FYODOR IVANOVICH (in the doorway). You alone here? No ladies? (Enters.) The storm woke me up. An impressive little downpour. What’s the time now?
VOINITSKY. How the hell should I know!
FYODOR IVANOVICH. Could have sworn I heard the voice of Yelena Andreevna.
VOINITSKY. She was here a moment ago.
FYODOR IVANOVICH. Magnificent woman! (Spots the medicine bottles on the table) What’s all this? Peppermint drops? (Tastes.) Yes indeed, a magnificent woman . . . Is the Professor sick or what?
VOINITSKY. Sick.
FYODOR IVANOVICH. I don’t understand that kind of existence. They say that the ancient Greeks would fling feeble and sickly children off Mont Blanc into an abyss. His sort should be flung in too!
VOINITSKY (irritated). Not Mont Blanc, but the Tarpeian rock.24 What crass ignorance! . . .
FYODOR IVANOVICH. Well, one rock’s much like any other . . . as if I gave a good goddam? Why are you so mopey today? Feel sorry for the Professor or what?
VOINITSKY. Leave me alone.
Pause.
FYODOR IVANOVICH. Or else, maybe, in love with the Professor’s lady? Huh? That’s it! It could happen . . . sigh . . . only watch out: if the gossip going round the district has only one hundredth of a particle of truth in it and I find out about it, don’t bother pleading for mercy, I’ll fling you off the Tarpeian rock . . .
VOINITSKY. She’s my friend.
FYODOR IVANOVICH. Already?
VOINITSKY. What’s that mean-”already”?
FYODOR IVANOVICH. A woman can be a man’s friend only in the following sequence: first, an acquaintance, next, a mistress, and thereafter a friend.
VOINITSKY. A vulgar philosophy.
FYODOR IVANOVICH. On which account we’ve got to have a drink. Let’s go, I think I’ve still got some Chartreuse left. Let’s have a drink. And when it’s light, we’ll head over to my place. Want to go for a rod? I’ve got a bookkeeper, Luka, who never says “ride,” always says, “rod.”25 Terrible crook. So, want to go for a rod? (Seeing SONYA enter.) Heavens to Betsy, ‘scuse me, I’m not wearing a tie. (Runs out.)
VIII
VOINITSKY and SONYA.
SONYA. So, Uncle Georges, you and Fedka were drinking champagne again and riding around in the troika. Birds of a feather flock together. Well, he’s been an incorrigible, natural-born playboy for quite some time, but are you? At your age it doesn’t suit you at all.
VOINITSKY. Age has nothing to do with it. When life has no reality, people live on illusions. After all it’s better than nothing.
SONYA. All our hay is mown; Gerasim told me today that everything’s rotting in the rain, and you’re obsessed with illusions. (Alarmed.) Uncle, there are tears in your eyes!
VOINITSKY. What tears? Nothing of the sort . . . don’t be silly . . . Just now the way you looked at me like your poor mother. My precious . . . (Avidly kisses her hands and face.) My dear sister . . . my darling sister . . . Where is she now? If only she knew! Ah, if only she knew!
SONYA. What? Uncle, knew what?
VOINITSKY. Oppressive, wrong . . . Never mind . . .
Enter KHRUSHCHOV
Later . . . Never mind . . . I’m going . . . (Goes.)
IX
SONYA and KHRUSHCHOV.
KHRUSHCHOV. Your daddy absolutely refuses to obey orders. I tell him it’s gout, and he says it’s rheumatism; I ask him to lie down, he sits up. (Takes his peaked cap.) Nerves.
SONYA. He’s spoiled. Put your cap away. Wait until the rain is over. Would you like a bite to eat?
KHRUSHCHOV. Yes, I suppose so.
SONYA. I love midnight snacks. I think there’s something in the sideboard. (Rummaging in the sideboard) Does he really need a doctor? What he needs is a dozen ladies sitting beside him, staring into his eyes and moaning, “Professor!” Here, have some cheese . . .
KHRUSHCHOV. You shouldn’t talk about your own father like that. I agree, he’s a difficult case, but if you compare him with the rest, all those Uncle Georgeses and Ivan Ivanychs aren’t worth his little finger.
SONYA. Here’s a bottle of something. I’m not referring to my father, but to the great man. I love my father, but great men with their Byzantine ceremonials have me bored to tears.
They sit down.
What a downpour!
Lightning.
Look!
KHRUSHCHOV. The storm’s passing over, we’ll only catch the tail-end of it.
SONYA (pouring). Have a drink.
KHRUSHCHOV. Long life to you. (Drinks)
SONYA. Are you angry with us for rousting you out at night?
KHRUSHCHOV. On the contrary. If you hadn’t, I would be asleep now, and seeing you in the flesh is far more pleasant than dreaming about you.
SONYA. Then how come you look so angry?
KHRUSHCHOV. Because I am angry. There’s nobody around, so a man can speak frankly. How pleased I’d be, Sofya Aleksandrovna, to take you away from here this minute. I cannot breathe this air of yours, and I think that it’s poisoning you. Your father, all wrapped up in his gout and his books and reluctant to recognize anything else, that Uncle Georges with his biliousness, lastly your stepmother . . .
SONYA. What about my stepmother?
KHRUSHCHOV. There are no words to express it . . . there simply aren’t! My lovely girl, there’s a lot I don’t understand about people. Everything about a human being ought to be beautifuclass="underline" face, dress, soul, ideas . . . Often I’ll see a beautiful face and a dress to match that make my head swim with ecstasy, but the soul and the ideas—good God! A handsome exterior may sometimes conceal a soul so black that no bleach can whiten it . . . Forgive me, I’m getting carried away . . . You really are infinitely dear to me . . .
SONYA (drops a knife). I dropped it . . .
KHRUSHCHOV (picks it up). Never mind . . .
Pause.
Sometimes, when you walk through a forest on a dark night, if all the time in the distance there’s a glimmer of light, you don’t mind the fatigue or the dark or the prickly branches hitting you in the face. I work from morn to darkest night, winter and summer, knowing no rest, I contend with people who don’t understand me, at times I suffer unbearably . . . but I’ve finally found my glimmer of light. I won’t boast that I love you more than anything else in the world. Love for me is not the be-all and end-all in life . . . it is my reward! My good one, my glorious one, there is no higher reward for someone who works, struggles, suffers . . .
SONYA (excited). Sorry . . . Just one question, Mikhail Lvovich.
KHRUSHCHOV. What? Ask it quickly . . .
SONYA. Don’t you see . . . you often drop in on us, and sometimes I drop in on you with my folks. Admit that that makes you feel guilty . . .
KHRUSHCHOV. For what?