Act II

A croquet lawn. The house with a big verandah in the background on the right, on the left is seen the lake with the blazing sun reflected in it.

Flower beds. Midday. Hot. Madame Arkadin, Dorn and Masha are sitting on a garden seat in the shade of an old lime tree on one side of the croquet lawn. Dorn has an open book on his knee.
Madame Arkadin To Masha. Come, let us stand up. They both get up. Let us stand side by side. You are twenty-two and I am nearly twice as old. Yevgeny Sergeitch, which of us looks the younger?
Dorn You, of course.
Madame Arkadin There! And why is it? Because I work, I feel I am always on the go, while you stay always in the same place and have no life at all.⁠ ⁠… And it is my rule never to look into the future. I never think about old age or death. What is to be, will be.
Masha And I feel as though I had been born long, long ago; I trail my life along like an endless train.⁠ ⁠… And often I have not the slightest desire to go on living sits down. Of course, that’s all nonsense. I must shake myself and throw it all off.
Dorn Hums quietly. “Tell her, my flowers.”
Madame Arkadin Then I am as particular as an Englishman. I keep myself in hand, as they say, my dear, and am always dressed and have my hair done comme il faut. Do I allow myself to go out of the house even into the garden in a dressing-gown, or without my hair being done? Never! What has preserved me, is that I have never been a dowdy, I have never let myself go, as some women do⁠ ⁠… walks about the lawn with her arms akimbo. Here I am, as brisk as a bird. I could take the part of a girl of fifteen.
Dorn Nevertheless, I shall go on takes up the book. We stopped at the corn merchant and the rats.⁠ ⁠…
Madame Arkadin And the rats. Read sits down. But give it to me, I’ll read. It is my turn takes the book and looks in it. And rats.⁠ ⁠… Here it is.⁠ ⁠… Reads. “And of course for society people to spoil novelists and to attract them to themselves is as dangerous as for a corn merchant to rear rats in his granaries. And yet they love them. And so, when a woman has picked out an author whom she desires to captivate, she lays siege to him by means of compliments, flattery and favours⁠ ⁠…” Well, that may be so with the French, but there is nothing like that with us, we have no set rules. Among us, before a woman sets to work to captivate an author, she is generally head over ears in love herself, if you please. To go no further, take Trigorin and me.⁠ ⁠…
Enter Sorin, leaning on his stick and with him Nina; Medvedenko wheels an empty bath-chair in after them.
Sorin In a caressing tone, as to a child. Yes? We are delighted, aren’t we? We are happy today at last? To his sister. We are delighted! Our father and stepmother have gone off to Tver, and we are free now for three whole days.
Nina Sits down beside Madame Arkadin and embraces her. I am happy! Now I belong to you.
Sorin Sits down in his bath-chair. She looks quite a beauty today.
Madame Arkadin Nicely dressed and interesting.⁠ ⁠… That’s a good girl kisses Nina. But we mustn’t praise you too much for fear of ill-luck. Where is Boris Alexeyevitch?
Nina He is in the bathing-house, fishing.
Madame Arkadin I wonder he doesn’t get sick of it! Is about to go on reading.
Nina What is that?
Madame Arkadin Maupassant’s Sur l’eau, my dear reads a few lines to herself. Well, the rest isn’t interesting or true shuts the book. I feel uneasy. Tell me, what’s wrong with my son? Why is he so depressed and ill-humoured? He spends whole days on the lake and I hardly ever see him.
Masha His heart is troubled. To Nina, timidly. Please, do read us something out of his play!
Nina Shrugging her shoulders. Would you like it? It’s so uninteresting.
Masha Restraining her enthusiasm. When he reads anything himself his eyes glow and his face turns pale. He has a fine mournful voice, and the gestures of a poet.
There is a sound of Sorin snoring.
Dorn Good night!
Madame Arkadin Petrusha!
Sorin Ah?
Madame Arkadin Are you asleep?
Sorin Not a bit of it a pause.
Madame Arkadin You do nothing for your health, brother, and that’s not right.
Sorin I should like to take something, but the doctor won’t give me anything.
Dorn Take medicine at sixty!
Sorin Even at sixty one wants to live!
Dorn With vexation. Oh, very well, take valerian drops!
Madame Arkadin It seems to me it would do him good to go to some mineral springs.
Dorn Well, he might go. And he might not.
Madame Arkadin What is one to make of that?
Dorn There’s nothing to make of it. It’s quite clear a pause.
Medvedenko Pyotr Nikolayevitch ought to give up smoking.
Sorin Nonsense!
Dorn No, it’s not nonsense. Wine and tobacco destroy the personality. After a cigar or a glass of vodka, you are not Pyotr Nikolayevitch any more but Pyotr Nikolayevitch plus somebody else; your ego is diffused and you feel towards yourself as to a third person.
Sorin Laughs. It’s all very well for you to argue! You’ve lived your life, but what about me? I have served in the Department of Justice for twenty-eight years, but I haven’t lived yet, I’ve seen and done nothing as a matter of fact, and very naturally I want to live very much. You’ve had enough and you don’t care, and so you are inclined to be philosophical, but I want to live, and so I drink sherry at dinner and smoke cigars and so on. That’s all it comes to.
Dorn One must look at life seriously, but to go in for cures at sixty and to regret that one hasn’t enjoyed oneself enough in one’s youth is frivolous, if you will forgive my saying so.
Masha Gets up. It must be lunchtime walks with a lazy, lagging step. My leg is gone to sleep goes off.
Dorn She will go and have a couple of glasses before lunch.
Sorin She has no personal happiness, poor thing.
Dorn Nonsense, your Excellency.
Sorin You argue like a man who has had all he wants.
Madame Arkadin Oh, what can be more boring than this sweet country boredom! Hot, still, no one ever doing anything, everyone airing their theories.⁠ ⁠… It’s nice being with you, my friends, charming to listen to you, but⁠ ⁠… to sit in a hotel room somewhere and learn one’s part is ever so much better.
Nina Enthusiastically. Delightful! I understand you.
Sorin Of course, it’s better in town. You sit in your study, the footman lets no one in unannounced, there’s a telephone⁠ ⁠… in the streets there are cabs and everything.⁠ ⁠…
Dorn Hums. “Tell her, my flowers.”
Enter Shamraev, and after him Polina Andreyevna.
Shamraev Here they are! Good morning! Kisses Madame Arkadin’s hand and then Nina’s. Delighted to see you in good health. To Madame Arkadin. My wife tells me that you are proposing to drive into town with her today. Is that so?
Madame Arkadin Yes, we are thinking of it.
Shamraev Hm! that’s splendid, but how are you going, honoured lady? They are carting the rye today; all the men are at work. What horses are you to have, allow me to ask?
Madame Arkadin What horses? How can I tell which?
Sorin We’ve got carriage horses.
Shamraev Growing excited. Carriage horses! But where am I to get collars for them? Where am I to get collars? It’s a strange thing! It passes my understanding! Honoured lady! forgive me, I am full of reverence for your talent. I would give ten years of my life for you, but I cannot let you have the horses!
Madame Arkadin But if I have to go! It’s a queer thing!
Shamraev Honoured lady! you don’t know what farming means.
Madame Arkadin Flaring up. That’s the old story! If that’s so, I go back to Moscow today. Give orders for horses to be hired for me at the village, or I’ll walk to the station.
Shamraev Flaring up. In that case I resign my position! You must look for another steward goes off.
Madame Arkadin It’s like this every summer; every summer I am insulted here! I won’t set my foot in the place again goes off at left where the bathing shed is supposed to be; a minute later she can be seen entering the house. Trigorin follows her, carrying fishing rods and tackle, and a pail.
Sorin Flaring up. This is insolence! It’s beyond everything. I am thoroughly sick of it. Send all the horses here this minute!
Nina To Polina Andreyevna. To refuse Irina Nikolayevna, the famous actress! Any wish of hers, any whim even, is of more consequence than all your farming. It’s positively incredible!
Polina In despair. What can I do? Put yourself in my position: what can I do?
Sorin To Nina. Let us go to my sister. We will all entreat her not to go away. Won’t we? Looking in the direction in which Shamraev has gone. Insufferable man! Despot!
Nina Preventing him from getting up. Sit still, sit still. We will wheel you in. She and Medvedenko push the bath-chair. Oh, how awful it is!
Sorin Yes, yes, it’s awful. But he won’t leave, I’ll speak to him directly. They go out; Dorn and Polina Andreyevna are left alone on the stage.
Dorn People are tiresome. Your husband ought to be simply kicked out, but it will end in that old woman Pyotr Nikolayevitch and his sister begging the man’s pardon. You will see!
Polina He has sent the carriage horses into the fields too! And there are misunderstandings like this every day. If you only knew how it upsets me! It makes me ill; see how I am trembling.⁠ ⁠… I can’t endure his rudeness. In an imploring voice. Yevgeny, dearest, light of my eyes, my darling, let me come to you.⁠ ⁠… Our time is passing, we are no longer young, and if only we could lay aside concealment and lying for the end of our lives, anyway⁠ ⁠… a pause.
Dorn I am fifty-five; it’s too late to change my life.
Polina I know you refuse me because there are other women too who are as near to you. You can’t take them all to live with you. I understand. Forgive me, you are tired of me.
Nina appears near the house; she is picking flowers.
Dorn No, it’s all right.
Polina I am wretched from jealousy. Of course you are a doctor, you can’t avoid women. I understand.
Dorn To Nina, who comes up to them. How are things going?
Nina Irina Nikolayevna is crying and Pyotr Nikolayevitch has an attack of asthma.
Dorn Gets up. I’d better go and give them both valerian drops.
Nina Gives him the flowers. Please take these.
Dorn Merci bien goes towards the house.
Polina Going with him. What charming flowers! Near the house, in a smothered voice. Give me those flowers! Give me those flowers! On receiving them tears the flowers to pieces and throws them away; both go into the house.
Nina Alone. How strange it is to see a famous actress cry, and about such a trivial thing! And isn’t it strange? A famous author, adored by the public, written about in all the papers, his photographs for sale, his works translated into foreign languages⁠—and he spends the whole day fishing and is delighted that he has caught two gudgeon. I thought famous people were proud, unapproachable, that they despised the crowd, and by their fame and the glory of their name, as it were, revenged themselves on the vulgar herd for putting rank and wealth above everything. But here they cry and fish, play cards, laugh and get cross like everyone else!
Treplev Comes in without a hat on, with a gun and a dead seagull. Are you alone here?
Nina Yes.
Treplev lays the seagull at her feet.
Nina What does that mean?
Treplev I was so mean as to kill this bird today. I lay it at your feet.
Nina What is the matter with you? Picks up the bird and looks at it.
Treplev After a pause. Soon I shall kill myself in the same way.
Nina You have so changed, I hardly know you.
Treplev Yes, ever since the day when I hardly knew you. You have changed to me, your eyes are cold, you feel me in the way.
Nina You have become irritable of late, you express yourself so incomprehensibly, as it were in symbols. This bird is a symbol too, I suppose, but forgive me, I don’t understand it lays the seagull on the seat. I am too simple to understand you.
Treplev This began from that evening when my play came to grief so stupidly. Women never forgive failure. I have burnt it all; every scrap of it. If only you knew how miserable I am! Your growing cold to me is awful, incredible, as though I had woken up and found this lake had suddenly dried up or sunk into the earth. You have just said that you are too simple to understand me. Oh, what is there to understand? My play was not liked, you despise my inspiration, you already consider me commonplace, insignificant, like so many others⁠ ⁠… stamping. How well I understand it all, how I understand it! I feel as though I had a nail in my brain, damnation take it together with my vanity which is sucking away my life, sucking it like a snake⁠ ⁠… sees Trigorin, who comes in reading a book. Here comes the real genius, walking like Hamlet and with a book too. Mimics. “Words, words, words.”⁠ ⁠… The sun has scarcely reached you and you are smiling already, your eyes are melting in its rays. I won’t be in your way goes off quickly.
Trigorin Making notes in his book. Takes snuff and drinks vodka. Always in black. The schoolmaster is in love with her.⁠ ⁠…
Nina Good morning, Boris Alexeyevitch!
Trigorin Good morning. Circumstances have turned out so unexpectedly that it seems we are setting off today. We are hardly likely to meet again. I am sorry. I don’t often have the chance of meeting young girls, youthful and charming; I have forgotten how one feels at eighteen or nineteen and can’t picture it to myself, and so the young girls in my stories and novels are usually false. I should like to be in your shoes just for one hour to find out how you think, and altogether what sort of person you are.
Nina And I should like to be in your shoes.
Trigorin What for?
Nina To know what it feels like to be a famous, gifted author. What does it feel like to be famous? How does it affect you, being famous?
Trigorin How? Nohow, I believe. I have never thought about it. After a moment’s thought. It’s one of two things: either you exaggerate my fame, or it never is felt at all.
Nina But if you read about yourself in the newspapers?
Trigorin When they praise me I am pleased, and when they abuse me I feel out of humour for a day or two.
Nina What a wonderful world! If only you knew how I envy you! How different people’s lots in life are! Some can scarcely get through their dull, obscure existence, they are all just like one another, they are all unhappy; while others⁠—you, for instance⁠—you are one out of a million, have an interesting life full of brightness and significance. You are happy.
Trigorin I? Shrugging his shoulders. Hm.⁠ ⁠… You talk of fame and happiness, of bright interesting life, but to me all those fine words, if you will forgive my saying so, are just like a sweetmeat which I never taste. You are very young and very good-natured.
Nina Your life is splendid!
Trigorin What is there particularly nice in it? Looks at his watch. I must go and write directly. Excuse me, I mustn’t stay⁠ ⁠… laughs. You have stepped on my favourite corn, as the saying is, and here I am beginning to get excited and a little cross. Let us talk though. We will talk about my splendid bright life.⁠ ⁠… Well, where shall we begin? After thinking a little. There are such things as fixed ideas, when a man thinks day and night for instance, of nothing but the moon. And I have just such a moon. I am haunted day and night by one persistent thought: I ought to be writing, I ought to be writing, I ought⁠ ⁠… I have scarcely finished one novel when, for some reason, I must begin writing another, then a third, after the third a fourth. I write incessantly, post haste, and I can’t write in any other way. What is there splendid and bright in that, I ask you? Oh, it’s an absurd life! Here I am with you; I am excited, yet every moment I remember that my unfinished novel is waiting for me. Here I see a cloud that looks like a grand piano. I think that I must put into a story somewhere that a cloud sailed by that looked like a grand piano. There is a scent of heliotrope. I hurriedly make a note: a sickly smell, a widow’s flower, to be mentioned in the description of a summer evening. I catch up myself and you at every sentence, every word, and make haste to put those sentences and words away into my literary treasure-house⁠—it may come in useful! When I finish work I race off to the theatre or to fishing; if only I could rest in that and forget myself. But no, there’s a new subject rolling about in my head like a heavy iron cannon ball, and I am drawn to my writing table and must make haste again to go on writing and writing. And it’s always like that, always. And I have no rest from myself, and I feel that I am eating up my own life, and that for the sake of the honey I give to someone in space I am stripping the pollen from my best flowers, tearing up the flowers themselves and trampling on their roots. Don’t you think I am mad? Do my friends and acquaintances treat me as though I were sane? “What are you writing? What are you giving us?” It’s the same thing again and again, and it seems to me as though my friends’ notice, their praises, their enthusiasm⁠—that it’s all a sham, that they are deceiving me as an invalid and I am somehow afraid that they will steal up to me from behind, snatch me and carry me off and put me in a madhouse. And in those years, the best years of my youth, when I was beginning, my writing was unmixed torture. A small writer, particularly when he is not successful, seems to himself clumsy, awkward, unnecessary; his nerves are strained and overwrought. He can’t resist hanging about people connected with literature and art, unrecognised and unnoticed by anyone, afraid to look anyone boldly in the face, like a passionate gambler without any money. I hadn’t seen my reader, but for some reason I always imagined him hostile, and mistrustful. I was afraid of the public, it alarmed me, and when I had to produce my first play it always seemed to me that all the dark people felt hostile and all the fair ones were coldly indifferent. Oh, how awful it was! What agony it was!
Nina But surely inspiration and the very process of creation give you moments of exalted happiness?
Trigorin Yes. While I am writing I enjoy it. And I like reading my proofs, but⁠ ⁠… as soon as it is published I can’t endure it, and I see that it is all wrong, a mistake, that it ought not to have been written at all, and I feel vexed and sick about it⁠ ⁠… laughing. And the public reads it and says: “Yes, charming, clever. Charming, but very inferior to Tolstoy,” or, “It’s a fine thing, but Turgenev’s Fathers and Children is finer.” And it will be the same to my dying day, only charming and clever, charming and clever⁠—and nothing more. And when I die my friends, passing by my tomb, will say, “Here lies Trigorin. He was a good writer, but inferior to Turgenev.”
Nina Forgive me, but I refuse to understand you. You are simply spoiled by success.
Trigorin What success? I have never liked myself; I dislike my own work. The worst of it is that I am in a sort of delirium, and often don’t understand what I am writing. I love this water here, the trees, the sky. I feel nature, it arouses in me a passionate, irresistible desire to write. But I am not simply a landscape painter; I am also a citizen. I love my native country, my people; I feel that if I am a writer I am in duty bound to write of the people, of their sufferings, of their future, to talk about science and the rights of man and so on, and so on, and I write about everything. I am hurried and flustered, and on all sides they whip me up and are angry with me; I dash about from side to side like a fox beset by hounds. I see life and culture continually getting farther and farther away while I fall farther and farther behind like a peasant too late for the train; and what it comes to is that I feel I can only describe scenes and in everything else I am false to the marrow of my bones.
Nina You are overworked and have not the leisure nor the desire to appreciate your own significance. You may be dissatisfied with yourself, but for others you are great and splendid! If I were a writer like you, I should give up my whole life to the common herd, but I should know that there could be no greater happiness for them than to rise to my level, and they would harness themselves to my chariot.
Trigorin My chariot, what next! Am I an Agamemnon, or what? Both smile.
Nina For such happiness as being a writer or an artist I would be ready to endure poverty, disappointment, the dislike of those around me; I would live in a garret and eat nothing but rye bread, I would suffer from being dissatisfied with myself, from recognising my own imperfections, but I should ask in return for fame⁠ ⁠… real, resounding fame.⁠ ⁠… Covers her face with her hands. It makes me dizzy.⁠ ⁠… Ough!
The voice of Madame Arkadin from the house.
Madame Arkadin Boris Alexeyevitch!
Trigorin They are calling for me. I suppose it’s to pack. But I don’t want to leave here. Looks round at the lake. Just look how glorious it is! It’s splendid!
Nina Do you see the house and garden on the other side of the lake?
Trigorin Yes.
Nina That house was my dear mother’s. I was born there. I have spent all my life beside this lake and I know every little islet on it.
Trigorin It’s very delightful here! Seeing the seagull. And what’s this?
Nina A seagull. Konstantin Gavrilitch shot it.
Trigorin A beautiful bird. Really, I don’t want to go away. Try and persuade Irina Nikolayevna to stay makes a note in his book.
Nina What are you writing?
Trigorin Oh, I am only making a note. A subject struck me putting away the notebook. A subject for a short story: a young girl, such as you, has lived all her life beside a lake; she loves the lake like a seagull, and is as free and happy as a seagull. But a man comes by chance, sees her, and having nothing better to do, destroys her like that seagull here a pause.
Madame Arkadin appears at the window.
Madame Arkadin Boris Alexeyevitch, where are you?
Trigorin I am coming goes and looks back at Nina. To Madame Arkadin at the window. What is it?
Madame Arkadin We are staying.
Trigorin goes into the house.
Nina Advances to the footlights; after a few moments’ meditation. It’s a dream!
Curtain.