NINA. Yes.
TRIGORIN. I love fishing. For me there’s no greater pleasure than sitting on the bank at dusk, watching the float bob up and down.37
NINA. But, I should think, anyone who’s enjoyed creating a work of art couldn’t enjoy anything else.
ARKADINA (laughing). Don’t talk like that. Whenever anyone compliments him, he just shrivels up.
SHAMRAEV. I remember at the Moscow Opera House once the famous Silva38 hit low C. And at the time, as luck would have it, sitting in the gallery was the bass from our church choir, and all of a sudden, you can imagine our intense surprise, we hear from the gallery: “Bravo, Silva!”—a whole octave lower . . . Something like this (in a basso profundo): Bravo, Silva . . . The audience was dumbfounded.
Pause.
DORN. The quiet angel just flew by.39
NINA. My time’s up. Good-bye.
ARKADINA. Where are you off to? So early? We won’t let you go.
NINA. Papa’s waiting for me.
ARKADINA. That man, honestly . . . (Exchanges kisses.) Well, what can we do. It’s a shame, a crying shame to let you go.
NINA. If you only knew how hard it is for me to leave!
ARKADINA. Somebody should see you home, you darling girl.
NINA (alarmed). Oh, no, no!
SORIN (to her, imploring). Do stay!
NINA. I can’t, Pyotr Nikolaevich.
SORIN. Do stay just one more hour and all the rest. Now, how ‘bout it, come on . . .
NINA (after thinking it over, tearfully). I can’t! (Shakes hands and exits hurriedly.)
ARKADINA. The girl’s really and truly unhappy. They say her late mother bequeathed her husband her whole huge fortune, down to the last penny, and now this child is left with nothing, because her father’s already willed it to his second wife. It’s outrageous.
DORN. Yes, her dear old dad is a pedigreed swine. Credit where credit’s due.
SORIN (rubbing his chilled hands). We’d best be going too, ladies and gentlemen, it’s starting to get damp. My legs ache.
ARKADINA. They must be wooden legs, they can hardly move. Well, let’s go, you star-crossed old man. (Takes him by the arm)
SHAMRAEV (offering his arm to his wife). Madame?
SORIN. I hear that dog howling again. (To Shamraev.) Kindly see that he’s unchained, Ilya Afanasevich.
SHAMRAEV. Can’t be done, Pyotr Nikolaevich, I’m afraid robbers might break into the barn. Got my millet stored there. (To Medvedenko, walking beside him.) Yes, a whole octave lower: “Bravo, Silva!” Wasn’t a professional singer, either, just an ordinary member of the church choir.
MEDVEDENKO. How much does an ordinary member of the church choir make?
They all go out, except DORN.
DORN (alone). I don’t know, maybe I’m confused or I’m crazy but I liked the play. There’s something in it. When that girl was talking about being lonely and then, when Satan’s red eyes appeared, my hands trembled with excitement. Fresh, naive . . . Oh, I think he’s coming this way. I’d like to tell him the nicest things I can.
TREPLYOV (enters). Nobody’s here.
DORN. I am.
TREPLYOV. That Masha creature’s been looking for me all over the park. Unbearable female.
DORN. Konstantin Gavrilovich, I liked your play very much. It’s an unusual piece of work, and I didn’t get to hear how it ends, but even so, it makes a powerful impression. You’re a talented fellow, you ought to keep at it. (TREPLYOV squeezes his hand tightly and embraces him impulsively.) Foo, don’t be so high-strung. Tears in his eyes . . . What was I saying? You took a subject from the realm of abstract ideas. That was appropriate, because a work of art definitely ought to express a great idea. The beauty of a thing lies entirely in its seriousness. You’re awfully pale!
TREPLYOV. Then what you’re saying is — keep at it!
DORN. Yes . . . But write about only what’s important and everlasting. You know, I’ve lived my life with variety and discrimination; I’ve had it all, but if I ever got the chance to experience the spiritual uplift artists feel at the moment of creation, I think I’d relinquish my physical trappings and all that they entail, and let myself be wafted far away from earth into the empyrean.
TREPLYOV. Sorry, where’s Miss Zarechnaya?
DORN. And another thing. Every work of art ought to have a clear, well-defined idea. You ought to know what you’re writing for, otherwise if you travel this picturesque path without a well-defined goal, you’ll go astray and your talent will destroy you.
TREPLYOV (impatiently). Where’s Miss Zarechnaya?
DORN. She went home.
TREPLYOV (in despair). What am I going to do? I have to see her . . . I ‘ve got to see her . . . I’m going . . .
MASHA enters.
DORN (to Treplyov). Calm down, my friend.
TREPLYOV. But I’m going anyway. I have to go.
MASHA. Come home, Konstantin Gavrilovich. Your Mama’s waiting for you. She’s worried.
TREPLYOV. Tell her I’ve gone. And will you all please leave me in peace! Stay here! Don’t come after me!
DORN. Now, now, now, my dear boy . . . you musn’t act this way . . . isn’t nice.
TREPLYOV (tearfully). Good-bye, Doctor. Thanks . . . (Exits.)
DORN (sighs). Youth, youth!
MASHA. When people have nothing better to say, they go: youth, youth . . . ( Takes snuff. )
DORN (takes away her snuffbox and tosses it into the bushes). That’s disgusting! (Pause.) Sounds like music in the house. Better go in.
MASHA. Wait.
DORN. What?
MASHA. I want to tell you something else. I have to talk to someone . . . (Getting excited.) I don’t love my father . . . but I feel close to you.40 Why do I feel so intensely that we have something in common . . . Help me. Help me, or I’ll do something stupid, I’ll mess up my life, wreck it . . . I can’t stand it any more . . .
DORN. What do you mean? Help you how?
MASHA. I’m in pain. Nobody, nobody knows how much pain I’m in. (Lays her head on his chest, quietly.) I love Konstantin.
DORN. They’re all so high-strung! They’re all so high-strung! And all this love . . . Oh, spellbinding lake! (Tenderly.) But what can I do, my child? What? What?
Curtain
ACT TWO
A croquet lawn. Up right, a house with a wide veranda, the lake can be seen, with the sun’s rays reflected on it. Flowerbeds. Midday. Hot. To one side of the croquet lawn, in the shade of an old linden tree, ARKADINA, DORN, and MASHA are sitting on a bench. DORN has an open book on his lap.