NOTES
1 A. G. Gladkov, “Meyerhold govorit,” Novy Mir 8 (1961): 221.
2 Leonid Andreev, “Letters on the Theatre,” in Russian Dramatic Theory from Pushkin to the Symbolists, ed. and trans. L. Senelick (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), pp. 238–242.
3 A. P. Chudakov, Chekhov’s Poetics, trans. F. J. Cruise and D. Dragt (Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1983), p. 193.
4 D. S. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature 1881–1925 (London: George Routledge and Sons, 1926), p. 88.
THE SEAGULL1
Чaйka
A Comedy in Four Acts
CAST
ARKADINA,2 IRINA NIKOLAEVNA, married name Treplyova, actress
TREPLYOV,3 KONSTANTIN GAVRILOVICH, her son, a young man
SORIN,4 PYOTR NIKOLAEVICH, her brother
NINA MIKHAILOVNA ZARECHNAYA,5 a young woman, daughter of a wealthy landowner
SHAMRAEV, ILYA AFANASEVICH, retired lieutenant, overseer of Sorin’s estate
POLINA ANDREEVNA, his wife
MASHA, his daughter
TRIGORIN, BORIS ALEKSEEVICH, a man of letters
DORN, EVGENY SERGEEVICH, a doctor of medicine
MEDVEDENKO,6 SEMYON SEMYONOVICH, a schoolteacher
YAKOV, a workman
A COOK
A HOUSEMAID
The action takes place on Sorin’s country estate. Between Acts Three and Four two years elapse.
ACT ONE
A section of the park on Sorin’s estate. A wide pathway leading from the audience upstage into the park and toward a lake is blocked by a platform, hurriedly slapped together for an amateur theatrical, so that the lake is completely obscured. Bushes to the left and right of the platform. A few chairs, a small table. The sun has just gone down. On the platform, behind the lowered curtain, are YAKOV and other workmen; we can hear them coughing and hammering. MASHA and MEDVEDENKO enter left, on their way back from a walk.
MEDVEDENKO. How come you always wear black?
MASHA. I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.
MEDVEDENKO. But how come? (Thinking about it.) I don’t get it . . . You’re healthy, and that father of yours may not be rich, but he’s doing all right. My life’s a lot tougher than yours. All I make is twenty-three rubles a month, not counting deductions,7 but you don’t see me in mourning.
They sit down.
MASHA. It’s got nothing to do with money. Even a poor person can be happy.
MEDVEDENKO. In theory, but in reality it doesn’t work that way; there’s me and my mother and two sisters and my little brother, and my pay comes to twenty-three rubles. Got to buy food and drink, don’t you? And tea and sugar? And tobacco? It gets you going in circles.
MASHA (looking round at the platform). The show will be starting soon.
MEDVEDENKO. Yes. Miss Zarechnaya is going to act in a play written by Konstantin Gavrilovich. They’re in love, and today their souls will merge in an attempt to present a joint artistic creation. But my soul and yours have no mutual points of convergence. I love you, my longing for you drives me out of the house, every day I walk four miles here and four miles back and all I ever get from you is indifferentism.8 No wonder. I’ve got no money and lots of dependents . . . . Who wants to marry a man who can’t support himself?
MASHA. Don’t be silly. (Takes snuff.) Your love is touching, but I can’t reciprocate, that’s all. (Holding out the snuffbox to him.) Help yourself.
MEDVEDENKO. Don’t care for it. (Pause.)
MASHA. It’s so muggy, there’s bound to be a storm tonight. All you ever do is philosophize or talk about money. The way you think, there’s nothing worse than being poor, but I think it’s a thousand times easier to wear rags and beg in the streets than . . . Oh well, you wouldn’t understand.
SORIN and TREPLYOV enter right.
SORIN (leaning on a stick). My boy, this country life kind of has me all—you know—and take my word for it, I’ll never get used to it. I went to bed last night at ten, and this morning I woke up feeling as if my brain were glued to my skull from too much sleep, and all the rest. (Laughs.) And after supper I accidentally fell asleep again, and now I’m a total wreck, I have nightmares, when’s all said and done . . .
TREPLYOV. You’re right, you ought to be living in town. (On seeing Masha and Medvedenko.) Friends, when it starts you’ll be called, but you’re not supposed to be here now. Please go away.
SORIN (to Masha). Mariya Ilyinishna, would you kindly ask your dad to untie the dog, the way it howls. My sister didn’t get a wink of sleep again last night.
MASHA. Talk to my father yourself, because I won’t. Leave me out of it, if you don’t mind. (To Medvedenko.) Come on!
MEDVEDENKO. Be sure and let us know when it’s about to start.
They both go out.
SORIN. Which means the dog’ll howl all night again. It’s the same old story. I never get my way in the country. Used to be you’d take a month’s vacation and come here for relaxation and all the rest, but now they pester you with all sorts of rubbish, so one day of it and you’re ready to make your escape. (Laughs.) I’ve always left this place with a sense of deep satisfaction . . . Well, but now I’m retired there’s nowhere to escape to, when all’s said and done. Like it or not, you stay . . .