Ivanov

She’s so clever. Yesterday we were talking and she came out with a gem: ‘Daddy dear – they say glow-worms shine in the dark so the night-birds can see to eat them. Well, good people exist for the same reason, to be easy meat for gossip and slander.’ What do you think of that? Another George Sand!

IvanovPasha! (Stops him.) What’s wrong with me?

LebedevThat’s what I’ve been wanting to ask you, but frankly I was too embarrassed. I wish I knew, old chap! On one hand it looks as if it’s just bad luck getting the better of you. On the other hand you don’t seem to be the sort to lie down under your troubles. So I don’t think it’s that, but I don’t know what it can be exactly.

IvanovI don’t know either. Sometimes I think –

Pause.

Well, what I was going to say was . . . I used to have a workman called Semyon, you remember him – well, at threshing time once, to show how strong he was, to impress the girls, he hoisted two sacks of rye on his back and something gave way inside. He died not long after. That’s what it feels like with me. First there was school, then university, then farming, then starting up the village school and all sorts of projects . . . I had different ideas from other people, didn’t marry the usual kind of girl, got carried away by things, took risks, threw my money away, as you well know . . . I’ve had more good times and bad times than any man in the district. These were my sacks of rye, Pasha. I hoisted them up and something gave way inside. When we’re twenty there’s nothing we can’t take on, we’re all heroes, and at forty we’ve had it, no good for anything. What’s the reason for this utter weariness? Well, anyway, that’s probably not what it was at all. Go on now, Pasha – goodbye and God be with you, I didn’t mean to bore you.

Lebedev(eagerly) Do you know what I think? You need a change of scenery.

IvanovThat’s silly, and not very original. Off you go!

LebedevYes, that was really silly. Very, very silly, I can see that. I’m off – I’m going . . .

Lebedev leaves.

Ivanov(aside) Well, what a miserable, pathetic, contemptible creature I am! Only somebody as sozzled and played out as Pasha could have any respect left for me. Oh God, how I despise myself! I hate the sound of my voice, my footsteps, hate my hands, these clothes, my very thoughts . . . It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? – It’s infuriating. Hardly a year ago I was a fit man, cheerful, always on the go . . . I was good with my hands, I could talk to bring tears to the eyes, even of some loutish peasant. I could weep myself when I saw suffering – and get angry when I saw wickedness. I knew inspiration, knew the charm and poetry of quiet nights when I’d work at my desk till dawn, or let my mind go wandering. I had faith, I looked at the future as trustfully as I’d look into my mother’s eyes . . . and now, oh God, I’m so tired, I believe in nothing, idling away the nights. My brain, my hands, my feet won’t do what I tell them. The estate is going to ruin, the woods fall to the axe. (Weeps.) My land looks back at me like an abandoned child. I’m not hoping for anything, I’m not sorry for anything, and I dread every new day. And then there’s Anna. I’ve watched her fading away, worn away by her feelings of guilt, and still – God knows – never a glance or a word of reproach! And now I’ve fallen out of love. How? Why? What for? I just don’t understand it. And here she is, dying in pain, and here am I, running away from her pale face, her sunken chest, her pleading eyes, like a complete coward. It’s beyond shame.

Pause.

And now Sasha – a mere child . . . feeling sorry for me and thinking she’s in love with me – and suddenly I’m intoxicated, I forget everything, like someone carried away by a piece of Beethoven or something, shouting about happiness and a new life, and next moment I have about as much belief in this happy new life as I have in fairies. What is wrong with me?! What is this edge I’m pushing myself over? Why am I so helpless? What’s happening to my nerves? If my sick wife says a word out of place, or a servant annoys me, or a book goes missing, I explode, I’m horrible to everyone, I don’t recognise myself any more.

Pause.

I simply don’t know what’s going on with me. I might just as well put a bullet in my head!

Lvov enters.

LvovWe have to have a few words, Nikolay Alekseevich!

IvanovIf we’re going to have to have a few words every time we meet, it’ll be more than flesh and blood can stand.

LvovWill you listen to me?

IvanovI listen to you every day, and so far I haven’t understood a thing. What exactly do you want from me?

LvovI always express myself precisely and clearly. Only someone whose heart is closed could fail to understand me.

IvanovI understand that my wife hasn’t got long to live. I understand that I am irredeemably guilty. I understand that you are an honest, upright fellow. What else do you want to tell me?