SONYA. What I mean is, your democratic feelings are offended by the fact that we’re your close acquaintances. I went to a private girls’ school. Yelena Andreevna is an aristocrat, we dress fashionably, and you’re a democrat . . .
KHRUSHCHOV. So that’s it . . . that’s it . . . let’s not talk about it! Now is not the time!
SONYA. What matters is that you dig peat with your own hands, you plant trees . . . it’s rather peculiar. In other words, you’re a populist . . .26
KHRUSHCHOV. A democrat, a populist . . . Sofya Aleksandrovna, can you say that seriously and even with a quaver in your voice?
SONYA. Yes, yes, seriously, a thousand times seriously.
KHRUSHCHOV. No, no, no . . .
SONYA. I assure you and swear by whatever you like that if I had, say, a sister and you fell in love with her and proposed to her, you would never forgive yourself for it, and you’d be ashamed to look in the faces of your district doctors and female physicians, ashamed that you had fallen in love with a boarding school miss, a prim and proper young lady who never majored in anything and dresses in the latest fashions. I know this perfectly well . . . I see in your eyes that it’s true! In a word, to cut a long story short, these forests of yours, the peat, the embroidered peasant blouses—they’re all a pose, an affectation, a lie and nothing more.
KHRUSHCHOV. What’s this for? My child, why are you insulting me? Anyhow, I am an imbecile. It serves me right: don’t stick your nose in where it’s not wanted! Good-bye! (Goes to the door.)
SONYA. Good-bye . . . I was harsh, please forgive me.
KHRUSHCHOV (returning). If you only knew how oppressive and stifling it is here! An environment in which everyone sidles up to a man, peers at him out of the corner of their eye and pigeonholes as him as a populist, a psychopath, a windbag—anything at all other than a human being! “Oh, that one,” they’ll say, “he’s a psychopath!” — and be delighted. “That one’s a windbag!”—and they’re as pleased as if they’d discovered America! And when they don’t understand me and don’t know what label to stick on my brow, they say, “He’s peculiar, really peculiar!” You’re not yet twenty, but already you’re old and no-nonsense like your father and Uncle Georges, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you invited me over to treat your gout. That’s no way to live! Whoever I am, look me straight in the eye and identify me first as a human being, otherwise you’ll never be at peace in your dealings with people. Good-bye! And mark my words, with those shrewd, suspicious eyes of yours, you’ll never fall in love!
SONYA. That isn’t true!
KHRUSHCHOV. It is!
SONYA. It isn’t true! Just to spite you . . . I am in love! I am in love, and it pains me, pains me! Leave me alone! Go away, I entreat you . . . don’t visit our house . . . don’t visit us . . .
KHRUSHCHOV. I am honored to take my leave! (Exits.)
SONYA (alone). He flew into a rage . . . God forbid I ever have a temper like that man’s!
Pause.
He speaks beautifully, but how can I be sure that it isn’t just hot air? He’s constantly thinking and talking about his forests, he plants trees . . . That’s all very well, but it could be that it’s a psychosis . . . (Covers her face with her hands.) I don’t understand a thing! (Weeps.) He studied medicine, but he doesn’t spend any time practicing medicine . . . It’s all so peculiar, peculiar . . . Lord, help me to figure this out!
Enter YELENA ANDREEVNA.
X
SONYA and YELENA ANDREEVNA.
YELENA ANDREEVNA (opens a window). The storm has passed! What lovely air!
Pause.
Where’s the Wood Goblin?
SONYA. Gone.
Pause.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Sophie!
SONYA. What?
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Are you going to go on sulking at me? We haven’t done one another any harm. Why do we have to be enemies? Enough is enough . . .
SONYA. I wanted to myself . . . (Embraces her.) My dear!
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Splendid . . .
Both are agitated.
SONYA. Is Papa in bed?
YELENA ANDREEVNA. No, he’s sitting in the parlor . . . We don’t talk to one another for months on end and God knows why . . . (Notices the table.) What’s this?
SONYA. The Wood Goblin had some supper.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. And there’s some wine . . . Let’s pledge one another as sisters.27
SONYA. Let’s.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Out of the same glass . . . (Pours.) That’s better. Well, here goes—friends?
SONYA. Friends.28
They drink and kiss.
For a long time now I’ve wanted to make it up, but somehow I was embarrassed . . . (Weeps.)
YELENA ANDREEVNA. What are you crying for?
SONYA. No reason, it’s the way I am.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Well, never mind, never mind . . . (Weeps.) You little crackpot, now you’ve got me crying!
Pause.
You’re angry with me because you think I married your father for ulterior motives . . . If you’ll believe an oath, I’ll swear to you, I married him for love. I was attracted to him as a scholar and a celebrity. The love was unreal, artificial, but at the time I thought it was real. It’s not my fault. But from the day we got married you’ve gone on punishing me with your shrewd, suspicious eyes.
SONYA. Well, truce, truce! We’ll forget. That’s the second time today I’ve heard that I’ve got shrewd, suspicious eyes.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. You mustn’t look at people that way. It doesn’t suit you. You must trust everyone, otherwise life becomes unliveable.
SONYA. The burnt child fears the fire. I’ve been disappointed so many times.
YELENA ANDREEVNA. By whom? Your father is a good, honorable man, a hard worker. Today you scolded him for being lucky. If he really has been lucky, his involvement in his work would prevent him from noticing how lucky he is. I have done no intentional wrong to your father or you. Your uncle Georges is a very kind, honorable, but unhappy, discontented man . . . Then who is it you don’t trust?
SONYA. Tell me truthfully, friend to friend . . . Are you happy?
YELENA ANDREEVNA. No.
SONYA. One more question. Tell me frankly, would you like to have a young husband?
YELENA ANDREEVNA. What a little girl you are still . . . Of course I would! (Laughs.) Go on, ask me something else, ask me . . .
SONYA. Do you like the Wood Goblin?
YELENA ANDREEVNA. Yes, very much.
SONYA (laughs). I must look funny . . . don’t I? Now he’s gone, but I keep hearing his voice and footsteps, and I look out the dark window—and his face appears to me. Let me say what’s on my mind . . . But I can’t say it out loud, I’m embarrassed. Let’s go to my room, we’ll talk there. Do you think I’m being silly? Admit it . . . Is he a good man?