READ STUDY GUIDE: First half of Act Two | Second half of Act Two |
|
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. |
|
|
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|
