SHABELSKY. Narrow-minded, straitlaced sawbones! (Mocks him.) “Clear the way for precious honest toil!” He squawks at every step like a parrot, and thinks he’s actually a second Dobrolyubov.4 Anyone who doesn’t squawk is a low-life. His views are wonderful in their profundity. If a peasant is well-off and lives like a human being, that means he’s a low-life, money-grubbing exploiter.51 wear a velvet jacket, and a valet helps me dress—I’m a low-life too and a slave owner.6 So decent, so decent that decency is oozing from every pore! He can’t find a place good enough for him. He’s got me scared . . . Honest to God! . . . Look at him sideways, out of a sense of duty he’ll punch you in the snoot or call you a low-life.
IVANOV. He has been awfully hard to take, but all the same I like him, there’s something sincere about him.
SHABELSKY. A pretty sort of sincerity! Last night he walks up to me and out of the blue: “Count, I find you deeply repugnant!” Thank you very kindly! And it’s not done simply, but tendentiously: his voice quavers, and his eyes blaze, and his knees knock together . . . To hell with his stilted sincerity! So he thinks I’m repulsive, nasty, that’s natural enough . . . So do I, but why say it to my face! I may be a trashy person, but, after all, be that as it may, I’ve got gray hairs . . . Untalented, insensitive decency!
LEBEDEV. Well, well, well! . . . I guess you’ve been young once yourself and can understand.
SHABELSKY. Yes, I was young and foolish, in my time I played Chatsky,7 unmasking villains and swindlers, but never in my life did I call a thief a thief to his face or mention the rope in the hanged man’s house. I was well bred. But this dim-witted sawbones of ours would feel he had reached the pinnacle of his mission, seventh heaven, if fate gave him the chance, in the name of principles and humane ideals, to bash me in the snoot in public or hit me below the belt.
LEBEDEV. All young people have their quirks. I had an uncle who was a follower of Hegel8. . . he used to invite a houseful of guests, get drunk, stand on a chair and go: “You’re ignoramuses! You’re going to Hell! A new dawn awaits!” Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah . . . He’d keep telling them off . . .
SASHA. What did the guests do?
LEBEDEV. Nothing . . . They’d listen and go on drinking. Once, though, I challenged him to a duel . . . My own uncle. All on account of Francis Bacon.9 I remember I was sitting, God help my memory, just the way Matvey is, and my uncle and the late Gerasim Nilych were standing over there, roughly where Nikolasha is . . . Well, sir, Gerasim Nilych asks me, dear friend, a question . . .
V
The same and BORKIN.
BORKIN, dressed foppishly, holding a package, skipping and humming, enters from the door at right. A murmur of approval.
Together
YOUNG LADIES
. Mikhail Mikhailovich!
LEBEDEV
.
Michel Michelich
! Do my ears deceive me . . .
SHABELSKY
. The life of the party!
BORKIN. Here I am again! (Runs over to Sasha.) Noble signorina, I make so bold as to congratulate the universe on the birth of such a marvelous blossom as yourself . . . As a token of my delight, I venture to present you (hands over the package) with fireworks and Bengal lights[32] of my own making. May they light up the night just as you brighten the shadows of this kingdom of darkness. (Theatrical bow.)
SASHA. Thank you.
LEBEDEV (roars with laughter, to Ivanov). Why don’t you fire this Judas?
BORKIN (to Lebedev). Pavel Kirillich! (To Ivanov.) My patron . . . (Sings.) Nicolas-voilä, ho-hi-ho! (Goes round to everyone.) The most respected Zinaida Savishna . . . The most divine Marfa Yegorovna . . . The most venerable Avdotya Nazarovna. The most highnessy Count . . .
SHABELSKY (roars with laughter). The life of the party . . . Hardly in the door and the mood’s lifted. Have you noticed?
BORKIN. Oof, I’m worn out . . . I think I’ve greeted everyone. Well, what’s new, ladies and gentlemen? Nothing special, that hits you over the head? (Vigorously to Zinaida Savishna.) Ah, listen, mamma dear . . . As I’m riding over here just now . . . (To Gavrila.) Let me have some tea, Gavrusha, only no gooseberry preserves! (To Zinaida Savishna.) As I’m riding over here just now, peasants on the riverbank were stripping bark from your willow bushes. Why don’t you lease out your willow bushes?
LEBEDEV (to Ivanov). Why don’t you fire this Judas?
ZINAIDA SAVISHNA (alarmed). Why, that’s perfectly true, it never crossed my mind!
BORKIN (does calisthenics with his arms). I can’t sit still . . . Mamma dear, anything special we can turn our hand to? Marfa Yegorovna, I’m in good form . . . I’m in tiptop shape. (Sings.) “Once again I stand before you . . .”[33]
ZINAIDA SAVISHNA. Organize something, otherwise we’ll die of boredom.
BORKIN. Ladies and gentlemen, why these long faces? They’re sitting around like jurymen in a box! . . . Let’s come up with something. What would you enjoy? Truth or dare, jump-rope, tag, dancing, fireworks? . . .
YOUNG LADIES (clap their hands). Fireworks, fireworks! (They run into the garden.)
SASHA (to Ivanov). Why are you so boring today?
IVANOV. My head aches, Shurochka, and I’m bored . . .
SASHA. Let’s go into the drawing-room.
They go out the door at right; everyone goes into the garden, except ZINAIDA SAVISHNA and LEBEDEV.
ZINAIDA SAVISHNA. That’s my idea of a young man: the minute he arrives, everyone cheers up. (Turns down the big lamp.) Since they’re all in the garden, there’s no need to leave lights burning. (Puts out the candles.)
LEBEDEV (following her). Zyuzyushka, we have to give the guests something to eat . . .
ZINAIDA SAVISHNA. Look at all these candles . . . no wonder people think we’re rich. (Puts them out.)
LEBEDEV (following her). Zyuzyushka, for heaven’s sake, you should give people something to eat . . . They’re young, they must be starving by now, poor things . . . Zyuzyushka . . .
ZINAIDA SAVISHNA. The Count didn’t finish his tea. A waste of perfectly good sugar.
LEBEDEV. Drat! . . . (They go into the garden.)
V I
IVANOV and SASHA.
SASHA (entering with Ivanov from the door at right). Everyone’s gone into the garden.
IVANOV. That’s the way things are, Shurochka. I used to work a lot and think a lot, and never get tired; now I don’t do anything or think about anything, and I’m exhausted, body and soul. Day and night my conscience bothers me, I feel that I’m deeply at fault, but where that fault lies, I can’t figure out. And then there’s my wife’s illness, lack of money, the constant grumbling, gossip, pointless talk, that stupid Borkin . . . My home has become loathsome to me, living in it is worse than torture. I tell you frankly, Shurochka, something else that’s become unbearable for me is the company of my wife, who loves me. You are an old friend and you won’t mind if I’m frank. I came to your place to have some fun, but I’m bored here too, and my home pulls me back again. Forgive me, I’ll leave right away, nice and quietly.