ARKADINA (to Masha). Come on, let’s get up. (Both rise.) Let’s stand side by side. You’re twenty-two, and I’m nearly twice that. Yevgeny Sergeich, which of us is younger?41
DORN. You, of course.
ARKADINA. Thank you, kind sir . . . And why? Because I work, I feel emotions, I’m constantly on the go, while you sit still in the same place; you don’t live . . . And I have a rule: don’t peer into the future. I never give a thought to old age or death. What will be will be.
MASHA. But I feel as if I were born ages and ages ago; I lug my life around like a dead weight, like the endless train on a gown . . . And lots of times I don’t feel much like going on living. (Sits.) Of course, this is all silly. I have to shake myself out of it, slough it off.
DORN (sings quietly). “Tell her of love, flowers of mine . . .”42
ARKADINA. Besides, I’m as neat and tidy as an English gentleman. Darling, I keep myself up to the mark, if I say so myself, and I’m always dressed and have my hair done comme il faut.43 Would I ever venture to leave the house, just step into the garden, in a smock or with my hair down? Never. The reason I’m in such good shape is because I was never sloppy, never let myself go, like some people . . . (With her hands on her hips, strides up and down the lawn.) There you see — light on my feet. Fit to play a girl of fifteen.
DORN. Fine and dandy, but regardless of all that I’ll go on reading. (Picks up the book.) We’d stopped at the grain merchant and the rats.
ARKADINA. And the rats. Read away. (Sits down.) Actually, give it to me, I’ll read it. ‘S my turn. (Takes the book and runs her eyes over it.) And the rats . . . Here we go . . . (Reads.) “And, of course, for people in society to pamper novelists and lure them into their homes is as dangerous as if a grain merchant were to breed rats in his granaries. Meanwhile they go on loving them. So, when a woman has picked out the writer she wishes to captivate, she lays siege to him by means of compliments, endearments and flattering attentions . . .”44 Well, that may be what the French do, but there’s nothing of the sort in our country, we have no master plan. In Russia before a woman captivates a writer, she’s usually fallen head over heels in love with him herself, take my word for it. You don’t have far to look, just consider me and Trigorin.
Enter SORIN, leaning on a stick, next to NINA; MEDVEDENKO wheels an empty armchair behind them.
SORIN (in the tone used to coddle children). Are we? Are we having fun? Are we happy today, when’s all said and done? (To his sister.) We’re having fun! Father and Stepmother have gone out of town, and now we’re free for three whole days.
NINA (sits beside Arkadina and embraces her). I’m happy! Now I can be all yours.
SORIN (sits in the armchair). She’s the prettiest little thing today.
ARKADINA. Smartly dressed, interesting . . . You’re clever at that sort of thing. (Kisses Nina.) But we mustn’t praise her too much, or we’ll put a hex on her.45 Where’s Boris Alekseevich?
NINA. He’s down by the swimming hole, fishing.
ARKADINA. I’m surprised he doesn’t get fed up with it! (About to go on reading.)
NINA. What have you got there?
ARKADINA. “At Sea” by Maupassant, sweetheart. (Reads a few lines to herself.) Well, the rest is uninteresting and untrue. (Closes the book.) I feel uneasy. Tell me, what’s the matter with my son? How come he’s so tiresome and surly? He spends whole days on the lake, and I almost never see him.
MASHA. He’s sick at heart. (To Nina, shyly.) Please, do recite something from his play!
NINA (shrugs). You want me to? It’s so uninteresting!
MASHA (with restrained excitement). Whenever he recites, his eyes blaze and his face turns pale. He has a beautiful, mournful voice; and the look of a poet.
SORIN’s snoring is audible.
DORN. Sweet dreams!
ARKADINA. Petrusha!
SORIN. Aah?
ARKADINA. You asleep?
SORIN. Certainly not.
Pause.
ARKADINA. You don’t look after yourself, and you should, brother.
SORIN. I’d be glad to look after myself, but the doctor here won’t prescribe a treatment.
DORN. Treatments at age sixty!
SORIN. Even at sixty a person wants to go on living.
DORN (vexed). Oh yeah! Well, take a couple of aspirins.46
ARKADINA. I think he’d feel better if he went to a health spa.
DORN. Think so? Let him go. Then again, let him stay here.
ARKADINA. Try and figure that out.
DORN. There’s nothing to figure out. It’s perfectly clear.
Pause.
MEDVEDENKO. The best thing Pyotr Nikolaevich could do is stop smoking.
SORIN. Rubbish.
DORN. No, it’s not rubbish. Alcohol and tobacco rob you of your personality. After a cigar or a shot of vodka, you’re not Pyotr Nikolaevich any more, you’re Pyotr Nikolaevich plus somebody else; your sense of self, your “ego” gets fuzzy around the edges, and you start talking about yourself in the third person—as “that other fellow.”
SORIN (laughs). ‘S all right for you to lecture me! You’ve lived in your lifetime, but what about me? I worked in the Department of Justice for twenty-eight years, but I still haven’t lived, haven’t had any experiences, when all’s said and done, and, take my word for it, I’ve still got a lust for life. You’re jaded, you don’t care, and so you can be philosophical, but I want to live a little and so I drink sherry at dinner and smoke cigars and all the rest. So there and all the rest.
DORN. A man should take life seriously, but trying treatments at sixty, complaining there wasn’t enough fun in your youth is, pardon me, ridiculous.
MASHA (rises). Time for lunch, I guess . . . (Walks with a sluggish, unsteady gait.) Foot fell asleep . . . (Exits.)
DORN. She’ll go and knock down a couple of drinks before lunch.
SORIN. The poor thing’s got no happiness in her life.
DORN. Piffle, Your Excellency.
SORIN. You talk like a man who’s had it all.
ARKADINA. Ah, what can be more boring than this darling rural boredom! Hot, quiet, nobody lifts a finger, everybody philosophizes . . . It’s nice being with you, my friends, lovely listening to you, but . . . sitting in my hotel room and learning my lines—what could be better!
NINA (rapturously). How wonderful! I know just what you mean.
SORIN. Of course things’re better in town. You sit in your office, the doorman doesn’t let anyone in without being announced, the telephone . . . cabs on every corner and all the rest . . .