NINA. You’ve been working too hard, and you’ve got no time or desire to admit your own importance. Even if you’re dissatisfied with yourself, other people think you’re great and beautiful! If I were a writer, like you, I would devote my whole life to the public, but I’d realize that their only happiness lay in being brought up to my level, and they would be yoked to my chariot.
TRIGORIN. Well, well, a chariot . . . Am I Agamemnon or something?58
Both smile.
NINA. For the joy of being a writer or an actress, I would put up with my family disowning me, poverty, disappointment; I would live in a garret and eat nothing but black bread, suffer dissatisfaction with myself and realize my own imperfection, but in return I would insist on fame . . . real, resounding fame . . . (Hides her face in her hands.) My head’s spinning . . . Oof!
ARKADJNA’s voice from the house: “Boris Alekseevich!”
TRIGORIN. They’re calling me . . . I suppose it’s about packing. But I don’t feel like leaving. (Looks around at the lake.) Just look at this, God’s country! . . . It’s lovely!
NINA. You see the house and garden across the lake?
TRIGORIN. Yes.
NINA. That’s my late mother’s country house. I was born there. I’ve spent my whole life on the shores of this lake and I know every islet in it.
TRIGORIN. Must be nice over at your place! (Having spotted the gull.) But what’s this?
NINA. A gull. Konstantin Gavrilych killed it.
TRIGORIN. Lovely bird. Honestly, I don’t feel like leaving. Look here, go and talk Irina Nikolaevna into staying. (Jots a note in his notebook.)59
NINA. What’s that you’re writing?
TRIGORIN. Just jotting down a note . . . A subject came to mind . . . (Putting away the notebook.) Subject for a short story: on the shores of a lake a young girl grows up, just like you; loves the lake, like a gull, is happy and free, like a gull. But by chance a man comes along, sees her, and, having nothing better to do, destroys her, just like this gull here.
Pause. ARKADINA appears in a window.
ARKADINA. Boris Alekseevich, where are you?
TRIGORIN. Coming! (Goes and takes a glance round at Nina; at the window, to Arkadina.)
What?
ARKADINA. We’re staying.
TRIGORIN exits into the house.
NINA (Crosses down to the footlights; after a moment’s thought). It’s a dream!
Curtain
ACT THREE
Dining room in Sorin’s house. Doors right and left. Sideboard. Cupboard with first-aid kit and medicine. Table center. Trunks and cardboard boxes; signs of preparation for a departure. TRIGORIN is eating lunch, MASHA stands by the table.
MASHA. I’m telling you all this because you’re a writer. You can put it to use. I swear to you: if he’d wounded himself seriously, I wouldn’t have gone on living another minute. Not that I’m not brave. I’ve gone and made up my mind. I’ll rip this love out of my heart, I’ll rip it up by the roots.
TRIGORIN. How so?
MASHA. I’m getting married. To Medvedenko.
TRIGORIN. That’s that schoolteacher?
MASHA. Yes.
TRIGORIN. I don’t see the necessity.
MASHA. Loving hopelessly, waiting and waiting for years on end for something . . . But once I’m married, there’ll be no room for love, new problems will blot out the old one. And anyhow, you know, it makes a change. Shall we have another?
TRIGORIN. Aren’t you overdoing it?
MASHA. Oh, go ahead! (Pours out a shot for each.) Don’t look at me like that. Women drink more often than you think. A few drink openly, like me, but most of them do it on the sly. Yes. And it’s always vodka or brandy. (Clinks glasses.) Here’s to you! You’re a nice man. I’m sorry you’re going away.
They drink.60
TRIGORIN. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be leaving.
MASHA. Then ask her to stay.
TRIGORIN. No, she won’t stay now. Her son’s been acting very tactlessly. First he tries to shoot himself,61 and now I hear he intends to challenge me to a duel. And what for? He feuds and fusses, preaches about new forms . . . But there’s room enough for everyone, isn’t there? New and old — what’s the point in shoving?
MASHA. Well, it’s jealousy too. Though, that’s no business of mine. (Pause. YAKOV crosses left to right with a suitcase. NINA enters and stops by a window.) My schoolteacher isn’t very bright, but he’s a decent sort, poor too, and he’s awfully in love with me. I feel sorry for him. And I feel sorry for his poor old mother. Well, sir, please accept my best wishes. Think kindly of us. (Shakes him firmly by the hand.) Thanks a lot for your consideration. Do send me your book, and be sure there’s an inscription. Only don’t make it out “To dear madam,” but simply “To Mariya, of no known family62 and who lives in this world for no apparent reason.” Good-bye. (Exits.)
NINA (holding out her clenched fist to Trigorin). Odds or evens?
TRIGORIN. Evens.
NINA (sighing). No. I’ve only got one bean in my hand. I was guessing whether to become an actress or not. If only someone would give me some advice.
TRIGORIN. You can’t give advice about things like that.
Pause.
NINA. We’re parting and . . . most likely we’ll never see one another again. Please take a keepsake of me, here, this little medallion. I had them engrave your initials . . . and on this other side the title of your book: “Days and Nights.”
TRIGORIN. How thoughtful! (Kisses the medallion.) A charming gift!
NINA. Remember me from time to time.
TRIGORIN. I will. I will remember you as you were on that sunny day—do you remember? —a week ago, when you were wearing a brightly colored dress . . . We were having a long talk . . . and something else, there was a white gull lying on the bench.
NINA (pensively). Yes, a gull . . . (Pause.) We can’t go on talking, someone’s coming . . . Before you go, save two minutes for me, please . . . (Exits left.)
At that very moment ARKADINA enters right, as does SORIN in a tailcoat with a star pinned to his chest,63 then YAKOV, preoccupied with packing.
ARKADINA. You should stay home, you old man. With that rheumatism of yours what are you doing riding around paying calls? (To Trigorin.) Who went out just now? Nina?
TRIGORIN. Yes.
ARKADINA. Excusez-moi, we interrupted something . . . (Sits down.) I think everything’s packed. I’m tired to death.
TRIGORIN (reads the inscription on the medallion). “Days and Nights,” page 121, lines 11 and 12.