Will-o’-the-wisps appear.
ARKADINA (in a low voice). This is something avant-garde.34
TREPLYOV (entreating her reproachfully). Mama!
NINA. I am alone. Once every hundred years I ope my lips to speak, and my voice echoes dolefully in this void, and no one hears . . . Even ye, pale fires, hear me not . . . Toward morning ye are engendered by the putrescence of the swamp, and roam till dawn, but sans thoughts, sans will, sans throbbing life. Fearing lest life spring up in you, the father of Eternal Matter, Satan, at every moment effects in you, as in stones and water, an interchange of atoms, and you transmutate incessantly. Throughout the universe there remains constant and immutable naught but spirit. (Pause.) Like a prisoner, flung into a deep empty pit, I know not where I am nor what awaits me. All that is revealed to me is that in the dogged, cruel struggle with Satan, the principle of material forces, it is decreed that I shall conquer, and thereafter matter and spirit shall blend in glorious harmony and the kingdom of universal will shall emerge. But this will come to pass only very gradually, over a long, long series of millennia, when the moon and the twinkling dog-star and the earth are turned to dust . . . But until that time, all will be ghastly, ghastly, ghastly . . . (Pause; against the background of the lake two red dots appear.) Behold, my mighty adversary, Satan, draws nigh. I see his dreadful crimson eyes . . .
ARKADINA. What a stink of sulphur. Is that necessary?
TREPLYOV. Yes.
ARKADINA (laughs). Of course, special effects.
TREPLYOV. Mama!
NINA. He misses human beings . . .
POLINA ANDREEVNA (to Dorn). You took off your hat. Put it back on, or you’ll catch cold.
ARKADINA. The doctor’s tipping his hat to Satan, the father of eternal matter.
TREPLYOV (flaring up, loudly). The play’s over! That’s enough! Curtain!
ARKADINA. What are you angry about?
TREPLYOV. Enough! Curtain! Ring down the curtain! (Stamping his feet.) Curtain! (The curtain comes down.) I apologize! I lost sight of the fact that playwriting and playacting are only for the chosen few. I infringed the monopoly! I feel . . . I . . . ( He wants to say something more, but waves his hand dismissively and exits left.)
ARKADINA. What’s come over him?
SORIN. Irina, dear heart, you mustn’t treat a young man’s self-esteem that way.
ARKADINA. What did I say to him?
SORIN. You offended him.
ARKADINA. He told us beforehand that it was a joke, so I treated his play as a joke.
SORIN. Even so . . .
ARKADINA. Now it turns out that he wrote a masterpiece! Pardon me for living! The real reason he staged this production and asphyxiated us with sulphur was not to make a joke, but to give us an object-lesson . . . He wanted to teach us how to write and how to act. This is starting to get tiresome. These constant jabs at me and digs, I don’t care what you say, would get on anybody’s nerves! Temperamental, conceited little boy.
SORIN. He wanted to give you a treat.
ARKADINA. Really? And yet you’ll notice that he didn’t pick an ordinary sort of play, but forced us to listen to this avant-garde gibberish. For the sake of a joke I’m willing to listen to gibberish too, but this is all pretentiousness about new forms, a new age in art. So far as I can tell, there’s no new forms in it, nothing but a nasty disposition . . .
TRIGORIN. Everyone writes the way he wants and the way he can.
ARKADINA. Let him write the way he wants and the way he can, only let him leave me in peace.
DORN. “Mighty Jove, once angry grown . . .”35
ARKADINA. I’m not Jove, I’m a woman. (Lighting a cigarette.) I’m not angry, I’m only annoyed that a young man should waste his time in such a tiresome way. I didn’t mean to offend him.
MEDVEDENKO. There’s no basis for distinguishing spirit from matter, because spirit itself is probably an agglomeration of material atoms. (Eagerly, to Trigorin.) Now, you know, somebody ought to write a play and get it produced about—our friend the schoolteacher. He leads a tough, tough life!
ARKADINA. That’s all very true, but don’t let’s talk about plays or atoms. What a glorious night! Do you hear the singing, ladies and gentlemen?36 (Listening hard.) How lovely!
POLINA ANDREEVNA. It’s on the other side of the lake.
Pause.
ARKADINA (to Trigorin). Sit beside me. Some ten or fifteen years ago, here, on the lake, you could hear music and singing nonstop almost every night. There were six country houses along the shore. I can remember laughter, noise-making, shooting, and one love affair after another . . . The romantic lead and idol of all six houses at that time is among us, may I present (nods to Dorn) Doctor Yevgeny Dorn. He’s fascinating even now, but in those days he was irresistible. However, my conscience is starting to bother me. Why did I insult my poor little boy? I feel bad about it. (Loudly.) Kostya! My child! Kostya!
MASHA. I’ll go look for him.
ARKADINA. Please do, darling.
MASHA (crosses left). Yoo-hoo! Konstantin! . . . Yoo-hoo! (Exits.)
NINA (coming out from behind the platform). It looks like we’re not going to go on, so I can come out. Good evening! (Exchanges kisses with Arkadina and Polina Andreevna.)
SORIN. Bravo! Bravo!
ARKADINA. Bravo, bravo! We loved it. With such looks, such a wonderful voice it’s wrong, it’s criminal to vegetate in the country. You probably have talent too. You hear me? You have an obligation to go on the stage!
NINA. Oh, that’s my fondest dream! (Sighs.) But it will never come true.
ARKADINA. Who knows? May I introduce: Boris Trigorin.
NINA. Ah, I’m delighted . . . (Embarrassed.) I read all your things . . .
ARKADINA (seating her beside her). Don’t be embarrassed, darling. He’s a celebrity, but he’s a simple soul. You see, he’s embarrassed himself.
DORN. I suppose we can raise the curtain now, it feels spooky this way.
SHAMRAEV (loudly). Yakov, haul up that curtain, boy!
The curtain is raised.
NINA (to Trigorin). It’s a strange play, isn’t it?
TRIGORIN. I didn’t understand a word. Still, I enjoyed watching it. Your acting was so sincere. And the scenery was gorgeous. (Pause.) I suppose there are a lot of fish in that lake.