BUGROV. That’s a fact. It’s as hot as the top bench in a steam bath. The temperature’s up in the nineties, I can’t deny it.
TRILETSKY. What can this mean? Why is it so hot, Timofey Gordeich?
BUGROV. You know that better than me.
TRILETSKY. I don’t know. I majored in medicine.
BUGROV. Well, the way I see it, sir, the reason it’s so hot is that you and me would have a good laugh if it was cold in June.
Laughter.
TRILETSKY. I see, sir . . . Now I understand . . . What’s the best thing for grass, Timofey Gordeich, climate or atmosphere?
BUGROV. They’re both all right, Nikolay Ivanych, only you need a little rain for the wheat . . . What’s the sense of a climate if there ain’t no rain? Without rain it ain’t worth a plug nickle.
TRILETSKY. I see . . . That’s so true . . . Your lips, I cannot deny, give utterance to the purest wisdom . . . And what’s your opinion, Mr. Grocery Man, concerning everything else?
BUGROV (laughs). Don’t have none.
TRILETSKY. Q.E.D. You are the most intelligent of men, Timofey Gordeich! Well, now, what would you say to an astronomic anomaly that would make Anna Petrovna give us something to eat? Huh?
ANNA PETROVNA. Wait a while, Triletsky! Everyone else is waiting, so you can wait too!
TRILETSKY. She doesn’t know our appetites! She doesn’t know how much you and I, but especially I and you, want a drink! And we shall eat and drink gloriously, Timofey Gordeich! In the first place . . . In the first place . . . (Whispers in Bugrov’s ear.) Not bad? And that’s just the booze . . . Cre-matum simplex . . .22 Whatever your heart desires: consumption on and off the premises . . . Caviar, sturgeon, salmon, sardines . . . Next a six- or seven-layer pie . . . That high! Filled with every conceivable wonder of flora and fauna from the Old and New Testaments . . . The sooner the better . . . Starving to death, Timofey Gordeich? Be honest . . .
SASHA (to Triletsky). You don’t so much want to eat as to make a fuss! You don’t like it when people sit quietly!
TRILETSKY. I don’t like it when people keel over with hunger, my chubby little cherub!
PLATONOV. If you’re being witty now, Nikolay Ivanych, why aren’t people laughing?
ANNA PETROVNA. Ah, I’m sick and tired of him! So sick and tired of him! His impertinence is overstepping the bounds! It’s terrible! Well, just you wait, you nasty man! I’ll give you something to eat! (Exits.)
TRILETSKY. About time too.
SCENE IX
The same, without ANNA PETROVNA.
PLATONOV. Although I wouldn’t object . . . What time is it? I’m hungry too.
VOINITSEV. Where did my wife go, gentlemen? Platonov still hasn’t met her . . . They have to get acquainted. (Gets up.) I’ll go and look for her. She’s so fond of the garden that she can’t leave it.
PLATONOV. By the way, Sergey Pavlovich . . . I’d prefer you not to introduce me to your wife . . . I’d like to know if she recognizes me or not? I was once slightly acquainted with her and . . .
VOINITSEV. Acquainted with her? Sonya?
PLATONOV. A long time ago . . . When I was still a student, I think. Please make no introductions, and don’t say anything, don’t tell her anything about me.
VOINITSEV. All right. The man knows everybody! And when does he have time to make acquaintances? (Exits into the garden.)
TRILETSKY. That was quite a leading article I inserted in the Russian Courier,23 gentlemen! Have you read it? Did you read it, Abram Abramych?
VENGEROVICH SR. I did.
TRILETSKY. Am I right, a remarkable article? You there, you, Abram Abra-mych, I made out to be a real man-eater! What I wrote about you would put all of Europe in a panic!
PETRIN (roars with laughter). So that was who it was about?! So that’s who V is! Well then, who is B?
BUGROV (laughs). That’s me, sir. (Mops his forehead.) Let’s forget about it!
VENGEROVICH SR. So what! It’s most commendable. If I knew how to write, I would definitely write for the papers. In the first place, they pay cash for it, and in the second, for some reason people who write are assumed to be highly intelligent. Only it wasn’t you, Doctor, who wrote that article. It was by Porfiry Semyonych.
GLAGOLYEV SR. How did you find that out?
VENGEROVICH SR. I know it.
GLAGOLYEV SR. Strange . . . I did write it, that’s true, but how did you manage to find out?
VENGEROVICH SR. One can find out anything if only one wants to. You sent it as a registered letter, well, the clerk at our post office has a good memory. That’s all . . . And there’s no guesswork involved. My Jewish cunning has nothing to do with it . . . (Laughs.) Don’t be afraid, I won’t take revenge.
GLAGOLYEV SR. I’m not afraid, but . . . I do find it strange!
GREKOVA enters.
SCENE X
The same and GREKOVA.
TRILETSKY (leaps up). Mariya Yefimovna! Well, this is nice! What a surprise!
GREKOVA (gives him her hand). Good afternoon, Nikolay Ivanych! (Nods her head to the rest.) Good afternoon, gentlemen!
TRILETSKY (takes her cape). I’ll take your little cape . . . Alive and well? Good afternoon again! (Kisses her hand.) Are you well?
GREKOVA. As always . . . (Embarrassed, sits on the first chair she finds.) Is Anna Petrovna at home?
TRILETSKY. She is. (Sits beside her.)
GLAGOLYEV SR. Good afternoon, Mariya Yefimovna!
IVAN IVANOVICH. Is this Mariya Yefimovna? I barely recognized her! (Walks over to Grekova and kisses her hand.) I’m pleased to meet you . . . Most pleased . . .
GREKOVA. Good afternoon, Ivan Ivanych! (Coughs.) It’s awfully hot . . . Don’t kiss my hand, please . . . It makes me feel awkward . . . I don’t like it . . .
PLATONOV (walks over to Grekova). I’m pleased to convey my regards! . . . (Tries to kiss her hand.) How are you? May I take your hand?
GREKOVA (withdrawing her hand). Don’t . . .
PLATONOV. Why not? I’m unworthy?
GREKOVA. I don’t know whether you’re worthy or not, but . . . you can’t mean it?
PLATONOV. Can’t mean it? How do you know if I mean it or not?
GREKOVA. You wouldn’t have started to kiss my hand, if I hadn’t said that I didn’t like hand-kissing . . . For the most part you like to do whatever I don’t like . . .
PLATONOV. Already jumping to conclusions!
TRILETSKY (to Platonov). Go away!
PLATONOV. Right this minute . . . How is your essence of bedbugs, Mariya Yefimovna?
GREKOVA. What essence?