The sea-gull
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