STEPANOVNA. Papa, tell us truly, which is the better dog, our Squeezer or his Guess.
LOMOV. Stepan Stepanovitch, I implore you to tell me just one thing: is your Squeezer overshot or not? Yes or no?
CHUBUKOV. And suppose he is? What does it matter? He’s the best dog in the district for all that, and so on.
LOMOV. But isn’t my Guess better? Really, now?
CHUBUKOV. Don’t excite yourself, my precious one… Allow me… Your Guess certainly has his good points… He’s pure-bred, firm on his feet, has well-sprung ribs, and all that. But, my dear man, if you want to know the truth, that dog has two defects: he’s old and he’s short in the muzzle.
LOMOV. Excuse me, my heart… Let’s take the facts… You will remember that on the Marusinsky hunt my Guess ran neck-and-neck with the Count’s dog, while your Squeezer was left a whole verst behind.
CHUBUKOV. He got left behind because the Count’s whipper-in hit him with his whip.
LOMOV. And with good reason. The dogs are running after a fox, when Squeezer goes and starts worrying a sheep!
CHUBUKOV. It’s not true!.. My dear fellow, I’m very liable to lose my temper, and so, just because of that, let’s stop arguing. You started because everybody is always jealous of everybody else’s dogs. Yes, we’re all like that! You too, sir, aren’t blameless! You no sooner notice that some dog is better than your Guess than you begin with this, that… and the other… and all that… I remember everything!
LOMOV. I remember too!
CHUBUKOV. [Teasing him] I remember, too… What do you remember?
LOMOV. My heart… my foot’s gone to sleep… I can’t…
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. [Teasing] My heart… What sort of a hunter are you? You ought to go and lie on the kitchen oven and catch blackbeetles, not go after foxes! My heart!
CHUBUKOV. Yes really, what sort of a hunter are you, anyway? You ought to sit at home with your palpitations, and not go tracking animals. You could go hunting, but you only go to argue with people and interfere with their dogs and so on. Let’s change the subject in case I lose my temper. You’re not a hunter at all, anyway!
LOMOV. And are you a hunter? You only go hunting to get in with the Count and to intrigue… Oh, my heart!.. You’re an intriguer!
CHUBUKOV. What? I an intriguer? [Shouts] Shut up!
LOMOV. Intriguer!
CHUBUKOV. Boy! Pup!
LOMOV. Old rat! Jesuit!
CHUBUKOV. Shut up or I’ll shoot you like a partridge! You fool!
LOMOV. Everybody knows that – oh my heart! – your late wife used to beat you… My feet… temples… sparks… I fall, I fall!
CHUBUKOV. And you’re under the slipper of your housekeeper!
LOMOV. There, there, there… my heart’s burst! My shoulder’s come off… Where is my shoulder? I die. [Falls into an armchair] A doctor! [Faints.]
CHUBUKOV. Boy! Milksop! Fool! I’m sick! [Drinks water] Sick!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. What sort of a hunter are you? You can’t even sit on a horse! [To her father] Papa, what’s the matter with him? Papa! Look, papa! [Screams] Ivan Vassilevitch! He’s dead!
CHUBUKOV. I’m sick!.. I can’t breathe!.. Air!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. He’s dead. [Pulls LOMOV’S sleeve] Ivan Vassilevitch! Ivan Vassilevitch! What have you done to me? He’s dead. [Falls into an armchair] A doctor, a doctor! [Hysterics.]
CHUBUKOV. Oh!.. What is it? What’s the matter?
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. [Wails] He’s dead… dead!
CHUBUKOV. Who’s dead? [Looks at LOMOV] So he is! My word! Water! A doctor! [Lifts a tumbler to LOMOV’S mouth] Drink this!.. No, he doesn’t drink… It means he’s dead, and all that… I’m the most unhappy of men! Why don’t I put a bullet into my brain? Why haven’t I cut my throat yet? What am I waiting for? Give me a knife! Give me a pistol! [LOMOV moves] He seems to be coming round… Drink some water! That’s right…
LOMOV. I see stars… mist… Where am I?
CHUBUKOV. Hurry up and get married and – well, to the devil with you! She’s willing! [He puts LOMOV’S hand into his daughter’s] She’s willing and all that. I give you my blessing and so on. Only leave me in peace!
LOMOV. [Getting up] Eh? What? To whom?
CHUBUKOV. She’s willing! Well? Kiss and be damned to you!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. [Wails] He’s alive… Yes, yes, I’m willing…
CHUBUKOV. Kiss each other!
LOMOV. Eh? Kiss whom? [They kiss] Very nice, too. Excuse me, what’s it all about? Oh, now I understand… my heart… stars… I’m happy. Natalya Stepanovna… [Kisses her hand] My foot’s gone to sleep…
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. I… I’m happy too…
CHUBUKOV. What a weight off my shoulders… Ouf!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. But… still you will admit now that Guess is worse than Squeezer.
LOMOV. Better!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. Worse!
CHUBUKOV. Well, that’s a way to start your family bliss! Have some champagne!
LOMOV. He’s better!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA. Worse! worse! worse!
CHUBUKOV. [Trying to shout her down] Champagne! Champagne!
THE WEDDING
CHARACTERS
EVDOKIM ZAHAROVITCH ZHIGALOV, a retired Civil Servant.
NASTASYA TIMOFEYEVNA, his wife DASHENKA, their daughter
EPAMINOND MAXIMOVITCH APLOMBOV, Dashenka’s bridegroom
FYODOR YAKOVLEVITCH REVUNOV-KARAULOV, a retired captain
ANDREY ANDREYEVITCH NUNIN, an insurance agent
ANNA MARTINOVNA ZMEYUKINA, a midwife, aged 30, in a brilliantly red dress
IVAN MIHAILOVITCH YATS, a telegraphist
HARLAMPI SPIRIDONOVITCH DIMBA, a Greek confectioner
DMITRI STEPANOVITCH MOZGOVOY, a sailor of the Imperial Navy (Volunteer Fleet)
GROOMSMEN, GENTLEMEN, WAITERS, ETC.
The scene is laid in one of the rooms of Andronov’s Restaurant
[A brilliantly illuminated room. A large table, laid for supper. Waiters in dress-jackets are fussing round the table. An orchestra behind the scene is playing the music of the last figure of a quadrille.]
[ANNA MARTINOVNA ZMEYUKINA, YATS, and a GROOMSMAN cross the stage.]
ZMEYUKINA. No, no, no!
YATS. [Following her] Have pity on us! Have pity!
ZMEYUKINA. No, no, no!
GROOMSMAN. [Chasing them] You can’t go on like this! Where are you off to? What about the grand ronde? Grand ronde, s’il vous plait! [They all go off.]
[Enter NASTASYA TIMOFEYEVNA and APLOMBOV.]
NASTASYA TIMOFEYEVNA. You had much better be dancing than upsetting me with your speeches.
APLOMBOV. I’m not a Spinosa or anybody of that sort, to go making figures-of-eight with my legs. I am a serious man, and I have a character, and I see no amusement in empty pleasures. But it isn’t just a matter of dances. You must excuse me, maman, but there is a good deal in your behaviour which I am unable to understand. For instance, in addition to objects of domestic importance, you promised also to give me, with your daughter, two lottery tickets. Where are they?
NASTASYA TIMOFEYEVNA. My head’s aching