KHRUSHCHOV. There’s a little box in there with my thumbtacks and a saucer. Don’t forget!
DYADIN. I know! (Exits.)
KHRUSHCHOV. How are you getting on, Yulechka?
YULYA. We’re getting on.
Pause.
Mikhail Lvovich, in your tree nursery how much are the pyramindal poplars?
KHRUSHCHOV. Not pyramindal, but pyramidal.
YULYA. That’s what I said, pyramindal . . . How much?
KHRUSHCHOV. You’ll come by, you’ll pick some out . . . It’d be obvious there, we’ll figure it out. Are the Serebryakovs living with you?
YULYA. Yes.
KHRUSHCHOV. Which means, your Lyonichka is spending all day at home . . . I’ll bet he’s happy.
YULYA. He sits at home. Always with Sonichka . . . Goes for walks with her, reads her poetry. All the same it’s easier for her . . . And the way he reads, Mikhail Lvovich! Yesterday I even wept.
Enter DYADIN and SEMYON; they are carrying a small table.
III
The same, DYADIN, and SEMYON.
DYADIN. You know a sure thing when you see it. You picked a beautiful spot for your work. It’s an oasis! A genuine oasis! Imagine that you’re surrounded by palm trees, Yulichka is a gentle gazelle, you’re a lion, I’m a tiger.
KHRUSHCHOV. You’re a decent enough fellow, a sensitive soul, Ilya Ilyich, but why do you act this way? These sickly sweet words, the way you shuffle your feet, jerk your shoulders . . . If a stranger caught sight of you, he’d think you’re not a man but some other damned thing! . . . It’s annoying . . .
DYADIN. Which means, it was so ordained at my birth . . . Fatal predestination.
KHRUSHCHOV. There you go again, fatal predestination. Drop all that. (Pinning a diagram to the table.) I’m going to spend the night here.
DYADIN. I am extremely pleased . . . Now you’re angry, Misha, while my heart’s filled with indescribable joy! As if a dicky-bird were sitting in my breast, warbling a little ditty.
KHRUSHCHOV. O be joyful.
Pause.
Your heart is rejoicing and my mine is as gloomy as can be. You’ve got a dicky-bird in your breast, and I’ve got a toad in mine. Boredom, grief, my conscience is nagging at me — I even want to burst into tears. A million things are going wrong! Shimansky sold his forest for timber . . . That’s one! Ivan Ivanych is mortally ill; he’s got typhus and they think it’ll be complicated by inflammation of the lungs. That’s two! Yelena Andreevna ran away with that blockhead Fyodor, and now nobody knows where she is. That’s three! She either ran away somewhere, or else threw herself in the water, took poison—take your pick, whatever you please. But the main thing, the most awful thing of all, the thing that torments me the most is that I cannot sit at home alone and I fear the darkness. Yesterday I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, I didn’t have the courage. You know what? The late Yegor Petro-vich left behind a diary, and this diary makes it clear as day that we’ve all been nasty slanderers! This diary first got into Ivan Ivanych’s hands; I stopped by to treat him and I’ve read it over about a dozen times . . .
YULYA. Our folks read it too.
KHRUSHCHOV. Georges’s affair with Yelena Andreevna, which reverberated through the whole district, turns out to be a vulgar, filthy slander. I believed that slander and defamed him along with the others, hated, despised, insulted him . . . Why are you silent? Why don’t you say something?
DYADIN. Mishenka, I swear to you by God Almighty and by my eternal salvation, Yelena Andreevna is the most splendid of women! Meek, high-minded, righteous, sensitive, and with such a heart that, in my foolishness, I have no words to express it. (Weeps.) Mishenka! Believe me! When I was favored with the honor of making her closer acquaintance, my heart was filled with ineffable bliss. It’s pleasant to see physical beauty close up, but infinitely more pleasant to see spiritual beauty.
KHRUSHCHOV. The first person whom I believed was your brother, Yulichka! I’m a fine one too! He was the first to tell me about it! That’s a bad man you’ve got there! What did he deceive me for?
YULYA weeps.
DYADIN. Mishenka, you mustn’t, you mustn’t . . . Ssh! . . . Don’t insult her.
KHRUSHCHOV. What’s there to cry about? Tears won’t help.
DYADIN (to Yulya). Let’s go to the mill, my girl. Let the bad-tempered fellow work here, while you and I take some exercise. Let’s go . . . Get on with your work, Mishenka!
KHRUSHCHOV (alone; mixes colors in a saucer). One night I saw him pressing his face to her hand. In his diary he has described that night in detail, described how I came by there, what I said to him . . . He’s put down my words and calls me a stupid, narrow-minded fellow.
Pause.
It’s too dark . . . Should be lighter . . . And further on he abuses Sonya because she fell in love with me. Rest in peace, you poor fool, but your close observation betrayed you there: she never loved me . . . My hands are trembling like a drunkard’s . . . I made a blot . . . (Scrapes the paper with a knife.) Even if I grant there may be some truth in it, all the same it doesn’t do to think about it . . . It began stupidly, it ended stupidly . . . And I basically did the right thing when I burned her photograph yesterday . . . Yes . . . Otherwise I would . . .
SEMYON and WORKMEN bring in a big table.
What are you doing? What’s this for?
SEMYON. Ilya Ilyich told us to. Company’s coming from the Zheltukhins’ for tea.
KHRUSHCHOV. Thank you kindly. That means, I’ve got to stop caring about work . . . I’ll pack it up and go home.
Enter ZHELTUKHIN arm in arm with SONYA.
IV
KHRUSHCHOV, ZHELTUKHIN, and SONYA.
ZHELTUKHIN (sings). “Reluctant to this mournful shore an unknown power doth me draw . . .”
KHRUSHCHOV. Who’s that? Ah! (Hastens to pack up his drawing implements in their case.)
ZHELTUKHIN. I risk tiring you out, Sofya Aleksandrovna. Just one last question. Do you remember on my birthday you had lunch at our place? You’ve got to admit that at that time you roared with laughter at my toast.
SONYA. I broke out laughing for no particular reason. You don’t have to be so unforgiving with me, Leonid Stepanych.
ZHELTUKHIN (on seeing Khrushchov). Ah, you’re here too? Afternoon.
KHRUSHCHOV. Afternoon.
ZHELTUKHIN. Working? Wonderful . . . Where’s Waffles?
KHRUSHCHOV. Over there . . . in the mill.
ZHELTUKHIN. I’ll go and get him. (Walks, singing.) “Reluctant to this mournful shore . . .” (Exits.)
SONYA. Good afternoon . . .
KHRUSHCHOV. Good afternoon.
Pause.
SONYA. What are you drawing?
KHRUSHCHOV. Nothing special . . . it’s of no interest.
SONYA. Is it a map?
KHRUSHCHOV. No, it’s a diagram of the forests in our district. I’ve mapped them out.