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SWAN SONG
by Anton Checkov
Translated From The Russian, With An Introduction By Marian Fell
Contents
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INTRODUCTION
ANTON TCHEKOFF
THE last years of the nineteenth century were for Russia tinged with doubt and gloom. The high-tide of vitality that had risen during the Turkish war ebbed in the early eighties, leaving behind it a dead level of apathy which lasted until life was again quickened by the high interests of the Revolution. During these grey years the lonely country and stagnant provincial towns of Russia buried a peasantry which was enslaved by want and toil, and an educated upper class which was enslaved by idleness and tedium. Most of the “Intellectuals,” with no outlet for their energies, were content to forget their ennui in vodka and card-playing; only the more idealistic gasped for air in the stifling atmosphere, crying out in despair against life as they saw it, and looking forward with a pathetic hope to happiness for humanity in “two or three hundred years.” It is the inevitable tragedy of their existence, and the pitiful humour of their surroundings, that are portrayed with such insight and sympathy by Anton Tchekoff who is, perhaps, of modern writers, the dearest to the Russian people.
The last years of the nineteenth century were filled with uncertainty and sadness for Russia. The burst of energy that had come during the Turkish war faded in the early eighties, leaving a dull sense of apathy that persisted until the vibrant interests of the Revolution reignited life. During these bleak years, the desolate countryside and stagnant provincial towns of Russia buried a peasantry trapped by poverty and hard work, and an educated upper class held captive by idleness and boredom. Most of the “Intellectuals,” lacking an outlet for their energy, chose to drown their monotony in vodka and card games; only the more idealistic among them struggled to breathe in the stifling atmosphere, crying out in despair about life as they perceived it, while holding onto a futile hope for human happiness in “two or three hundred years.” It is the unavoidable tragedy of their lives, mixed with the tragic humor of their circumstances, that is captured with such insight and empathy by Anton Chekhov, who may be the most cherished modern writer among the Russian people.
Anton Tchekoff was born in the old Black Sea port of Taganrog on January 17, 1860. His grandfather had been a serf; his father married a merchant’s daughter and settled in Taganrog, where, during Anton’s boyhood, he carried on a small and unsuccessful trade in provisions. The young Tchekoff was soon impressed into the services of the large, poverty-stricken family, and he spoke regretfully in after years of his hard-worked childhood. But he was obedient and good-natured, and worked cheerfully in his father’s shop, closely observing the idlers that assembled there, and gathering the drollest stories, which he would afterward whisper in class to his laughing schoolfellows. Many were the punishments which he incurred by this habit, which was incorrigible.
Anton Chekhov was born in the old Black Sea port of Taganrog on January 17, 1860. His grandfather had been a serf; his father married a merchant’s daughter and settled in Taganrog, where, during Anton’s childhood, he ran a small and unsuccessful grocery business. The young Chekhov was soon pulled into the demands of the large, struggling family, and he later spoke sadly about his hard childhood. However, he was obedient and good-natured, working cheerfully in his father’s shop, closely watching the idle locals who gathered there, and collecting the funniest stories, which he would later whisper to his laughing classmates. He faced many punishments due to this habit, which was unchangeable.
His grandfather had now become manager of an estate near Taganrog, in the wild steppe country of the Don Cossacks, and here the boy spent his summers, fishing in the river, and roving about the countryside as brown as a gipsy, sowing the seeds of that love for nature which he retained all his life. His evenings he liked best to spend in the kitchen of the master’s house among the work people and peasants who gathered there, taking part in their games, and setting them all laughing by his witty and telling observations.
His grandfather had become the manager of an estate near Taganrog, in the wild steppe region of the Don Cossacks. The boy spent his summers there, fishing in the river and roaming the countryside looking as tanned as a gypsy, planting the seeds of a lifelong love for nature. He loved spending his evenings in the kitchen of the master’s house with the workers and peasants who gathered there, joining in their games and making everyone laugh with his clever and insightful comments.
When Tchekoff was about fourteen, his father moved the family to Moscow, leaving Anton in Taganrog, and now, relieved of work in the shop, his progress at school became remarkable. At seventeen he wrote a long tragedy, which was afterward destroyed, and he already showed flashes of the wit that was soon to blaze into genius.
When Tchekoff was around fourteen, his father relocated the family to Moscow, leaving Anton in Taganrog. Now free from work in the shop, his progress in school became impressive. By seventeen, he had written a lengthy tragedy that was later destroyed, and he was already displaying the wit that would soon turn into genius.
He graduated from the high school at Taganrog with every honour, entered the University of Moscow as a student of medicine, and threw himself headlong into a double life of student and author, in the attempt to help his struggling family.
He graduated from high school in Taganrog with top honors, enrolled at the University of Moscow as a medical student, and dove headfirst into a dual life as a student and writer, trying to support his struggling family.
His first story appeared in a Moscow paper in 1880, and after some difficulty he secured a position connected with several of the smaller periodicals, for which, during his student years, he poured forth a succession of short stories and sketches of Russian life with incredible rapidity. He wrote, he tells us, during every spare minute, in crowded rooms where there was “no light and less air,” and never spent more than a day on any one story. He also wrote at this time a very stirring blood-and-thunder play which was suppressed by the censor, and the fate of which is not known.
His first story was published in a Moscow newspaper in 1880, and after some challenges, he landed a job with several smaller magazines. During his student years, he produced a stream of short stories and sketches about Russian life at an incredible pace. He wrote, as he says, during every free moment, in crowded spaces where there was “no light and less air,” and never spent more than a day on any single story. He also wrote a very intense and dramatic play during this time, but it was censored, and its fate remains unknown.
His audience demanded laughter above all things, and, with his deep sense of the ridiculous, Tchekoff asked nothing better. His stories, though often based on themes profoundly tragic, are penetrated by the light and subtle satire that has won him his reputation as a great humourist. But though there was always a smile on his lips, it was a tender one, and his sympathy with suffering often brought his laughter near to tears.
His audience wanted laughter above all else, and with his keen sense of the absurd, Tchekoff couldn’t have asked for anything more. His stories, while often rooted in deeply tragic themes, are infused with the light and subtle satire that has earned him a reputation as a great humorist. But even though there was always a smile on his lips, it was a gentle one, and his empathy for suffering often brought his laughter close to tears.
This delicate and original genius was at first subjected to harsh criticism, which Tchekoff felt keenly, and Trigorin’s description in “The Sea-Gull” of the trials of a young author is a cry from Tchekoff’s own soul. A passionate enemy of all lies and oppression, he already foreshadows in these early writings the protest against conventions and rules, which he afterward put into Treplieff’s reply to Sorin in “The Sea-Gull”: “Let us have new forms, or else nothing at all.”
This sensitive and original genius faced harsh criticism at first, which Tchekoff felt deeply, and Trigorin’s portrayal of a young author’s struggles in “The Sea-Gull” mirrors Tchekoff’s own experiences. A passionate opponent of all lies and oppression, he already hints in these early works at a rebellion against conventions and rules, which he later expressed through Treplieff’s response to Sorin in “The Sea-Gull”: “Let’s have new forms, or nothing at all.”
In 1884 he took his degree as doctor of medicine, and decided to practise, although his writing had by now taken on a professional character. He always gave his calling a high place, and the doctors in his works are drawn with affection and understanding. If any one spoke slightingly of doctors in his presence, he would exclaim: “Stop! You don’t know what country doctors do for the people!”
In 1884, he earned his medical degree and chose to practice medicine, even though his writing had started to become more professional. He always held his profession in high regard, and the doctors in his stories are portrayed with warmth and insight. If anyone spoke poorly of doctors in front of him, he would say, “Wait! You have no idea what country doctors do for the community!”
Tchekoff fully realised later the influence which his profession had exercised on his literary work, and sometimes regretted the too vivid insight it gave him, but, on the other hand, he was able to write: “Only a doctor can know what value my knowledge of science has been to me,” and “It seems to me that as a doctor I have described the sicknesses of the soul correctly.” For instance, Trigorin’s analysis in “The Sea-Gull” of the state of mind of an author has well been called “artistic diagnosis.”
Tchekhov eventually realized the impact his profession had on his writing and occasionally wished he didn't have such a clear perspective, but on the flip side, he expressed, “Only a doctor can understand how valuable my scientific knowledge has been to me,” and “As a doctor, I feel I have accurately portrayed the ailments of the soul.” For example, Trigorin’s breakdown in “The Sea-Gull” of an author’s mindset has been aptly described as “artistic diagnosis.”
The young doctor-writer is described at this time as modest and grave, with flashes of brilliant gaiety. A son of the people, there was in his face an expression that recalled the simple-hearted village lad; his eyes were blue, his glance full of intelligence and kindness, and his manners unaffected and simple. He was an untiring worker, and between his patients and his desk he led a life of ceaseless activity. His restless mind was dominated by a passion of energy and he thought continually and vividly. Often, while jesting and talking, he would seem suddenly to plunge into himself, and his look would grow fixed and deep, as if he were contemplating something important and strange. Then he would ask some unexpected question, which showed how far his mind had roamed.
The young doctor-writer is described at this time as modest and serious, with bursts of bright cheerfulness. A man of the people, his face had an expression that reminded one of the innocent village boy; his eyes were blue, his gaze full of intelligence and kindness, and his manners were genuine and straightforward. He was a tireless worker, and between his patients and his writing, he lived a life of nonstop activity. His restless mind was fueled by a strong drive, and he thought continuously and vividly. Often, while joking and chatting, he would suddenly seem to withdraw into himself, and his expression would become focused and intense, as if he were contemplating something significant and strange. Then he would ask an unexpected question, revealing how far his mind had wandered.
Success was now rapidly overtaking the young author; his first collection of stories appeared in 1887, another one in the same year had immediate success, and both went through many editions; but, at the same time, the shadows that darkened his later works began to creep over his light-hearted humour.
Success was quickly catching up with the young author; his first collection of stories came out in 1887, another one released the same year was an instant hit, and both went through numerous editions. However, the darker themes that would later characterize his works started to overshadow his playful sense of humor.
His impressionable mind began to take on the grey tinge of his time, but much of his sadness may also be attributed to his ever-increasing ill health.
His impressionable mind started to absorb the dullness of his era, but a lot of his sadness can also be linked to his worsening health.
Weary and with an obstinate cough, he went south in 1888, took a little cottage on the banks of a little river “abounding in fish and crabs,” and surrendered himself to his touching love for nature, happy in his passion for fishing, in the quiet of the country, and in the music and gaiety of the peasants. “One would gladly sell one’s soul,” he writes, “for the pleasure of seeing the warm evening sky, and the streams and pools reflecting the darkly mournful sunset.” He described visits to his country neighbours and long drives in gay company, during which, he says, “we ate every half hour, and laughed to the verge of colic.”
Weary and with a stubborn cough, he headed south in 1888, rented a small cottage by a river “full of fish and crabs,” and immersed himself in his deep love for nature, finding joy in fishing, the peace of the countryside, and the music and cheerfulness of the locals. “One would happily sell one’s soul,” he writes, “for the joy of seeing the warm evening sky and the streams and pools reflecting the dark, melancholic sunset.” He talked about visits to his rural neighbors and long drives with cheerful company, during which, he says, “we ate every half hour, and laughed until we almost got sick.”
His health, however, did not improve. In 1889 he began to have attacks of heart trouble, and the sensitive artist’s nature appears in a remark which he made after one of them. “I walked quickly across the terrace on which the guests were assembled,” he said, “with one idea in my mind, how awkward it would be to fall down and die in the presence of strangers.”
His health, however, didn't get better. In 1889, he started having episodes of heart trouble, and the sensitive artist's nature came through in a comment he made after one of them. “I quickly walked across the terrace where the guests were gathered,” he said, “with one thought in my mind: how embarrassing it would be to collapse and die in front of strangers.”
It was during this transition period of his life, when his youthful spirits were failing him, that the stage, for which he had always felt a fascination, tempted him to write “Ivanoff,” and also a dramatic sketch in one act entitled “The Swan Song,” though he often declared that he had no ambition to become a dramatist. “The Novel,” he wrote, “is a lawful wife, but the Stage is a noisy, flashy, and insolent mistress.” He has put his opinion of the stage of his day in the mouth of Treplieff, in “The Sea-Gull,” and he often refers to it in his letters as “an evil disease of the towns” and “the gallows on which dramatists are hanged.”
It was during this transitional phase of his life, when his youthful energy was dwindling, that the stage, which he had always been intrigued by, inspired him to write “Ivanoff” and a one-act play called “The Swan Song,” even though he frequently claimed that he had no desire to be a playwright. “The Novel,” he wrote, “is a faithful wife, but the Stage is a loud, flashy, and arrogant mistress.” He expressed his views on the theater of his time through the character Treplieff in “The Sea-Gull,” and he often referred to it in his letters as “a harmful affliction of the cities” and “the gallows where playwrights are executed.”
He wrote “Ivanoff” at white-heat in two and a half weeks, as a protest against a play he had seen at one of the Moscow theatres. Ivanoff (from Ivan, the commonest of Russian names) was by no means meant to be a hero, but a most ordinary, weak man oppressed by the “immortal commonplaces of life,” with his heart and soul aching in the grip of circumstance, one of the many “useless people” of Russia for whose sorrow Tchekoff felt such overwhelming pity. He saw nothing in their lives that could not be explained and pardoned, and he returns to his ill-fated, “useless people” again and again, not to preach any doctrine of pessimism, but simply because he thought that the world was the better for a certain fragile beauty of their natures and their touching faith in the ultimate salvation of humanity.
He wrote “Ivanoff” in a creative frenzy in just two and a half weeks, as a reaction to a play he had watched at one of the theaters in Moscow. Ivanoff (from Ivan, the most common Russian name) was definitely not intended to be a hero, but rather an ordinary, weak man overwhelmed by the "ever-present realities of life," with his heart and soul tormented by his circumstances, one of the many "useless people" in Russia for whom Tchekoff felt deep compassion. He found nothing in their lives that couldn’t be understood and forgiven, and he revisits his ill-fated "useless people" repeatedly, not to promote any doctrine of pessimism, but simply because he believed that the world benefitted from the delicate beauty of their character and their heartfelt faith in the eventual salvation of humanity.
Both the writing and staging of “Ivanoff” gave Tchekoff great difficulty. The characters all being of almost equal importance, he found it hard to get enough good actors to take the parts, but it finally appeared in Moscow in 1889, a decided failure! The author had touched sharply several sensitive spots of Russian life—for instance, in his warning not to marry a Jewess or a blue-stocking—and the play was also marred by faults of inexperience, which, however, he later corrected. The critics were divided in condemning a certain novelty in it and in praising its freshness and originality. The character of Ivanoff was not understood, and the weakness of the man blinded many to the lifelike portrait. Tchekoff himself was far from pleased with what he called his “literary abortion,” and rewrote it before it was produced again in St. Petersburg. Here it was received with the wildest applause, and the morning after its performance the papers burst into unanimous praise. The author was enthusiastically feted, but the burden of his growing fame was beginning to be very irksome to him, and he wrote wearily at this time that he longed to be in the country, fishing in the lake, or lying in the hay.
Both the writing and staging of “Ivanoff” were really challenging for Tchekoff. The characters were almost equally important, making it tough for him to find enough good actors for the roles. It finally premiered in Moscow in 1889, but it was a complete flop! The author had hit on some sensitive topics in Russian life—like advising against marrying a Jewish woman or a blue-stocking—and the play also suffered from his inexperience, which he eventually fixed. Critics were split, with some condemning its novelty while others praised its freshness and originality. The character of Ivanoff was misunderstood, and many people overlooked the realistic portrayal due to the man's weaknesses. Tchekoff himself was far from happy with what he called his “literary abortion,” and he rewrote it before it was performed again in St. Petersburg. This time, it received a huge ovation, and the next morning, the newspapers were filled with unanimous praise. The author was celebrated, but the weight of his rising fame was beginning to feel burdensome, and he wearily wrote at that time that he longed to be in the countryside, fishing in the lake or lying in the hay.
His next play to appear was a farce entitled “The Boor,” which he wrote in a single evening and which had a great success. This was followed by “The Demon,” a failure, rewritten ten years later as “Uncle Vanya.”
His next play to be released was a comedy called “The Boor,” which he wrote in one night and was a huge success. This was followed by “The Demon,” which didn't do well, but he rewrote it ten years later as “Uncle Vanya.”
All Russia now combined in urging Tchekoff to write some important work, and this, too, was the writer’s dream; but his only long story is “The Steppe,” which is, after all, but a series of sketches, exquisitely drawn, and strung together on the slenderest connecting thread. Tchekoff’s delicate and elusive descriptive power did not lend itself to painting on a large canvas, and his strange little tragicomedies of Russian life, his “Tedious Tales,” as he called them, were always to remain his masterpieces.
All of Russia was now united in encouraging Chekhov to write something significant, which was also the writer’s aspiration; however, his only lengthy story is “The Steppe,” which is actually just a collection of beautifully crafted sketches loosely connected. Chekhov’s subtle and elusive descriptive style didn’t suit creating large-scale works, and his quirky little tragicomedies about Russian life, which he referred to as his “Tedious Tales,” would always be his greatest masterpieces.
In 1890 Tchekoff made a journey to the Island of Saghalien, after which his health definitely failed, and the consumption, with which he had long been threatened, finally declared itself. His illness exiled him to the Crimea, and he spent his last ten years there, making frequent trips to Moscow to superintend the production of his four important plays, written during this period of his life.
In 1890, Chekhov traveled to the Island of Sakhalin, after which his health declined significantly, and the tuberculosis he had long been at risk for finally manifested. His illness forced him to relocate to Crimea, where he spent his last ten years, frequently traveling to Moscow to oversee the production of his four major plays written during this time.
“The Sea-Gull” appeared in 1896, and, after a failure in St. Petersburg, won instant success as soon as it was given on the stage of the Artists’ Theatre in Moscow. Of all Tchekoff’s plays, this one conforms most nearly to our Western conventions, and is therefore most easily appreciated here. In Trigorin the author gives us one of the rare glimpses of his own mind, for Tchekoff seldom put his own personality into the pictures of the life in which he took such immense interest.
“The Sea-Gull” came out in 1896, and after a setback in St. Petersburg, it achieved instant success when it was performed at the Artists’ Theatre in Moscow. Of all Chekhov's plays, this one aligns most closely with our Western norms, making it easier for us to appreciate. In Trigorin, the author offers a rare insight into his own thoughts, as Chekhov rarely infused his personal perspective into the depictions of the life he was so deeply interested in.
In “The Sea-Gull” we see clearly the increase of Tchekoff’s power of analysis, which is remarkable in his next play, “The Three Sisters,” gloomiest of all his dramas.
In “The Sea-Gull,” we can clearly see Tchekoff's growing ability to analyze, which is impressive in his next play, “The Three Sisters,” the darkest of all his dramas.
“The Three Sisters,” produced in 1901, depends, even more than most of Tchekoff’s plays, on its interpretation, and it is almost essential to its appreciation that it should be seen rather than read. The atmosphere of gloom with which it is pervaded is a thousand times more intense when it comes to us across the foot-lights. In it Tchekoff probes the depths of human life with so sure a touch, and lights them with an insight so piercing, that the play made a deep impression when it appeared. This was also partly owing to the masterly way in which it was acted at the Artists’ Theatre in Moscow. The theme is, as usual, the greyness of provincial life, and the night is lit for his little group of characters by a flash of passion so intense that the darkness which succeeds it seems well-nigh intolerable.
“The Three Sisters,” produced in 1901, relies even more than most of Tchekoff’s plays on its interpretation, and it’s almost essential to fully appreciate it by seeing it rather than just reading it. The atmosphere of gloom that fills the play is a thousand times more intense when experienced live. In it, Tchekoff explores the depths of human life with such a sure touch and sharp insight that the play left a strong impact when it first premiered. This was also partly due to the amazing performances at the Artists’ Theatre in Moscow. The theme, as usual, revolves around the dullness of provincial life, and the night is brightened for his small group of characters by a flash of passion so intense that the subsequent darkness feels nearly unbearable.
“Uncle Vanya” followed “The Three Sisters,” and the poignant truth of the picture, together with the tender beauty of the last scene, touched his audience profoundly, both on the stage and when the play was afterward published.
“Uncle Vanya” came after “The Three Sisters,” and the heartfelt truth of the story, along with the delicate beauty of the final scene, deeply affected its audience, both during the performance and after the play was published.
“The Cherry Orchard” appeared in 1904 and was Tchekoff’s last play. At its production, just before his death, the author was feted as one of Russia’s greatest dramatists. Here it is not only country life that Tchekoff shows us, but Russian life and character in general, in which the old order is giving place to the new, and we see the practical, modern spirit invading the vague, aimless existence so dear to the owners of the cherry orchard. A new epoch was beginning, and at its dawn the singer of old, dim Russia was silenced.
“The Cherry Orchard” premiered in 1904 and was Chekhov’s final play. At its opening, just before his death, the author was celebrated as one of Russia’s greatest playwrights. Here, Chekhov not only depicts country life but also portrays Russian life and character as a whole, where the old ways are making way for the new. We witness the practical, modern spirit encroaching on the vague, aimless existence cherished by the owners of the cherry orchard. A new era was starting, and at its onset, the voice of old, faded Russia was quieted.
In the year that saw the production of “The Cherry Orchard,” Tchekoff, the favourite of the Russian people, whom Tolstoi declared to be comparable as a writer of stories only to Maupassant, died suddenly in a little village of the Black Forest, whither he had gone a few weeks before in the hope of recovering his lost health.
In the year that saw the production of “The Cherry Orchard,” Tchekhov, the beloved of the Russian people, whom Tolstoy said was only comparable as a storyteller to Maupassant, died suddenly in a small village in the Black Forest, where he had gone a few weeks earlier in hopes of regaining his health.
Tchekoff, with an art peculiar to himself, in scattered scenes, in haphazard glimpses into the lives of his characters, in seemingly trivial conversations, has succeeded in so concentrating the atmosphere of the Russia of his day that we feel it in every line we read, oppressive as the mists that hang over a lake at dawn, and, like those mists, made visible to us by the light of an approaching day.
Tchekoff, with a unique style of his own, presents fragmented scenes and random glimpses into his characters' lives through seemingly trivial conversations. He has managed to capture the atmosphere of Russia in his time so well that we feel it in every line we read, as heavy as the mists that hang over a lake at dawn, and, like those mists, illuminated by the light of an approaching day.
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF ANTON TCHEKOFF
PLAYS
“The Swan Song” 1889
“The Proposal” 1889
“Ivanoff” 1889
“The Boor” 1890
“The Sea-Gull” 1896
“The Tragedian in Spite of Himself” 1899
“The Three Sisters” 1901
“Uncle Vanya” 1902
“The Cherry Orchard” 1904
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES
“Humorous Folk” 1887
“Twilight, and Other Stories” 1887
“Morose Folk” 1890
“Variegated Tales” 1894
“Old Wives of Russia” 1894
“The Duel” 1895
“The Chestnut Tree” 1895
“Ward Number Six” 1897
MISCELLANEOUS SKETCHES
“The Island of Saghalien” 1895
“Peasants” 1898
“Life in the Provinces” 1898
“Children” 1899
PLAYS
“The Swan Song” 1889
“The Proposal” 1889
“Ivanoff” 1889
“The Boor” 1890
“The Sea-Gull” 1896
“The Tragedian in Spite of Himself” 1899
“The Three Sisters” 1901
“Uncle Vanya” 1902
“The Cherry Orchard” 1904
NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES
“Humorous Folk” 1887
“Twilight, and Other Stories” 1887
“Morose Folk” 1890
“Variegated Tales” 1894
“Old Wives of Russia” 1894
“The Duel” 1895
“The Chestnut Tree” 1895
“Ward Number Six” 1897
MISCELLANEOUS SKETCHES
“The Island of Saghalien” 1895
“Peasants” 1898
“Life in the Provinces” 1898
“Children” 1899
THE SWAN SONG
CHARACTERS
VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old
NIKITA IVANITCH, a
prompter, an old man
VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old
NIKITA IVANITCH, a prompter, an elderly man
The scene is laid on the stage of a country theatre, at night, after the play. To the right a row of rough, unpainted doors leading into the dressing-rooms. To the left and in the background the stage is encumbered with all sorts of rubbish. In the middle of the stage is an overturned stool.
The setting is a country theater stage at night, after the play has ended. On the right, there’s a row of plain, unpainted doors that lead to the dressing rooms. On the left, in the background, the stage is cluttered with various pieces of junk. In the center of the stage, there’s an overturned stool.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [With a candle in his hand, comes out of a dressing-room and laughs] Well, well, this is funny! Here’s a good joke! I fell asleep in my dressing-room when the play was over, and there I was calmly snoring after everybody else had left the theatre. Ah! I’m a foolish old man, a poor old dodderer! I have been drinking again, and so I fell asleep in there, sitting up. That was clever! Good for you, old boy! [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! Where the devil are you? Petrushka! The scoundrels must be asleep, and an earthquake wouldn’t wake them now! Yegorka! [Picks up the stool, sits down, and puts the candle on the floor] Not a sound! Only echos answer me. I gave Yegorka and Petrushka each a tip to-day, and now they have disappeared without leaving a trace behind them. The rascals have gone off and have probably locked up the theatre. [Turns his head about] I’m drunk! Ugh! The play to-night was for my benefit, and it is disgusting to think how much beer and wine I have poured down my throat in honour of the occasion. Gracious! My body is burning all over, and I feel as if I had twenty tongues in my mouth. It is horrid! Idiotic! This poor old sinner is drunk again, and doesn’t even know what he has been celebrating! Ugh! My head is splitting, I am shivering all over, and I feel as dark and cold inside as a cellar! Even if I don’t mind ruining my health, I ought at least to remember my age, old idiot that I am! Yes, my old age! It’s no use! I can play the fool, and brag, and pretend to be young, but my life is really over now, I kiss my hand to the sixty-eight years that have gone by; I’ll never see them again! I have drained the bottle, only a few little drops are left at the bottom, nothing but the dregs. Yes, yes, that’s the case, Vasili, old boy. The time has come for you to rehearse the part of a mummy, whether you like it or not. Death is on its way to you. [Stares ahead of him] It is strange, though, that I have been on the stage now for forty-five years, and this is the first time I have seen a theatre at night, after the lights have been put out. The first time. [Walks up to the foot-lights] How dark it is! I can’t see a thing. Oh, yes, I can just make out the prompter’s box, and his desk; the rest is in pitch darkness, a black, bottomless pit, like a grave, in which death itself might be hiding.... Brr.... How cold it is! The wind blows out of the empty theatre as though out of a stone flue. What a place for ghosts! The shivers are running up and down my back. [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! Where are you both? What on earth makes me think of such gruesome things here? I must give up drinking; I’m an old man, I shan’t live much longer. At sixty-eight people go to church and prepare for death, but here I am—heavens! A profane old drunkard in this fool’s dress—I’m simply not fit to look at. I must go and change it at once.... This is a dreadful place, I should die of fright sitting here all night. [Goes toward his dressing-room; at the same time NIKITA IVANITCH in a long white coat comes out of the dressing-room at the farthest end of the stage. SVIETLOVIDOFF sees IVANITCH—shrieks with terror and steps back] Who are you? What? What do you want? [Stamps his foot] Who are you?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [With a candle in his hand, comes out of a dressing room and laughs] Well, well, this is funny! Here’s a good joke! I fell asleep in my dressing room after the play ended, and there I was, calmly snoring after everyone else had left the theater. Ah! I’m just a foolish old man, a pathetic old guy! I’ve been drinking again, which is why I dozed off in there, sitting up. That was smart! Good for you, old chap! [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! Where the heck are you? Petrushka! Those scoundrels must be asleep, and not even an earthquake would wake them now! Yegorka! [Picks up the stool, sits down, and puts the candle on the floor] Not a sound! Just echoes answering me. I gave Yegorka and Petrushka each a tip today, and now they’ve vanished without a trace. Those rascals must have gone off and locked up the theater. [Looks around] I’m drunk! Ugh! The play tonight was for my benefit, and it’s disgusting to think about how much beer and wine I’ve poured down my throat in celebration. Goodness! My body is on fire, and it feels like I have twenty tongues in my mouth. It’s awful! Stupid! This poor old sinner is drunk again and doesn’t even know what he’s been celebrating! Ugh! My head is pounding, I’m shivering all over, and I feel as dark and cold inside as a cellar! Even if I don’t care about ruining my health, I should at least remember my age, old fool that I am! Yes, my old age! It’s no use! I can act foolish, brag, and pretend to be young, but my life is really over now; I kiss goodbye to the sixty-eight years that have passed; I’ll never see them again! I’ve drained the bottle, with only a few little drops left at the bottom, nothing but the dregs. Yes, yes, that’s the way it is, Vasili, old boy. The time has come for you to rehearse the role of a mummy, like it or not. Death is coming for you. [Stares ahead] It’s strange, though, that I’ve been on stage for forty-five years, and this is the first time I’ve seen a theater at night, after the lights are out. The first time. [Walks up to the footlights] How dark it is! I can’t see a thing. Oh, yes, I can just make out the prompter’s box and his desk; the rest is pitch black, a dark, bottomless pit, like a grave where death itself might be hiding.... Brr.... How cold it is! The wind blows out of the empty theater as if from a stone chimney. What a place for ghosts! The shivers are running up and down my back. [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! Where are you both? What on earth is making me think of such creepy things here? I need to stop drinking; I’m an old man, and I won’t live much longer. At sixty-eight, people go to church and prepare for death, but here I am—good heavens! A drunken old fool in this ridiculous costume—I’m just not fit to be seen. I need to change it right away.... This is a scary place; I’d die of fright sitting here all night. [Goes toward his dressing room; at the same time, NIKITA IVANITCH in a long white coat comes out of the dressing room at the far end of the stage. SVIETLOVIDOFF sees IVANITCH—screams in terror and steps back] Who are you? What? What do you want? [Stamps his foot] Who are you?
IVANITCH. It is I, sir.
It's me, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It's me, sir, the prompter, Nikita Ivanitch. It's me, master, it's me!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily and trembles violently] Heavens! Who are you? It is you . . . you Nikitushka? What . . . what are you doing here?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily and trembles violently] Oh my God! Who are you? Is that you... Nikitushka? What... what are you doing here?
IVANITCH. I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms. Only please be good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to spend the night; indeed, I haven’t.
IVANITCH. I spend my nights here in the dressing rooms. Just please don't tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to stay for the night; honestly, I don’t.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Ah! It is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think, the audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes and lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old man and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka! I am sixty-eight years old, and I am ill. I haven’t the heart left to go on. [Falls on IVANITCH’S neck and weeps] Don’t go away, Nikitushka; I am old and helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Ah! So it’s you, Nikitushka? Can you believe it? The audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreaths and a whole bunch of other things too. They were all so excited, and yet not a single person bothered to come and wake the poor, drunk old man and take him home. And I’m getting old, Nikitushka! I’m sixty-eight, and I’m sick. I just don’t have the strength to keep going. [Falls on IVANITCH’S neck and weeps] Please don’t leave me, Nikitushka; I’m old and vulnerable, and I can feel it’s time for me to go. Oh, it’s so terrible, so terrible!
IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to go home, sir!
IVANITCH. [Gently and with respect] Dear master! It's time for you to head home, sir!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—none!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—none!
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live?
IVANITCH. Oh no! Have you forgotten where you live?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go there. I won’t! I am all alone there. I have nobody, Nikitushka! No wife—no children. I am like the wind blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die, and no one will remember me. It is awful to be alone—no one to cheer me, no one to caress me, no one to help me to bed when I am drunk. Whom do I belong to? Who needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I’m not going there. I won’t! I’m all alone there. I have nobody, Nikitushka! No wife—no kids. I’m like the wind drifting over the empty fields. I’ll die, and no one will remember me. It’s terrible to be alone—no one to lift my spirits, no one to take care of me, no one to help me to bed when I’m drunk. Who do I belong to? Who needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka.
IVANITCH. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master.
IVANITCH. [Crying] Your audience loves you, master.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. My audience has gone home. They are all asleep, and have forgotten their old clown. No, nobody needs me, nobody loves me; I have no wife, no children.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. My audience has left. They're all asleep and have forgotten about their old clown. No, nobody needs me, nobody loves me; I have no wife, no kids.
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don’t be so unhappy about it.
IVANITCH. Oh no! Oh no! Don’t be so upset about it.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But I am a man, I am still alive. Warm, red blood is tingling in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I am an aristocrat, Nikitushka; I served in the army, in the artillery, before I fell as low as this, and what a fine young chap I was! Handsome, daring, eager! Where has it all gone? What has become of those old days? There’s the pit that has swallowed them all! I remember it all now. Forty-five years of my life lie buried there, and what a life, Nikitushka! I can see it as clearly as I see your face: the ecstasy of youth, faith, passion, the love of women—women, Nikitushka!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But I'm a man, and I'm still alive. Warm, red blood is pulsing in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I'm an aristocrat, Nikitushka; I served in the army, in the artillery, before I sunk this low, and I was quite the young man! Handsome, bold, eager! Where did it all go? What happened to those old days? There's the pit that has swallowed them all! I remember it all now. Forty-five years of my life are buried there, and what a life, Nikitushka! I can see it as clearly as I see your face: the thrill of youth, faith, passion, the love of women—women, Nikitushka!
IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
IVANITCH. It's time for you to go to sleep, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. When I first went on the stage, in the first glow of passionate youth, I remember a woman loved me for my acting. She was beautiful, graceful as a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant as a summer dawn. Her smile could charm away the darkest night. I remember, I stood before her once, as I am now standing before you. She had never seemed so lovely to me as she did then, and she spoke to me so with her eyes—such a look! I shall never forget it, no, not even in the grave; so tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and young! Enraptured, intoxicated, I fell on my knees before her, I begged for my happiness, and she said: “Give up the stage!” Give up the stage! Do you understand? She could love an actor, but marry him—never! I was acting that day, I remember—I had a foolish, clown’s part, and as I acted, I felt my eyes being opened; I saw that the worship of the art I had held so sacred was a delusion and an empty dream; that I was a slave, a fool, the plaything of the idleness of strangers. I understood my audience at last, and since that day I have not believed in their applause, or in their wreathes, or in their enthusiasm. Yes, Nikitushka! The people applaud me, they buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They don’t know me, I am as the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing enough to meet me . . . but allow a daughter or a sister to marry me, an outcast, never! I have no faith in them, [sinks onto the stool] no faith in them.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. When I first stepped onto the stage, full of youthful passion, I remember a woman who loved me for my acting. She was beautiful, graceful like a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant like a summer dawn. Her smile could light up the darkest night. I recall standing before her once, just like I'm standing before you now. She looked more lovely to me at that moment than ever before, and she spoke to me with her eyes—what a look! I’ll never forget it, not even in the grave; so tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and youthful! Overwhelmed, intoxicated, I fell to my knees before her, pleading for my happiness, and she said: “Give up the stage!” Give up the stage! Do you understand? She could love an actor, but marry him—never! I was performing that day, I remember—I had a silly, clownish role, and as I acted, I realized my eyes were opening; I saw that the reverence for the art I had held sacred was an illusion and a hollow dream; that I was a slave, a fool, a toy for the boredom of strangers. I finally understood my audience, and since that day I haven’t believed in their applause, or in their praise, or in their excitement. Yes, Nikitushka! The people applaud me, they buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They don’t know me, I am like the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing enough to meet me... but to let a daughter or a sister marry me, an outcast, never! I have no faith in them, [sinks onto the stool] no faith in them.
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death! Come, go home, have mercy on me!
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! You look really pale, you scare me to death! Come on, go home, have a little mercy on me!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I saw through it all that day, and the knowledge was dearly bought. Nikitushka! After that . . . when that girl . . . well, I began to wander aimlessly about, living from day to day without looking ahead. I took the parts of buffoons and low comedians, letting my mind go to wreck. Ah! but I was a great artist once, till little by little I threw away my talents, played the motley fool, lost my looks, lost the power of expressing myself, and became in the end a Merry Andrew instead of a man. I have been swallowed up in that great black pit. I never felt it before, but to-night, when I woke up, I looked back, and there behind me lay sixty-eight years. I have just found out what it is to be old! It is all over . . . [sobs] . . . all over.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I understood everything that day, and the knowledge came at a high price. Nikitushka! After that... when that girl... well, I started wandering aimlessly, living day by day without planning for the future. I took on roles of clowns and low comedians, letting my mind go to waste. Ah! I used to be a great artist, but little by little I squandered my talents, played the jester, lost my looks, lost my ability to express myself, and ended up a Merry Andrew instead of a man. I’ve been consumed by that big black pit. I never felt it before, but tonight, when I woke up, I looked back and there were sixty-eight years behind me. I've just realized what it means to be old! It's all over... [sobs]... all over.
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls] Petrushka! Yegorka!
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Calm down . . . wow! [Calls] Petrushka! Yegorka!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But what a genius I was! You cannot imagine what power I had, what eloquence; how graceful I was, how tender; how many strings [beats his breast] quivered in this breast! It chokes me to think of it! Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath, there; now listen to this:
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But what a genius I was! You can't imagine the power I had, the eloquence; how graceful I was, how tender; how many strings [beats his chest] resonated in this chest! It makes me choke to think about it! Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath, there; now listen to this:
“The shade of bloody Ivan now returning
Fans through my lips rebellion to a flame,
I am the dead Dimitri! In the burning
Boris shall perish on the throne I claim.
Enough! The heir of Czars shall not be seen
Kneeling to yonder haughty Polish Queen!”*
*From “Boris Godunoff,” by Pushkin. [translator’s note]
“The shadow of bloody Ivan is coming back
Fueling my rebellion like a fire,
I am the dead Dimitri! In the flames,
Boris will die on the throne I take.
Enough! The heir of the Czars will not be seen
Bowing to that arrogant Polish Queen!”*
*From “Boris Godunoff,” by Pushkin. [translator’s note]Is that bad, eh? [Quickly] Wait, now, here’s something from King Lear. The sky is black, see? Rain is pouring down, thunder roars, lightning—zzz zzz zzz—splits the whole sky, and then, listen:
Is that bad, huh? [Quickly] Hold on, here’s something from King Lear. The sky is dark, you see? Rain is pouring down, thunder is booming, lightning—zzz zzz zzz—lights up the whole sky, and then, listen:
“Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous thought-executing fires
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts
Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germons spill at once
That make ungrateful man!”
“Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You torrents and hurricanes pour out Until you’ve soaked our steeples, drowned the roosters! You fiery blasts that execute thoughts Announcing the oak-splitting thunderbolts, Singed my white hair! And you, rumbling thunder, Flatten the roundness of the world! Break nature’s molds, let all the germs spill out at once That create ungrateful humanity!”
[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the fool’s part! Be quick, I can’t wait!
[Impatiently] Now, play the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come on, take the fool’s part! Hurry up, I can’t wait!
IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
IVANITCH. [Acts stupid]
“O, Nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good Nuncle, in; ask thy daughter’s blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.”
“O, Nuncle, getting holy water in a dry house is better than this rainwater outside. Good Nuncle, come inside; ask your daughter for her blessing: this night doesn’t care about wise men or fools.”
“Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children.”
“Roar all you want! Spit, fire! Burst forth, rain!
Neither rain, wind, thunder, nor fire are my daughters;
I don’t blame you, elements, for being harsh;
I never gave you a kingdom, called you my children.”Ah! there is strength, there is talent for you! I’m a great artist! Now, then, here’s something else of the same kind, to bring back my youth to me. For instance, take this, from Hamlet, I’ll begin . . . Let me see, how does it go? Oh, yes, this is it. [Takes the part of Hamlet]
Ah! There’s strength, there’s talent for you! I’m a great artist! Now, here’s something similar to bring back my youth. For example, take this from Hamlet, I’ll start... Let me think, how does it go? Oh, yes, this is it. [Takes the part of Hamlet]
“O! the recorders, let me see one.—To withdraw with you. Why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?”
“O! the recorders, let me see one.—To step away with you. Why are you trying to get me to lose my focus, as if you want to push me into a struggle?”
IVANITCH. “O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.”
IVANITCH. “Oh, my lord, if my duty is too forward, my love is too rude.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I don't quite understand that. Will you play this pipe?”
IVANITCH. “My lord, I cannot.”
IVANITCH. “My lord, I can’t.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I pray you.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I beg you.”
IVANITCH. “Believe me, I cannot.”
IVANITCH. “Trust me, I can’t.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do beseech you.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I beg you.”
IVANITCH. “I know no touch of it, my lord.”
IVANITCH. “I don’t know anything about it, my lord.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “‘Tis as easy as lying: govern these vantages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. "It's as easy as lying: control these gaps with your fingers, give it a breath with your mouth, and it will play the most beautiful music. See, these are the stops."
IVANITCH. “But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I have not the skill.”
IVANITCH. “But I can’t make any of these sound harmonious: I don’t have the talent.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “Why, look you, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. S’blood! Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me!” [laughs and clasps] Bravo! Encore! Bravo! Where the devil is there any old age in that? I’m not old, that is all nonsense, a torrent of strength rushes over me; this is life, freshness, youth! Old age and genius can’t exist together. You seem to be struck dumb, Nikitushka. Wait a second, let me come to my senses again. Oh! Good Lord! Now then, listen! Did you ever hear such tenderness, such music? Sh! Softly;
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “Look at how unworthy you make me feel. You want to toy with me; you pretend to understand my depths; you want to uncover my secrets; you try to explore my entire range; and there's so much music, such a great voice, in this little instrument, yet you can’t make it sing. Damn it! Do you think I'm easier to manipulate than a flute? Call me whatever instrument you like; even if you can annoy me, you can't truly play me!” [laughs and clasps] Bravo! Encore! Bravo! What the hell is old about that? I’m not old; it’s all nonsense, a surge of strength flows through me; this is life, freshness, youth! Old age and genius can’t coexist. You seem speechless, Nikitushka. Hold on a second, let me gather my thoughts. Oh! Good Lord! Now, listen! Have you ever heard such tenderness, such music? Sh! Quietly;
“The moon had set. There was not any light,
Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars pale
In outer air, and what by fits made bright
Hot oleanders in a rosy vale
Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark
Went in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.”
“The moon had set. There was no light, Except for the lonely watch-stars glowing faintly In the open sky, and occasionally the hot oleanders In a rosy valley that sparkled when the firefly passed by, Its tiny spark flickering in and out, like the shy hope of passion.”
[The noise of opening doors is heard] What’s that?
[The noise of opening doors is heard] What’s that?
IVANITCH. There are Petrushka and Yegorka coming back. Yes, you have genius, genius, my master.
IVANITCH. Here come Petrushka and Yegorka again. Yes, you truly have genius, genius, my master.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Calls, turning toward the noise] Come here to me, boys! [To IVANITCH] Let us go and get dressed. I’m not old! All that is foolishness, nonsense! [laughs gaily] What are you crying for? You poor old granny, you, what’s the matter now? This won’t do! There, there, this won’t do at all! Come, come, old man, don’t stare so! What makes you stare like that? There, there! [Embraces him in tears] Don’t cry! Where there is art and genius there can never be such things as old age or loneliness or sickness . . . and death itself is half . . . [Weeps] No, no, Nikitushka! It is all over for us now! What sort of a genius am I? I’m like a squeezed lemon, a cracked bottle, and you—you are the old rat of the theatre . . . a prompter! Come on! [They go] I’m no genius, I’m only fit to be in the suite of Fortinbras, and even for that I am too old.... Yes.... Do you remember those lines from Othello, Nikitushka?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Calls, turning toward the noise] Come here, boys! [To IVANITCH] Let’s go get dressed. I’m not old! All that is nonsense! [laughs cheerfully] Why are you crying? You poor old lady, what’s wrong now? This isn’t right! There, there, this isn’t right at all! Come on, old man, don’t stare so! What are you staring at? There, there! [Embraces him in tears] Don’t cry! Where there is art and talent, there can never be such things as old age or loneliness or sickness... and even death itself is half... [Weeps] No, no, Nikitushka! It’s all over for us now! What kind of genius am I? I’m like a squeezed lemon, a broken bottle, and you—you are the old rat of the theater... a prompter! Come on! [They go] I’m no genius, I’m only suited to be in Fortinbras's entourage, and even for that I’m too old... Yes... Do you remember those lines from Othello, Nikitushka?
“Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars
That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!”
“Goodbye to peace of mind! Goodbye to happiness!
Goodbye to the majestic armies and the great battles
That turn ambition into greatness! Oh goodbye!
Goodbye to the neighing horse and the loud trumpet,
The rousing drum, the sharp fife,
The royal flag, and all that is noble,
Pride, show, and grandeur of glorious war!”IVANITCH. Oh! You’re a genius, a genius!
IVANITCH. Oh! You’re brilliant, a genius!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this:
SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this:
“Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.”
“Go away! The moor is dark under the moon,
Fast-moving clouds have absorbed the last faint light of dusk:
Go away! The rising winds will bring the darkness soon,
And the deepest midnight will cover the calm lights of the sky.”They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.
They go out together as the curtain slowly falls.
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