NIKITA IVANYCH. Well then, you’ve got nothing to worry about . . .
SVETLOVIDOV. After all, I’m a human being, I’m alive, blood courses through my veins, not water. I’m a gentleman, Nikitushka, of noble birth . . . Before I fell into this pit, I served in the army, in the artillery . . . What a lad I was, handsome, upright, dashing, passionate! God, where did it all go? Nikitushka, and what an actor I was then, eh? (Rising, leans for support on the prompter’s arm.) Where did it all go, where is it, the time? My God! Just now I was staring into this pit—and remembered everything, everything! This pit has swallowed up forty-five years of my life, and what a life, Nikitushka! I stare into the pit now and see it all down to the last detail, plain as the nose on your face. To be young and enthusiastic, confident, impassioned, to love women! Women, Nikitushka!
NIKITA IVANYCH. It’s time you were in bed, Vasil Vasilych, sir.
SVETLOVIDOV. When I was a young actor, when I was just beginning to get the hang of it, I remember—a woman fell in love with me for my acting . . . Refined, straight as a poplar tree, young, innocent, pure and sultry as a sunrise in summer! Those blue eyes of hers, her wonderful smile could dispel the darkest night. Ocean waves break against stones, but against the waves of her hair cliffs, ice floes, snowdrifts could break! I remember, I was standing before her, as I stand before you now . . . She was more beautiful than ever, she gazed upon me so that I shall never forget that gaze even in my grave . . . The caress, the velvet touch, the deep emotions, the radiance of youth! Intoxicated, happy, I fall to my knees before her, I ask her to seal my happiness . . . (Goes on in a faltering voice.) But she . . . she says: give up the theater! Give-up-the-the-ay-ter! . . . You understand? She could love an actor, but be his wife — never! I remember, that very day I went on stage and . . . The role was a vulgar one, a buffoon . . . I went on stage and felt as if I saw the light . . . Then I understood that this is not a sacred art, it’s all a baneful illusion, I am a slave, a plaything of someone else’s leisure time, comic relief, a clown! Then I knew what the public means! From that time on I put no stock in applause or wreathes or accolades . . . Yes, Nikitushka! It applauds me, lays out a ruble for my photograph but I am an outsider, in its eyes I am practically a whore! . . . To flatter its vanity, it makes my acquaintance, but won’t stoop to let me marry its sister, its daughter . . . I put no stock in it! (Drops on to the stool.) I put no stock in anything!
NIKITA IVANYCH. You look a fright, Vasil Vasilych! You even gave me the willies . . . Let’s go home, do the right thing!
SVETLOVIDOV. Then I saw the light . . . and that light cost me dear, Nikitushka! After that incident I started . . . after that young woman . . . I started to go on the skids for no reason at all, my life of no earthly use, not a thought for the morrow . . . Played low comedy parts, smart-alecks, clowned it up, corrupted people’s minds, and yet what an artist I had been once, what a talent! I buried my talent, cheapened it and garbled my lines, lost my sense of who I was . . . This black pit sucked me in and gulped me down! I didn’t used to feel it before, but today . . . when I woke up, I looked around and there were sixty-eight years behind me. Only now do I see how old I am! The party’s over! (Sobs.) The party’s over!
NIKITA IVANYCH. Vasil Vasilich! My dear man, dear heart . . . Now, now, calm down . . . Good Lord! (Shouts.) Petrushka! Yegorka!
SVETLOVIDOV. And yet the talent, the power! You cannot imagine the eloquence, the wealth of emotions and grace, the variety of expression . . . (slaps himself on the chest) in this breast! It makes me choke up! . . . Listen, old man . . . hold on, let me catch my breath . . . Here’s a bit from Godunov:4
The ghost of Ivan the Dread called me forth,
Named me Dmitry from the grave.
Then did the people rally to my cause
And doom Boris to die my victim.
I am Tsarévich. ‘Tis enough. Shame ‘twere
To stoop before a proud princess of Poland!
Not bad, eh? (Energetically.) Wait, here’s something from King Lear. You get the picture, black sky, rain, thunder—rrr! . . . lightning—zhzhzh! . . . streaking all across the sky, and then:
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
Your sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once
That make ingrateful man!5
(Impatiently.) Quick, the fool’s line! (Stamps his feet.) Feed me the fool’s line, quick! I’m in a hurry.
NIKITA IVANYCH (playing the Fool). “O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters’ blessing; here’s a night pities neither wise man nor fool.”
SVETLOVIDOV.
“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, called you children.”
That’s power! That’s talent! That’s an artist! Something else . . . the sort of thing to bring back the good old days . . . Let’s have a bit . . . (utters a peal of happy laughter) from Hamlet! Here, I’ll start . . . What shall it be? Ah, got it . . . (Playing Hamlet.) “O! the recorders: let me see one.” “Why do you go about as if you would drive me into a toil?”
NIKITA. “O! my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.”
SVETLOVIDOV. “I do not understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?”
NIKITA. “My Lord, I cannot.”
SVETLOVIDOV. “I pray you.”
NIKITA. “Believe me, I cannot.”
SVETLOVIDOV. “I do beseech you.”
NIKITA. “I know no touch of it, my lord.”
SVETLOVIDOV.” ‘Tis as easy as lying; govern these vantages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.”
NIKITA. “I have not the skill.”
SVETLOVIDOV. “Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery. Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.”6 (Roars with laughter.) Bravo! Encore! Bravo! Old age can go to hell! There’s no such thing as old age, it’s all nonsense, rubbish! Strength is gushing through all my veins like a fountain,— there’s youth, vigor, life! Where there’s talent, Nikitushka, old age ceases to exist! Have I gone crazy, Nikitushka? Am I out of my mind? Wait, let me get in the mood . . . O, Lord, my God! Now, listen, how tender and subtle, how musical! Ssh . . . Hush!