better than your Dasher, you start in right away with a kind of . . . sort of . . . and so forth . . . I remember it all, indeed I do!
LOMOV. And so do I!
CHUBUKOV (mimicking). And so do I . . . And just what do you remember?
LOMOV. Palpitations . . . My leg’s gone numb . . . . I can’t bear it.
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (mimicking). Palpitations . . . What sort of a hunter are you? You ought to be lying in a warm corner of the kitchen, swatting spiders, not chasing the fox! Palpitations . . .
CHUBUKOV. Truth be told, what sort of hunter are you? With your palpitations, the thing of it is, you should stay at home, and not jolt up and down in a saddle. It would be a fine thing if you actually did some hunting, but you only ride in order to start arguments and mess with other people’s dogs and so on. I’m a hot-tempered fellow, we’ll change the subject. The thing of it is, though, you’re no hunter!
LOMOV. And you are? You ride only to suck up to the Count and spin your schemes . . . My heart! . . . You’re a schemer!
CHUBUKOV. What’s that, sir? I’m a schemer! (Shouts.) Shut your mouth!
LOMOV. Schemer!
CHUBUKOV. Spoiled brat! Puppy!
LOMOV. Old buzzard! Hypocritical fraud!
CHUBUKOV. Shut up, or I’ll shoot you with a uncleaned gun like a partridge! You pipsqueak!
LOMOV. Everybody knows that—ugh, my heart! — that you beat your late wife . . . Leg . . . temples . . . Spots . . . I’m falling, falling! . . .
CHUBUKOV. And your housekeeper leads you around by the nose!
LOMOV. Look, look, look . . . my heart’s fit to burst! My shoulder’s come detached . . . Where’s my shoulder? . . . I’m dying! (Drops into an armchair.) Doctor! (Faints.)
CHUBUKOV. Spoiled brat! Mamma’s boy! Pipsqueak! I feel faint! (Drinks water.) I feel faint!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What kind of a hunter are youl You don’t even know how to sit on a horse! (to her father.) Papa! What’s wrong with him? Papa! Look, papa! (Yelps.) Ivan Vasilyevich! He’s dead!
CHUBUKOV. I feel faint . . . I’m gasping for breath! . . . Air! . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. He’s dead! (Tugs at Lomov’s sleeve.) Ivan Vasilich! Ivan Vasilich! What have we done? He’s dead! (Drops into an armchair.) Get a doctor, get a doctor! (Goes into hysterics.)
CHUBUKOV. Oof! . . . What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). He’s dead! . . . dead!
CHUBUKOV. Who’s dead? (After a glance at Lomov.) As a matter of fact he is dead! Good Lord! Water! Call a doctor! (Lifts a glass to Lomov’s lips.) Drink this! . . . No, he’s not drinking . . . Which means, the thing of it is, he’s dead . . . I’m the most miserable man on earth! Why didn’t I put a bullet in my brain? Why haven’t I shot myself before now? What am I waiting for? Give me a knife! Give me a pistol!
LOMOV stirs.
He’s reviving, I think . . . Drink some water! . . . That’s right . . .
LOMOV. Spots . . . mist . . . Where am I?
CHUBUKOV. Get married right away—and then you can go to hell! She’s consented! (Uniting Lomov’s and his daughters hands.) She’s consented and so forth. My blessings on you and so on. Only leave me in peace!
LOMOV. Huh? What? (Getting up a bit.) How’s that?
CHUBUKOV. She’s consented! So? Kiss one another and . . . to hell with you!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). He’s alive . . . Yes, yes, I consent . . .
CHUBUKOV. Kiss one another!
LOMOV. Huh? How’s that? (Exchanges kisses with Nataliya Stepanovna.) Very nice . . . Excuse me, what’s this all about? Ah, yes, I get it . . . Heart . . . spots . . . I’m happy, Nataliya Stepanovna . . . (Kisses her hand.) My leg’s gone numb . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I . . . I’m happy too . . .
CHUBUKOV. There’s a weight off . . . Oof!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. But . . . all the same, now you’ve got to agree: Dasher is not as good as Splasher.
LOMOV. Better!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse!
CHUBUKOV. Now, domestic bliss is off to a running start! Champagne.
LOMOV. Better!
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse! Worse! Worse!
CHUBUKOV (trying to shout over them). Champagne! Champagne!
Curtain
VARIANTS TO
The Proposal
The variants come from the censor’s copy (C), the lithographed publication (L), the newspaper New Times (NT), the journal The Performer (P), and the collection Plays (Pl).
page 439 / After: It’s not at all the way you’re telling it! — The peasants have nothing to do with it. (C, L)
page 441 / After: or him? — LOMOV. Yes, yes, whose are the Fields? (C, L, P)
page 442 / Before: What did you just say, my good sir? — Shut up! (C, L)
page 442 / Before: Bullock fields are ours — I won’t shut up! (C, L)
page 442 / After: Go ahead! —
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Even if there are a hundred, two hundred courts, I won’t let you, I won’t let you, I won’t let you!
CHUBUKOV. Shut up! (To Lomov.) (C, L)
page 443 / After: Yessiree! — NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Good neighbors don’t behave this way! (C, L)
page 443 / After: Then we’ll see! — I’ll send the men with scythes this very minute! (C, L)
page 444 / After: No . . . you! — You’re uneducated and crude! If it hadn’t been for you, he wouldn’t have left! (C, P)
page 444 / After: the thing of it is it’s my fault! — Well, hold on a bit, my dear girl, and so on: when I shoot myself or hang myself, you’ll know it’s all your fault! Yours! You drove me to it! (C, L)
page 445 / After: about something else. — Did you go to the fair in Nikitovka? (C, L)
page 445 / After: that’s enough of that . . . — Let’s forget it.
Pause.
LOMOV. Not that I care about the Fields, let ‘em go, but it’s the principle of the thing . . .
NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. All right, all right . . . (C, L)
page 447 / After: or his Dasher? — CHUBUKOV. Are you arguing again? Again? I can’t stand this! (C, L)