Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger











THE SEA-GULL





by Anton Checkov







A Play In Four Acts









CHARACTERS



IRINA ABKADINA, an actress



CONSTANTINE TREPLIEFF, her son



PETER SORIN, her brother



NINA ZARIETCHNAYA, a young girl, the daughter of a rich landowner



ILIA SHAMRAEFF, the manager of SORIN’S estate



PAULINA, his wife



MASHA, their daughter



BORIS TRIGORIN, an author



EUGENE DORN, a doctor



SIMON MEDVIEDENKO, a schoolmaster



JACOB, a workman



A COOK



A MAIDSERVANT





_The scene is laid on SORIN’S estate. Two years elapse between the third

and fourth acts_.









THE SEA-GULL









ACT I



_The scene is laid in the park on SORIN’S estate. A broad avenue of

trees leads away from the audience toward a lake which lies lost in

the depths of the park. The avenue is obstructed by a rough stage,

temporarily erected for the performance of amateur theatricals, and

which screens the lake from view. There is a dense growth of bushes to

the left and right of the stage. A few chairs and a little table are

placed in front of the stage. The sun has just set. JACOB and some other

workmen are heard hammering and coughing on the stage behind the lowered

curtain_.



MASHA and MEDVIEDENKO come in from the left, returning from a walk.



MEDVIEDENKO. Why do you always wear mourning?



MASHA. I dress in black to match my life. I am unhappy.



MEDVIEDENKO. Why should you be unhappy? [Thinking it over] I don’t

understand it. You are healthy, and though your father is not rich, he

has a good competency. My life is far harder than yours. I only have

twenty-three roubles a month to live on, but I don’t wear mourning.

[They sit down].



MASHA. Happiness does not depend on riches; poor men are often happy.



MEDVIEDENKO. In theory, yes, but not in reality. Take my case, for

instance; my mother, my two sisters, my little brother and I must all

live somehow on my salary of twenty-three roubles a month. We have to

eat and drink, I take it. You wouldn’t have us go without tea and sugar,

would you? Or tobacco? Answer me that, if you can.



MASHA. [Looking in the direction of the stage] The play will soon begin.



MEDVIEDENKO. Yes, Nina Zarietchnaya is going to act in Treplieff’s play.

They love one another, and their two souls will unite to-night in the

effort to interpret the same idea by different means. There is no ground

on which your soul and mine can meet. I love you. Too restless and sad

to stay at home, I tramp here every day, six miles and back, to be met

only by your indifference. I am poor, my family is large, you can have

no inducement to marry a man who cannot even find sufficient food for

his own mouth.



MASHA. It is not that. [She takes snuff] I am touched by your affection,

but I cannot return it, that is all. [She offers him the snuff-box] Will

you take some?



MEDVIEDENKO. No, thank you. [A pause.]



MASHA. The air is sultry; a storm is brewing for to-night. You do

nothing but moralise or else talk about money. To you, poverty is the

greatest misfortune that can befall a man, but I think it is a thousand

times easier to go begging in rags than to--You wouldn’t understand

that, though.



SORIN leaning on a cane, and TREPLIEFF come in.



SORIN. For some reason, my boy, country life doesn’t suit me, and I am

sure I shall never get used to it. Last night I went to bed at ten and

woke at nine this morning, feeling as if, from oversleep, my brain had

stuck to my skull. [Laughing] And yet I accidentally dropped off to

sleep again after dinner, and feel utterly done up at this moment. It is

like a nightmare.



TREPLIEFF. There is no doubt that you should live in town. [He catches

sight of MASHA and MEDVIEDENKO] You shall be called when the play

begins, my friends, but you must not stay here now. Go away, please.



SORIN. Miss Masha, will you kindly ask your father to leave the dog

unchained? It howled so last night that my sister was unable to sleep.



MASHA. You must speak to my father yourself. Please excuse me; I can’t

do so. [To MEDVIEDENKO] Come, let us go.



MEDVIEDENKO. You will let us know when the play begins?



MASHA and MEDVIEDENKO go out.



SORIN. I foresee that that dog is going to howl all night again. It is

always this way in the country; I have never been able to live as I like

here. I come down for a month’s holiday, to rest and all, and am

plagued so by their nonsense that I long to escape after the first day.

[Laughing] I have always been glad to get away from this place, but I

have been retired now, and this was the only place I had to come to.

Willy-nilly, one must live somewhere.



JACOB. [To TREPLIEFF] We are going to take a swim, Mr. Constantine.



TREPLIEFF. Very well, but you must be back in ten minutes.



JACOB. We will, sir.



TREPLIEFF. [Looking at the stage] Just like a real theatre! See,

there we have the curtain, the foreground, the background, and all. No

artificial scenery is needed. The eye travels direct to the lake, and

rests on the horizon. The curtain will be raised as the moon rises at

half-past eight.



SORIN. Splendid!



TREPLIEFF. Of course the whole effect will be ruined if Nina is late.

She should be here by now, but her father and stepmother watch her so

closely that it is like stealing her from a prison to get her away from

home. [He straightens SORIN’S collar] Your hair and beard are all on

end. Oughtn’t you to have them trimmed?



SORIN. [Smoothing his beard] They are the tragedy of my existence. Even

when I was young I always looked as if I were drunk, and all. Women have

never liked me. [Sitting down] Why is my sister out of temper?



TREPLIEFF. Why? Because she is jealous and bored. [Sitting down beside

SORIN] She is not acting this evening, but Nina is, and so she has set

herself against me, and against the performance of the play, and against

the play itself, which she hates without ever having read it.



SORIN. [Laughing] Does she, really?



TREPLIEFF. Yes, she is furious because Nina is going to have a

success on this little stage. [Looking at his watch] My mother is a

psychological curiosity. Without doubt brilliant and talented, capable

of sobbing over a novel, of reciting all Nekrasoff’s poetry by heart,

and of nursing the sick like an angel of heaven, you should see what

happens if any one begins praising Duse to her! She alone must be

praised and written about, raved over, her marvellous acting in “La Dame

aux Camelias” extolled to the skies. As she cannot get all that rubbish

in the country, she grows peevish and cross, and thinks we are all

against her, and to blame for it all. She is superstitious, too. She

dreads burning three candles, and fears the thirteenth day of the month.

Then she is stingy. I know for a fact that she has seventy thousand

roubles in a bank at Odessa, but she is ready to burst into tears if you

ask her to lend you a penny.



SORIN. You have taken it into your head that your mother dislikes your

play, and the thought of it has excited you, and all. Keep calm; your

mother adores you.



TREPLIEFF. [Pulling a flower to pieces] She loves me, loves me not;

loves--loves me not; loves--loves me not! [Laughing] You see, she

doesn’t love me, and why should she? She likes life and love and gay

clothes, and I am already twenty-five years old; a sufficient reminder

to her that she is no longer young. When I am away she is only

thirty-two, in my presence she is forty-three, and she hates me for

it. She knows, too, that I despise the modern stage. She adores it, and

imagines that she is working on it for the benefit of humanity and her

sacred art, but to me the theatre is merely the vehicle of convention

and prejudice. When the curtain rises on that little three-walled room,

when those mighty geniuses, those high-priests of art, show us people in

the act of eating, drinking, loving, walking, and wearing their coats,

and attempt to extract a moral from their insipid talk; when playwrights

give us under a thousand different guises the same, same, same old

stuff, then I must needs run from it, as Maupassant ran from the Eiffel

Tower that was about to crush him by its vulgarity.



SORIN. But we can’t do without a theatre.



TREPLIEFF. No, but we must have it under a new form. If we can’t do

that, let us rather not have it at all. [Looking at his watch] I love my

mother, I love her devotedly, but I think she leads a stupid life. She

always has this man of letters of hers on her mind, and the newspapers

are always frightening her to death, and I am tired of it. Plain, human

egoism sometimes speaks in my heart, and I regret that my mother is

a famous actress. If she were an ordinary woman I think I should be

a happier man. What could be more intolerable and foolish than my

position, Uncle, when I find myself the only nonentity among a crowd of

her guests, all celebrated authors and artists? I feel that they only

endure me because I am her son. Personally I am nothing, nobody. I

pulled through my third year at college by the skin of my teeth, as they

say. I have neither money nor brains, and on my passport you may read

that I am simply a citizen of Kiev. So was my father, but he was

a well-known actor. When the celebrities that frequent my mother’s

drawing-room deign to notice me at all, I know they only look at me

to measure my insignificance; I read their thoughts, and suffer from

humiliation.



SORIN. Tell me, by the way, what is Trigorin like? I can’t understand

him, he is always so silent.



TREPLIEFF. Trigorin is clever, simple, well-mannered, and a little, I

might say, melancholic in disposition. Though still under forty, he is

surfeited with praise. As for his stories, they are--how shall I put

it?--pleasing, full of talent, but if you have read Tolstoi or Zola you

somehow don’t enjoy Trigorin.



SORIN. Do you know, my boy, I like literary men. I once passionately

desired two things: to marry, and to become an author. I have succeeded

in neither. It must be pleasant to be even an insignificant author.



TREPLIEFF. [Listening] I hear footsteps! [He embraces his uncle] I

cannot live without her; even the sound of her footsteps is music to me.

I am madly happy. [He goes quickly to meet NINA, who comes in at that

moment] My enchantress! My girl of dreams!



NINA. [Excitedly] It can’t be that I am late? No, I am not late.



TREPLIEFF. [Kissing her hands] No, no, no!



NINA. I have been in a fever all day, I was so afraid my father would

prevent my coming, but he and my stepmother have just gone driving. The

sky is clear, the moon is rising. How I hurried to get here! How I urged

my horse to go faster and faster! [Laughing] I am _so_ glad to see you!

[She shakes hands with SORIN.]



SORIN. Oho! Your eyes look as if you had been crying. You mustn’t do

that.



NINA. It is nothing, nothing. Do let us hurry. I must go in half an

hour. No, no, for heaven’s sake do not urge me to stay. My father

doesn’t know I am here.



TREPLIEFF. As a matter of fact, it is time to begin now. I must call the

audience.



SORIN. Let me call them--and all--I am going this minute. [He goes

toward the right, begins to sing “The Two Grenadiers,” then stops.]

I was singing that once when a fellow-lawyer said to me: “You have a

powerful voice, sir.” Then he thought a moment and added, “But it is a

disagreeable one!” [He goes out laughing.]



NINA. My father and his wife never will let me come here; they call this

place Bohemia and are afraid I shall become an actress. But this lake

attracts me as it does the gulls. My heart is full of you. [She glances

about her.]



TREPLIEFF. We are alone.



NINA. Isn’t that some one over there?



TREPLIEFF. No. [They kiss one another.]



NINA. What is that tree?



TREPLIEFF. An elm.



NINA. Why does it look so dark?



TREPLIEFF. It is evening; everything looks dark now. Don’t go away

early, I implore you.



NINA. I must.



TREPLIEFF. What if I were to follow you, Nina? I shall stand in your

garden all night with my eyes on your window.



NINA. That would be impossible; the watchman would see you, and Treasure

is not used to you yet, and would bark.



TREPLIEFF. I love you.



NINA. Hush!



TREPLIEFF. [Listening to approaching footsteps] Who is that? Is it you,

Jacob?



JACOB. [On the stage] Yes, sir.



TREPLIEFF. To your places then. The moon is rising; the play must

commence.



NINA. Yes, sir.



TREPLIEFF. Is the alcohol ready? Is the sulphur ready? There must be

fumes of sulphur in the air when the red eyes shine out. [To NINA] Go,

now, everything is ready. Are you nervous?



NINA. Yes, very. I am not so much afraid of your mother as I am of

Trigorin. I am terrified and ashamed to act before him; he is so famous.

Is he young?



TREPLIEFF. Yes.



NINA. What beautiful stories he writes!



TREPLIEFF. [Coldly] I have never read any of them, so I can’t say.



NINA. Your play is very hard to act; there are no living characters in

it.



TREPLIEFF. Living characters! Life must be represented not as it is, but

as it ought to be; as it appears in dreams.



NINA. There is so little action; it seems more like a recitation. I

think love should always come into every play.



NINA and TREPLIEFF go up onto the little stage; PAULINA and DORN come

in.



PAULINA. It is getting damp. Go back and put on your goloshes.



DORN. I am quite warm.



PAULINA. You never will take care of yourself; you are quite obstinate

about it, and yet you are a doctor, and know quite well that damp air is

bad for you. You like to see me suffer, that’s what it is. You sat out

on the terrace all yesterday evening on purpose.



DORN. [Sings]



“Oh, tell me not that youth is wasted.”



PAULINA. You were so enchanted by the conversation of Madame Arkadina

that you did not even notice the cold. Confess that you admire her.



DORN. I am fifty-five years old.



PAULINA. A trifle. That is not old for a man. You have kept your looks

magnificently, and women still like you.



DORN. What are you trying to tell me?



PAULINA. You men are all ready to go down on your knees to an actress,

all of you.



DORN. [Sings]



“Once more I stand before thee.”



It is only right that artists should be made much of by society and

treated differently from, let us say, merchants. It is a kind of

idealism.



PAULINA. When women have loved you and thrown themselves at your head,

has that been idealism?



DORN. [Shrugging his shoulders] I can’t say. There has been a great deal

that was admirable in my relations with women. In me they liked, above

all, the superior doctor. Ten years ago, you remember, I was the only

decent doctor they had in this part of the country--and then, I have

always acted like a man of honour.



PAULINA. [Seizes his hand] Dearest!



DORN. Be quiet! Here they come.



ARKADINA comes in on SORIN’S arm; also TRIGORIN, SHAMRAEFF, MEDVIEDENKO,

and MASHA.



SHAMRAEFF. She acted most beautifully at the Poltava Fair in 1873; she

was really magnificent. But tell me, too, where Tchadin the comedian is

now? He was inimitable as Rasplueff, better than Sadofski. Where is he

now?



ARKADINA. Don’t ask me where all those antediluvians are! I know nothing

about them. [She sits down.]



SHAMRAEFF. [Sighing] Pashka Tchadin! There are none left like him. The

stage is not what it was in his time. There were sturdy oaks growing on

it then, where now but stumps remain.



DORN. It is true that we have few dazzling geniuses these days, but, on

the other hand, the average of acting is much higher.



SHAMRAEFF. I cannot agree with you; however, that is a matter of taste,

_de gustibus._



Enter TREPLIEFF from behind the stage.



ARKADINA. When will the play begin, my dear boy?



TREPLIEFF. In a moment. I must ask you to have patience.



ARKADINA. [Quoting from Hamlet] My son,



     “Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul;

     And there I see such black grained spots

     As will not leave their tinct.”



[A horn is blown behind the stage.]



TREPLIEFF. Attention, ladies and gentlemen! The play is about to begin.

[A pause] I shall commence. [He taps the door with a stick, and speaks

in a loud voice] O, ye time-honoured, ancient mists that drive at night

across the surface of this lake, blind you our eyes with sleep, and show

us in our dreams that which will be in twice ten thousand years!



SORIN. There won’t be anything in twice ten thousand years.



TREPLIEFF. Then let them now show us that nothingness.



ARKADINA. Yes, let them--we are asleep.



The curtain rises. A vista opens across the lake. The moon hangs low

above the horizon and is reflected in the water. NINA, dressed in white,

is seen seated on a great rock.



NINA. All men and beasts, lions, eagles, and quails, horned stags,

geese, spiders, silent fish that inhabit the waves, starfish from the

sea, and creatures invisible to the eye--in one word, life--all, all

life, completing the dreary round imposed upon it, has died out at last.

A thousand years have passed since the earth last bore a living creature

on her breast, and the unhappy moon now lights her lamp in vain. No

longer are the cries of storks heard in the meadows, or the drone of

beetles in the groves of limes. All is cold, cold. All is void, void,

void. All is terrible, terrible--[A pause] The bodies of all living

creatures have dropped to dust, and eternal matter has transformed them

into stones and water and clouds; but their spirits have flowed together

into one, and that great world-soul am I! In me is the spirit of the

great Alexander, the spirit of Napoleon, of Caesar, of Shakespeare,

and of the tiniest leech that swims. In me the consciousness of man has

joined hands with the instinct of the animal; I understand all, all,

all, and each life lives again in me.



[The will-o-the-wisps flicker out along the lake shore.]



ARKADINA. [Whispers] What decadent rubbish is this?



TREPLIEFF. [Imploringly] Mother!



NINA. I am alone. Once in a hundred years my lips are opened, my voice

echoes mournfully across the desert earth, and no one hears. And you,

poor lights of the marsh, you do not hear me. You are engendered at

sunset in the putrid mud, and flit wavering about the lake till dawn,

unconscious, unreasoning, unwarmed by the breath of life. Satan, father

of eternal matter, trembling lest the spark of life should glow in you,

has ordered an unceasing movement of the atoms that compose you, and so

you shift and change for ever. I, the spirit of the universe, I alone

am immutable and eternal. [A pause] Like a captive in a dungeon deep and

void, I know not where I am, nor what awaits me. One thing only is not

hidden from me: in my fierce and obstinate battle with Satan, the source

of the forces of matter, I am destined to be victorious in the end.

Matter and spirit will then be one at last in glorious harmony, and the

reign of freedom will begin on earth. But this can only come to pass by

slow degrees, when after countless eons the moon and earth and shining

Sirius himself shall fall to dust. Until that hour, oh, horror! horror!

horror! [A pause. Two glowing red points are seen shining across the

lake] Satan, my mighty foe, advances; I see his dread and lurid eyes.



ARKADINA. I smell sulphur. Is that done on purpose?



TREPLIEFF. Yes.



ARKADINA. Oh, I see; that is part of the effect.



TREPLIEFF. Mother!



NINA. He longs for man--



PAULINA. [To DORN] You have taken off your hat again! Put it on, you

will catch cold.



ARKADINA. The doctor has taken off his hat to Satan father of eternal

matter--



TREPLIEFF. [Loudly and angrily] Enough of this! There’s an end to the

performance. Down with the curtain!



ARKADINA. Why, what are you so angry about?



TREPLIEFF. [Stamping his foot] The curtain; down with it! [The curtain

falls] Excuse me, I forgot that only a chosen few might write plays or

act them. I have infringed the monopoly. I--I---



He would like to say more, but waves his hand instead, and goes out to

the left.



ARKADINA. What is the matter with him?



SORIN. You should not handle youthful egoism so roughly, sister.



ARKADINA. What did I say to him?



SORIN. You hurt his feelings.



ARKADINA. But he told me himself that this was all in fun, so I treated

his play as if it were a comedy.



SORIN. Nevertheless---



ARKADINA. Now it appears that he has produced a masterpiece, if you

please! I suppose it was not meant to amuse us at all, but that he

arranged the performance and fumigated us with sulphur to demonstrate to

us how plays should be written, and what is worth acting. I am tired

of him. No one could stand his constant thrusts and sallies. He is a

wilful, egotistic boy.



SORIN. He had hoped to give you pleasure.



ARKADINA. Is that so? I notice, though, that he did not choose an

ordinary play, but forced his decadent trash on us. I am willing to

listen to any raving, so long as it is not meant seriously, but in

showing us this, he pretended to be introducing us to a new form of art,

and inaugurating a new era. In my opinion, there was nothing new about

it, it was simply an exhibition of bad temper.



TRIGORIN. Everybody must write as he feels, and as best he may.



ARKADINA. Let him write as he feels and can, but let him spare me his

nonsense.



DORN. Thou art angry, O Jove!



ARKADINA. I am a woman, not Jove. [She lights a cigarette] And I am not

angry, I am only sorry to see a young man foolishly wasting his time. I

did not mean to hurt him.



MEDVIEDENKO. No one has any ground for separating life from matter, as

the spirit may well consist of the union of material atoms. [Excitedly,

to TRIGORIN] Some day you should write a play, and put on the stage the

life of a schoolmaster. It is a hard, hard life.



ARKADINA. I agree with you, but do not let us talk about plays or atoms

now. This is such a lovely evening. Listen to the singing, friends, how

sweet it sounds.



PAULINA. Yes, they are singing across the water. [A pause.]



ARKADINA. [To TRIGORIN] Sit down beside me here. Ten or fifteen years

ago we had music and singing on this lake almost all night. There are

six houses on its shores. All was noise and laughter and romance then,

such romance! The young star and idol of them all in those days was this

man here, [Nods toward DORN] Doctor Eugene Dorn. He is fascinating now,

but he was irresistible then. But my conscience is beginning to

prick me. Why did I hurt my poor boy? I am uneasy about him. [Loudly]

Constantine! Constantine!



MASHA. Shall I go and find him?



ARKADINA. If you please, my dear.



MASHA. [Goes off to the left, calling] Mr. Constantine! Oh, Mr.

Constantine!



NINA. [Comes in from behind the stage] I see that the play will never be

finished, so now I can go home. Good evening. [She kisses ARKADINA and

PAULINA.]



SORIN. Bravo! Bravo!



ARKADINA. Bravo! Bravo! We were quite charmed by your acting. With your

looks and such a lovely voice it is a crime for you to hide yourself

in the country. You must be very talented. It is your duty to go on the

stage, do you hear me?



NINA. It is the dream of my life, which will never come true.



ARKADINA. Who knows? Perhaps it will. But let me present Monsieur Boris

Trigorin.



NINA. I am delighted to meet you. [Embarrassed] I have read all your

books.



ARKADINA. [Drawing NINA down beside her] Don’t be afraid of him, dear.

He is a simple, good-natured soul, even if he is a celebrity. See, he is

embarrassed himself.



DORN. Couldn’t the curtain be raised now? It is depressing to have it

down.



SHAMRAEFF. [Loudly] Jacob, my man! Raise the curtain!



NINA. [To TRIGORIN] It was a curious play, wasn’t it?



TRIGORIN. Very. I couldn’t understand it at all, but I watched it with

the greatest pleasure because you acted with such sincerity, and the

setting was beautiful. [A pause] There must be a lot of fish in this

lake.



NINA. Yes, there are.



TRIGORIN. I love fishing. I know of nothing pleasanter than to sit on a

lake shore in the evening with one’s eyes on a floating cork.



NINA. Why, I should think that for one who has tasted the joys of

creation, no other pleasure could exist.



ARKADINA. Don’t talk like that. He always begins to flounder when people

say nice things to him.



SHAMRAEFF. I remember when the famous Silva was singing once in the

Opera House at Moscow, how delighted we all were when he took the low C.

Well, you can imagine our astonishment when one of the church cantors,

who happened to be sitting in the gallery, suddenly boomed out: “Bravo,

Silva!” a whole octave lower. Like this: [In a deep bass voice] “Bravo,

Silva!” The audience was left breathless. [A pause.]



DORN. An angel of silence is flying over our heads.



NINA. I must go. Good-bye.



ARKADINA. Where to? Where must you go so early? We shan’t allow it.



NINA. My father is waiting for me.



ARKADINA. How cruel he is, really. [They kiss each other] Then I suppose

we can’t keep you, but it is very hard indeed to let you go.



NINA. If you only knew how hard it is for me to leave you all.



ARKADINA. Somebody must see you home, my pet.



NINA. [Startled] No, no!



SORIN. [Imploringly] Don’t go!



NINA. I must.



SORIN. Stay just one hour more, and all. Come now, really, you know.



NINA. [Struggling against her desire to stay; through her tears] No, no,

I can’t. [She shakes hands with him and quickly goes out.]



ARKADINA. An unlucky girl! They say that her mother left the whole of an

immense fortune to her husband, and now the child is penniless because

the father has already willed everything away to his second wife. It is

pitiful.



DORN. Yes, her papa is a perfect beast, and I don’t mind saying so--it

is what he deserves.



SORIN. [Rubbing his chilled hands] Come, let us go in; the night is

damp, and my legs are aching.



ARKADINA. Yes, you act as if they were turned to stone; you can hardly

move them. Come, you unfortunate old man. [She takes his arm.]



SHAMRAEFF. [Offering his arm to his wife] Permit me, madame.



SORIN. I hear that dog howling again. Won’t you please have it

unchained, Shamraeff?



SHAMRAEFF. No, I really can’t, sir. The granary is full of millet, and

I am afraid thieves might break in if the dog were not there. [Walking

beside MEDVIEDENKO] Yes, a whole octave lower: “Bravo, Silva!” and he

wasn’t a singer either, just a simple church cantor.



MEDVIEDENKO. What salary does the church pay its singers? [All go out

except DORN.]



DORN. I may have lost my judgment and my wits, but I must confess I

liked that play. There was something in it. When the girl spoke of her

solitude and the Devil’s eyes gleamed across the lake, I felt my hands

shaking with excitement. It was so fresh and naive. But here he comes;

let me say something pleasant to him.



TREPLIEFF comes in.



TREPLIEFF. All gone already?



DORN. I am here.



TREPLIEFF. Masha has been yelling for me all over the park. An

insufferable creature.



DORN. Constantine, your play delighted me. It was strange, of course,

and I did not hear the end, but it made a deep impression on me. You

have a great deal of talent, and must persevere in your work.



TREPLIEFF seizes his hand and squeezes it hard, then kisses him

impetuously.



DORN. Tut, tut! how excited you are. Your eyes are full of tears. Listen

to me. You chose your subject in the realm of abstract thought, and you

did quite right. A work of art should invariably embody some lofty idea.

Only that which is seriously meant can ever be beautiful. How pale you

are!



TREPLIEFF. So you advise me to persevere?



DORN. Yes, but use your talent to express only deep and eternal truths.

I have led a quiet life, as you know, and am a contented man, but if I

should ever experience the exaltation that an artist feels during his

moments of creation, I think I should spurn this material envelope of my

soul and everything connected with it, and should soar away into heights

above this earth.



TREPLIEFF. I beg your pardon, but where is Nina?



DORN. And yet another thing: every work of art should have a definite

object in view. You should know why you are writing, for if you follow

the road of art without a goal before your eyes, you will lose yourself,

and your genius will be your ruin.



TREPLIEFF. [Impetuously] Where is Nina?



DORN. She has gone home.



TREPLIEFF. [In despair] Gone home? What shall I do? I want to see her; I

must see her! I shall follow her.



DORN. My dear boy, keep quiet.



TREPLIEFF. I am going. I must go.



MASHA comes in.



MASHA. Your mother wants you to come in, Mr. Constantine. She is waiting

for you, and is very uneasy.



TREPLIEFF. Tell her I have gone away. And for heaven’s sake, all of you,

leave me alone! Go away! Don’t follow me about!



DORN. Come, come, old chap, don’t act like this; it isn’t kind at all.



TREPLIEFF. [Through his tears] Good-bye, doctor, and thank you.



TREPLIEFF goes out.



DORN. [Sighing] Ah, youth, youth!



MASHA. It is always “Youth, youth,” when there is nothing else to be

said.



She takes snuff. DORN takes the snuff-box out of her hands and flings it

into the bushes.



DORN. Don’t do that, it is horrid. [A pause] I hear music in the house.

I must go in.



MASHA. Wait a moment.



DORN. What do you want?



MASHA. Let me tell you again. I feel like talking. [She grows more and

more excited] I do not love my father, but my heart turns to you. For

some reason, I feel with all my soul that you are near to me. Help me!

Help me, or I shall do something foolish and mock at my life, and ruin

it. I am at the end of my strength.



DORN. What is the matter? How can I help you?



MASHA. I am in agony. No one, no one can imagine how I suffer. [She lays

her head on his shoulder and speaks softly] I love Constantine.



DORN. Oh, how excitable you all are! And how much love there is about

this lake of spells! [Tenderly] But what can I do for you, my child?

What? What?



The curtain falls.









ACT II



_The lawn in front of SORIN’S house. The house stands in the background,

on a broad terrace. The lake, brightly reflecting the rays of the sun,

lies to the left. There are flower-beds here and there. It is noon;

the day is hot. ARKADINA, DORN, and MASHA are sitting on a bench on the

lawn, in the shade of an old linden. An open book is lying on DORN’S

knees_.



ARKADINA. [To MASHA] Come, get up. [They both get up] Stand beside me.

You are twenty-two and I am almost twice your age. Tell me, Doctor,

which of us is the younger looking?



DORN. You are, of course.



ARKADINA. You see! Now why is it? Because I work; my heart and mind are

always busy, whereas you never move off the same spot. You don’t live.

It is a maxim of mine never to look into the future. I never admit the

thought of old age or death, and just accept what comes to me.



MASHA. I feel as if I had been in the world a thousand years, and I

trail my life behind me like an endless scarf. Often I have no desire

to live at all. Of course that is foolish. One ought to pull oneself

together and shake off such nonsense.



DORN. [Sings softly]



“Tell her, oh flowers--”



ARKADINA. And then I keep myself as correct-looking as an Englishman. I

am always well-groomed, as the saying is, and carefully dressed, with my

hair neatly arranged. Do you think I should ever permit myself to leave

the house half-dressed, with untidy hair? Certainly not! I have kept my

looks by never letting myself slump as some women do. [She puts her arms

akimbo, and walks up and down on the lawn] See me, tripping on tiptoe

like a fifteen-year-old girl.



DORN. I see. Nevertheless, I shall continue my reading. [He takes up his

book] Let me see, we had come to the grain-dealer and the rats.



ARKADINA. And the rats. Go on. [She sits down] No, give me the book, it

is my turn to read. [She takes the book and looks for the place] And

the rats. Ah, here it is. [She reads] “It is as dangerous for society to

attract and indulge authors as it is for grain-dealers to raise rats

in their granaries. Yet society loves authors. And so, when a woman

has found one whom she wishes to make her own, she lays siege to him

by indulging and flattering him.” That may be so in France, but it

certainly is not so in Russia. We do not carry out a programme like

that. With us, a woman is usually head over ears in love with an author

before she attempts to lay siege to him. You have an example before your

eyes, in me and Trigorin.



SORIN comes in leaning on a cane, with NINA beside him. MEDVIEDENKO

follows, pushing an arm-chair.



SORIN. [In a caressing voice, as if speaking to a child] So we are happy

now, eh? We are enjoying ourselves to-day, are we? Father and stepmother

have gone away to Tver, and we are free for three whole days!



NINA. [Sits down beside ARKADINA, and embraces her] I am so happy. I

belong to you now.



SORIN. [Sits down in his arm-chair] She looks lovely to-day.



ARKADINA. Yes, she has put on her prettiest dress, and looks sweet. That

was nice of you. [She kisses NINA] But we mustn’t praise her too much;

we shall spoil her. Where is Trigorin?



NINA. He is fishing off the wharf.



ARKADINA. I wonder he isn’t bored. [She begins to read again.]



NINA. What are you reading?



ARKADINA. “On the Water,” by Maupassant. [She reads a few lines to

herself] But the rest is neither true nor interesting. [She lays down

the book] I am uneasy about my son. Tell me, what is the matter with

him? Why is he so dull and depressed lately? He spends all his days on

the lake, and I scarcely ever see him any more.



MASHA. His heart is heavy. [Timidly, to NINA] Please recite something

from his play.



NINA. [Shrugging her shoulders] Shall I? Is it so interesting?



MASHA. [With suppressed rapture] When he recites, his eyes shine and his

face grows pale. His voice is beautiful and sad, and he has the ways of

a poet.



SORIN begins to snore.



DORN. Pleasant dreams!



ARKADINA. Peter!



SORIN. Eh?



ARKADINA. Are you asleep?



SORIN. Not a bit of it. [A pause.]



ARKADINA. You don’t do a thing for your health, brother, but you really

ought to.



DORN. The idea of doing anything for one’s health at sixty-five!



SORIN. One still wants to live at sixty-five.



DORN. [Crossly] Ho! Take some camomile tea.



ARKADINA. I think a journey to some watering-place would be good for

him.



DORN. Why, yes; he might go as well as not.



ARKADINA. You don’t understand.



DORN. There is nothing to understand in this case; it is quite clear.



MEDVIEDENKO. He ought to give up smoking.



SORIN. What nonsense! [A pause.]



DORN. No, that is not nonsense. Wine and tobacco destroy the

individuality. After a cigar or a glass of vodka you are no longer Peter

Sorin, but Peter Sorin plus somebody else. Your ego breaks in two: you

begin to think of yourself in the third person.



SORIN. It is easy for you to condemn smoking and drinking; you have

known what life is, but what about me? I have served in the Department

of Justice for twenty-eight years, but I have never lived, I have never

had any experiences. You are satiated with life, and that is why you

have an inclination for philosophy, but I want to live, and that is why

I drink my wine for dinner and smoke cigars, and all.



DORN. One must take life seriously, and to take a cure at sixty-five

and regret that one did not have more pleasure in youth is, forgive my

saying so, trifling.



MASHA. It must be lunch-time. [She walks away languidly, with a dragging

step] My foot has gone to sleep.



DORN. She is going to have a couple of drinks before lunch.



SORIN. The poor soul is unhappy.



DORN. That is a trifle, your honour.



SORIN. You judge her like a man who has obtained all he wants in life.



ARKADINA. Oh, what could be duller than this dear tedium of the country?

The air is hot and still, nobody does anything but sit and philosophise

about life. It is pleasant, my friends, to sit and listen to you here,

but I had rather a thousand times sit alone in the room of a hotel

learning a role by heart.



NINA. [With enthusiasm] You are quite right. I understand how you feel.



SORIN. Of course it is pleasanter to live in town. One can sit in one’s

library with a telephone at one’s elbow, no one comes in without being

first announced by the footman, the streets are full of cabs, and all---



DORN. [Sings]



“Tell her, oh flowers---”



SHAMRAEFF comes in, followed by PAULINA.



SHAMRAEFF. Here they are. How do you do? [He kisses ARKADINA’S hand and

then NINA’S] I am delighted to see you looking so well. [To ARKADINA] My

wife tells me that you mean to go to town with her to-day. Is that so?



ARKADINA. Yes, that is what I had planned to do.



SHAMRAEFF. Hm--that is splendid, but how do you intend to get there,

madam? We are hauling rye to-day, and all the men are busy. What horses

would you take?



ARKADINA. What horses? How do I know what horses we shall have?



SORIN. Why, we have the carriage horses.



SHAMRAEFF. The carriage horses! And where am I to find the harness for

them? This is astonishing! My dear madam, I have the greatest respect

for your talents, and would gladly sacrifice ten years of my life for

you, but I cannot let you have any horses to-day.



ARKADINA. But if I must go to town? What an extraordinary state of

affairs!



SHAMRAEFF. You do not know, madam, what it is to run a farm.



ARKADINA. [In a burst of anger] That is an old story! Under these

circumstances I shall go back to Moscow this very day. Order a carriage

for me from the village, or I shall go to the station on foot.



SHAMRAEFF. [losing his temper] Under these circumstances I resign my

position. You must find yourself another manager. [He goes out.]



ARKADINA. It is like this every summer: every summer I am insulted here.

I shall never set foot here again.



She goes out to the left, in the direction of the wharf. In a few

minutes she is seen entering the house, followed by TRIGORIN, who

carries a bucket and fishing-rod.



SORIN. [Losing his temper] What the deuce did he mean by his impudence?

I want all the horses brought here at once!



NINA. [To PAULINA] How could he refuse anything to Madame Arkadina, the

famous actress? Is not every wish, every caprice even, of hers, more

important than any farm work? This is incredible.



PAULINA. [In despair] What can I do about it? Put yourself in my place

and tell me what I can do.



SORIN. [To NINA] Let us go and find my sister, and all beg her not to

go. [He looks in the direction in which SHAMRAEFF went out] That man is

insufferable; a regular tyrant.



NINA. [Preventing him from getting up] Sit still, sit still, and let

us wheel you. [She and MEDVIEDENKO push the chair before them] This is

terrible!



SORIN. Yes, yes, it is terrible; but he won’t leave. I shall have a talk

with him in a moment. [They go out. Only DORN and PAULINA are left.]



DORN. How tiresome people are! Your husband deserves to be thrown out of

here neck and crop, but it will all end by this old granny Sorin and his

sister asking the man’s pardon. See if it doesn’t.



PAULINA. He has sent the carriage horses into the fields too. These

misunderstandings occur every day. If you only knew how they excite me!

I am ill; see! I am trembling all over! I cannot endure his rough ways.

[Imploringly] Eugene, my darling, my beloved, take me to you. Our time

is short; we are no longer young; let us end deception and concealment,

even though it is only at the end of our lives. [A pause.]



DORN. I am fifty-five years old. It is too late now for me to change my

ways of living.



PAULINA. I know that you refuse me because there are other women who are

near to you, and you cannot take everybody. I understand. Excuse me--I

see I am only bothering you.



NINA is seen near the house picking a bunch of flowers.



DORN. No, it is all right.



PAULINA. I am tortured by jealousy. Of course you are a doctor and

cannot escape from women. I understand.



DORN. [TO NINA, who comes toward him] How are things in there?



NINA. Madame Arkadina is crying, and Sorin is having an attack of

asthma.



DORN. Let us go and give them both some camomile tea.



NINA. [Hands him the bunch of flowers] Here are some flowers for you.



DORN. Thank you. [He goes into the house.]



PAULINA. [Following him] What pretty flowers! [As they reach the house

she says in a low voice] Give me those flowers! Give them to me!



DORN hands her the flowers; she tears them to pieces and flings them

away. They both go into the house.



NINA. [Alone] How strange to see a famous actress weeping, and for

such a trifle! Is it not strange, too, that a famous author should sit

fishing all day? He is the idol of the public, the papers are full

of him, his photograph is for sale everywhere, his works have been

translated into many foreign languages, and yet he is overjoyed if he

catches a couple of minnows. I always thought famous people were distant

and proud; I thought they despised the common crowd which exalts

riches and birth, and avenged themselves on it by dazzling it with the

inextinguishable honour and glory of their fame. But here I see them

weeping and playing cards and flying into passions like everybody else.



TREPLIEFF comes in without a hat on, carrying a gun and a dead seagull.



TREPLIEFF. Are you alone here?



NINA. Yes.



TREPLIEFF lays the sea-gull at her feet.



NINA. What do you mean by this?



TREPLIEFF. I was base enough to-day to kill this gull. I lay it at your

feet.



NINA. What is happening to you? [She picks up the gull and stands

looking at it.]



TREPLIEFF. [After a pause] So shall I soon end my own life.



NINA. You have changed so that I fail to recognise you.



TREPLIEFF. Yes, I have changed since the time when I ceased to recognise

you. You have failed me; your look is cold; you do not like to have me

near you.



NINA. You have grown so irritable lately, and you talk so darkly and

symbolically that you must forgive me if I fail to follow you. I am too

simple to understand you.



TREPLIEFF. All this began when my play failed so dismally. A woman never

can forgive failure. I have burnt the manuscript to the last page. Oh,

if you could only fathom my unhappiness! Your estrangement is to me

terrible, incredible; it is as if I had suddenly waked to find this

lake dried up and sunk into the earth. You say you are too simple to

understand me; but, oh, what is there to understand? You disliked

my play, you have no faith in my powers, you already think of me as

commonplace and worthless, as many are. [Stamping his foot] How well

I can understand your feelings! And that understanding is to me like

a dagger in the brain. May it be accursed, together with my stupidity,

which sucks my life-blood like a snake! [He sees TRIGORIN, who

approaches reading a book] There comes real genius, striding along like

another Hamlet, and with a book, too. [Mockingly] “Words, words, words.”

 You feel the warmth of that sun already, you smile, your eyes melt and

glow liquid in its rays. I shall not disturb you. [He goes out.]



TRIGORIN. [Making notes in his book] Takes snuff and drinks vodka;

always wears black dresses; is loved by a schoolteacher--



NINA. How do you do?



TRIGORIN. How are you, Miss Nina? Owing to an unforeseen development of

circumstances, it seems that we are leaving here today. You and I shall

probably never see each other again, and I am sorry for it. I seldom

meet a young and pretty girl now; I can hardly remember how it feels

to be nineteen, and the young girls in my books are seldom living

characters. I should like to change places with you, if but for an hour,

to look out at the world through your eyes, and so find out what sort of

a little person you are.



NINA. And I should like to change places with you.



TRIGORIN. Why?



NINA. To find out how a famous genius feels. What is it like to be

famous? What sensations does it give you?



TRIGORIN. What sensations? I don’t believe it gives any. [Thoughtfully]

Either you exaggerate my fame, or else, if it exists, all I can say is

that one simply doesn’t feel fame in any way.



NINA. But when you read about yourself in the papers?



TRIGORIN. If the critics praise me, I am happy; if they condemn me, I am

out of sorts for the next two days.



NINA. This is a wonderful world. If you only knew how I envy you! Men

are born to different destinies. Some dully drag a weary, useless life

behind them, lost in the crowd, unhappy, while to one out of a million,

as to you, for instance, comes a bright destiny full of interest and

meaning. You are lucky.



TRIGORIN. I, lucky? [He shrugs his shoulders] H-m--I hear you talking

about fame, and happiness, and bright destinies, and those fine words of

yours mean as much to me--forgive my saying so--as sweetmeats do, which

I never eat. You are very young, and very kind.



NINA. Your life is beautiful.



TRIGORIN. I see nothing especially lovely about it. [He looks at his

watch] Excuse me, I must go at once, and begin writing again. I am in a

hurry. [He laughs] You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I

am getting excited, and a little cross. Let us discuss this bright and

beautiful life of mine, though. [After a few moments’ thought] Violent

obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man: he may, for instance, think day

and night of nothing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I

am held in the grip of one besetting thought, to write, write, write!

Hardly have I finished one book than something urges me to write

another, and then a third, and then a fourth--I write ceaselessly. I am,

as it were, on a treadmill. I hurry for ever from one story to another,

and can’t help myself. Do you see anything bright and beautiful in that?

Oh, it is a wild life! Even now, thrilled as I am by talking to you, I

do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me. My

eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano; I

instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story

a cloud floating by that looked like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope;

I mutter to myself: a sickly smell, the colour worn by widows; I must

remember that in writing my next description of a summer evening. I

catch an idea in every sentence of yours or of my own, and hasten to

lock all these treasures in my literary store-room, thinking that some

day they may be useful to me. As soon as I stop working I rush off to

the theatre or go fishing, in the hope that I may find oblivion there,

but no! Some new subject for a story is sure to come rolling through my

brain like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling, and have to go

back to it and begin to write, write, write, once more. And so it

goes for everlasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am

consuming my life. To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am

doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers, to tear them from

their stems, and trample the roots that bore them under foot. Am I not

a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally

diseased? Yet it is always the same, same old story, till I begin to

think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception, that I am

being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy, and I sometimes tremble

lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic

asylum. The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me

by my writing. A young author, especially if at first he does not make

a success, feels clumsy, ill-at-ease, and superfluous in the world. His

nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of breaking; he is

irresistibly attracted to literary and artistic people, and hovers about

them unknown and unnoticed, fearing to look them bravely in the eye,

like a man with a passion for gambling, whose money is all gone. I

did not know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were

distrustful and unfriendly; I was mortally afraid of the public, and

when my first play appeared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in

the audience were looking at it with enmity, and all the blue ones with

cold indifference. Oh, how terrible it was! What agony!



NINA. But don’t your inspiration and the act of creation give you

moments of lofty happiness?



TRIGORIN. Yes. Writing is a pleasure to me, and so is reading the

proofs, but no sooner does a book leave the press than it becomes odious

to me; it is not what I meant it to be; I made a mistake to write it at

all; I am provoked and discouraged. Then the public reads it and says:

“Yes, it is clever and pretty, but not nearly as good as Tolstoi,” or

“It is a lovely thing, but not as good as Turgenieff’s ‘Fathers and

Sons,’” and so it will always be. To my dying day I shall hear people

say: “Clever and pretty; clever and pretty,” and nothing more; and when

I am gone, those that knew me will say as they pass my grave: “Here lies

Trigorin, a clever writer, but he was not as good as Turgenieff.”



NINA. You must excuse me, but I decline to understand what you are

talking about. The fact is, you have been spoilt by your success.



TRIGORIN. What success have I had? I have never pleased myself; as

a writer, I do not like myself at all. The trouble is that I am made

giddy, as it were, by the fumes of my brain, and often hardly know what

I am writing. I love this lake, these trees, the blue heaven; nature’s

voice speaks to me and wakes a feeling of passion in my heart, and I

am overcome by an uncontrollable desire to write. But I am not only

a painter of landscapes, I am a man of the city besides. I love my

country, too, and her people; I feel that, as a writer, it is my duty to

speak of their sorrows, of their future, also of science, of the rights

of man, and so forth. So I write on every subject, and the public hounds

me on all sides, sometimes in anger, and I race and dodge like a fox

with a pack of hounds on his trail. I see life and knowledge flitting

away before me. I am left behind them like a peasant who has missed his

train at a station, and finally I come back to the conclusion that all

I am fit for is to describe landscapes, and that whatever else I attempt

rings abominably false.



NINA. You work too hard to realise the importance of your writings. What

if you are discontented with yourself? To others you appear a great and

splendid man. If I were a writer like you I should devote my whole life

to the service of the Russian people, knowing at the same time that

their welfare depended on their power to rise to the heights I had

attained, and the people should send me before them in a chariot of

triumph.



TRIGORIN. In a chariot? Do you think I am Agamemnon? [They both smile.]



NINA. For the bliss of being a writer or an actress I could endure want,

and disillusionment, and the hatred of my friends, and the pangs of my

own dissatisfaction with myself; but I should demand in return fame,

real, resounding fame! [She covers her face with her hands] Whew! My

head reels!



THE VOICE OF ARKADINA. [From inside the house] Boris! Boris!



TRIGORIN. She is calling me, probably to come and pack, but I don’t want

to leave this place. [His eyes rest on the lake] What a blessing such

beauty is!



NINA. Do you see that house there, on the far shore?



TRIGORIN. Yes.



NINA. That was my dead mother’s home. I was born there, and have lived

all my life beside this lake. I know every little island in it.



TRIGORIN. This is a beautiful place to live. [He catches sight of the

dead sea-gull] What is that?



NINA. A gull. Constantine shot it.



TRIGORIN. What a lovely bird! Really, I can’t bear to go away. Can’t you

persuade Irina to stay? [He writes something in his note-book.]



NINA. What are you writing?



TRIGORIN. Nothing much, only an idea that occurred to me. [He puts the

book back in his pocket] An idea for a short story. A young girl grows

up on the shores of a lake, as you have. She loves the lake as the gulls

do, and is as happy and free as they. But a man sees her who chances to

come that way, and he destroys her out of idleness, as this gull here

has been destroyed. [A pause. ARKADINA appears at one of the windows.]



ARKADINA. Boris! Where are you?



TRIGORIN. I am coming this minute.



He goes toward the house, looking back at NINA. ARKADINA remains at the

window.



TRIGORIN. What do you want?



ARKADINA. We are not going away, after all.



TRIGORIN goes into the house. NINA comes forward and stands lost in

thought.



NINA. It is a dream!



The curtain falls.









ACT III



_The dining-room of SORIN’S house. Doors open out of it to the right

and left. A table stands in the centre of the room. Trunks and boxes

encumber the floor, and preparations for departure are evident. TRIGORIN

is sitting at a table eating his breakfast, and MASHA is standing beside

him_.



MASHA. I am telling you all these things because you write books and

they may be useful to you. I tell you honestly, I should not have lived

another day if he had wounded himself fatally. Yet I am courageous; I

have decided to tear this love of mine out of my heart by the roots.



TRIGORIN. How will you do it?



MASHA. By marrying Medviedenko.



TRIGORIN. The school-teacher?



MASHA. Yes.



TRIGORIN. I don’t see the necessity for that.



MASHA. Oh, if you knew what it is to love without hope for years and

years, to wait for ever for something that will never come! I shall not

marry for love, but marriage will at least be a change, and will bring

new cares to deaden the memories of the past. Shall we have another

drink?



TRIGORIN. Haven’t you had enough?



MASHA. Fiddlesticks! [She fills a glass] Don’t look at me with that

expression on your face. Women drink oftener than you imagine, but most

of them do it in secret, and not openly, as I do. They do indeed, and

it is always either vodka or brandy. [They touch glasses] To your good

health! You are so easy to get on with that I am sorry to see you go.

[They drink.]



TRIGORIN. And I am sorry to leave.



MASHA. You should ask her to stay.



TRIGORIN. She would not do that now. Her son has been behaving

outrageously. First he attempted suicide, and now I hear he is going

to challenge me to a duel, though what his provocation may be I can’t

imagine. He is always sulking and sneering and preaching about a new

form of art, as if the field of art were not large enough to accommodate

both old and new without the necessity of jostling.



MASHA. It is jealousy. However, that is none of my business. [A pause.

JACOB walks through the room carrying a trunk; NINA comes in and stands

by the window] That schoolteacher of mine is none too clever, but he

is very good, poor man, and he loves me dearly, and I am sorry for him.

However, let me say good-bye and wish you a pleasant journey. Remember

me kindly in your thoughts. [She shakes hands with him] Thanks for your

goodwill. Send me your books, and be sure to write something in them;

nothing formal, but simply this: “To Masha, who, forgetful of her

origin, for some unknown reason is living in this world.” Good-bye. [She

goes out.]



NINA. [Holding out her closed hand to TRIGORIN] Is it odd or even?



TRIGORIN. Even.



NINA. [With a sigh] No, it is odd. I had only one pea in my hand. I

wanted to see whether I was to become an actress or not. If only some

one would advise me what to do!



TRIGORIN. One cannot give advice in a case like this. [A pause.]



NINA. We shall soon part, perhaps never to meet again. I should like you

to accept this little medallion as a remembrance of me. I have had your

initials engraved on it, and on this side is the name of one of your

books: “Days and Nights.”



TRIGORIN. How sweet of you! [He kisses the medallion] It is a lovely

present.



NINA. Think of me sometimes.



TRIGORIN. I shall never forget you. I shall always remember you as I saw

you that bright day--do you recall it?--a week ago, when you wore your

light dress, and we talked together, and the white seagull lay on the

bench beside us.



NINA. [Lost in thought] Yes, the sea-gull. [A pause] I beg you to let me

see you alone for two minutes before you go.



She goes out to the left. At the same moment ARKADINA comes in from the

right, followed by SORIN in a long coat, with his orders on his breast,

and by JACOB, who is busy packing.



ARKADINA. Stay here at home, you poor old man. How could you pay visits

with that rheumatism of yours? [To TRIGORIN] Who left the room just now,

was it Nina?



TRIGORIN. Yes.



ARKADINA. I beg your pardon; I am afraid we interrupted you. [She sits

down] I think everything is packed. I am absolutely exhausted.



TRIGORIN. [Reading the inscription on the medallion] “Days and Nights,

page 121, lines 11 and 12.”



JACOB. [Clearing the table] Shall I pack your fishing-rods, too, sir?



TRIGORIN. Yes, I shall need them, but you can give my books away.



JACOB. Very well, sir.



TRIGORIN. [To himself] Page 121, lines 11 and 12. [To ARKADINA] Have we

my books here in the house?



ARKADINA. Yes, they are in my brother’s library, in the corner cupboard.



TRIGORIN. Page 121--[He goes out.]



SORIN. You are going away, and I shall be lonely without you.



ARKADINA. What would you do in town?



SORIN. Oh, nothing in particular, but somehow--[He laughs] They are soon

to lay the corner-stone of the new court-house here. How I should like

to leap out of this minnow-pond, if but for an hour or two! I am tired

of lying here like an old cigarette stump. I have ordered the carriage

for one o’clock. We can go away together.



ARKADINA. [After a pause] No, you must stay here. Don’t be lonely, and

don’t catch cold. Keep an eye on my boy. Take good care of him; guide

him along the proper paths. [A pause] I am going away, and so shall

never find out why Constantine shot himself, but I think the chief

reason was jealousy, and the sooner I take Trigorin away, the better.



SORIN. There were--how shall I explain it to you?--other reasons besides

jealousy for his act. Here is a clever young chap living in the depths

of the country, without money or position, with no future ahead of him,

and with nothing to do. He is ashamed and afraid of being so idle. I am

devoted to him and he is fond of me, but nevertheless he feels that he

is useless here, that he is little more than a dependent in this house.

It is the pride in him.



ARKADINA. He is a misery to me! [Thoughtfully] He might possibly enter

the army.



SORIN. [Gives a whistle, and then speaks with hesitation] It seems to

me that the best thing for him would be if you were to let him have

a little money. For one thing, he ought to be allowed to dress like a

human being. See how he looks! Wearing the same little old coat that

he has had for three years, and he doesn’t even possess an overcoat!

[Laughing] And it wouldn’t hurt the youngster to sow a few wild oats;

let him go abroad, say, for a time. It wouldn’t cost much.



ARKADINA. Yes, but--However, I think I might manage about his clothes,

but I couldn’t let him go abroad. And no, I don’t think I can let him

have his clothes even, now. [Decidedly] I have no money at present.



SORIN laughs.



ARKADINA. I haven’t indeed.



SORIN. [Whistles] Very well. Forgive me, darling; don’t be angry. You

are a noble, generous woman!



ARKADINA. [Weeping] I really haven’t the money.



SORIN. If I had any money of course I should let him have some myself,

but I haven’t even a penny. The farm manager takes my pension from me

and puts it all into the farm or into cattle or bees, and in that way it

is always lost for ever. The bees die, the cows die, they never let me

have a horse.



ARKADINA. Of course I have some money, but I am an actress and my

expenses for dress alone are enough to bankrupt me.



SORIN. You are a dear, and I am very fond of you, indeed I am. But

something is the matter with me again. [He staggers] I feel giddy. [He

leans against the table] I feel faint, and all.



ARKADINA. [Frightened ] Peter! [She tries to support him] Peter!

dearest! [She calls] Help! Help!



TREPLIEFF and MEDVIEDENKO come in; TREPLIEFF has a bandage around his

head.



ARKADINA. He is fainting!



SORIN. I am all right. [He smiles and drinks some water] It is all over

now.



TREPLIEFF. [To his mother] Don’t be frightened, mother, these attacks

are not dangerous; my uncle often has them now. [To his uncle] You must

go and lie down, Uncle.



SORIN. Yes, I think I shall, for a few minutes. I am going to Moscow

all the same, but I shall lie down a bit before I start. [He goes out

leaning on his cane.]



MEDVIEDENKO. [Giving him his arm] Do you know this riddle? On four legs

in the morning; on two legs at noon; and on three legs in the evening?



SORIN. [Laughing] Yes, exactly, and on one’s back at night. Thank you, I

can walk alone.



MEDVIEDENKO. Dear me, what formality! [He and SORIN go out.]



ARKADINA. He gave me a dreadful fright.



TREPLIEFF. It is not good for him to live in the country. Mother, if you

would only untie your purse-strings for once, and lend him a thousand

roubles! He could then spend a whole year in town.



ARKADINA. I have no money. I am an actress and not a banker. [A pause.]



TREPLIEFF. Please change my bandage for me, mother, you do it so gently.



ARKADINA goes to the cupboard and takes out a box of bandages and a

bottle of iodoform.



ARKADINA. The doctor is late.



TREPLIEFF. Yes, he promised to be here at nine, and now it is noon

already.



ARKADINA. Sit down. [She takes the bandage off his head] You look as if

you had a turban on. A stranger that was in the kitchen yesterday asked

to what nationality you belonged. Your wound is almost healed. [She

kisses his head] You won’t be up to any more of these silly tricks

again, will you, when I am gone?



TREPLIEFF. No, mother. I did that in a moment of insane despair, when I

had lost all control over myself. It will never happen again. [He kisses

her hand] Your touch is golden. I remember when you were still acting at

the State Theatre, long ago, when I was still a little chap, there was a

fight one day in our court, and a poor washerwoman was almost beaten to

death. She was picked up unconscious, and you nursed her till she was

well, and bathed her children in the washtubs. Have you forgotten it?



ARKADINA. Yes, entirely. [She puts on a new bandage.]



TREPLIEFF. Two ballet dancers lived in the same house, and they used to

come and drink coffee with you.



ARKADINA. I remember that.



TREPLIEFF. They were very pious. [A pause] I love you again, these last

few days, as tenderly and trustingly as I did as a child. I have no one

left me now but you. Why, why do you let yourself be controlled by that

man?



ARKADINA. You don’t understand him, Constantine. He has a wonderfully

noble personality.



TREPLIEFF. Nevertheless, when he has been told that I wish to challenge

him to a duel his nobility does not prevent him from playing the coward.

He is about to beat an ignominious retreat.



ARKADINA. What nonsense! I have asked him myself to go.



TREPLIEFF. A noble personality indeed! Here we are almost quarrelling

over him, and he is probably in the garden laughing at us at this very

moment, or else enlightening Nina’s mind and trying to persuade her into

thinking him a man of genius.



ARKADINA. You enjoy saying unpleasant things to me. I have the greatest

respect for that man, and I must ask you not to speak ill of him in my

presence.



TREPLIEFF. I have no respect for him at all. You want me to think him a

genius, as you do, but I refuse to lie: his books make me sick.



ARKADINA. You envy him. There is nothing left for people with no talent

and mighty pretensions to do but to criticise those who are really

gifted. I hope you enjoy the consolation it brings.



TREPLIEFF. [With irony] Those who are really gifted, indeed! [Angrily] I

am cleverer than any of you, if it comes to that! [He tears the bandage

off his head] You are the slaves of convention, you have seized the

upper hand and now lay down as law everything that you do; all else you

strangle and trample on. I refuse to accept your point of view, yours

and his, I refuse!



ARKADINA. That is the talk of a decadent.



TREPLIEFF. Go back to your beloved stage and act the miserable

ditch-water plays you so much admire!



ARKADINA. I never acted in a play like that in my life. You couldn’t

write even the trashiest music-hall farce, you idle good-for-nothing!



TREPLIEFF. Miser!



ARKADINA. Rag-bag!



TREPLIEFF sits down and begins to cry softly.



ARKADINA. [Walking up and down in great excitement] Don’t cry! You

mustn’t cry! [She bursts into tears] You really mustn’t. [She kisses his

forehead, his cheeks, his head] My darling child, forgive me. Forgive

your wicked mother.



TREPLIEFF. [Embracing her] Oh, if you could only know what it is to have

lost everything under heaven! She does not love me. I see I shall never

be able to write. Every hope has deserted me.



ARKADINA. Don’t despair. This will all pass. He is going away to-day,

and she will love you once more. [She wipes away his tears] Stop crying.

We have made peace again.



TREPLIEFF. [Kissing her hand] Yes, mother.



ARKADINA. [Tenderly] Make your peace with him, too. Don’t fight with

him. You surely won’t fight?



TREPLIEFF. I won’t, but you must not insist on my seeing him again,

mother, I couldn’t stand it. [TRIGORIN comes in] There he is; I am

going. [He quickly puts the medicines away in the cupboard] The doctor

will attend to my head.



TRIGORIN. [Looking through the pages of a book] Page 121, lines 11 and

12; here it is. [He reads] “If at any time you should have need of my

life, come and take it.”



TREPLIEFF picks up the bandage off the floor and goes out.



ARKADINA. [Looking at her watch] The carriage will soon be here.



TRIGORIN. [To himself] If at any time you should have need of my life,

come and take it.



ARKADINA. I hope your things are all packed.



TRIGORIN. [Impatiently] Yes, yes. [In deep thought] Why do I hear a note

of sadness that wrings my heart in this cry of a pure soul? If at any

time you should have need of my life, come and take it. [To ARKADINA]

Let us stay here one more day!



ARKADINA shakes her head.



TRIGORIN. Do let us stay!



ARKADINA. I know, dearest, what keeps you here, but you must control

yourself. Be sober; your emotions have intoxicated you a little.



TRIGORIN. You must be sober, too. Be sensible; look upon what has

happened as a true friend would. [Taking her hand] You are capable of

self-sacrifice. Be a friend to me and release me!



ARKADINA. [In deep excitement] Are you so much in love?



TRIGORIN. I am irresistibly impelled toward her. It may be that this is

just what I need.



ARKADINA. What, the love of a country girl? Oh, how little you know

yourself!



TRIGORIN. People sometimes walk in their sleep, and so I feel as if

I were asleep, and dreaming of her as I stand here talking to you. My

imagination is shaken by the sweetest and most glorious visions. Release

me!



ARKADINA. [Shuddering] No, no! I am only an ordinary woman; you must not

say such things to me. Do not torment me, Boris; you frighten me.



TRIGORIN. You could be an extraordinary woman if you only would. Love

alone can bring happiness on earth, love the enchanting, the poetical

love of youth, that sweeps away the sorrows of the world. I had no time

for it when I was young and struggling with want and laying siege to the

literary fortress, but now at last this love has come to me. I see it

beckoning; why should I fly?



ARKADINA. [With anger] You are mad!



TRIGORIN. Release me.



ARKADINA. You have all conspired together to torture me to-day. [She

weeps.]



TRIGORIN. [Clutching his head desperately] She doesn’t understand me!

She won’t understand me!



ARKADINA. Am I then so old and ugly already that you can talk to me like

this without any shame about another woman? [She embraces and kisses

him] Oh, you have lost your senses! My splendid, my glorious friend, my

love for you is the last chapter of my life. [She falls on her knees]

You are my pride, my joy, my light. [She embraces his knees] I could

never endure it should you desert me, if only for an hour; I should go

mad. Oh, my wonder, my marvel, my king!



TRIGORIN. Some one might come in. [He helps her to rise.]



ARKADINA. Let them come! I am not ashamed of my love. [She kisses his

hands] My jewel! My despair! You want to do a foolish thing, but I don’t

want you to do it. I shan’t let you do it! [She laughs] You are mine,

you are mine! This forehead is mine, these eyes are mine, this silky

hair is mine. All your being is mine. You are so clever, so wise, the

first of all living writers; you are the only hope of your country. You

are so fresh, so simple, so deeply humourous. You can bring out every

feature of a man or of a landscape in a single line, and your characters

live and breathe. Do you think that these words are but the incense of

flattery? Do you think I am not speaking the truth? Come, look into my

eyes; look deep; do you find lies there? No, you see that I alone know

how to treasure you. I alone tell you the truth. Oh, my very dear, you

will go with me? You will? You will not forsake me?



TRIGORIN. I have no will of my own; I never had. I am too indolent, too

submissive, too phlegmatic, to have any. Is it possible that women like

that? Take me. Take me away with you, but do not let me stir a step from

your side.



ARKADINA. [To herself] Now he is mine! [Carelessly, as if nothing

unusual had happened] Of course you must stay here if you really want

to. I shall go, and you can follow in a week’s time. Yes, really, why

should you hurry away?



TRIGORIN. Let us go together.



ARKADINA. As you like. Let us go together then. [A pause. TRIGORIN

writes something in his note-book] What are you writing?



TRIGORIN. A happy expression I heard this morning: “A grove of maiden

pines.” It may be useful. [He yawns] So we are really off again,

condemned once more to railway carriages, to stations and restaurants,

to Hamburger steaks and endless arguments!



SHAMRAEFF comes in.



SHAMRAEFF. I am sorry to have to inform you that your carriage is at the

door. It is time to start, honoured madam, the train leaves at two-five.

Would you be kind enough, madam, to remember to inquire for me where

Suzdaltzeff the actor is now? Is he still alive, I wonder? Is he well?

He and I have had many a jolly time together. He was inimitable in “The

Stolen Mail.” A tragedian called Izmailoff was in the same company, I

remember, who was also quite remarkable. Don’t hurry, madam, you still

have five minutes. They were both of them conspirators once, in the

same melodrama, and one night when in the course of the play they were

suddenly discovered, instead of saying “We have been trapped!” Izmailoff

cried out: “We have been rapped!” [He laughs] Rapped!



While he has been talking JACOB has been busy with the trunks, and the

maid has brought ARKADINA her hat, coat, parasol, and gloves. The cook

looks hesitatingly through the door on the right, and finally comes into

the room. PAULINA comes in. MEDVIEDENKO comes in.



PAULINA. [Presenting ARKADINA with a little basket] Here are some

plums for the journey. They are very sweet ones. You may want to nibble

something good on the way.



ARKADINA. You are very kind, Paulina.



PAULINA. Good-bye, my dearie. If things have not been quite as you could

have wished, please forgive us. [She weeps.]



ARKADINA. It has been delightful, delightful. You mustn’t cry.



SORIN comes in through the door on the left, dressed in a long coat with

a cape, and carrying his hat and cane. He crosses the room.



SORIN. Come, sister, it is time to start, unless you want to miss the

train. I am going to get into the carriage. [He goes out.]



MEDVIEDENKO. I shall walk quickly to the station and see you off there.

[He goes out.]



ARKADINA. Good-bye, all! We shall meet again next summer if we live.

[The maid servant, JACOB, and the cook kiss her hand] Don’t forget me.

[She gives the cook a rouble] There is a rouble for all three of you.



THE COOK. Thank you, mistress; a pleasant journey to you.



JACOB. God bless you, mistress.



SHAMRAEFF. Send us a line to cheer us up. [TO TRIGORIN] Good-bye, sir.



ARKADINA. Where is Constantine? Tell him I am starting. I must say

good-bye to him. [To JACOB] I gave the cook a rouble for all three of

you.



All go out through the door on the right. The stage remains empty.

Sounds of farewell are heard. The maid comes running back to fetch the

basket of plums which has been forgotten. TRIGORIN comes back.



TRIGORIN. I had forgotten my cane. I think I left it on the terrace. [He

goes toward the door on the right and meets NINA, who comes in at that

moment] Is that you? We are off.



NINA. I knew we should meet again. [With emotion] I have come to an

irrevocable decision, the die is cast: I am going on the stage. I am

deserting my father and abandoning everything. I am beginning life anew.

I am going, as you are, to Moscow. We shall meet there.



TRIGORIN. [Glancing about him] Go to the Hotel Slavianski Bazar. Let

me know as soon as you get there. I shall be at the Grosholski House in

Moltchanofka Street. I must go now. [A pause.]



NINA. Just one more minute!



TRIGORIN. [In a low voice] You are so beautiful! What bliss to think

that I shall see you again so soon! [She sinks on his breast] I shall

see those glorious eyes again, that wonderful, ineffably tender smile,

those gentle features with their expression of angelic purity! My

darling! [A prolonged kiss.]



The curtain falls.



Two years elapse between the third and fourth acts.









ACT IV



_A sitting-room in SORIN’S house, which has been converted into a

writing-room for TREPLIEFF. To the right and left are doors leading into

inner rooms, and in the centre is a glass door opening onto a terrace.

Besides the usual furniture of a sitting-room there is a writing-desk

in the right-hand corner of the room. There is a Turkish divan near the

door on the left, and shelves full of books stand against the walls.

Books are lying scattered about on the windowsills and chairs. It is

evening. The room is dimly lighted by a shaded lamp on a table. The wind

moans in the tree tops and whistles down the chimney. The watchman in

the garden is heard sounding his rattle. MEDVIEDENKO and MASHA come in_.



MASHA. [Calling TREPLIEFF] Mr. Constantine, where are you? [Looking

about her] There is no one here. His old uncle is forever asking for

Constantine, and can’t live without him for an instant.



MEDVIEDENKO. He dreads being left alone. [Listening to the wind] This is

a wild night. We have had this storm for two days.



MASHA. [Turning up the lamp] The waves on the lake are enormous.



MEDVIEDENKO. It is very dark in the garden. Do you know, I think that

old theatre ought to be knocked down. It is still standing there, naked

and hideous as a skeleton, with the curtain flapping in the wind. I

thought I heard a voice weeping in it as I passed there last night.



MASHA. What an idea! [A pause.]



MEDVIEDENKO. Come home with me, Masha.



MASHA. [Shaking her head] I shall spend the night here.



MEDVIEDENKO. [Imploringly] Do come, Masha. The baby must be hungry.



MASHA. Nonsense, Matriona will feed it. [A pause.]



MEDVIEDENKO. It is a pity to leave him three nights without his mother.



MASHA. You are getting too tiresome. You used sometimes to talk of other

things besides home and the baby, home and the baby. That is all I ever

hear from you now.



MEDVIEDENKO. Come home, Masha.



MASHA. You can go home if you want to.



MEDVIEDENKO. Your father won’t give me a horse.



MASHA. Yes, he will; ask him.



MEDVIEDENKO. I think I shall. Are you coming home to-morrow?



MASHA. Yes, yes, to-morrow.



She takes snuff. TREPLIEFF and PAULINA come in. TREPLIEFF is carrying

some pillows and a blanket, and PAULINA is carrying sheets and pillow

cases. They lay them on the divan, and TREPLIEFF goes and sits down at

his desk.



MASHA. Who is that for, mother?



PAULINA. Mr. Sorin asked to sleep in Constantine’s room to-night.



MASHA. Let me make the bed.



She makes the bed. PAULINA goes up to the desk and looks at the

manuscripts lying on it. [A pause.]



MEDVIEDENKO. Well, I am going. Good-bye, Masha. [He kisses his wife’s

hand] Good-bye, mother. [He tries to kiss his mother-in-law’s hand.]



PAULINA. [Crossly] Be off, in God’s name!



TREPLIEFF shakes hands with him in silence, and MEDVIEDENKO goes out.



PAULINA. [Looking at the manuscripts] No one ever dreamed, Constantine,

that you would one day turn into a real author. The magazines pay you

well for your stories. [She strokes his hair.] You have grown handsome,

too. Dear, kind Constantine, be a little nicer to my Masha.



MASHA. [Still making the bed] Leave him alone, mother.



PAULINA. She is a sweet child. [A pause] A woman, Constantine, asks only

for kind looks. I know that from experience.



TREPLIEFF gets up from his desk and goes out without a word.



MASHA. There now! You have vexed him. I told you not to bother him.



PAULINA. I am sorry for you, Masha.



MASHA. Much I need your pity!



PAULINA. My heart aches for you. I see how things are, and understand.



MASHA. You see what doesn’t exist. Hopeless love is only found in

novels. It is a trifle; all one has to do is to keep a tight rein on

oneself, and keep one’s head clear. Love must be plucked out the moment

it springs up in the heart. My husband has been promised a school in

another district, and when we have once left this place I shall forget

it all. I shall tear my passion out by the roots. [The notes of a

melancholy waltz are heard in the distance.]



PAULINA. Constantine is playing. That means he is sad.



MASHA silently waltzes a few turns to the music.



MASHA. The great thing, mother, is not to have him continually in sight.

If my Simon could only get his remove I should forget it all in a month

or two. It is a trifle.



DORN and MEDVIEDENKO come in through the door on the left, wheeling

SORIN in an arm-chair.



MEDVIEDENKO. I have six mouths to feed now, and flour is at seventy

kopecks.



DORN. A hard riddle to solve!



MEDVIEDENKO. It is easy for you to make light of it. You are rich enough

to scatter money to your chickens, if you wanted to.



DORN. You think I am rich? My friend, after practising for thirty years,

during which I could not call my soul my own for one minute of the night

or day, I succeeded at last in scraping together one thousand roubles,

all of which went, not long ago, in a trip which I took abroad. I

haven’t a penny.



MASHA. [To her husband] So you didn’t go home after all?



MEDVIEDENKO. [Apologetically] How can I go home when they won’t give me

a horse?



MASHA. [Under her breath, with bitter anger] Would I might never see

your face again!



SORIN in his chair is wheeled to the left-hand side of the room.

PAULINA, MASHA, and DORN sit down beside him. MEDVIEDENKO stands sadly

aside.



DORN. What a lot of changes you have made here! You have turned this

sitting-room into a library.



MASHA. Constantine likes to work in this room, because from it he can

step out into the garden to meditate whenever he feels like it. [The

watchman’s rattle is heard.]



SORIN. Where is my sister?



DORN. She has gone to the station to meet Trigorin. She will soon be

back.



SORIN. I must be dangerously ill if you had to send for my sister.

[He falls silent for a moment] A nice business this is! Here I am

dangerously ill, and you won’t even give me any medicine.



DORN. What shall I prescribe for you? Camomile tea? Soda? Quinine?



SORIN. Don’t inflict any of your discussions on me again. [He nods

toward the sofa] Is that bed for me?



PAULINA. Yes, for you, sir.



SORIN. Thank you.



DORN. [Sings] “The moon swims in the sky to-night.”



SORIN. I am going to give Constantine an idea for a story. It shall be

called “The Man Who Wished--L’Homme qui a voulu.” When I was young, I

wished to become an author; I failed. I wished to be an orator; I speak

abominably, [Exciting himself] with my eternal “and all, and all,”

 dragging each sentence on and on until I sometimes break out into a

sweat all over. I wished to marry, and I didn’t; I wished to live in the

city, and here I am ending my days in the country, and all.



DORN. You wished to become State Councillor, and--you are one!



SORIN. [Laughing] I didn’t try for that, it came of its own accord.



DORN. Come, you must admit that it is petty to cavil at life at

sixty-two years of age.



SORIN. You are pig-headed! Can’t you see I want to live?



DORN. That is futile. Nature has commanded that every life shall come to

an end.



SORIN. You speak like a man who is satiated with life. Your thirst for

it is quenched, and so you are calm and indifferent, but even you dread

death.



DORN. The fear of death is an animal passion which must be overcome.

Only those who believe in a future life and tremble for sins committed,

can logically fear death; but you, for one thing, don’t believe in a

future life, and for another, you haven’t committed any sins. You have

served as a Councillor for twenty-five years, that is all.



SORIN. [Laughing] Twenty-eight years!



TREPLIEFF comes in and sits down on a stool at SORIN’S feet. MASHA fixes

her eyes on his face and never once tears them away.



DORN. We are keeping Constantine from his work.



TREPLIEFF. No matter. [A pause.]



MEDVIEDENKO. Of all the cities you visited when you were abroad, Doctor,

which one did you like the best?



DORN. Genoa.



TREPLIEFF. Why Genoa?



DORN. Because there is such a splendid crowd in its streets. When you

leave the hotel in the evening, and throw yourself into the heart of

that throng, and move with it without aim or object, swept along, hither

and thither, their life seems to be yours, their soul flows into you,

and you begin to believe at last in a great world spirit, like the one

in your play that Nina Zarietchnaya acted. By the way, where is Nina

now? Is she well?



TREPLIEFF. I believe so.



DORN. I hear she has led rather a strange life; what happened?



TREPLIEFF. It is a long story, Doctor.



DORN. Tell it shortly. [A pause.]



TREPLIEFF. She ran away from home and joined Trigorin; you know that?



DORN. Yes.



TREPLIEFF. She had a child that died. Trigorin soon tired of her and

returned to his former ties, as might have been expected. He had

never broken them, indeed, but out of weakness of character had always

vacillated between the two. As far as I can make out from what I have

heard, Nina’s domestic life has not been altogether a success.



DORN. What about her acting?



TREPLIEFF. I believe she made an even worse failure of that. She made

her debut on the stage of the Summer Theatre in Moscow, and afterward

made a tour of the country towns. At that time I never let her out of my

sight, and wherever she went I followed. She always attempted great

and difficult parts, but her delivery was harsh and monotonous, and her

gestures heavy and crude. She shrieked and died well at times, but those

were but moments.



DORN. Then she really has a talent for acting?



TREPLIEFF. I never could make out. I believe she has. I saw her, but she

refused to see me, and her servant would never admit me to her rooms. I

appreciated her feelings, and did not insist upon a meeting. [A pause]

What more can I tell you? She sometimes writes to me now that I have

come home, such clever, sympathetic letters, full of warm feeling. She

never complains, but I can tell that she is profoundly unhappy; not a

line but speaks to me of an aching, breaking nerve. She has one strange

fancy; she always signs herself “The Sea-gull.” The miller in “Rusalka”

 called himself “The Crow,” and so she repeats in all her letters that

she is a sea-gull. She is here now.



DORN. What do you mean by “here?”



TREPLIEFF. In the village, at the inn. She has been there for five days.

I should have gone to see her, but Masha here went, and she refuses to

see any one. Some one told me she had been seen wandering in the fields

a mile from here yesterday evening.



MEDVIEDENKO. Yes, I saw her. She was walking away from here in the

direction of the village. I asked her why she had not been to see us.

She said she would come.



TREPLIEFF. But she won’t. [A pause] Her father and stepmother have

disowned her. They have even put watchmen all around their estate to

keep her away. [He goes with the doctor toward the desk] How easy it is,

Doctor, to be a philosopher on paper, and how difficult in real life!



SORIN. She was a beautiful girl. Even the State Councillor himself was

in love with her for a time.



DORN. You old Lovelace, you!



SHAMRAEFF’S laugh is heard.



PAULINA. They are coming back from the station.



TREPLIEFF. Yes, I hear my mother’s voice.



ARKADINA and TRIGORIN come in, followed by SHAMRAEFF.



SHAMRAEFF. We all grow old and wither, my lady, while you alone, with

your light dress, your gay spirits, and your grace, keep the secret of

eternal youth.



ARKADINA. You are still trying to turn my head, you tiresome old man.



TRIGORIN. [To SORIN] How do you do, Peter? What, still ill? How silly of

you! [With evident pleasure, as he catches sight of MASHA] How are you,

Miss Masha?



MASHA. So you recognised me? [She shakes hands with him.]



TRIGORIN. Did you marry him?



MASHA. Long ago.



TRIGORIN. You are happy now? [He bows to DORN and MEDVIEDENKO, and then

goes hesitatingly toward TREPLIEFF] Your mother says you have forgotten

the past and are no longer angry with me.



TREPLIEFF gives him his hand.



ARKADINA. [To her son] Here is a magazine that Boris has brought you

with your latest story in it.



TREPLIEFF. [To TRIGORIN, as he takes the magazine] Many thanks; you are

very kind.



TRIGORIN. Your admirers all send you their regards. Every one in Moscow

and St. Petersburg is interested in you, and all ply me with questions

about you. They ask me what you look like, how old you are, whether you

are fair or dark. For some reason they all think that you are no longer

young, and no one knows who you are, as you always write under an

assumed name. You are as great a mystery as the Man in the Iron Mask.



TREPLIEFF. Do you expect to be here long?



TRIGORIN. No, I must go back to Moscow to-morrow. I am finishing another

novel, and have promised something to a magazine besides. In fact, it is

the same old business.



During their conversation ARKADINA and PAULINA have put up a card-table

in the centre of the room; SHAMRAEFF lights the candles and arranges the

chairs, then fetches a box of lotto from the cupboard.



TRIGORIN. The weather has given me a rough welcome. The wind is

frightful. If it goes down by morning I shall go fishing in the

lake, and shall have a look at the garden and the spot--do you

remember?--where your play was given. I remember the piece very well,

but should like to see again where the scene was laid.



MASHA. [To her father] Father, do please let my husband have a horse. He

ought to go home.



SHAMRAEFF. [Angrily] A horse to go home with! [Sternly] You know the

horses have just been to the station. I can’t send them out again.



MASHA. But there are other horses. [Seeing that her father remains

silent] You are impossible!



MEDVIEDENKO. I shall go on foot, Masha.



PAULINA. [With a sigh] On foot in this weather? [She takes a seat at the

card-table] Shall we begin?



MEDVIEDENKO. It is only six miles. Good-bye. [He kisses his wife’s

hand;] Good-bye, mother. [His mother-in-law gives him her hand

unwillingly] I should not have troubled you all, but the baby--[He bows

to every one] Good-bye. [He goes out with an apologetic air.]



SHAMRAEFF. He will get there all right, he is not a major-general.



PAULINA. Come, let us begin. Don’t let us waste time, we shall soon be

called to supper.



SHAMRAEFF, MASHA, and DORN sit down at the card-table.



ARKADINA. [To TRIGORIN] When the long autumn evenings descend on us we

while away the time here by playing lotto. Look at this old set; we used

it when our mother played with us as children. Don’t you want to take a

hand in the game with us until supper time? [She and TRIGORIN sit down

at the table] It is a monotonous game, but it is all right when one gets

used to it. [She deals three cards to each of the players.]



TREPLIEFF. [Looking through the pages of the magazine] He has read his

own story, and hasn’t even cut the pages of mine.



He lays the magazine on his desk and goes toward the door on the right,

stopping as he passes his mother to give her a kiss.



ARKADINA. Won’t you play, Constantine?



TREPLIEFF. No, excuse me please, I don’t feel like it. I am going to

take a turn through the rooms. [He goes out.]



MASHA. Are you all ready? I shall begin: twenty-two.



ARKADINA. Here it is.



MASHA. Three.



DORN. Right.



MASHA. Have you put down three? Eight. Eighty-one. Ten.



SHAMRAEFF. Don’t go so fast.



ARKADINA. Could you believe it? I am still dazed by the reception they

gave me in Kharkoff.



MASHA. Thirty-four. [The notes of a melancholy waltz are heard.]



ARKADINA. The students gave me an ovation; they sent me three baskets of

flowers, a wreath, and this thing here.



She unclasps a brooch from her breast and lays it on the table.



SHAMRAEFF. There is something worth while!



MASHA. Fifty.



DORN. Fifty, did you say?



ARKADINA. I wore a perfectly magnificent dress; I am no fool when it

comes to clothes.



PAULINA. Constantine is playing again; the poor boy is sad.



SHAMRAEFF. He has been severely criticised in the papers.



MASHA. Seventy-seven.



ARKADINA. They want to attract attention to him.



TRIGORIN. He doesn’t seem able to make a success, he can’t somehow

strike the right note. There is an odd vagueness about his writings

that sometimes verges on delirium. He has never created a single living

character.



MASHA. Eleven.



ARKADINA. Are you bored, Peter? [A pause] He is asleep.



DORN. The Councillor is taking a nap.



MASHA. Seven. Ninety.



TRIGORIN. Do you think I should write if I lived in such a place as

this, on the shore of this lake? Never! I should overcome my passion,

and give my life up to the catching of fish.



MASHA. Twenty-eight.



TRIGORIN. And if I caught a perch or a bass, what bliss it would be!



DORN. I have great faith in Constantine. I know there is something in

him. He thinks in images; his stories are vivid and full of colour,

and always affect me deeply. It is only a pity that he has no definite

object in view. He creates impressions, and nothing more, and one cannot

go far on impressions alone. Are you glad, madam, that you have an

author for a son?



ARKADINA. Just think, I have never read anything of his; I never have

time.



MASHA. Twenty-six.



TREPLIEFF comes in quietly and sits down at his table.



SHAMRAEFF. [To TRIGORIN] We have something here that belongs to you,

sir.



TRIGORIN. What is it?



SHAMRAEFF. You told me to have the sea-gull stuffed that Mr. Constantine

killed some time ago.



TRIGORIN. Did I? [Thoughtfully] I don’t remember.



MASHA. Sixty-one. One.



TREPLIEFF throws open the window and stands listening.



TREPLIEFF. How dark the night is! I wonder what makes me so restless.



ARKADINA. Shut the window, Constantine, there is a draught here.



TREPLIEFF shuts the window.



MASHA. Ninety-eight.



TRIGORIN. See, my card is full.



ARKADINA. [Gaily] Bravo! Bravo!



SHAMRAEFF. Bravo!



ARKADINA. Wherever he goes and whatever he does, that man always has

good luck. [She gets up] And now, come to supper. Our renowned guest did

not have any dinner to-day. We can continue our game later. [To her son]

Come, Constantine, leave your writing and come to supper.



TREPLIEFF. I don’t want anything to eat, mother; I am not hungry.



ARKADINA. As you please. [She wakes SORIN] Come to supper, Peter. [She

takes SHAMRAEFF’S arm] Let me tell you about my reception in Kharkoff.



PAULINA blows out the candles on the table, then she and DORN roll

SORIN’S chair out of the room, and all go out through the door on the

left, except TREPLIEFF, who is left alone. TREPLIEFF prepares to write.

He runs his eye over what he has already written.



TREPLIEFF. I have talked a great deal about new forms of art, but I feel

myself gradually slipping into the beaten track. [He reads] “The

placard cried it from the wall--a pale face in a frame of dusky

hair”--cried--frame--that is stupid. [He scratches out what he has

written] I shall begin again from the place where my hero is wakened by

the noise of the rain, but what follows must go. This description of a

moonlight night is long and stilted. Trigorin has worked out a process

of his own, and descriptions are easy for him. He writes that the neck

of a broken bottle lying on the bank glittered in the moonlight, and

that the shadows lay black under the mill-wheel. There you have a

moonlight night before your eyes, but I speak of the shimmering light,

the twinkling stars, the distant sounds of a piano melting into the

still and scented air, and the result is abominable. [A pause] The

conviction is gradually forcing itself upon me that good literature is

not a question of forms new or old, but of ideas that must pour freely

from the author’s heart, without his bothering his head about any forms

whatsoever. [A knock is heard at the window nearest the table] What was

that? [He looks out of the window] I can’t see anything. [He opens the

glass door and looks out into the garden] I heard some one run down

the steps. [He calls] Who is there? [He goes out, and is heard walking

quickly along the terrace. In a few minutes he comes back with NINA

ZARIETCHNAYA] Oh, Nina, Nina!



NINA lays her head on TREPLIEFF’S breast and stifles her sobs.



TREPLIEFF. [Deeply moved] Nina, Nina! It is you--you! I felt you would

come; all day my heart has been aching for you. [He takes off her hat

and cloak] My darling, my beloved has come back to me! We mustn’t cry,

we mustn’t cry.



NINA. There is some one here.



TREPLIEFF. No one is here.



NINA. Lock the door, some one might come.



TREPLIEFF. No one will come in.



NINA. I know your mother is here. Lock the door.



TREPLIEFF locks the door on the right and comes back to NINA.



TREPLIEFF. There is no lock on that one. I shall put a chair against

it. [He puts an arm-chair against the door] Don’t be frightened, no one

shall come in.



NINA. [Gazing intently into his face] Let me look at you. [She looks

about her] It is warm and comfortable in here. This used to be a

sitting-room. Have I changed much?



TREPLIEFF. Yes, you have grown thinner, and your eyes are larger than

they were. Nina, it seems so strange to see you! Why didn’t you let me

go to you? Why didn’t you come sooner to me? You have been here nearly a

week, I know. I have been several times each day to where you live, and

have stood like a beggar beneath your window.



NINA. I was afraid you might hate me. I dream every night that you look

at me without recognising me. I have been wandering about on the shores

of the lake ever since I came back. I have often been near your house,

but I have never had the courage to come in. Let us sit down. [They sit

down] Let us sit down and talk our hearts out. It is so quiet and warm

in here. Do you hear the wind whistling outside? As Turgenieff says,

“Happy is he who can sit at night under the roof of his home, who has a

warm corner in which to take refuge.” I am a sea-gull--and yet--no.

[She passes her hand across her forehead] What was I saying? Oh, yes,

Turgenieff. He says, “and God help all houseless wanderers.” [She sobs.]



TREPLIEFF. Nina! You are crying again, Nina!



NINA. It is all right. I shall feel better after this. I have not cried

for two years. I went into the garden last night to see if our old

theatre were still standing. I see it is. I wept there for the first

time in two years, and my heart grew lighter, and my soul saw more

clearly again. See, I am not crying now. [She takes his hand in hers]

So you are an author now, and I am an actress. We have both been sucked

into the whirlpool. My life used to be as happy as a child’s; I used to

wake singing in the morning; I loved you and dreamt of fame, and what is

the reality? To-morrow morning early I must start for Eltz by train in

a third-class carriage, with a lot of peasants, and at Eltz the educated

trades-people will pursue me with compliments. It is a rough life.



TREPLIEFF. Why are you going to Eltz?



NINA. I have accepted an engagement there for the winter. It is time for

me to go.



TREPLIEFF. Nina, I have cursed you, and hated you, and torn up your

photograph, and yet I have known every minute of my life that my heart

and soul were yours for ever. To cease from loving you is beyond my

power. I have suffered continually from the time I lost you and began

to write, and my life has been almost unendurable. My youth was suddenly

plucked from me then, and I seem now to have lived in this world for

ninety years. I have called out to you, I have kissed the ground you

walked on, wherever I looked I have seen your face before my eyes, and

the smile that had illumined for me the best years of my life.



NINA. [Despairingly] Why, why does he talk to me like this?



TREPLIEFF. I am quite alone, unwarmed by any attachment. I am as cold

as if I were living in a cave. Whatever I write is dry and gloomy and

harsh. Stay here, Nina, I beseech you, or else let me go away with you.



NINA quickly puts on her coat and hat.



TREPLIEFF. Nina, why do you do that? For God’s sake, Nina! [He watches

her as she dresses. A pause.]



NINA. My carriage is at the gate. Do not come out to see me off. I shall

find the way alone. [Weeping] Let me have some water.



TREPLIEFF hands her a glass of water.



TREPLIEFF. Where are you going?



NINA. Back to the village. Is your mother here?



TREPLIEFF. Yes, my uncle fell ill on Thursday, and we telegraphed for

her to come.



NINA. Why do you say that you have kissed the ground I walked on? You

should kill me rather. [She bends over the table] I am so tired. If I

could only rest--rest. [She raises her head] I am a sea-gull--no--no,

I am an actress. [She hears ARKADINA and TRIGORIN laughing in the

distance, runs to the door on the left and looks through the keyhole] He

is there too. [She goes back to TREPLIEFF] Ah, well--no matter. He

does not believe in the theatre; he used to laugh at my dreams, so that

little by little I became down-hearted and ceased to believe in it too.

Then came all the cares of love, the continual anxiety about my little

one, so that I soon grew trivial and spiritless, and played my parts

without meaning. I never knew what to do with my hands, and I could not

walk properly or control my voice. You cannot imagine the state of mind

of one who knows as he goes through a play how terribly badly he is

acting. I am a sea-gull--no--no, that is not what I meant to say. Do you

remember how you shot a seagull once? A man chanced to pass that way and

destroyed it out of idleness. That is an idea for a short story, but it

is not what I meant to say. [She passes her hand across her forehead]

What was I saying? Oh, yes, the stage. I have changed now. Now I am a

real actress. I act with joy, with exaltation, I am intoxicated by it,

and feel that I am superb. I have been walking and walking, and thinking

and thinking, ever since I have been here, and I feel the strength of

my spirit growing in me every day. I know now, I understand at last,

Constantine, that for us, whether we write or act, it is not the honour

and glory of which I have dreamt that is important, it is the strength

to endure. One must know how to bear one’s cross, and one must have

faith. I believe, and so do not suffer so much, and when I think of my

calling I do not fear life.



TREPLIEFF. [Sadly] You have found your way, you know where you are

going, but I am still groping in a chaos of phantoms and dreams, not

knowing whom and what end I am serving by it all. I do not believe in

anything, and I do not know what my calling is.



NINA. [Listening] Hush! I must go. Good-bye. When I have become a

famous actress you must come and see me. Will you promise to come? But

now--[She takes his hand] it is late. I can hardly stand. I am fainting.

I am hungry.



TREPLIEFF. Stay, and let me bring you some supper.



NINA. No, no--and don’t come out, I can find the way alone. My carriage

is not far away. So she brought him back with her? However, what

difference can that make to me? Don’t tell Trigorin anything when you

see him. I love him--I love him even more than I used to. It is an idea

for a short story. I love him--I love him passionately--I love him to

despair. Have you forgotten, Constantine, how pleasant the old times

were? What a gay, bright, gentle, pure life we led? How a feeling as

sweet and tender as a flower blossomed in our hearts? Do you remember,

[She recites] “All men and beasts, lions, eagles, and quails, horned

stags, geese, spiders, silent fish that inhabit the waves, starfish from

the sea, and creatures invisible to the eye--in one word, life--all, all

life, completing the dreary round set before it, has died out at last.

A thousand years have passed since the earth last bore a living creature

on its breast, and the unhappy moon now lights her lamp in vain. No

longer are the cries of storks heard in the meadows, or the drone of

beetles in the groves of limes----”



She embraces TREPLIEFF impetuously and runs out onto the terrace.



TREPLIEFF. [After a pause] It would be a pity if she were seen in the

garden. My mother would be distressed.



He stands for several minutes tearing up his manuscripts and throwing

them under the table, then unlocks the door on the right and goes out.



DORN. [Trying to force open the door on the left] Odd! This door seems

to be locked. [He comes in and puts the chair back in its former place]

This is like a hurdle race.



ARKADINA and PAULINA come in, followed by JACOB carrying some bottles;

then come MASHA, SHAMRAEFF, and TRIGORIN.



ARKADINA. Put the claret and the beer here, on the table, so that we can

drink while we are playing. Sit down, friends.



PAULINA. And bring the tea at once.



She lights the candles and takes her seat at the card-table. SHAMRAEFF

leads TRIGORIN to the cupboard.



SHAMRAEFF. Here is the stuffed sea-gull I was telling you about. [He

takes the sea-gull out of the cupboard] You told me to have it done.



TRIGORIN. [looking at the bird] I don’t remember a thing about it, not a

thing. [A shot is heard. Every one jumps.]



ARKADINA. [Frightened] What was that?



DORN. Nothing at all; probably one of my medicine bottles has blown up.

Don’t worry. [He goes out through the door on the right, and comes back

in a few moments] It is as I thought, a flask of ether has exploded. [He

sings]



“Spellbound once more I stand before thee.”



ARKADINA. [Sitting down at the table] Heavens! I was really frightened.

That noise reminded me of--[She covers her face with her hands]

Everything is black before my eyes.



DORN. [Looking through the pages of a magazine, to TRIGORIN] There was

an article from America in this magazine about two months ago that I

wanted to ask you about, among other things. [He leads TRIGORIN to the

front of the stage] I am very much interested in this question. [He

lowers his voice and whispers] You must take Madame Arkadina away from

here; what I wanted to say was, that Constantine has shot himself.



The curtain falls.