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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Swan Song
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Title: Swan Song
Author: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Translator: Marian Fell
Release date: February 22, 2006 [eBook #1753]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1753
Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWAN SONG
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SWAN SONG
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: Swan Song
Author: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Translator: Marian Fell
Release date: February 22, 2006 [eBook #1753]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1753
Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWAN SONG
***
SWAN SONG
Page 4
by Anton Checkov
Translated From The Russian, With An Introduction By Marian Fell
Translated From The Russian, With An Introduction By Marian Fell
Page 5
Contents
INTRODUCTION
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST
OF THE PRINCIPAL
WORKS
OF ANTON TCHEKOFF
THE SWAN SONG
INTRODUCTION
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST
OF THE PRINCIPAL
WORKS
OF ANTON TCHEKOFF
THE SWAN SONG
Page 6
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
Page 7
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.”
Page 8
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!”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
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!”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
Page 9
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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,
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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,
Page 10
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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,”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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,”
Page 11
gloomiest 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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
Page 12
Page 13
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
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
Page 14
THE SWAN SONG
CHARACTERS
VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old
NIKITA IVANITCH, a prompter, an old 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.
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!
CHARACTERS
VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old
NIKITA IVANITCH, a prompter, an old 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.
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!
Page 15
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?
IVANITCH. It is I, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita
Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
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?
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
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?
IVANITCH. It is I, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita
Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
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?
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
Page 16
the night; indeed, I haven’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!
IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to
go home, sir!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—
none!
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! 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.
IVANITCH. [Weeping] 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.
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don’t be so unhappy 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!
IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
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!
IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to
go home, sir!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—
none!
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! 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.
IVANITCH. [Weeping] 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.
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don’t be so unhappy 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!
IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
Page 17
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.
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death!
Come, go home, have 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.
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls]
Petrushka! Yegorka!
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.
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death!
Come, go home, have 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.
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls]
Petrushka! Yegorka!
Page 18
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:
“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]
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:
“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!”
[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the
fool’s part! Be quick, I can’t wait!
IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
“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.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF.
“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.”
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
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:
“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]
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:
“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!”
[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the
fool’s part! Be quick, I can’t wait!
IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
“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.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF.
“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.”
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
Page 19
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]
“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?”
IVANITCH. “O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too
unmannerly.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do not well understand that. Will you play upon
this pipe?”
IVANITCH. “My lord, I cannot.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I pray you.”
IVANITCH. “Believe me, I cannot.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do beseech you.”
IVANITCH. “I know no touch of 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.”
IVANITCH. “But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I
have not the skill.”
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;
“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
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?”
IVANITCH. “O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too
unmannerly.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do not well understand that. Will you play upon
this pipe?”
IVANITCH. “My lord, I cannot.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I pray you.”
IVANITCH. “Believe me, I cannot.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do beseech you.”
IVANITCH. “I know no touch of 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.”
IVANITCH. “But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I
have not the skill.”
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;
“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
Page 20
Went in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.”
[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.
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?
“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!”
IVANITCH. Oh! You’re a genius, a genius!
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.”
They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.
[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.
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?
“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!”
IVANITCH. Oh! You’re a genius, a genius!
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.”
They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.
Page 21
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