we will drive over to my place. Agreed? (Seeing SONYA enter.) Oh, heavens, excuse my not having a tie on! [Runs out.
SCENE VIII
VOYNITSKY AND SONYA
SONYA: And you, Uncle George, have been drinking champagne again with Fyodor and driving about with him in a troika. The bright birds singing together! Well, Fyodor is a downright born rake; but you, what makes you behave like that? At your time of life it does not at all become you.
VOYNITSKY: Time of life has nothing to do with it. If there’s no real life, one lives by illusions. Anyhow, it’s better than nothing.
SONYA: The hay hasn’t been gathered in; Guerasim said to-day that the rain would rot it away; and you are busy with illusions. (Frightened.) Uncle, there are tears in your eyes!
VOYNITSKY: Tears? Not a bit … nonsense! . . You just looked at me as your dead mother used to look. My dear! … (Eagerly kissing her hands and face.) My sister … my sweet sister! … Where is she now? If she knew . Oh, if she only knew!
SONYA: What? If she knew what, uncle?
VOYNITSKY: It is hard, bad… (Enter KHROUSCHOV.) No matter… I’ll tell you afterwards… I’ll go…
[Goes out.
SCENE IX
SONYA AND KHROUSCHOV
KHROUSCHOV: Your father refuses to listen to anything^ I tell him it’s gout, and he says it’s rheumatism; I’ll lie down, and he sits up. (Taking his hat.) Nerves SONYA: He’s spoilt. Put away your hat. Wait till the rain stops. Won’t you have something to eat?
KHROUSCHOV: I think I will.
SONYA: I love to have something to eat at night. I believe there must be something in the sideboard… (Rummaging there.) He does not need a doctor. What he needs is to have round him a dozen ladies gazing into his eyes and sighing, “Professor, professor! “Here’s some cheese… .
KHROUSCHOV: You ought not to speak of your father like that. I agree, he’s a difficult person: but if you compare him with the others, all these Uncle Georges and Orlovskys aren’t worth his little finger.
SONYA: Here’s a bottle of something… I’m not speaking of my father, but I’m sick of great men with their Chinese ceremonies… (Thev sit down.) What a downpour! (A flash.) Oh!
KHROUSCHOV: The storm is passing away, it’s only on the borders of the estate… .
SONYA (pouring out): Here you are!
KHROUSCHOV: May you live to be a hundred!
(Drinking.)
SONYA: You are cross because we have troubled you in the night?
KHROUSCHOV: On the contrary. If you had not called me in, I should be sleeping now, and to see you in the flesh is much more pleasant than to see you in a dream.
SONYA. Why, then, do you look so cross?
KHROUSCHOV: Because I am cross. There’s nobody about here, so I can speak frankly. With what pleasure, Sophie Alexandrovna, would I carry you away from here this \ -v minute! I can’t breathe this air here, and it seems to . i, that it is poisoning you. Your father, completely absorbed in his gout and in his books, and refusing to take notice of anything else; that Uncle George; finally your stepmother
SONYA: What about my stepmother?
KHROUSCHOV: One can’t speak of everything… One can’t! My dear, there’s a great deal which I don’t understand in people. In a human being everything should be beautiful: the face, the clothes, the soul, the thoughts… . Often I see a beautiful face and clothes, so beautiful that my head gets giddy with rapture; but as for the soul and thoughts, my God! In a beautiful outside there’s sometimes hidden such a black soul that no whitening can rub it off… Forgive me, I’m agitated… Indeed, you are infinitely dear to me… .
SONYA (dropping a knife): I’ve dropped it… .
KHROUSCHOV(picking it up): That’s all right… (After a pause.) One happens sometimes to walk on a dark night in a forest, and when one sees a light gleaming far away in the distance, one’s soul is filled with such joy that one cares nothing for the fatigue, for the darkness, or for the prickly branches stinging one’s face. … I work from morning till late at night; winter and summer I know no rest, I fight with those who do not understand me, at times I suffer intolerably.… But at last I’ve found my little light. … I shan’t boast that I love you above all on earth. Love to me is not everything in life … love is my reward. My dear, my glorious, there is no higher reward to one who works, struggles, suffers
SONYA (in agitation): I’m sorry… One question, Mikhail Lvovich!
KHROUSCHOV: What? Ask it quickly… .
SONYA: You see… You often come to our house, and I sometimes go with my people to yours. Do own that you can’t forgive yourself for it… .
KHROUSCHOV: What do you mean?
SONYA: I mean, I want to say that your democratic sentiment is offended by your being close friends with us. I have studied at the Institute, Elena Andreyevna is an aristocrat, we dress fashionably; and you are a democrat… .
KHROUSCHOV: Why … why … let’s not speak about that! It isn’t the time!
SONYA: You yourself dig peat, plant trees … it’s somewhat strange. … To be brief, in a word, you’re a socialist… .
KHROUSCHOV: Democrat, socialist! … Sophie Alexandrovna, how can you speak of it seriously and even with a tremble in your voice!
SONYA: Yes, yes, seriously, a thousand times seriously.
KHROUSCHOV: But you can’t, you can’t… .
SONYA: I assure you, I swear, that if, for instance, I had a sister and you fell in love with her and proposed to her, you would never forgive yourself, and you would be ashamed to show yourself to your Zemstvo men and women doctors. You would feel ashamed of having married an aristocratic girl, a “muslined young lady,” who has never learnt to do any useful work, and who dresses fashionably. I know it quite well… I see in your eyes that it’s true!: In a word, to be brief, these forests of yours, this peat of yours, your embroidered blouse — all this is an affectation, play-acting, a falsehood and nothing else!
KHROUSCHOV: Why, my child, why have you insulted me?… Yet, I am a fool. It serves me right. I shouldn’t have intruded where I was not welcome! Goodbye.
(Going to the door.)
SONYA: Forgive me. … I was blunt, I apologize.
KHROUSCHOV (returning): If you knew how oppressive and stifling it is here! A set of persons who approach everyone sideways, look at a man askance, and try to make him out a socialist, a psychopath, a phrase-monger, anything you like, save a human being. “Oh, he’s a psychopath!” and they’re satisfied. “He’s a phrase-monger,” and they’re delighted as though they had discovered America. And when people don’t understand me and don’t know what label to stick on my forehead, they don’t blame themselves for this, but me, and say, “He’s a queer fellow, odd! “You’re not twenty yet, but you are already old and sober-minded, like your father and Uncle George; and I shouldn’t in the least be surprised if you were to call me in to cure you of gout. One can’t live like that! Whoever I am, look straight into my eyes, candidly, without reservations, without programmes, and above all try to see me as a human being; otherwise in your relations