LEBEDEV shrugs his shoulders; he, ZINAIDA SAVISHNA, the COUNT, and BABAKINA leave.
VIII
IVANOV and SASHA.
SASHA (sternly). What do you want?
IVANOV. I’m choking with spite, but I can speak calmly. Listen. Just now I was getting dressed for the ceremony, I looked at myself in the mirror and the hair at my temples . . . was gray. Shura, we mustn’t! Shura, while it’s not too late, we should call off this mindless farce . . . You’re young, pure, you’ve got your life ahead of you, while I . . .
SASHA. None of this is new, I’ve already heard it a thousand times and I’m sick and tired of it! Go to the church, don’t keep people waiting.
IVANOV. I’ll go home right now, and you can explain to your folks that there won’t be any wedding. Tell them anything. It’s time we came to our senses. I was playing Hamlet, and you the high-minded damsel — we’ve had enough of it.
SASHA (flaring up). What sort of tone is this? I’m not listening.
IVANOV. But I’m speaking and I’ll go on speaking.
SASHA. Why did you come here? Your whining is becoming ridiculous.
IVANOV. No, I have stopped whining! Ridiculous? Yes, I am ridiculous. And if I could make myself a thousand times more ridiculous and get the whole world to laugh, I’d do it! I stared at myself in the mirror—and it was as if a bullet shot me in my conscience! I laughed at myself and nearly went out of my mind with shame. (Laughs.) Melancholy! Justifiable tedium! Unreasoning grief! The only thing I left out is writing poetry. To whine, to bemoan my fate, to drive everyone to distraction, to proclaim that the zest in life has been squandered forever, that I’ve got rusty, outlived myself, that I’ve given in to faintheartedness and am stuck up to my ears in this foul melancho-lia,—to proclaim this, when the sun is shining brightly, when even the ants are hauling their loads and pleased with themselves,—thanks but no thanks! To see how some consider you a charlatan, others pity you, yet others stretch out a helping hand, a fourth group — the worst of all — heed your groans, regard you as a second Mohammed, and wait for you to preach them a new religion any minute now. No, thank God, I still have pride and conscience! On the way over here, I laughed at myself, and I felt as if I need the birds to laugh at me, the trees to laugh . . .
SASHA. This isn’t spite, but insanity!
IVANOV. You think so? No, I’m not insane. Now I see things in their true light, and my mind is as clear as your conscience. We love each other, but our wedding cannot be! I can rant and rave and mope as much as I please, but I have no right to ruin other people! With my whining I poisoned the last year of my wife’s life. While you’ve been my fiancée, you’ve lost the ability to laugh and aged five years. Your father, for whom everything in life was clear, thanks to me can’t understand people any more. If I go to a gathering, a party, a hunt, wherever I go I bring along boredom, depression, dissatisfaction. Hold on, don’t interrupt! I’m being impetuous, frantic, but, excuse me, spite chokes me, and I cannot speak any other way. I never used to lie, never used to run down life, but, ever since I became a grumbler, involuntarily, without noticing it myself, I do run it down, rail at fate, complain, and everyone who hears me is infected with a distaste for life and also starts running it down! And what a tone! As if I were doing Nature a favor by living. Who the hell do I think I am!
SASHA. Hold on . . . What you’ve just said means that you’re fed up with whining and it’s time to begin a new life! . . . That’s wonderful! . . .
IVANOV. I don’t see anything wonderful about it. And what’s this new life? I’m a hopeless goner! It’s time we both understood that. New life!
SASHA. Nikolay, come to your senses! What makes you think you’re a goner? What is this cynicism? No, I don’t want to talk or listen . . . Go to the church!
IVANOV. A goner!
SASHA. Don’t shout that way, the guests will hear!
IVANOV. If a reasonably intelligent, educated, and healthy man for no apparent reason starts to bemoan his fate and go downhill, then he’s already on the skids without a brake, and there’s no escape for him! Well, where’s my escape? To what? I can’t drink—wine gives me a headache; I don’t know how to write bad poetry, I can’t romanticize my feeblemindedness and treat it as something sublime. Debility is debility, weakness is weakness— I have no other names for them. I’m a goner, a goner—and it’s not worth discussing! (Look around.) They might interrupt us. Listen. If you love me, help me. Right this minute, call it off without delay! Quick . . .
SASHA. Oh, Nikolay, if you only knew how you’ve worn me out! How you’ve broken my heart! You’re a good, intelligent man, so judge: well, can you set these tasks? Every single day, there’s a task, each one more difficult than the last . . . I wanted love to be active, not agonizing.
IVANOV. And when you become my wife, the tasks will be even more complex. Call it off! Understand, it’s not love speaking through you, but the obstinacy of an honest nature. You set yourself the goal, come what may, of resurrecting the man in me, rescuing me, you flattered yourself that you would do a deed of valor . . . Now you’re ready to retreat, but you’re prevented by a false feeling. Don’t you see!
SASHA. What strange, savage logic you use! Well, can I call it off? How can I call it off? You don’t have a mother, sisters, friends . . . You’re a wreck, your estate’s been plundered, the people around you speak ill of you . . .
IVANOV. I did something stupid coming here. I should have done what I intended . . .
Enter LEBEDEV.
IX
The same and LEBEDEV.
SASHA (runs to meet her father). Papa, for God’s sake, he ran over here like a madman and is torturing me! He insists that I call it off, he doesn’t want to ruin me. Tell him that I want no part of his magnanimity! I know what I’m doing.
LEBEDEV. I can’t figure this out . . . What magnanimity?
IVANOV. There will be no wedding!
SASHA. There will! Papa, tell him there will be a wedding!
LEBEDEV. Hold on, hold on! . . . Why don’t you want there to be a wedding?
IVANOV. I’ve explained why to her, but she refuses to understand.
LEBEDEV. No, don’t explain it to her, but to me, and explain it so that I can understand! Ah, Nikolay Alekseevich! God be your judge! You’ve filled our lives with so much murk and gloom I feel as if I’m living in a chamber of horrors: no matter where I look, I don’t understand a thing . . . It’s sheer agony . . . Well, what do you ask me, an old man, to do with you? Challenge you to a duel or what?
IVANOV. No duels are called for. All that’s called for is to have a brain in one’s head and understand plain Russian.
SASHA (walks up and down the stage in agitation). This is horrible, horrible! Just like a child!
LEBEDEV. There’s nothing left but to throw up your hands and that’s it. Listen, Nikolay. In your opinion, everything you’re doing is clever, subtle, in accordance with all the rules of psychology, but in my opinion, it’s a scandal and a disaster. Listen to me, an old man, one last time! Here’s what I have to say to you: calm your mind! Look at things simply, the way everybody else does! In this world everything is simple. The ceiling is white, boots are black, sugar is sweet. You love Sasha, she loves you. If you love her, stick around, if you don’t, go away, we won’t hold any grudges. This is simple enough, isn’t it! You’re both healthy, intelligent, moral, and well fed, thank God, and clothed . . . What more do you need? No money? Big deal! Money doesn’t bring happiness . . . Of course, I understand . . . your estate is mortgaged, you’ve got nothing to pay the interest with, but I’m a father, I understand . . . Mother can do as she likes, God bless her; she won’t give money—who needs it? Shurochka says you don’t need the dowry. Principles, Schopenhauer[53] . . . It’s all nonsense . . . I’ve got ten thousand stashed in the bank . . . (Looks around.) Not a dog in this house knows about it . . . It’s Granny’s . . . It’s for the two of you . . . Take it, only one condition with the money: give Matvey two thousand or so . . .