Luka, handing Smirnov the vodka: You allow yourself too many liberties, sir . . .
Smirnov, crossly: What?
L^^: I . . . nothing ... I just meant . . .
Smirnov: To whom do you think you're talking? Shut up!
LuKA, aside: There's a demon in the house . . . The Evil Spirit must have brought him . . . Exit Luka.
Smirnov: Oh, what a rage I'm in! I'm mad enough to grind the whole world to powder. I feel sick. Shouts. You there! Enter Mme. Popova.
Mme. Popova, with downcast eyes: Sir, in my solitude I've long since grown unaccustomed to the human voice, and I cannot bear shouting. I beg you not to disturb my peace!
SMmNov: Pay me my money and I'll drive off.
Mme. Popova: I told you in plain language, I have no ready cash now. Wait till the day after tomorrow.
Smirnov: And I had the honor of telling you in plain language that I need the money today, not the day after tomorrow. If you don't pay me today, I'll have to hang myself tomorrow.
Mme. Popova: But what shall I do if I have no money? How odd!
Smirnov: So you won't pay me now, eh?
Mme. Popova: I can't.
Sl'.«RNov: In that case I stay and I'll sit here till I get the money. Sits down. You'll pay me the day after to- morrow? Excellent. I'll sit here till the day after tomor- row. Jumps up. I ask you: Do I have to pay the interest tomorrow or don't I? Or do you think I'm joking?
Mme. Popova: Sir, I beg you not to shout. This is o.o stable.
Sm^nov: Never mind the stable, I'm asking you: Do I have to pay the interest tomorrow or not?
Mme. Popova: You don't know how to behave in the presence of ladies!
Smirnov: No, madam, I do know how to behave in the presence of ladies!
Mme. Popova: No, you do not! You are a rude, ill- bred man! Decent people don't talk to women that way!
Smirnov: Admirable! How would you like me to talk to you? In French, eh? Rages, and lisps: Madame, fe vous prie, I am delighted that you do not pay me my money . . . Ah, pardonnez-moi if I have discommoded you! It's such delightful weather today! And how your mourning becomes you! Scrapes his foot.
Mme. Popova: That's rude and silly.
Smirnov, mimicking her: Rude and silly! I don't know how to behave in the presence of ladies! Madam, I've seen more ladies than you've seen sparrows! I've fought three duels on account of women, I've jilted twelve women and been jilted by nine! Yes, madam! Time was when I played the fool, sentimentalized, used honeyed words, went out of my way to please, bowed and scraped ... I used to love, pine, sigh at the moon, feel blue, melt, freeze ... I loved passionately, madly, all sorts of ways, devil take me; I chattered like a mag- pie about the emancipation of women, I wasted half my fortune on affairs of the heart, but now, please ex- cuse me! Now you won't bamboozle me! Enough! Dark eyes, burning eyes, ruby lips, dimpled cheeks, the moon, whispers, timid breathing ... I wouldn't give a brass farthing for all this now, madam. Present company ex- cepted, all women, young or old, put on airs, pose, gossip, are liars to the marrow of their bones, are mali- cious, vain, petty, cruel, revoltingly unreasonable, and as for this (taps his forehead), pardon my frankness, a sparrow can give ten points to any philosopher in skirts! You look at one of these poetic creatures: She's all muslin and fluff, an airy demi-goddess, a million trans- ports, but look into her soul and what do you see but a common crocodile! Grips the back of his chair so that it cracks and breaks. But what is most revolting, this crocodile for some reason imagines that the tender feel- ings are her special province, her privilege, her monop- oly! Why, devil take it, hang me by my feet on that nail, but can a woman love anything except a lap-dog? When she's in love all she can do is whimper and tum on the waterworks! While a man suffers and makes sacrifices, her love finds expression only in swishing her train and trying to get a firmer grip on your nose. You, madam, have the misfortune of being a woman, so you know the nature of women down to the ground. Tell me honestly, then, did you ever see a woman who was sincere, faithful, and constant? You never did! Only old women and frights are faithful and constant. You'll sooner come across a horned cat or a white woodcock than a constant woman!
Mme. Popova: Allow me to ask, then, who, in your opinion, is faithful and constant in love? Not man?
Smirnov: Yes, madam, man!
Mme. Popova: Man! With bitter laughter. Man is faithful and constant in love! That's news! Hotly. What earthly right do you have to say that? Men faithful and constant! If such is the case, let me tell you that of all the men I have ever known my late husband was the best. I loved him passionately, with my whole soul, as only a young, deep-natured woman can love. I gave him my youth, my happiness, my life, my fortune; I lived and breathed by him; I worshiped him like a heathen, and . . . and what happened? This best of men de- ceived me shamelessly at every step! After his death I found a whole drawerful of love letters in his desk, and while he was alive—I can't bear to recall it!—he would leave me alone for weeks on end; he made love to other women before my very eyes, and he was unfaithful to me; he squandered my money and mocked my feelings. And in spite of it all, I loved him and was faithful to him. More than that, he died, and I am still faithful to him, still constant. I have buried myself forever within these four walls, and I will not take off my mournbg till I go to my grave.
SMIRNOV, laughing scornfully: Mourning! I wonder who you take me for! As if I didn't know why you are masquerading in black like this and why you've buried yourself within four walls! Of course I do! It's so mys- terious, so poetic! Some cadet or some puny versifier will ride past the house, glance at the windows, and say to himself: "Here lives the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." We know those tricks!
Mme. Popova, flaring up: What! How dare you say this to mel
Smirnov : You've buried yourself alive, but you haven't forgotten to powder your nose.
Mme. Popova: How dare you talk to me like that!
Smirnov: Please don't scream, I'm not your steward! Allow me to call a spade a spade. I'm no woman and I'm used to talking straight from the shoulder! So please don't shout!
Mme. Popova: I'm not shouting, you are shouting! Please leave me alone!
Smirnov: Pay me my money, and I'll go.
Mme. Popova: I won't give you any money.
Smirnov: No, madam, you will!
Mme. Popova: Just to spite you, I won't give you a penny. Only leave me alone!
Smirnov: I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiance, so kindly, no scenes. Sits down. I don't like them.
Mme. Popova, choking with rage: You've sat down?
Smirnov: I've sat down.
Mme. Popova: I ask you to leave.
Smirnov: Give me my money . . . aside. Oh, what a rage I'm in, what a rage!
Mme. Popova: Such impudence! I don't want to talk to you. Please get out. Pause. Are you going? No?
Smirnov: No.
Mme. Popova: No?
Smirnov: No!
Mme. Popova: Very well, then. Enter Luka.
Mme. Popova: Luka, show this gentleman out!
LuKA, approaching Smirnov: Sir, be good enough to leave when you are asked to. Don't be—
Smirnov, jumping to his feet: Shut up! Who do you think you're talking to! I'll make hash of you!