ANTON CHEKHOV

Young Chekhov
Platonov

Ivanov

The Seagull

Adapted and introduced by

DAVID HARE
The Seagull
Note
First Performance
Characters
Act One
Act Two
Act Three
Act Four

About Anton Chekhov

About David Hare
By the Same Author
Copyright
 Introduction
The presentation of these three plays in one season at the
Chichester Festival Theatre in 2015 represents the fulfilment of
a fifteen-year dream. In the late 1990s I was approached by
Jonathan Kent to fashion a version of Ivanov for the Almeida
Theatre. The resulting production was so outstanding that
Jonathan’s co-artistic director, Ian McDiarmid, suggested that I
take a look at the six hours of ramblings which we in Britain call
Platonov. As soon as I had started, I argued that we should revive
Ivanov alongside Platonov and throw in The Seagull as well,
since this far more familiar masterpiece represents the point to
which the other two plays are heading. At the time practical
difficulties prevented the realisation of such an ambitious
project. Now, at last, after so many years, in a field in West
Sussex, we will finally give audiences a chance to see the first
progress of a playwright.

In a deliberately provocative essay the critic James Wood

compares Chekhov with Ibsen, and, as critics will, finds in
Chekhov’s favour. Ibsen, Wood believes, orders life into three
trim acts. The Norwegian thinks of his characters as envoys, sent
into the world in order to convey the dramatic ironies and ideas
of their author. The people in the Russian plays, by contrast, ‘act
like free consciousness, not as owned literary characters’. Wood
rates Chekhov next to Shakespeare because these two alone,
among the world’s great writers, respect the
 absolute complexity of life, never allowing their creations to be
used for any other purpose than being themselves. The special
genius of the human beings you meet in Chekhov’s plays and
short stories is that they don’t have to behave like people in a
purposeful drama. ‘Chekhov’s characters,’ Wood declares,
‘forget to be Chekhov’s characters.’
Who can deny that this is an alluring and obviously potent
idea? Who doesn’t love the notion that there once existed an
author so free that he was able to summon up men and women
who trail a sense of mystery as profound as human beings do in
real life? Of course it would be wonderful if plays and books
could be written which were seen not to reorder life, but which
we were able to experience as if they were life itself. What a
marvellous thing that would be! But behind Wood’s apparently
novel theory – boiled down: let’s all applaud a writer who is not
felt to intervene – you can hear the echo of another critical battle
which has been raging for over a hundred years since Chekhov’s
death. Wood is firing a fresh round of artillery on behalf of that
section of the playwright’s admirers who value him as the
ultimate universalist, the man too squeamish to say anything too
specific about his own time and his own class. They think of their
hero as a portraitist. But Wood ignores that other, equally
vociferous section of admirers who prefer to believe that their
man was as political, as social and as specific a writer as Gorky
or Tolstoy. They think of him as a moralist.
It is my own conviction that we can’t address these
contentious questions unless we take time to consider those plays
which Chekhov wrote, as it were, before he was Chekhov. The
Cherry Orchard, Three Sisters and Uncle
 have been in the international repertory ever since they were
written, sometimes giving more pleasure to actors who relish
their ensemble qualities than to audiences who, in second-rate
productions, find them listless. But less attention is paid to the
playwright’s earlier work. It is essential to see these vibrant and
much more direct plays for what they are – thrilling sunbursts of
youthful anger and romanticism – rather than for what they
portend.
There is no duller and less fruitful way of looking at the key
works of Chekhov’s theatrical beginnings merely as maquettes
for the later plays. Certainly, we can all amuse ourselves by
drawing up lists of characters and plot incidents in Platonov
which recur in The Cherry Orchard and Uncle Vanya. But as we
tick off these motifs – the failed suicides, the mismatched lovers,
the sales of the estates – then the danger is that we ignore equally
powerful material and themes whose special interest is that they
never occur again.
No, Platonov does not have the intricate, superbly wrought
surface of Three Sisters. Who could possibly claim that so many
hours of sometimes repetitive and overwritten speechifying
exhibit the faultless literary control for which Chekhov later
became known? But Platonov does have, in its very wildness, a
sort of feverish ambition, a desire, almost, to put the whole of
Russia on the stage, while at the same time focusing comically
on one of its most sophisticated victims. Where is the parallel for
this, not just in Chekhov’s work, but in anyone else’s?
The text of Platonov is so prolix that the most successful
adaptations have, significantly, tended to be the freest. When
 Michael Frayn wrote his popular comedy Wild Honey for the
National Theatre in 1984, he admitted that he treated the text ‘as
if it were the rough draft of one of my own plays’. When
Mikhalkov made his 1985 film Unfinished Piece for Mechanical
Piano, he reallocated lines, banished half the characters,
abandoned the substantive plot, and shoehorned in ideas and
images of his own. But my strategy, both more and less radical
than that of my two gifted predecessors, was that I should try to
stick, in architecture at least, to Chekhov’s original plan. I would
clear away massive amounts of repetition and indulgence, I
would recoin and rebalance much of the dialogue, I would hack
determinedly through acres of brushwood, but nevertheless I
would aim that the audience should see the play in something
recognisable as the form in which Chekhov left it.
It was undoubtedly a risky undertaking. Platonov may seem
an odd-shaped play. It can seem like a man who sets off for a walk
in one direction, but who is then lured by the beauty of the
landscape to another destination entirely. The first act has a
gorgeous breadth and sweep which leads you to expect an evening
in the company of a whole community. The second introduces an
unexpected murder plot. By the time the third is under way, you
are witnessing a series of extremely painful and funny duologues,
all with Platonov himself as the common partner, and by the
fourth, you are, with a bit of luck, adjusting yourself to a climax
of feverish hysteria. No wonder commentators dismissed this
ambitious story of steam trains and lynchings for ‘uncertainty
of tone’. A faithful performance of Platonov will test to the limit
the idea that an evening in a
playhouse needs to be held together in one governing style.
Even in my compressed version, enemies of the play will call
it a ragbag. Let them. For me, something wholly original lies at
its spine. The form, often accused of being undisciplined, can
more truly be seen as a kind of narrowing, a deliberate irising
down on to one particular character. Chekhov sets off to give us
a broad-brush view of a society which is rotten with money,
drink and hypocrisy. Capitalism is just arriving, and its practices,
all too recognisable today, are sweeping aside a privileged class
which no longer knows how to maintain its way of life. Ruling-
class attitudes have survived long after ruling-class influence has
gone. But then, once he has established the context of his vision,
Chekhov goes on to embody the contradictions of this
superfluous class in one single individual.
The schoolteacher Platonov has squandered his inherited
fortune. Again, critics usually portray him as a small-town
Lothario, seeking bored amusement in the pursuit of women. But
if we examine what Chekhov actually wrote, we will find a hero
who is, in fact, surprisingly reluctant to consummate his
relationship with at least one of the women who are in love with
him. Far from being a determined seducer, ‘the most interesting
man in the region’ is, on the contrary, a person to whom things
happen – sometimes at his wish, sometimes by accident. In his
relationships, he tries not for easy conquest, but rather to
discover in love a purpose and meaning which eludes him
elsewhere. The tired, traditional notion of the provincial Don
Juan suddenly breathes with humanity and contradiction.
It is hard, of course, not to see a wry autobiographical
element in the twenty-year-old author’s appraisal of a man
whose main problem in life is that women find him irresistible.
But no such identification can explain the confidence with which
the women themselves are drawn. In the figure of the General’s
widow, Anna Petrovna, Chekhov creates one of the great
heroines of the Russian stage – an educated, intelligent and
loving woman who can find no place in the world for her love,
her intelligence or her education. In the compassion Chekhov
extends both to Sasha, Platonov’s religiously devout wife, and to
Sofya, the idealistic young woman who is set on fire by
Platonov’s too-easy radical rhetoric, we find a degree of
imaginative sympathy which would be remarkable in a writer
twice or three times Chekhov’s age.
In short then, we have a great example of Chekhov exposed
– not, as in later plays, seeking to hide his personality under the
cover of his creations, but more, like Osborne through Jimmy
Porter, willing to let his own passion and his own political
despair spill on to the stage. This writer is not at all James
Wood’s stringless puppet-master, but rather a man unafraid by
a mix of direct
address, monologue, farce and tragedy to let us know how
strongly he feels about the social decay around him. Perhaps
because Rex Harrison played the part at the Royal Court in 1960
when he was almost twice the age the author specifies – he says
twenty-seven, Harrison was fifty-two – there is an expectation in
Britain of Platonov being played, when the role is played at all,
by an actor who is far too old. But this play, above all plays, is a
terrible tragedy of youth. Young Chekhov is hotter than old.
 I’ve tried to be original. I have not introduced a single villain or
a single angel (though I haven’t been able to abstain from fools);
nor have I accused or vindicated anyone. Whether or not I’ve
succeeded I can’t tell. Korsh and the actors are sure the play will
work. I’m not so sure. The actors don’t understand it and say the
most ridiculous things, they’re badly miscast, I’m constantly at
war with them. Had I known, I’d never have got involved with it.

Chekhov’s own words about his first performed play Ivanov

chime neatly with Maxim Gorky’s observation: ‘How lonely
Chekhov is. How little he’s understood.’ With hindsight we
know that Chekhov was about to begin the process of banishing
melodrama from the nineteenth-century stage, but as a result it has
been easy and convenient to forget the fact that he once wrote an
exceptionally good melodrama himself. Because he tended to
disparage the play in his private correspondence, and because its
early performances were so obviously disastrous, the author
implicitly gave permission to anyone who subsequently wanted to
label it as clumsy. Originally drafted in only two weeks, the play
uses monologue and direct address. It features a hero who makes
conspicuously long speeches. It satirises a certain layer of society
in much broader strokes than those Chekhov later favoured. But
what entitles us to think these techniques are not deliberate, and
in their way just as skilfully deployed as the more muted strategies
the author later adopted? Unless we can admit that Ivanov is not a
lesser play, but simply different from his later work, then we
will miss its
significance.
Nothing has been more damaging to our feeling for
Chekhov’s plays than the way his admirers have tended to
represent the author himself. I have often had to explain to
enraptured young women that the object of their love is actually
dead, and has been for a good long time now. Encouraged by
suitably enigmatic photographs, we have tolerated the idea that
the dramatist was some sort of all-purpose secular saint, living
six feet above the rest of the human race, able to observe
mankind’s foibles with a medical man’s detached and witty
irony. Anyone who has bothered to establish the facts of his life
would know how far off the mark this notion is. The real
Chekhov is complex, testy and troubled. Indeed, to that
tiresome school of academics who believe that literary criticism
consists of marking off a writer’s every line against a
contemporary checklist of fashionable ‘errors’, the saintly
Chekhov comes through with his halo looking distinctly askew.
When we hear this supposedly virtuous playwright saying that
when he entered a room full of good-looking women he
‘melted like a Yid contemplating his ducats’ then we may begin
to suspect that our man is not quite who he is commonly made
out to be. When he elsewhere observes that the most
complimentary thing you can say about a woman is that ‘she
doesn’t think like a woman’; when we discover him in Monte
Carlo, fretfully revising an infallible system and then losing
five hundred francs in two days; when we catch him referring
to his one-time Jewish girlfriend as ‘Efros the Nose’; when we
find him in Sri Lanka ‘glutting himself on dusky women’: then
we are already waving a vigorous goodbye to the floppy-hatted
 and languorous stereotype.
A singular virtue of the play Ivanov is that it gives us a clear
sight of this more robust Chekhov, and one who is happy to use
some quite orthodox dramatic conventions – each act climaxes
with what he calls ‘a punch on the nose’ – to tackle hotly
contemporary themes. Here is a full-blooded writer, willing to
address the ugliness of Russian anti-Semitism head-on, and
dramatising a conflict from within himself in a way which is both
deeply felt and funny. For once, his own feelings and thoughts
are plainly on show.
It could hardly be otherwise. The dominating theme of Ivanov
is honesty. It is hard to see how Chekhov could have written a
play which asks what real honesty is, and – just as important –
what its price is, without allowing access to his own personality.
Although the play, like his later work, may be said to weave
together a whole variety of threads, nothing is more striking in it
than the deliberate contrast between the self- confident Doctor
Lvov and the more cautious Ivanov. The play’s defining
argument is between a young doctor who thinks that honesty is
to do with blurting out offensive truths, and the central character
who insists with a wisdom which is notably pre-Freudian that no
one can achieve honesty unless they have the self-knowledge to
examine their own motives.
In this debate there is no doubt with whom Chekhov’s
sympathies lie. ‘If my Ivanov comes across as a blackguard or
superfluous man, and the doctor as a great man, if no one
understands why Anna and Sasha love Ivanov, then my play has
evidently failed and there can be no question of having it
produced.’ But for all his protestations of partiality, Chekhov
 makes sure to provide Ivanov with an opponent who is, in an odd
way, as compelling as the hero, and sometimes almost his
shadow. Chekhov leaves us to work out for ourselves whether
honesty truly resides in judging others or in refusing to judge
them.
Apart from the charge of technical immaturity, the play has
also had to survive the impression that, in Ivanov himself, it
presents a hero who is excessively, even morbidly self-pitying.
Yet in saying this, critics ignore Chekhov’s stated intention to
kill off once and for all the strain of self-indulgent melancholy
which he believed disfigured Russian literature. ‘I have long
cherished the audacious notion of summing up all that has
hitherto been written about complaining and melancholy people,
and would have my Ivanov proclaim the ultimate in such
writing.’ Far from idealising the so-called superfluous man,
Chekhov seeks to send him packing. It was Ralph Fiennes who,
at the Almeida in 1997, in a moment of striking revelation for
the British theatre, finally played the part the way the author
wanted, revealing Ivanov not as a landowner lost in useless
introspection, but rather a man who found the whole Russian
tradition of introspection and self-pity humiliating. As Fiennes
portrayed him, Ivanov was not a stereotype. He was a man
fighting with all his willpower not to surrender to a stereotype.
He was determined to refuse the comfort of falsely dramatising
his feelings. Viewed in this light, the play’s tragic ending, which
provided the author with so much difficulty, seemed to have a
terrible logic.
Ivanov is a play with which Chekhov, for all his rewriting,
never felt wholly satisfied. Yet as so often there are ways in
 which early literary struggle provides an infinitely richer
experience than many works which we like to claim as mature.

Of all nineteenth-century plays The Seagull is most insistently

modern. It is also the most adapted. I would not have dared to
add to what is already a long list of brilliant adaptations unless I
had wanted to tie these three plays together into a single
experience, and to present the final play in an especially
illuminating context. Because The Seagull deals with an artistic
argument between the avant-garde and the traditional, it updates
peculiarly well. Anya Reiss’s recent transposition of the play to
the Isle of Man in the present day – people go into town in Land
Rovers, not on horseback – seemed to have none of the usual
problems of doing what Jonathan Miller calls ‘schlepping a play
a hundred miles up the motorway’. On the contrary, it was
triumphantly apt and alive. Those reviewers who complained of
the presence of fridges, sunglasses and high-heels in Luc
Bondy’s stunning production for the Vienna Burgtheater,
seemed blind to the beauty of what the director was doing: just
nudging a play which is set on the cusp of change into a visual
language which made it fresher and more immediate.
Presented, as on this occasion, as the climax to his work as a
young man, then you may notice what is hardly apparent in a
stand-alone production. The bones of the plot are pretty routine.
A promising young woman is casually ruined by an older man,
and cast aside. Her dreams and those of her despairing boyfriend
are brutally destroyed. We are, if you care to notice, once more in
the realm of melodrama, as we were in Platonov
and Ivanov. For the third time, there will be a death in the final
moments of the play. But now, in this climactic work, something
new has arrived, which is not purely a matter of technique.
Chekhov has found a sophisticated way of burying meaning deep
in texture, of leaving as much unsaid as said. But also, instead of
giving us single characters striving for individual self-
expression, he has found a marvellous ability to suggest
something beyond them, something inexpressible. His
characters are starting to be victims of events and changes in
themselves which it is almost impossible for them to recognise
or understand. He is putting them under the eye of eternity.
Anyone who wants single-mindedly to obey the
implications of Chekhov calling his play a comedy will find
plenty of material in the characters’ self-ignorance. At one
level, Arkadina can’t accept her career is on the slide; however
much he discourses on the subject, Trigorin can’t accept he’s
second-rate; and Konstantin can’t accept that he can’t write.
But at another level, these truths are partial, speaking as much
to the characters’ fears as they do to the reality. And as the play
deepens, then easy judgements become hard. Is Nina a good
actress or is she not? Is Arkadina really a terrible mother, or is
she not dealing with a son whose downward path is predestined
and whom nobody can save from himself? Masha’s decision to
abandon all her romantic hopes and longings may seem
expensive. But did she ever, at any point, have any real choice?
It is the unknowability of fate which pulls this play towards
greatness. The balance in writing here has changed, but there is
enough of Chekhov’s early romanticism still showing to make
it the most perfect, and most perfectly achieved, play he ever
wrote. Are the characters victims of their traits, or are they
choosing paths which might have led elsewhere? In Platonov,
time is something which stretches ahead, meaningless. In
Ivanov, it represents waste, like an abacus of failure. But in The
Seagull, with its clever structure of inter-act jumps, time
represents something infinitely more powerful: both the element
in which we act out our own misfortunes, but also the reason for
so many of them. This is a play about young people. Even
Arkadina is only forty-three. But the whole set of characters
seem to be struggling against some terrible force which strips
them and robs them, however they behave. Angry at having to
explain to a young woman how punishing his profession is,
Trigorin launches into an affair for no other reason but because
he can. Yes, of course, it has a terrible effect on Nina, its victim.
But it also leaves Trigorin sadder, diminished, a husk.
The Seagull was famously a play made by a great second
production. On its first outing, in an indifferent production, it
flopped. This seems to me hardly a coincidence. With The
Seagull, Chekhov is for the first time beginning to write plays
which crucially depend on how you do them. At the outset, as a
short-story writer, he palpably condescended to the form of
theatre, vowing each time never to go anywhere near a theatre
again. But by the time he writes The Seagull, you can feel his
increasing fascination with the form, and a new desire to advance
the history of that form. He begins, in short, to take theatre
seriously. On the surface, The Seagull is a play about theatre, and
most certainly about art. For that reason perhaps it has a history
of encouraging exceptional performances. It is a
play in which actors as diverse as James Mason, Penelope
Wilton, Vanessa Redgrave, George Devine and Carey Mulligan
have all done among their greatest work. But the struggle to
create something lasting and worthwhile in life is what really
drives the play. Theatre is only the metaphor. Chekhov’s own
youth is ending and it is ending with a new determination not to
knock away the past but to try, in however doomed a fashion, to
find his way to some sort of future. It is a very long distance in
this trilogy of plays from the character of the criminal Osip in
Platonov who lives in the forest like a medieval thief to the
young Konstantin dreaming of an art which has never been seen
before. As we watch, or as we read, we are moving from the
nineteenth century to the twentieth, and, implicitly to our own.
We are seeing the birth of the new.
DAVID HARE
 THE SEAGULL

Authoradapted by David Hare from a literal

translation by Helen Rappaport
 Note

Everything went wrong with the first performance of The

Seagull, which took place on 17 October 1896 at the
Alexandrinsky Theatre in St Petersburg, nine years after the
unhappy premiere of Ivanov. There were only a few hurried
rehearsals, the original Nina was aged forty-two, and the leading
actress who had requested the play for her benefit performance
then withdrew from playing Masha. The result was that her
many admirers who had paid top dollar to pack the theatre were
furious at her absence. The jeering and laughter began during
Nina’s monologue in Act Two, and by the time Konstantin
appeared with his head bandaged in Act Three the audience were
so noisy the actors couldn’t hear each other speak. Chekhov had
left the theatre by then to walk the streets. ‘If I live seven hundred
years,’ he said, ‘I’ll never give a theatre another play.’

In fact, even in St Petersburg, the play’s five subsequent

performances were far better received, and its reputation was
fixed for all time by the Moscow Art Theatre’s production of
December 1898. It was first performed on a British stage in
November 1909 by the Glasgow Repertory Company, directed
by George Calderon.

The play is in part based on the experience of an ex-girlfriend of

Chekhov’s, Lika Mizinova, who failed as an opera singer,
was seduced and then left pregnant by the writer Ignaty
Potapenko. She wrote to the dramatist, ‘Yes, everyone here says
The Seagull is taken from my life, and that you have called a
certain person to account.’ There are at least twenty-five English
versions of the play in print. There are many pitfalls, not least
the title. The first English translator Constance Garnett wrote to
Philip Ridgeway, who directed her version at the Barnes Theatre
in 1925 with John Gielgud as Konstantin:

You know, it isn’t a Seagull, but a Lake Gull – and what ought
it to be called? The names of water birds sound very unromantic.
Puffin, for instance. You can’t have a heroine drawing tears from
the audience by saying ‘I am a Puffin! No, that’s wrong.’
Seagull’s bad enough. Gull alone is impossible. Imagine a girl
saying ‘I am a Gull etc. …’

It was Michael Frayn, unlike the rest of us a Russian speaker,

who changed the rendering of Nina’s most famous line from ‘I
am a Seagull’ to ‘I am the Seagull’, making her not a generic
bird, but the particular bird in Trigorin’s story. There are very
few permanent advances in adaptation, most especially in this
most adapted of plays. But this surely was one.
The Seagull in this version was first performed at the Festival
Theatre, Chichester, on 28 September 2015. The cast, in order of
appearance, was as follows:

Medvedenko Pip Carter

Masha Jade Williams
Sorin Peter Egan
Konstantin Joshua James
Yakov Nebli Basani
Nina Olivia Vinall
Evgeny Dorn Adrian Lukis
Polina Lucy Briers
Arkadina Anna Chancellor
Trigorin Samuel West
Shamraev Des McAleer
The Maid Sarah Twomey
Ensemble Mark Donald

Director Jonathan Kent

Set Designer Tom Pye
Lighting Designer Mark Henderson
Music Jonathan Dove
 Characters

Irina Nikolaevna Arkadina

an actress, forty-three
Konstantin
her son, twenty-five
Sorin
her brother, sixty
Nina Zarechnaya
Shamraev
estate manager
Polina
his wife
Masha
his daughter, twenty-two
Boris Alexeyevich Trigorin
novelist
Evgeny Dorn
doctor, fifty-five
Medvedenko
teacher
Yakov
 workman
Cook
Maid
The action takes place on Sorin’s country estate.
Two years pass between Acts Three and Four.
 Act One
A corner of the park on Sorin’s estate. A line of trees leads
away towards a lake, which is obscured by a stage which been
hastily put together for amateur dramatics. Shrubbery on either
side. A few chairs and a table.
The sun has just gone down. Construction noise. Yakov and
other workmen are onstage behind the lowered curtain. Coughs
and banging audible. Masha and Medvedenko come in from the
left, on their way back from a walk. She is dressed in black.
Medvedenko Who died?
Masha Me, since you ask. I’m unhappy.
Medvedenko I can’t think why. You have your health. Your
father’s no plutocrat but he’s doing all right. Try living on a
schoolteacher’s pay. See how you like that. Twenty-three
roubles a month, minus deductions, minus pension
contributions. But even so I don’t feel I have to go around
dressed in black.
They sit down.
Masha It’s not about money. Lots of poor people are happy.
Medvedenko Happy in theory. But in practice what actually
happens: there’s me, there’s my two sisters, there’s my
mother, there’s my little brother, and we’ve all got to live on
my twenty-three roubles. So it comes down to: do we have to
have tea? Do we have to have sugar? Can we go without
cigarettes?
Masha looks at the stage.
Masha Not long till the play starts.
Medvedenko Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Konstantin writes the
play, Nina Zarechnaya acts in it, and so their love finds
concrete expression. In art. Their souls mingle. They’re lucky
because our souls do no mingling at all. None whatsoever. I
love you so much I can’t stand being at home. I walk four
miles here and four miles back, always to be totally blanked.
Which I understand. A large family and no money. I’m hardly
a prospect, am I?
Masha That’s not the reason.
She takes snuff.
Your love for me is actually very touching, but it’s not
reciprocated, so what can I say? Have some.
Medvedenko No thank you.
A silence.
Masha It’s close tonight, there must be a storm on the way.
You talk about money all the time, as though it defined you.
Nothing worse, you say, than being poor. But in my opinion
it’s a thousand times easier to be a beggar on the street than to
– oh look, with you, there’s no point in even trying to explain.
Sorin arrives with Konstantin. Sorin leans on his stick.
Sorin I’ve never got used to the country, and I never shall.
It’s too late now. I went to bed at ten last night, and I woke up
at nine feeling as if my brain were somehow stuck to my
skull. I sleep all the time. After lunch, I found myself fast
asleep yet again. I woke, I thought, ‘This is hell on earth.’
Konstantin You’re better off in town, it’s true.
He sees Masha and Medvedenko.
Sorry, but you two need to get out of here. I’ll call you when
we’re ready but we’re not ready yet.
Sorin Masha, one thing: can you please ask your father not
to keep his dog on the leash? It barks all night. My sister got
no sleep at all.
Masha Talk to him yourself. It’s nothing to do with me. (To
Medvedenko.) Come on, let’s get out of here.
Medvedenko (to Konstantin) Don’t forget. We don’t want
to miss it whatever happens.
Masha and Medvedenko go.
Sorin Wonderful. So we’re condemned to another night’s
barking. The thing about the country: it’s never how you want
it to be. I used to come here for four weeks’ annual leave but
the moment I arrived they’d bombard me with the whole
year’s problems and I just wanted to make a quick exit as
soon as I got here.
He laughs.
I’ve never been happier than when leaving this place. But sadly
now I’m retired I don’t really have anywhere to go. I’m stuck
here whether I like it or not.
Yakov speaks to Konstantin.
Yakov We’re going to take a swim if that’s all right, sir.
Konstantin Fine, but ten minutes at most. You’ll need to be
in position.
Yakov Understood, sir.
Konstantin Back in ten.
Yakov goes, Konstantin gestures to the stage.
Konstantin Now that’s what I call a theatre. A curtain, a
wing, a back wing, and beyond, an empty space. No scenery.
Just the lake and the horizon. The curtain will rise at 8.30, for
when the moon comes up.
Sorin Sounds marvellous.
Konstantin That’s why I’m jumpy. If Nina is late, the
whole effect will be lost. Her father and stepmother virtually
keep her under lock and key. Almost impossible for her to
escape.
He straightens his uncle’s tie.
You don’t think you should do something about your hair?
Sorin runs his fingers through his beard.
Sorin Tragedy of my life. Even when I was young I looked
like an old drunk, and that’s it. That’s why I never had any
luck with girls.
He sits down. Konstantin joins him.
And tell me why my sister’s in such a bad mood.
Konstantin Partly she’s bored. But she’s also jealous. A
play being performed that she’s not in? And Nina is? Mama
hasn’t even seen it but she knows she hates it.
Sorin (laughs) You do have the most ridiculous idea of her.
Konstantin Do I? She’s furious. Right here, on this little
stage, Nina’s going to be acclaimed and she’s not. Her idea of
a nightmare. She’s a very complicated woman, my mother.
Oh, gifted, yes, beyond question, intelligent, wonderful
feeling for literature, can recite swathes of poetry by heart,
never happier than when ministering like an angel to the sick,
but just try mentioning the word Duse. Wow! Stand back! If
you praise Duse. No. Only she must be praised. Only she
must be reviewed. It’s not happening if it’s not about her: her
fabulous performance in The Lady of the Camellias, or some
other dreary old play. And because out here in the country,
there’s no one to praise her, she gets antsy. ‘Get me some
praise, I’m starved, I’m desperate.’ And it must be our fault, it
must be us that’s to blame, suddenly we’re the enemy. Add to
which she’s superstitious – God forbid anything adds up to
the number thirteen. And purse-proud. I know for a fact she
has seventy thousand in a bank in Odessa. But ask her for a
 loan and she’ll treat you to one of her greatest performances.
Sorin For goodness’ sake. You’re having the reaction before
you have the event. We call it ‘discounting’. It’s nonsense.
Your mother adores you.
Konstantin pulls the petals from a flower.
Konstantin She loves me, she loves me not. There you are!
Not!
He laughs at the proof.
My greatest crime is that I remind her how old she is. Because
she wants to go on dressing like a girl and, let’s face it, having
affairs like a girl. That’s what it’s about. But she can’t get
round the fact that I’m twenty-five years old. When I’m not
here, she can play thirty-two, but unfortunately when I’m
standing anywhere near she has to own up. Let’s say it: forty-
three. She’s forty-three! No wonder she hates me. And she
knows that I’m not what they call a theatre-lover. For her,
theatre is this sacred calling, it’s there to serve humanity, but in
my opinion the theatre you see today is just boring. It’s stuck in
the past. Up goes the curtain, and then always the same thing.
The exaggerated lighting, the three walls, these priests of art
wandering around doing their little imitations of how real
people eat and drink and love and walk and wear their clothes.
Then two-thirds of the way through, here it comes, the
message! You can see it a mile off. Some poker-work moral,
carefully embroidered, so everyone can take it home. One size
fits all! The minute they give me the message, I want to run
screaming from the theatre, like Maupassant aghast at the Eiffel
Tower. If I haven’t already.
Sorin People can’t live without theatre.
Konstantin Maybe. But we need new forms. And if we
can’t get a theatre that’s new, that’s genuinely new, then
sorry, it’s better to have none at all.
For a second time he checks his watch.
I love my mother, I love her very much, but she lives a
meaningless life. She’s always swanning around with that so-
called man of letters. You can’t open a newspaper without
reading about her. All right, you may just think I’m being
selfish, but, oh my God, I do sometimes wish that my mother
were anonymous like everyone else. It puts me in such a
hideous position. She has parties: every single person is a
celebrity – they’re an artist or they’re a writer or an actor – and
I’m standing there for no other reason but that I’m her son. So
no wonder, Uncle, I find myself asking: who am I? What am I?
I was sent down from university in my third year, for failures of
discipline, as they say. I have no particular gift, I have
absolutely no money, not a penny, and on my passport it says
I’m petty bourgeois from Kiev. Again, all right, my father was
petty bourgeois from Kiev, but at least he was an actor, and
what’s more, rather a famous one. So every time one of the
celebrities looks at me, all they’re thinking is: what the hell is
he doing here? It’s just utterly humiliating.
Sorin Yes. About that so-called man of letters …
Konstantin What about him?
Sorin I mean, just a question, but does he speak? I’ve never
heard him say anything.
Konstantin He’s all right. Nothing wrong with him. He’s
decent enough. Maybe a bit sad. He isn’t yet forty, fame came
too easily and basically he’s blasé. As for his work, well, how
do I say this? It’s not nothing, but on the other hand if you’ve
been reading Tolstoy or Zola, you’re not going to feel an
urgent need to read Trigorin.
Sorin I like literary folk. Always have. Time was, I longed
for two things: to get married and to be a novelist. I didn’t
achieve either. I can’t think of anything nicer than being even
a minor novelist.
Konstantin Listen, she’s coming.
He hugs his uncle.
Just the sound of her feet, I can’t believe it. I can’t live without
her. I’m so incredibly happy.
Nina Zerechnaya comes in as Konstantin goes quickly to greet
her.
Nina I’m not late. Don’t tell me I’m late.
Konstantin No, you’re not late. You’re not late.
He is kissing her hands.
Nina I’ve spent the whole day worrying. I was terrified my
father wouldn’t let me out. But a great stroke of luck: he’s just
gone out with my stepmother. I was in such a panic. The sky
was red, the moon was on its way and I was yelling at the
horse to speed up. I’m so happy I made it.
Nina squeezes Sorin’s hand tightly. He laughs.
Sorin Are those tears in your eyes? That’s not good.
Nina It’s nothing, only I’m out of breath, that’s all. And I
can stay exactly thirty minutes, so we have to start right away.
I can’t be late, whatever happens. My father doesn’t even
know I’m here.
Konstantin That’s fine, we’re ready. Let’s get everyone
seated.
Sorin Let me, I’ll round them up.
He heads off, singing.
‘In France there were once two soldiers
In Russia they had been taken …’
He turns back.
Funny, I was once singing this very song when a friend, the
public prosecutor, said ‘Your Excellency, you have a powerful
voice.’ Slight pause. ‘Powerful but off-putting.’
He laughs and goes out.
Nina My father and his wife forbid me to come here. They
say you’re a bunch of bohemians, and I’ll end up wanting to
be an actress. But it’s as if I’m drawn across the lake, like a
seagull. Oh, my heart’s so full of you.
She looks round nervously.
Konstantin It’s all right, we’re alone.
Nina I don’t think so.
Konstantin We’re alone.
They kiss.
Nina What tree is that?
Konstantin An elm.
Nina Why is it so dark?
Konstantin It’s not the trees, it’s the light. In this light,
everything looks dark. Don’t go straight back after the play.
Nina I have to.
Konstantin Perhaps I’ll follow. I’m going to follow you all
the way home. Stand in your garden, looking up at your
window.
Nina I don’t think our guard dog’ll be too happy. You have
to get to know Trésor first.
Konstantin I love you.
Nina Shh …
Konstantin hears a noise behind the stage.
Konstantin Yakov, is that you?
Yakov (behind the stage) It’s me.
Konstantin Then please get ready, it’s time to start. Any
sign of the moon?
Yakov It’s coming up now, sir.
Konstantin You have the methylated spirits? And the
sulphur? Remember, the smell of sulphur to go with the red
eyes. (To Nina.) Here we go. Are you nervous?
Nina Incredibly. Not because of your mother, she doesn’t
bother me at all, but Trigorin. When I think I’m going to act
in front of Trigorin, the famous novelist. He’s still young?
Konstantin Yes.
Nina I love his work.
Konstantin (cool) Do you? I haven’t read it.
Nina You know, it’s not easy acting in your play. There are
no real people in it.
Konstantin People! The job is not to show life as it is, or as
it should be, but to create a world. A new world which is as
real and as powerful as a dream.
Nina Nothing really happens in your play, it’s just talk. I
think, to be effective, a play has to have love in it.
They go behind the stage. Dorn and Polina arrive.
Polina Go back and get your galoshes. It’s wet underfoot.
Dorn I’m hot.
Polina It’s so typical. You deliberately refuse to look after
yourself. Out of sheer stubbornness. You’re the doctor, you
know full well that damp air is bad for you, but you love
getting me worried. Yesterday you sat outside on the terrace
all evening.
Dorn (hums) ‘Do not say that youth is ruined …’
Polina But of course so wrapped up in your conversation
with Irina Nikolaevna that you didn’t even notice the cold.
You like her, don’t you?
Dorn I’m fifty-five.
Polina What’s that to do with it? You haven’t lost your
looks. You’re still attractive to women.
Dorn So what do you want me to do about it?
Polina I never met a man who didn’t fall over and grovel as
soon as they came across an actress.
Dorn (hums) ‘Here I am before you …’ That’s as it should
be. If artists are treated differently from shopkeepers, that’s
fine. It’s a very proper form of idealism.
Polina And for as long as I can remember women have been
throwing themselves at you. Is that a form of idealism too?
Dorn (shrugs) It’s because I’m a doctor. And what’s more a
good doctor. That’s what they love. What’s wrong with that?
Remember, ten or fifteen years ago I was the only male
obstetrician in the entire region. They knew they could trust
me. They were right.
Polina (taking his hand) My dear.
Dorn Hush. Everyone’s coming.
Arkadina arrives on Sorin’s arm, with Trigorin, Shamraev,
Medvedenko and Masha.
Shamraev Yes, I remember it must have been 1873. In
Poltava it was, at the fair, she was absolutely extraordinary.
As great an actress as we ever had. And do you know what
happened to Pavel Semenych Chadin? He was the best
Rasplyuev I ever saw. Far better than Sadovsky, whatever
anyone tells you. Where is Chadin now?
Arkadina How on earth should I know? This is prehistory.
Shamraev It’s thinking about actors like Chadin which
makes you realise how poor the theatre is nowadays. Once
there were mighty oaks, now just little stumps.
Dorn It’s true there are fewer outstanding talents, but the
overall standard is higher, I think.
Shamraev I’m not even sure about that. But then what do
they say? De gustibus … de gustibus, something, they say,
you know what they say.
Konstantin comes out from behind.
Arkadina Darling, how much longer do we have to wait?
Konstantin Forgive me, we’re about to start.
Arkadina (quoting from Hamlet)
‘Oh Hamlet, speak no more,
Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul …’
Konstantin (completing it)
‘And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.’
A horn sounds.
Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The play is about
to begin.
There’s a pause.
We begin.
He raps with a stick and intones.
Two hundred thousand years. We dream of how things will be
in two hundred thousand years’ time.
Sorin There won’t be anything in two hundred thousand
years.
Konstantin Then I call on the shadows of the night, the
shadows of the lake, drift across, show us the nothingness, the
non-being. Lull us to sleep.
Arkadina Oh good, permission to sleep. Thank goodness
for that.
The curtain goes up. The lake beyond, the moon on the horizon
reflected in the water. Nina is all in white, sitting on a large
stone.
Nina Humans, lions, eagles, partridges, deer, geese, spiders,
the fish swimming silent at the bottom of the sea, micro-
organisms too small to detect – in a word, everything that
lives, everything that has life, everything that is – everything
has lived out its cycle and died. In its place, nothing. For
thousands of years, the moon has shone down useless on an
empty world. The cranes no longer wake and call to each
other in the meadows. In the lime groves, the May beetles are
silent. Everything is cold. Everything is empty. Terror. Terror.
Terror.
There’s a pause.
Nothing draws breath. Everything is dust. Everything that was
body is stone. Is water. Is cloud. And the soul of everything
that ever lived has become one soul. I am that soul, the
universal soul, the soul of the world. The soul of Alexander and
the soul of Caesar, the soul of Shakespeare and the soul of
Napoleon, the soul of the lowest slug that ever crawled along
the ground. The fine reasoning of man has merged with the
dazzling instincts of the animal, and everything that ever was is
contained in me, and lives again in me.
The marsh lights appear. Arkadina speaks quietly.
Arkadina Avant-garde or what?
Konstantin Mama!
Nina I am alone. Only once every hundred years do I open
my lips to speak, and when I speak there is nobody to hear.
Even the lights around me that come from the marsh and
wander until daybreak, even they do not listen. The devil
changes everything lest it come to life. Ceaselessly, he plays
with the atoms. The devil, the father of matter, changes the
stones into water, the water into stones. One thing alone
remains true. One thing remains constant. The soul, the spirit
itself.
There’s a pause.
Like a prisoner thrown deep down into an empty well, I do not
know where I am or what is waiting for me. The only thing I
know is that I must fight with the devil. The soul must fight
matter, and it must win. I am destined to win. One day matter
and soul will merge in perfect harmony, and the will of the
world will begin its reign. But this day will only arrive after
thousands more years, when the moon is dust, the stars are dust,
the earth is dust. Until then, terror. Terror. Terror.
Two red spots appear, hovering over the lake.
Now my powerful enemy, the devil, approaches. I see his fierce
red eyes.
Arkadina I can smell sulphur. Is that to do with the play?
Konstantin Of course it’s the play.
Arkadina (laughs) I should have guessed. Special effects!
Konstantin Mama!
Nina The devil is bored without human company.
Polina (to Dorn) You’ve taken your hat off. Put it back on
or you’ll catch cold.
Arkadina He’s taken it off out of respect for the devil, the
father of eternal matter.
Konstantin loses it.
Konstantin Right, that’s it. That’s enough. Enough!
Curtain.
Arkadina What’s happening?
Konstantin I said, curtain! Curtain, I said. Bring it down.
The play is over. It’s enough.
He is stamping his foot. The curtain is lowered.
Stupid of me, of course. Stupid. Foolish. How stupid. Not to
realise that only an elite can make theatre. Only a precious
elite. The theatre elite. How vulgar of me to crash the circle!
How … how …
But he can’t finish. He waves a hand and runs off.
Arkadina I don’t understand. What’s upset him?
Sorin Irina, he’s young. You’ve hurt his feelings.
Arkadina How have I hurt his feelings?
Sorin You know perfectly well. You offended him.
Arkadina He said to me beforehand it was just a skit, just a
little sketch, so I assumed that’s what he meant. A sketch.
Sorin Even so.
Arkadina Now you’re telling me he’s written a great
masterpiece. Please! He got this performance together, did he,
and choked us all to death with sulphur, and it’s all because
it’s not a sketch, it’s a manifesto. He wants to teach us all a
lesson in how to write and how to act. It’s getting to be too
much. Whatever you say, it’s not easy for me to sit here and
endure all these stupid jibes and attacks. The boy is
hopelessly wilful and self-centred.
Sorin He wanted to please you, he wanted to give you
pleasure.
Arkadina Then why not write a proper play? Not this
ridiculous avant-garde provocation. I mean, I don’t mind
cutting edge. I don’t mind provocation, I like it, it makes me
laugh, but don’t come to me and tell me it’s all about a new
form, a new dawn in the history of art. I don’t think so.
There’s no new dawn, just bad faith.
Trigorin Everyone writes what they must. We write what
we can.
Arkadina Fine. Let him write whatever he likes, as long as
he doesn’t drag me into it.
Dorn Ah, the anger of Jupiter.
Arkadina I’m not Jupiter and I’m not even angry. I’m just
irritated. How can any young man waste his time in such a
boring and predictable way? I didn’t set out to upset him.
She has lit a cigarette.
Medvedenko In my view, the play’s based on a
misunderstanding, because it’s impossible to separate soul
from matter. It’s a false dichotomy. Soul is matter, that’s the
problem. (To Trigorin.) I think it would be much more
worthwhile and interesting to put on a play about real life. I’m
just suggesting, for instance about how hard a schoolmaster’s
life is nowadays. That’s an interesting subject.
Arkadina Yes, fascinating, I’m sure, but can we all take a
break from theatre and soul and matter? It’s such a beautiful
evening. Listen, can you hear someone singing? Gorgeous.
Polina It’s from the other side of the lake.
Arkadina turns to Trigorin.
Arkadina Come and sit next to me. Not so long ago – ten,
fifteen years – you could hear music from the lake almost
every night. In those days there were six houses on this side
alone. There was always laughter, there was always music,
shots going off, and oh, love affairs, so many love affairs.
And the leading man in all six houses – may I present to you
our very own Doctor Dorn?
She nods at Dorn.
Arkadina Today the doctor is merely enchanting, but in
those days I can assure you he was irresistible. Oh God, I’m
starting to feel guilty now, I can’t put it out of my head. Why
did I upset my little boy like that? Kostya! Where are you?
Kostya!
Masha I’ll go and find him.
Arkadina Bless you, please do.
Masha Where are you? Konstantin? Where are you?
She goes out. Nina appears from behind the stage.
Nina It doesn’t seem like we’re going to resume, so I might
as well say hello.
She kisses Arkadina and Polina.
Sorin Bravo! Bravo!
Arkadina Bravo indeed! Bravo! You were wonderful. With
your looks and your voice, it’s unimaginable you’re going to
spend your life here. It would be a sin. Wasting away in the
countryside. You have talent. When you have talent, you have
a solemn duty to put it to use.
Nina Oh, that’s what I want most in the world. But it’s
never going to happen.
Arkadina Don’t be so sure. Allow me to introduce you:
Boris Alexeyevich Trigorin.
Nina I can’t believe it. Really. I’ve read every word you’ve
written. Truly.
Arkadina sits beside her.
Arkadina Don’t blush, my dear. Yes, he’s very famous, but
he’s still a normal person. Look, he’s as embarrassed as you
are.
Dorn Am I the only person who finds it spooky with the
curtain down?
Shamraev Yakov, can you oblige, would you mind pulling
the curtain up?
The curtain goes up. Nina speaks to Trigorin.
Nina It’s a strange play, isn’t it?
Trigorin I don’t pretend to have understood it. But that
doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. Your acting is so truthful. And
the setting was beautiful.
There’s a pause.
The lake must be full of fish.
Nina Yes.
Trigorin I love fishing. I don’t think there’s anything I love
more in the world than watching evening come down on a
riverbank, the float in the water.
Nina But surely there can’t be any pleasure to compare with
the pleasure of creativity?
Arkadina (laughs) Oh, don’t say things like that. Really. It
makes him squirm when anyone says nice things.
Shamraev Best theatre story ever. We were at the Opera in
Moscow, and the famous Silva was attempting bottom C. So,
imagine, the bass from our church choir, all the way up in the
gallery, to everyone’s amazement, yells out, ‘Bravo, Silva!’
Only, guess what, he’s an octave lower. (Imitates.) ‘Bravo,
Silva!’ Whole audience, silent.
There’s a pause.
Dorn An angel flying over.
Nina I have to get back. I’m sorry.
Arkadina Impossible, no, you mustn’t. I insist. We won’t
let you.
Nina Papa’s waiting for me.
Arkadina How you put up with him. Really.
They kiss.
Well there it is, what can you do? Such a shame to see you go.
Nina If you knew how little I want to go.
Arkadina Someone should accompany you.
Nina (alarmed) Absolutely not.
Sorin Please. Stay. Just for an hour.
Nina I can’t, Petr Nikolayevich.
Sorin Give us the pleasure of your company one more hour.
Surely.
Nina hesitates, tears in her eyes.
Nina I can’t.
She squeezes Sorin’s hand and runs out.
Arkadina That poor girl. Apparently her mother left the
whole enormous family fortune to the father, every single
kopeck, and he’s already signed a will giving it all to the
second wife. The daughter’s left with nothing. It’s a scandal.
Dorn Rare you can say of any human being that they’re a
complete pig but you can say it of her father.
Sorin (rubbing his hands) Come on, it’s getting damp. We
should move inside. My legs have started to ache.
Arkadina Your legs look more like wooden pegs, you can
barely walk.
She offers him an arm.
Come on, you poor lost soul.
Shamraev (offering Polina an arm) Madame?
Sorin And there’s that damned dog again. Could you do me
a favour, Ilya Afanasevich, and set the wretched animal free?
Shamraev Can’t do it, sir. There are thieves around, and
I’ve got millet in the barn.
He walks out beside Medvedenko.
I’m not exaggerating. One whole octave lower. ‘Bravo, Silva!’
And we’re not talking about a professional singer, this is just a
regular church chorister.
Medvedenko So tell me, how much exactly does a church
chorister earn?
They’ve gone. Dorn is alone.
Dorn I don’t know, perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps I’m losing
my judgement, but I liked the play. There’s something about
it. He deserves encouragement. When that girl was talking
about being alone, and you saw the red eyes of the devil, I
found that my hands were shaking. There’s something
authentic, a bit gauche.
Konstantin has appeared.
Konstantin All gone.
Dorn Yes. Except me.
Konstantin Masha’s screaming her way round the park,
yelling for me. She’s an unbearable woman.
Dorn Konstantin Gavrilovich, I want to say this: your play
meant a lot to me. It’s an unusual work, and unfortunately it
was cut short, but even so, in the time it lasted, it made a
strong impression. You have talent and you should keep
writing.
Konstantin squeezes his hand tightly and hugs him.
Goodness, you’re over-sensitive. And I see tears in your eyes. I
want to be clear about this: you’ve taken a subject from the
realm of abstract ideas. And I like that, because art surely has to
be charged with a big idea. But it also has to be serious. An art
work is only good if it’s serious. You’re going pale.
Konstantin What you’re saying is: keep at it.
Dorn Yes. And aim only for what is timeless and enduring.
Myself, I’ve lived, as you know, what they call an interesting
life and a rewarding one. I’m at peace. But if by chance it had
been my lot in life to experience what an artist experiences –
that epiphany – then it seems to me I would have despised the
physical, and everything that goes with it. I would have left
the earth behind. I would have risen above.
Konstantin You don’t happen to know where Nina is, do
you?
Dorn And I’ll tell you something else: too few artists have
an objective. There’s no such thing as good art without
purpose. You have to know why you are writing – to what
end – because if you don’t, the artistic life will destroy you.
Konstantin It’s Nina I’m concerned about.
Dorn Nina? Oh she went home long ago.
Konstantin She went home? I don’t believe it. What on
earth do I do? I have to see her. I have to. I’m going to go
after her.
Masha comes in.
Dorn Come on, calm down, it’s not that bad. Konstantin But
I still have to go. I do. I have to.
Masha You need to go and see your mother, Konstantin
Gavrilovich. She’s back in the house and she’s extremely
concerned.
Konstantin Tell her I’ve gone out. Tell everyone. And tell
everyone to leave me alone. Don’t go screaming round the
park.
Dorn Honestly, this is not a good idea. This is … this is not
good.
Konstantin is crying now.
Konstantin Doctor, thank you. And goodbye.
He goes.
Dorn Youth! Youth!
Masha Yes, that’s what people say when there’s nothing to
say. Youth! Youth!
She takes snuff, but Dorn grabs the snuff box and throws it
violently into the bushes.
Dorn Disgusting habit.
Pause.
I’m sure there’s a card game. I’ll go in and join in.
Masha Wait.
Dorn What is it?
Masha I need to talk to you. I can’t talk to my father, I’ve
never been close to him. Somehow I’m closer to you. All my
life I’ve felt that. For some reason. I need help or else I really
do think I’m going to do something desperate. I’m going to
make a total mess of my life. The greatest mess of all time.
Dorn You ask me to help, but I have no idea how.
Masha I’m in agony. Nobody can begin to understand the
agony I’m in.
She puts her head on his chest.
I’m in love with Konstantin.
Dorn It’s the lake. The magical lake, which is casting its
spell on you all. You’re all so dramatic, all of you. But what
can I do, my little child? What? What can I do?
 Act Two
A croquet lawn. In the background, to the right, a house with a
large terrace. To the left, the lake, the sun reflected on the
water. Flower beds. Noon. Heat. Arkadina, Dorn and Masha
are sitting on a bench at the side of the lawn, in the shade of an
old lime. Dorn has an open book on his knee. Arkadina speaks
to Masha.
Arkadina Come on, let’s do an experiment. Stand up.
They stand.
Here, next to me. Now. You’re twenty-two, and I’m nearly,
well almost twice that. And which of us looks younger?
Dorn There’s no contest.
Arkadina There you are.
Dorn You!
Arkadina And why? Simple. Because I work, I keep busy, I
live life to the full. But you just sit there. You don’t live.
That’s why. I have some simple rules. Never think about the
future. Never think about old age. Never think about death.
Because there’s nothing you can do about any of them.
Masha I feel as if I was born such a long time ago, and now
I have to drag the years round behind me, like the train of a
dress. And at times I even lose the will to live. Of course I
know it’s all nonsense, of course I do. I should cheer up.
Dorn (hums) ‘Tell her, my flowers …’
Arkadina Another reason: I’m properly presented, like the
English. I’m well turned out. My clothes – just so. My
coiffure – impeccable. Am I ever seen outside the house, in
the garden, say, in a housecoat or with my hair down? No, I
am not. The reason I’m in such good shape is because I stay
sharp and I don’t let myself go.
She walks round the lawn, arms akimbo.
You see – like a little bird. If they said to me ‘You have to play
a fifteen-year-old’, I’d get away with it.
Dorn Yes, well, be that as it may. Nevertheless. Shall we
continue? We’d got as far as the rats and the corn merchant …
Arkadina Right, the rats. Good. Read on. Or better still,
give it to me. It’s my turn. I’ll read.
She has sat and taken the book from Dorn. Now she searches
for her place.
Where are we? Ah yes. ‘It’s as dangerous for people of good
breeding to invite novelists into their houses as it is for corn
merchants to invite rats into their stores. When a woman sets
out to seduce a writer, she lays careful siege to him by means of
strategically praising his work.’ Well, in France maybe, but not
here. In my experience it’s the other way round. First of all the
woman falls desperately in love and it’s only later she gets
round to strategy. To take the obvious example, if you look at
me and Trigorin …
Sorin comes in, using his stick. Nina is beside him. Behind,
Medvedenko pushes a wheelchair. Sorin talks to Nina as
though to a child.
Sorin So something tells me you must be happy at last, am I
right? (To Arkadina.) Such good news! Her father and
stepmother have gone to Tyver, and she’s allowed out for
three whole days.
Nina sits next to Arkadina and hugs her.
Nina I’m so pleased. At last I get to spend time among you.
Sorin (getting into his wheelchair) Such a beautiful creature,
isn’t she?
Arkadina She’s chic, she’s intriguing, she’s clever as can
be. But let’s stop there because too much praise brings bad
luck. Where’s Boris Alexeyevich?
Nina He’s fishing, down by the bathing area.
Arkadina And seemingly never bored, heaven knows why.
She is about to resume her book.
Nina What is it you’re reading?
Arkadina Maupassant. ‘On the Water’. Reluctantly. It isn’t
working for me.
She closes the book.
I can’t concentrate. I’m worried about my boy. Why is he so
depressed? Why is he so down on the rest of us? He spends the
whole day at the lake, I hardly see him at all.
Masha He’s pining. (To Nina.) Why don’t you read us
something from one of his plays?
Nina I don’t think so. Not really. They’re so dull.
Masha When he reads his own dialogue, it’s like his whole
body catches fire. His eyes blaze, you can see the blood
draining from his face. The voice, the gestures, everything
about him says poet.
Sorin snores.
Dorn And goodnight.
Arkadina Petrusha!
Sorin What? What?
Arkadina You’re not falling asleep, are you?
Sorin Certainly not.
Arkadina I wish you’d take something for it. You need to
take something.
Sorin I’d be happy to, but the doctor here refuses to treat
me.
Dorn Why would you need treatment at sixty?
Sorin Even at sixty, you still want to live. If you don’t mind.
Dorn (dismissive) If you insist on taking something, take
valerian drops.
Arkadina Better, he should spend time at a spa. That really
would do him good.
Dorn Going to a spa could be good. Not going to a spa
could also be good.
Arkadina And what on earth does that mean?
Dorn It means exactly what it says. It’s a perfect diagnosis.
There’s a pause.
Medvedenko Best thing you could do is give up smoking.
Sorin Rubbish.
Dorn No, not rubbish at all. It’s wine and tobacco which
destroy your sense of yourself. After a few vodkas you’re no
longer Petr Nikolayevich, but Petr Nikolayevich plus
someone else. A second person appears. Your own core being
splits in two and you have to start handling the new arrival.
Sorin (laughs) I know what you’re saying, that’s a
wonderful way of putting it. But it’s different for you. You’ve
had a good life. Me? Twenty-eight years in the Justice
Department, and at the end of it all, it’s not just that I haven’t
had a good life, truthfully I haven’t had any life. You’re fine,
and because you’ve lived you now get satisfaction from
philosophising. But I haven’t, so I need alcohol. And I need
cigars. And that’s just how things are. It’s how they are.
Dorn Life is serious. It’s serious! And heading off to spas at
the age of sixty, and endlessly complaining about the life you
haven’t lived, sorry, but that’s the very opposite of serious.
Masha It must be lunchtime. My leg’s gone to sleep.
She walks out, limping.
Dorn You can be sure she’ll be knocking back a couple of
vodkas before lunch.
Sorin Poor thing, she’s so unhappy.
Dorn Your Excellency, you do talk the most ridiculous
rubbish.
Sorin And you always talk as if somehow you’re above it
all.
Arkadina Oh, please, gentlemen. This is everything I hate
about the countryside. People sitting around in unbearable
heat telling each other how to live. Believe me, I love your
company, my friends, I really do, and you’re a joy to listen to,
but on the other hand set me down in a hotel room with a
wonderful leading role to learn!
Nina That must be so fulfilling. I can’t imagine.
Sorin Obviously, it goes without saying, town’s better than
country. Obviously. You sit in your study, the servants don’t
let anyone in without warning, no horrible surprises, you have
the telephone, there are taxis outside. Where’s the contest?
Dorn (hums) ‘Tell her my flowers …’
Shamraev comes in with Polina. He kisses the hands of
Arkadina, then Nina.
Shamraev And the very people we’re looking for. Good
morning. Wonderful to see you in such good health. I’m just a
little concerned, my dear lady, because my wife is telling me
that you’d like to go into town with her today. Is that right?
Arkadina We’re going, yes.
Shamraev I know you’d like to go, but tell me, ma’am, how
exactly are you planning to get there? We’re transporting the
rye all day, and every man jack of us on the job. So where on
earth do you imagine you can find horses?
Arkadina I would have thought that was your business, not
mine.
Sorin We own carriage horses.
Shamraev Yes we do. Yes we do own carriage horses.
Sorin So?
Shamraev And where do you suggest I find harnesses for
carriage horses? What, I conjure up harnesses which I don’t
have? There is actually a point at which I just fail to
understand how anyone – my dear lady, forgive me, as you
know I revere your talent, I have given you ten years of my
life but today – horses? – no, I cannot give you.
Arkadina And if I have to go? This is ridiculous.
Shamraev With the greatest respect, you know nothing
whatsoever about farming.
Arkadina (losing her temper) It always comes down to that,
doesn’t it? It’s always the same charge. Know nothing about
farming! All right, very well, in that case, I shall go back to
Moscow where obviously you think I belong. Straight away.
Get me horses from the village, and if that’s too difficult for
you, I’ll walk!
Shamraev (losing his) If that’s what you want, then I resign.
Find yourself another estate manager!
He stomps off.
Arkadina Every summer this happens, every summer they
insult me. It’s the last time I ever come to this place.
She goes off to collect Trigorin, and a few minutes later they
can be seen going into the house, he with his fishing rods and a
bucket.
Sorin This is insubordination and no other word for it. I
simply won’t put up with it. All the horses are to be rounded
up immediately. This instant!
Nina (to Polina) She’s a great actress, how can anyone deny
her what she needs? Surely every desire of hers, every whim,
is far more important than farming.
Polina (in despair) What can I do?
Nina I find it unbelievable. I really do.
Polina Imagine being me! It’s impossible.
Sorin (to Nina) Come with me, we’ll persuade my sister to
stay. Isn’t that the best thing to do?
He shouts in the direction of Shamraev.
You impossible man! You tyrant!
Nina stops him from getting up.
Nina Please, sit down, leave it to us, sit down, we’ll wheel
you there. This is all so upsetting.
Sorin Yes, it’s agony. But he mustn’t resign. I’ll talk to him
now.
Nina and Medvedenko wheel Sorin out. Polina and Dorn are
left alone.
Dorn People are so predictable, aren’t they? They really are.
They should have sacked your husband years ago. Instead of
which that craven old woman Sorin and his sister will go
grovelling to him on their knees. You wait. I’m right.
Polina And what he doesn’t say: there are no carriage horses
because they’re all working in the fields! Every day there’s
this sort of foul-up. It makes me ill. I’m actually trembling,
because I’m so nervous of what the latest mistake is going to
be. And the way he talks to people. Oh Evgeny, my love, my
own, please can’t you take me away, take me to live with you.
Time’s going so fast, we’re not young any more. And
wouldn’t it be wonderful, at the end of our lives, finally to be
honest, finally to stop telling lies?
Pause.
Dorn I’m fifty-five. It’s difficult.
Polina For goodness’ sake, I’m not stupid, I know there are
other women. I know that. Other women who are close to
you. But you can’t live with all of them. You’re tired of me,
aren’t you?
Dorn No. I’m never tired of you.
Nina can be seen near the house picking flowers.
Polina And I’m jealous. I admit it. You’re a doctor, in your
job you deal with women all day. I understand.
Dorn speaks to Nina.
Dorn What’s the latest development?
Nina Irina Nikolaevna is in tears, and her brother has
asthma.
Dorn (getting up) Sounds like valerian drops to me. For
both parties.
Nina hands him the flowers.
Nina These are for you.
Dorn Merci bien.
Polina goes with Dorn.
Polina What beautiful flowers.
But as they approach the house, she is heard in an urgent
whisper.
Give them here, give them to me.
She is seen to tear them to pieces and scatter them on the
ground. They go indoors. Nina is alone.
Nina You don’t expect to see a famous actress cry, and over
something as trivial as that. And it’s strange, isn’t it, that a
famous writer, adored by the public, profiled in the
newspapers, whose portrait you can buy in the street, who’s
translated into goodness knows how many languages, spends
the whole day fishing. He’s in heaven because he’s caught a
couple of chub. I had everything wrong. I thought fame and
brilliance were a sort of revenge. You would use them to get
your own back on people who were born to wealth and power.
You’d make yourself proud and unapproachable, you’d look
down on ordinary people. Far from it. Here they are, going
fishing, playing cards, joking around and having rows – just
like everyone else.
Konstantin comes in, bareheaded, holding a rifle and a dead
seagull.
Konstantin You’re alone?
Nina Yes. Alone.
 He puts the dead bird at her feet.
Tell me what this means.
Konstantin I did a terrible thing today. I killed a bird. And
I’m bringing it to lay at your feet.
Nina What’s wrong with you?
There’s a silence.
Konstantin And soon I shall kill myself in the same way.
Nina You’ve changed. I don’t know you any more.
Konstantin I’ve changed because you have. But you
changed first, remember? You stepped back. Now you behave
as if I’m an embarrassment.
Nina You’ve become so difficult.
Konstantin Have I?
Nina You keep speaking in a way no one can understand.
It’s all symbols, everything’s a symbol. This gull? Symbol. Or
you want it to be, but a symbol of what precisely I have no
idea.
She has picked up the bird and now she lays it on the bench.
Clearly I’m too stupid for you.
Konstantin Everything started to go wrong on the night of
my play. The one thing women can never forgive is failure.
Well, I burnt the text, every word of it destroyed, down to the
last comma. And now I’m more unhappy than you can
believe. Because I can feel you moving away from me, and
it’s like I’ve woken up and suddenly there’s no moisture in
the world, no water. It’s all drained away into the earth. The
whole lake is gone. You said just now you’re too stupid to
understand me, but honestly what is there to understand? My
play was a flop, you don’t think I’m talented, as far as you’re
concerned you agree with the others, I’m one writer among a
thousand. I’m ordinary.
Konstantin stamps his foot.
Oh God, this thing in my brain. Like a nail. This rusty nail is
killing me. Damn it. Along with my self-regard. It’s sucking
my blood, it’s sucking it like a snake.
He sees Trigorin coming, reading his notebook.
And hallelujah, here’s a real writer. Got the walk. Got the book.
Hamlet to a T. ‘Words, words, words.’ This burst of sunshine
has not even reached you yet, but already you’re smiling. Your
eyes have melted in the heat. Please. I won’t get in your way.
He goes quickly out. Trigorin stops to make a note.
Trigorin Takes snuff and drinks vodka. Always in black. A
schoolteacher who’s in love with her.
Nina Boris Alexeyevich.
Trigorin Well. Sudden change of plan, and it turns out
we’re leaving right away. Which means you and I are unlikely
to see each other again. Which is a shame. Because I don’t
often come across young women, women who are young and
interesting. I have no memory of being eighteen or nineteen,
so it’s hard for me to think myself back. That’s why the
young women in my novels and stories are often so
unconvincing. The thing I’d like most: to spend one hour
being you. It would only take an hour. So I can find out how
you think and what sort of sweet little creature you are.
Nina And in return, can I be you?
Trigorin Why?
Nina Oh. To know what it’s like to be talented and famous.
Trigorin Famous?
Nina What fame really feels like. And how do you know?
How does it come across to you, the actual knowledge that
you’re famous?
Trigorin How? I’m not sure it does. I’ve never thought
about it. Anyway, am I famous? As famous as you make me
sound? Maybe that’s the problem.
Nina But when you read about yourself?
She waits.
Well?
Trigorin A good review and I feel good. A bad review and I
feel – not so good. And the not-so-good feeling lasts for a
couple of days.
Nina It’s just such a special kind of life. You have no idea
how much I envy you. It’s the difference between what
different people are allocated. Most of us live lives of routine,
of absolute insignificance, nothing to distinguish one day
from another. Every day unhappy. But others – and you’re
among them – are handed a destiny. An interesting, brilliant
existence, charged with significance. You’re happy.
Trigorin I’m happy? Honestly, the words you’re using –
fame, happiness, brilliance – to me these words are like
pastry, and, forgive me, I don’t eat pastry. I’ll just say: you’re
very young and you’re very kind.
Nina You’re not denying your life is wonderful?
Trigorin Wonderful? My life is wonderful? Anyway, I must
go and write. I don’t have time to take you on.
He has checked his watch.
Look, I think you realise you’ve struck a particularly painful
nerve and now I’m getting tetchy. Because, you know, if we do
actually talk about this, about my brilliant life … well how do I
put this? How do I start? The Headline: What Being A Writer
Is Like. There are certain obsessions, people think about them
all the time, say they think about the moon, all right? Well I
have a moon, and my moon is that at every hour of the clock I
am consumed by one overriding need. I must write. I must
write. I must. I don’t even stop long enough to put ‘The End’
on the last story when for some reason I feel compelled to
begin the next. Then a third, and then after the third, a fourth.
Incessantly, without a break. I write. That’s what I do. And I
can’t do anything else. So in what way exactly is that life
beautiful and brilliant? Cruel, more like. Here I am getting
exercised talking to you, and all the time I’m conscious that
there’s an unfinished story waiting for me in there, waiting for
my attention. Look, that cloud up there, it looks like a grand
piano. So what do I think immediately? Put it in a story. Cloud
goes over looking like grand piano. Smell: heliotrope. Are you
getting it?
Nina Yes.
Trigorin Make a mental note. Remember to put sickly smell
of heliotrope in next description of purple summer evening.
It’s as if I’m fishing every minute of the day, hoping to pull in
words and phrases, then throw them on ice for when I need
them. When I’m finished, either I rush off to the theatre or I
go and fish. As if doing something else might bring relief. But
it doesn’t. Nothing does. Because all the time, the next story,
like a great big cannonball is rolling around in my empty
skull. And I can feel the pull of the writing table, all the time.
And it’s always like this, there’s no respite, I have no peace,
even from myself. I feel I’m consuming my own life, and all
for the sake of this honey I’m making for someone out there
whom I don’t even know. I’m out gathering pollen from my
own flowers, then I pick the flowers and trample them
underfoot. Am I mad? After all, my friends and family hardly
treat me as if I’m sane. On the contrary. ‘What are you
writing at the moment?’ ‘What are you giving us next?’ Over
and over and over and over, and it seems to me from the way
they treat me, giving me their opinion and their praise and
their admiration – really, underneath, they’re just humouring
me, as you would humour a sick man. When what they’re
planning is to steal up behind me, grab me and throw me in
the madhouse. As in Gogol. Diary of a Madman. And back in
the early days, when I was just starting out – and they ought
to be the best years, believe me, when you’re a young writer –
far from it, it was a special kind of misery. If you’re not
established, if you’re not in any way successful, then I can’t
tell you how clumsy you feel, how awkward, how downright
superfluous. Your nerves are in tatters, you become
hysterical. You can’t help hanging around with other writers,
with other artists. But they take no notice of you – why should
they? They don’t know who you are – and in return you can’t
look them in the eye, you keep your eyes on the floor, because
it’s like you’re in the casino, only nobody’s given you any
chips. And as for readers – I never got to meet my readers, but
when I even thought about them they just all seemed so
resentful and mistrustful. I was scared of the public. They
terrified me. I wrote a play and I would look at the audience,
and when I looked it seemed to me that the dark-haired ones
were actively hostile, whereas the fair-haired ones were
simply indifferent. Oh my God! I can’t begin to tell you what
agony it is.
Nina Maybe you don’t enjoy the way of life, but the actual
moment of creation, the inspiration, that must be
extraordinary. That must make you happy.
Trigorin You’re right. The moment it’s happening, yes. The
writing, yes. And reading the proofs. But then no sooner it’s
in print and you look at it, and all you can see is the book you
didn’t write, and this mistake and that mistake, and once more
you feel stupid and angry.
He laughs.
And then the public get hold of it, and suddenly it’s ‘Yes, it’s
nice, it’s charming but it’s not exactly Tolstoy, is it?’ Or ‘A
fine piece of work, but Turgenev’s not going to be threatened,
is he?’ And so to my dying day, everything will be talented and
charming, and charming and talented. Never more than that.
And when I’m underground, my friends will walk past my
grave and say ‘Trigorin’s down there. He was a good writer but
not as good as Turgenev.’
Nina It’s an act, isn’t it? It’s all an act. And you get away
with it because success has spoiled you.
Trigorin Success? Not in my book. I don’t read myself and
think, ‘This is good.’ The truth is, I don’t like my own
writing. The worst of all is that I write in some kind of daze
and I’m not sure I even understand what I write. I love nature.
Look at it. This lake, the trees, the sky. It’s looking at this
which fills me with such profound emotion and makes me
want to write. But sadly, I can’t just stick to landscape. After
all I live in Russia, I’m a citizen. I love my country and I love
its people and if I’m a writer, then I have a simple obligation
to write about the people who live here, about their suffering,
why they suffer, where their future may take them. And
science, too. Human rights. These are vital and important
subjects, and so I dash about all over the place, like a fox
being chased by hounds. Life advances, science advances, I’m
frantically trying to keep up, but without success, so that I fall
further and further behind, like a peasant running for a train.
And in the end, really, all I know about or care about is
landscape, and when I stray from landscape, everything I
write is false. False to the marrow of my bones.
Nina How can you know? How can you know the stature of
your own achievement? It’s too early. You’re exhausted,
that’s all. With overwork. And it’s not you who’ll make the
decision. It’s others, and others consider you great and
wonderful. If I were a great writer like you, then I would
sacrifice my whole life to the people, I’d know that their
happiness depended on them coming up to my level. And in
return they would pull me along in their chariot.
Trigorin A chariot? You mean I’m Agamemnon?
Nina You’re Agamemnon.
They both smile.
I’d do anything. For the joy of being a writer or an actress. I
wouldn’t mind going without. Going without love, going
without food, going without hope. I’d live in a garret and eat
rye bread, I’d live with all my own inadequacies, with the
knowledge of my own shortcomings, but in return I would
demand glory. Real, overwhelming glory.
She covers her face with her hands.
Oh Lord, my head, my head is spinning.
Arkadina calls from the house: ‘Boris Alexeyevich’.
Trigorin They’re looking for me. Probably to pack. But
now the last thing I want to do is leave. Just look at the lake.
Look, look how splendid it is.
Nina Can you see the house on the other side?
Trigorin Yes.
Nina My mother’s. I was born on that estate. I’ve spent my
whole life on this lake, and there’s not an inch of it I don’t
know.
Trigorin Born into paradise.
Then he sees the seagull.
What’s this doing here?
Nina Oh, it’s a seagull. Konstantin Gavrilovich shot it.
Trigorin It’s a beautiful bird. Do you think you could work
on Irina Nikolaevna and get her to stay?
Nina What are you writing?
Trigorin Just a note to myself. I had an idea. An idea for a
short story. A young girl lives on the shore of a lake since
childhood. A girl like you. She loves the lake, like a seagull.
And she’s free, like a seagull. But a man happens to come
along, catches sight of her, and for no other reason but that he
can, he destroys her. Just like this seagull.
Arkadina appears at the window.
Arkadina Boris Alexeyevich, what are up to?
Trigorin I’m coming.
He heads away, then looks back at Nina. Then he calls to
Arkadina.
What’s the plan?
Arkadina We’re going to stay.
Trigorin goes into the house. Nina comes forward towards the
audience, ecstatic.
Nina It’s a dream.
 Act Three
Inside Sorin’s house. The dining room. Doors on right and left.
A sideboard. A medicine cabinet. A table in the middle of the
room. A trunk and cardboard boxes suggest preparation for
departure. Trigorin is eating a late breakfast. Masha is
standing near the table.
Masha I’m talking to you as a writer. You can use what I’m
telling you. If he’d done himself serious damage, then I don’t
think I’d have been able to carry on. It would have been the
end. But, in the circumstances, I found my courage and I
made a resolution. ‘Right, I’m going to rip this love from my
heart, tear it up by the roots.’
Trigorin How are you planning to do that?
Masha By getting married. To Medvedenko.
Trigorin Is he the schoolteacher?
Masha Yes.
Trigorin I can’t see much future in that.
Masha What’s the alternative? Living without hope, waiting
years for something that’s never going to happen. When I get
married, then I can forget about love, there’ll be other things
to worry about. And besides, it’ll be a change of scenery.
Let’s have another drink.
Trigorin Is that a good idea?
She pours two vodkas.
Masha Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. Women
drink far more than you realise. Agreed, only a few of us do it
openly, but all of us do it. And always vodka or brandy.
They clink glasses.
Here’s to you. You’re unaffected, I like that. It’s a shame
you’re leaving.
Trigorin Believe me, I don’t want to leave.
Masha Then talk her into staying.
Trigorin I can’t. She’s determined to go. Her son’s
behaviour is impossible. First trying to shoot himself and now
they say he wants to challenge me to a duel. A duel about
what exactly? He’s always muttering furiously, pontificating
about how art needs new forms. Well of course it does. But it
needs old forms too. And surely the point is, the two can
perfectly well co-exist side by side.
Masha It’s not about art. Not that it’s any business of mine.
Yakov crosses left to right with a suitcase. Nina comes in and
stops by the window.
My schoolteacher is not a brilliant man, but he’s a good person,
he’s poor and he loves me with all his heart. I feel pity for him.
And for his poor mother. Now, let me wish you godspeed.
Think kindly of me.
She shakes his hand warmly.
I’ll always be grateful for how good you were to me.
Trigorin That’s generous! What a wonderful present.
Masha By all means send me your books, but I’ll want a
dedication. And not the usual ‘To my dear friend’. No, put
this: ‘To Masha, unclear how she was born, unclear why she
was alive.’ Goodbye.
She goes out. Nina holds out a hand to Trigorin, fist tight.
Nina Odd or even?
Trigorin Even.
Nina opens her palm. One pea only.
Nina (sighs) No. You’re wrong. I wanted a sign. Should I
become an actress or not? If only someone would tell me.
Trigorin I’m not sure anyone can tell you.
Nina Since you’re leaving, and it’s possible this is the last
time we’ll ever meet, I want you to accept this small
medallion to remember me by. I had your initials engraved on
one side, and on the other, the title of your novel Days and
Nights.
Trigorin My goodness me! What a wonderful present.
He kisses the medallion.
Nina I hope you will think of me sometimes.
Trigorin I certainly will. The image is fixed in my head. A
week ago, the sun shining, you in a light dress, we were
talking, and on the bench beside you, a white seagull.
Nina A seagull, yes.
She is thoughtful a moment.
I’d love to say more but someone’s coming. Please try and give
me two minutes before you go. It’s important.
As Nina goes out left, in comes Arkadina from the right with
Sorin in a dress coat with a medal, and then Yakov organising
luggage.
Arkadina Why do you insist on going round paying
respects to all the neighbours? With your rheumatism, it
would be far more intelligent to stay at home. Who was that,
just left? Nina?
Trigorin It was Nina.
Arkadina Oh well then, pardon me, of course.
She sits. Trigorin looks at his medallion.
I think we’ve remembered everything. I’m utterly exhausted.
Trigorin Days and Nights, page 121, lines 11 and 12.
Yakov Am I meant to be packing the fishing rods, sir?
Trigorin Yes, please. I want them with me. But you can
give my books away to whoever wants them.
Yakov As you wish, sir.
Trigorin (to himself) Page 121, lines 11 and 12. What on
earth are they about? (To Arkadina.) Do you have any of my
books in the house?
Arkadina In my brother’s study, in that bookcase in the
corner.
Trigorin Page 121.
Trigorin goes out.
Arkadina Really, Petrusha, home’s where you belong.
Sorin With you gone, it’s not going to be fascinating, is it?
Arkadina Yes, but what would you do in town?
Sorin Not much. Nevertheless.
He laughs.
I do have an invitation to the laying of the foundation stone for
the new local government building. That’s my life. Even if it’s
just for an hour or two, I’ve got to find some way of enlivening
my existence, because I’m sitting around like some old
cigarette holder. I’ve ordered my horses at one, we can all leave
together.
Arkadina All right, let’s make a deal: you go on living here,
you don’t get bored and you don’t get the flu. Most of all,
keep an eye on my son. Take care of him. And if necessary,
keep him in line.
There’s a pause.
Shame is, I’m leaving and that means I’ll never know why
Konstantin took a shot at himself, but my best guess is
jealousy. Which is why the sooner I get Trigorin out of here the
better.
Sorin I’m not sure. I think the causes may run deeper.
Consider his situation: an obviously intelligent young man
living miles from anywhere with no money, no status and no
prospects. He has absolutely nothing to do all day, and he’s
both ashamed of that and frightened by it. I’m extremely fond
of him, and I think he feels the same about me, but all the
same, in the final analysis he feels he has no role in this
house. He’s a dependent. A hanger-on. He has some pride,
credit him with that.
Arkadina I worry about him all day, every day. Maybe we
should find him a job in the civil service.
Sorin whistles for a moment.
Sorin Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s obvious, just give the boy
some money. That’s what he needs. First up, get him dressed
like a normal human being. He’s been wearing the same
jacket for three years, and he doesn’t even have a coat to go
out in. Get him out. Get him out and about. That’s what’ll
turn his life round. Travel, go abroad. It doesn’t cost that
much.
Arkadina A suit, certainly, I can get him a suit, but as for
travelling abroad … And when I think about it, I’m not sure I
can even do the suit. Not right now. Not at this moment. I
simply can’t afford it.
Sorin laughs.
I can’t!
Sorin whistles again.
Sorin Well then, there we are. There’s no need to lose your
temper, I’m not doubting you for an instant. I know you to be
a kind and generous woman.
Arkadina (through tears) I have no money!
Sorin If I had any, I’d give him some, but I’m flat-out
broke. I don’t have five kopecks. My whole pension is
whipped away by my estate manager the moment it arrives.
Everything goes into the farm, into the cattle, into the bees. I
might as well tear my pension into pieces and throw it to the
wind. The bees die, the cows keel over, and just try getting
hold of a horse when you need one!
Arkadina Of course I have some money. Some. But I’m an
artist. You won’t believe the cost of a single costume
nowadays.
Sorin It’s all right, honestly, you don’t have to defend …
Oh my God, no, I’m having one of my moments, it’s … Oh
God, its …
He staggers and holds on to the table.
It’s happening again. I’m not at all well.
Arkadina rushes across to support him, yelling out at the same
time.
Arkadina Petrusha, Petrusha, quick, come and help. Help.
He’s not well.
Konstantin comes in with a bandage round his head.
Medvedenko follows. Sorin smiles and drinks some water.
Sorin No, I think, hold on, it’s passing. It’s beginning to get
better. There we are, there it is.
Konstantin Don’t panic, Mama, it happens all the time. It’s
nothing serious. (To Sorin.) You should go and lie down.
Sorin Yes, a short lie-down, maybe. But I’m still going into
town. Whatever happens. I’ll have a lie-down and then I’ll go.
That’s fair. That’s a plan.
Medvedenko tries to take his arm as he walks with his stick.
Medvedenko Do you remember this one? In the morning on
four, at midday on two, and in the evening on three.
Sorin (laughs) Of course, Oedipus! The riddle of the
Sphinx! And at night on his back. Thank you, I shall walk
unassisted.
Medvedenko Somehow I feel it’s not the moment to argue.
They go out.
Arkadina He gave me a scare.
Konstantin It’s living in the country. It gets him down. You
know, I’ll tell what would be best for him, if you could just
reach into your pocket and lend him a couple of thousand, he
could live in town year round.
Arkadina I have no money. I’m an actress, not a banker.
There’s a pause.
Konstantin Mama, do you think you could change my
bandage? I love it when you do it.
Arkadina gets an antiseptic and bandage from the medicine
cabinet.
Arkadina I don’t know why the doctor’s so late.
Konstantin He said ten, and it’s already midday.
Arkadina Sit down.
Arkadina unpeels the old bandage.
It looks more like a turban. Someone passing through yesterday
in the kitchen asked what nationality you were. Look, it’s
almost healed. Just a few tiny scars.
She kisses the top of his head, then makes a gunshot noise.
So promise me, no more pyooo-pyooo while I’m not here to
look after you.
Konstantin I promise. It won’t happen again. It was a
moment of madness, I lost control.
He kisses her hand.
Your hands are so wonderful. I remember a long time ago, I
was still a child, you were working at the state theatre, there
was a fight outside our apartment, there was a washerwoman
who lived in our building who got beaten up outside. Do you
remember? They left her unconscious. And you kept on going
to look after her, you took her medicine, you bathed her
children for her. Surely you remember?
Arkadina No.
She starts putting on the new bandage.
Konstantin There were two ballet dancers, lived in the same
block as us. They used to come round for a coffee.
Arkadina That I remember.
Konstantin They were believers. Incredibly devout.
There’s a pause.
I’ve been reminded these last few days. Because I’ve loved you
these last few days in the way I used to love you when I was
child. Tender, easy. Face it, you’re all I have left. That’s why I
don’t understand. Why on earth do you let that awful man walk
all over you?
Arkadina You don’t understand him, Konstantin. He’s a
man of the very finest character.
Konstantin Oh very fine, yes.
Arkadina He is.
Konstantin And when he heard I was about to challenge
him to a duel, he became rather less fine and more what you
might call cowardly. Suddenly he’s leaving. Off! Gone! How
fine, exactly, is that?
Arkadina He’s leaving specifically because I asked him to,
and for no other reason.
Konstantin Yes, and no doubt while you and I quarrel
because of him, he’ll all the time be lounging in the garden or
in the drawing room, having a good laugh at our expense.
While introducing Nina to the extraordinary breadth of his
genius.
Arkadina It seems to give you some sort of special
pleasure, upsetting me. This is a man I respect and I forbid
you to run him down in my presence.
Konstantin But you see the difference is, I don’t respect
him. That’s the difference. You want me to call him a genius,
but he isn’t. His work repels me.
Arkadina And you don’t think there might be a reason for
that? People who have nothing but pretension and no talent
have nothing better in their lives than to denigrate real talent.
There’s not much comfort in jealousy, you know, not much
consolation. Attacking other people’s work won’t make your
own better.
Konstantin Real talent! What the hell does that mean? I’m
more talented than any of you.
He grabs the bandage from his head.
It isn’t even art you make, it’s imitation. It’s just copying – the
same old stuff. And of course the only things you consider real
and legitimate are the things you yourselves do, and everything
else you want to make sure it’s killed at birth. Well, I don’t buy
into it. I don’t buy into you. And I’m most certainly not buying
into him.
Arkadina The sheer complacency of the avant-garde!
Konstantin Well you don’t have to deal with it, do you?
Run back to your theatre bunker and perform in those pathetic
third-rate plays.
Arkadina I have never done third-rate plays. How dare
you? You couldn’t even write a miserable little sketch. The
petty bourgeois from Kiev! Parasite!
Konstantin I’d rather be a parasite than a miser.
Arkadina Scarecrow! Total nobody!
Konstantin sits down and cries. Arkadina walks up and down in
distress.
Please don’t. Please don’t cry. Please don’t.
She begins to cry herself. She kisses him on his forehead, his
cheek, his head.
My darling, forgive me. Forgive your wicked mother. Really.
Forgive a wretchedly unhappy woman.
Konstantin embraces her.
Konstantin If only you knew! I’ve lost everything I ever
wanted. She doesn’t love me any more. I can’t write. I’ve lost
all hope.
Arkadina Don’t despair. Everything will be fine. He’s
leaving soon. And when he leaves, she’ll come back to you.
She wipes away his tears.
Come on, it’s enough. We’re friends again.
Konstantin (kissing her hands) We’re friends, Mama, we’re
friends.
Arkadina Now please, make your peace with him. No more
talk of duels. We don’t need duels, do we?
Konstantin All right, but please don’t make me talk to him.
I can’t. I don’t have the strength.
Trigorin comes in.
He’s here, I don’t want to see him. The doctor can bandage me
later.
He puts the medicine away, picks the bandage up from the floor
and heads for the door.
Trigorin Page 121, lines 11 and 12. Here. ‘If you ever have
need of my life, please, come and take it.’
Konstantin goes. Arkadina looks at her watch.
Arkadina They’re due to bring the horses round any minute
now.
Trigorin (to himself) ‘If you ever have need of my life,
please, come and take it.’
Arkadina I hope you’re all packed.
Trigorin (irritable) Yes, of course. I’m packed. (Lost in
thought.) Why do I detect such sadness when a pure soul
pleads with me? And why does my own heart break?
He turns to Arkadina.
One more day. Yes? Shall we stay one more day? Please.
Arkadina You think I don’t know why? Of course I know
why. You need to take control of yourself. You’re drunk, and
you need to sober up.
Trigorin But you could be sober too. Be objective. Be
reasonable. Why not? Look at it in the way a true friend
would look at it.
He takes her hand, squeezes it.
You’re capable of the sacrifice. Be loyal to me. Let me go.
Arkadina (agitated) You really are as desperate as that?
Trigorin It’s as if I’m drawn to her. It’s as if she’s what I’ve
always needed.
Arkadina Oh yes, desperately, of course! The love of a
small-town provincial girl? How little you know yourself.
Trigorin It’s like being a sleepwalker. I’m awake, I’m
moving around, I’m talking to you, but in my dreams I see
only her. And it’s the dream that possesses me. This sweet,
wonderful dream. Oh please let me go.
Arkadina (shaking) No. How can you talk to me like that?
I’m a normal woman, like any other. No different. Don’t do
this, Boris, it’s agony. I’m scared.
Trigorin You don’t need to be normal, you could be
extraordinary. Because love – youthful love, beguiling,
poetic, can transport you into a world of dream. For me, she’s
the only one who can do this, give me this happiness. The sort
of love I’ve never known. When I was young, I was far too
preoccupied, running round editors’ offices, struggling to
make a living. But now. I’m ready. At last love has arrived,
and it’s calling to me. What possible reason can there be for
running away?
Arkadina (furious) You’ve lost your mind.
Trigorin It’s possible.
Arkadina Everyone got up this morning determined to
upset me.
She starts to cry. Trigorin holds his head.
Trigorin It’s wilful. She doesn’t want to understand. She
refuses to understand.
Arkadina Am I really so old, so ugly, so invisible that you
think you can talk to me about other women? Am I not a
woman? Do I not exist?
She starts to kiss him and hug him.
Oh my beloved, my beautiful, you’ve lost your head. Do you
have any idea? You are the last page of my life.
She goes down on her knees.
My joy, my pride, my happiness!
She embraces his knees.
If you leave me, even for an hour, I shan’t survive. I shan’t. I
shall go mad, my amazing, magnificent lord in all things. My
liege.
Trigorin Someone may come in.
He helps her to her feet.
Arkadina I don’t care. I love you, I’ve nothing to be
ashamed of.
She kisses his hands.
I know how badly you want to go crazy, I understand that, but I
won’t let you. My treasure, my desperate, desperate man.
She laughs.
You belong to me. You’re mine. This forehead, these eyes, this
beautiful silky hair, all mine. It’s my luck in life to be with the
most intelligent man, the best writer alive, Russia’s only
remaining hope. And he’s mine. You have such sincerity, such
simplicity, such wonderful freshness, such good spirit.
Sometimes I read, and just in a word, there it is, distilled,
captured, in a phrase, the very heart, the very essence of a
human being or of a landscape. It’s as if your characters were
really alive. They live. The only way to read you is with a full
heart. I mean it. You think I’m exaggerating? You think I’m
lying? Very well then, look me in the eye and tell me I’m a liar.
Do I look like a liar? What do you see? The only woman in the
world who knows your value. The only one. And the only one
who tells you the truth. My darling, wonderful man. You’ll
come with me? Yes? You won’t abandon me?
Trigorin No will. Never had any willpower. Never had any.
Is this really what women want? A man who’s feeble and
submissive and acquiescent? Is that what they want? How can
that be so? All right, take me, take me with you, only don’t let
me stray one step away from your side.
Arkadina (to herself) He’s mine.
Suddenly it’s as if nothing had happened.
Honestly, if you want to stay please do. I can go and you can
follow in a week. If that’s what you’d prefer. There’s no rush.
Trigorin No. I think we should go together.
Arkadina It’s up to you. Together, then.
Trigorin makes a note in his notebook.
Tell me.
Trigorin No, it’s just … a nice phrase from this morning.
‘The virgin forest’. Might be useful.
He stretches.
So, back on the road. More railway carriages, more stations,
more buffets, more railway catering, more greasy cutlets. More
conversation.
Shamraev comes in.
Shamraev Madam, sadly I have to announce that the horses
are ready. The moment has come to leave for the station. If I
can remind you, the train is due at five minutes past two. And
when you get there I’m hoping you won’t forget to enquire
what happened to the actor Suzdaltsev. I’d love to know if
he’s alive. There was a time when he and I used to drink
together. He was absolutely superb in The Mail Robbery. He
was in the same theatre company as the tragic actor Izmailov,
they often appeared together in Elisavetgrad. Another
remarkable actor. Please, dear lady, I wasn’t trying to rush
you, we’re comfortable, you have five minutes. There was a
famous evening when they were playing conspirators who’ve
suddenly been discovered and Izmailov was meant to say,
‘We’re caught like rats in a trap,’ only he said, ‘We’re caught
like taps in a trat.’ Well you can imagine. Taps in a trat!
While he is speaking, Yakov attends to the luggage and the
Maid brings Arkadina her hat, umbrella and gloves. Everyone
helps her put them on. The Cook looks through the door, then
enters hesitantly. Then Polina comes in, then Sorin and
Medvedenko.
Polina I’ve brought you plums for the journey. They’re very
sweet. I thought you’d like to have something nice to eat.
Arkadina You’re so kind to me, Polina.
Polina Goodbye, my dear. And if things haven’t always
been as they should be, please forgive me.
She is crying. Arkadina hugs her.
Arkadina Everything was perfect. Just perfect. So I promise
you, no need to cry.
Polina But our lives are running out.
Arkadina And what do you suggest we do about it?
Sorin comes in and crosses in a coat with a cape attached, a
hat and a stick.
Sorin Sister, it’s time to get going, because otherwise the
simple truth is that you are going to be late. And that’s the
truth. I’m going to get in.
Medvedenko And I am going to walk to the station to see
you off. So I’d better get a move on.
They go out.
Arkadina So, dear friends, goodbye. All being well, if we
are spared, then we shall see each other next year.
The Cook, Yakov and the Maid all kiss her hand. She gives the
Cook a rouble.
Please don’t forget me. Here’s a rouble to share between you.
Cook Thank you very much, madam. We’re very grateful.
Have a safe trip.
Yakov All the luck in the world to you, madam.
Shamraev Oh, and if you have a moment, a letter wouldn’t
go amiss. Goodbye, Boris Alexeyevich.
Arkadina Where’s Konstantin? Does he know we’re
leaving? I have to say goodbye to him. And when you think
of me, think kindly. (To Yakov.) Cook has the rouble, divide it
three ways.
Everyone goes off. The stage is empty. The noise of the
travellers saying goodbye and getting into the coaches offstage.
The Maid comes out, collects the forgotten plums and takes the
basket out. Then Trigorin returns.
Trigorin My stick, it must be on the veranda.
Nina comes in, excited.
It’s you. We’re just leaving.
Nina I had a feeling we’d see each other once more. Boris
Alexeyevich, I’ve made my decision. Irrevocably. Once and
for all. I’m going on the stage. Tomorrow I shan’t be here. I
shall leave my father, abandon everything, take up a new life.
I’m going away, just as you are. I shall be in Moscow. We can
see each other there.
Trigorin Stay at the Slavyansky Bazaar. Let me know as
soon as you arrive. Molchanova, Grokholsky’s House. I have
to hurry.
Nina Stay one minute more.
Trigorin You look so beautiful. What joy to know that we
shall see each other so soon!
She lays her head on his chest.
So soon, and I shall be looking into these wonderful eyes,
basking in that inexpressibly lovely smile. These gentle
features, the look of pure innocence. Like an angel. My love.
They kiss.
 Act Four
Two years later. Konstantin has turned one of Sorin’s drawing
rooms into his study. Doors left and right lead to inner rooms.
A glass door, centre, opens on to the veranda. In the right-hand
corner, a writing table. Next to the left-hand door, a Turkish
divan, and a bookcase. The whole room is overflowing with
books. Otherwise, the usual living-room furniture.
Evening. A single lamp under a shade. Shadow. The trees
rustling, the wind howling and outside the watchman is turning
his rattle to ward off strangers. Medvedenko and Masha come
in.
Masha He doesn’t seem to be here. (Calls.) Konstantin
Gavrilovich! Konstantin! No luck. The old man never stops
asking ‘Where’s Kostya?’ ‘Where’s Kostya?’ He can’t bear to
be without him.
Medvedenko He’s frightened of being alone. What terrible
weather. It’s been like this for two days.
Masha turns up the flame of the lamp.
Masha Have you seen the waves on the lake? Enormous
waves.
Medvedenko It’s dark outside. We really ought to get that
outdoor theatre knocked down. It’s so ugly, so empty, so sad,
standing there like a skeleton, the curtain flapping in the wind.
I walked past yesterday, I could have sworn I heard someone
crying.
Masha Maybe you did.
There’s a pause.
Medvedenko Masha, I do think we should go home.
Masha (shakes her head) I’m staying here tonight.
Medvedenko Poor little fellow, he’s going to be hungry.
Masha He won’t be hungry. That’s what Matryona is for.
There’s a pause.
Medvedenko All I’m saying: a third night without his
mother.
Masha Do you know, I think I preferred it when you
philosophised all the time. It was actually less boring than
baby, baby, baby, home, home, home. It’s all I ever hear these
days.
Medvedenko Please can we go back, Masha?
Masha You can go.
Medvedenko Your father won’t give me the horses.
Masha He will. If you ask him. You just have to ask him.
Medvedenko Well then, perhaps I will. Does that mean
you’ll be home tomorrow?
Masha takes snuff.
Masha If it means you stop asking. Tomorrow.
In come Konstantin, with pillows and a blanket, and Polina
with bed linen. They put them on the divan, then Konstantin
goes to sit at his desk.
What’s this about, Mama?
Polina His uncle’s asking for a bed to be made up so he can
be close to Konstantin.
Masha Here, let me do it.
Polina He’s going backwards. Second childhood.
Masha does the bed. Polina reads the manuscript Konstantin is
working on.
Medvedenko Well, I’m going to make a move then.
Goodbye, Masha. Goodbye, Mama.
He has kissed Masha’s hand, but when he tries to kiss Polina’s
she recoils.
Polina We can do without that, thank you very much. On
your way.
Medvedenko Goodbye, Konstantin Gavrilovich.
Silently, Konstantin holds out his hand to shake. Medvedenko
goes. Polina is looking at the manuscript.
Polina I have to say it’s the last thing anyone expected,
 Kostya, that you’d actually turn into a proper writer. You’ve
even got cheques coming in from the magazines.
She runs her hand through his hair.
Success suits you. You’ve become so handsome. If only you
could find it in yourself to be a little bit kinder towards my
Masha.
Masha (making the bed) Leave him alone, Mama.
Polina She’s a good girl.
There’s a pause.
Kostya, a woman doesn’t need very much, just that from time
to time you give her a kind glance. Believe me, I’m speaking
from experience.
Konstantin gets up and goes out.
Masha And now you’ve upset him. What was the point of
that? Interfering.
Polina Because I’m sad for you, Masha.
Masha And what use is your sadness, pray?
Polina It breaks my heart. I can see what’s happening, I
know exactly what you’re going through.
Masha I’m not going through anything. Unrequited love, it
only belongs in novels. You don’t have to put up with it in
life. It’s perfectly simple, there’s a practical way of dealing
with it. You don’t stand around waiting, like some desperate
 sailor expecting the wind to change. You don’t do that. If love
gets its claws into you, then you just have to prise them off.
It’s the only solution. We’ve got them to transfer my husband
miles away. As soon as we move I’ll be at peace. I can pull
love out by the roots.
From two rooms away, the sound of a melancholy waltz.
Polina That’s Kostya playing. Always a bad sign.
Masha dances a few silent moves to the waltz.
Masha The main thing, Mama, is to arrange it so I don’t
keep seeing him. That’s all. Once Semyon’s transfer comes
through, then I promise in a month I’ll have forgotten him.
It’s perfectly simple.
Dorn and Medvedenko push Sorin in his wheelchair through
the door on the left.
Medvedenko I’ve now got six mouths to feed. With flour at
two kopecks a pound.
Dorn Well, somehow you’ll just have to manage, won’t
you?
Medvedenko Says the man who’s rolling in money.
Dorn Hardly. Do you know how long I’ve been practising?
Thirty years. Thirty years of dedicated service, my life given
over to others, every day, twenty-four hours a day, and what
did it get me? Two thousand roubles. And most of that I spent
on my last trip abroad. So finally, at the end of it all, I’m
broke.
Masha (to her husband) I thought you were going.
Medvedenko I was going. But I can’t go without horses.
Masha (lowering her voice, furious) I just can’t bear you
hanging around me any more.
Polina, Masha and Dorn sit beside Sorin in his wheelchair on
the left-hand side of the room, as Medvedenko wanders
disconsolately to the side.
Dorn What was a drawing room now seems to be a study.
It’s different every time I come.
Masha It’s good for Konstantin. It’s good for his work. It
means he can go and have a think in the garden whenever he
needs to.
The sound of the watchman with his rattle.
Sorin Has anyone seen my sister?
Dorn She’s gone to meet Trigorin at the station. She won’t
be long.
Sorin I don’t like the fact you got my sister here. That
means you must think I’m dangerously ill. Doesn’t make
sense, I’m meant to be dangerously ill, but nobody gives me
any medicine.
Dorn What do you fancy? I’m sure we can come up with
something. Valerian drops? Liver salts? Quinine?
Sorin Oh God, this man’s idea of a prescription: moralising!
It’s unendurable.
He nods at the divan.
Is that for me?
Polina Yes, it’s for you.
Sorin Then I’m grateful.
Dorn (hums) ‘The harvest moon floats in the night skies …’
Sorin I keep meaning to say. I’ve got Kostya a great subject
for one of his stories. It would be entitled ‘The Man Who
Wanted To’. L’Homme Qui a Voulu. When I was young, I
wanted to be a man of letters – and it never happened. I
wanted to speak well – but I spoke appallingly. ‘As it were, as
you might say, I mean, you know, unaccustomed as I am.’ I
couldn’t ever finish a speech, it went on and on till the sweat
was running in rivers down my face. I wanted to marry – and
I never did. I wanted to live in town. Where am I? At the end
of my life? Where am I? Well, there it is, there you have it.
Dorn Yes, unfortunately, the story’s rather spoilt because
you wanted to be a Civil Councillor Grade Four, and that’s
exactly what you were.
Sorin Yes, but I never aimed for that. It just happened.
Dorn You know, it isn’t very dignified to be complaining
about your lot in life when you’ve managed to survive well
into your sixties.
Sorin Do you miss the point deliberately, or is it sheer
stupidity? Why can’t you understand? I still want to live.
Dorn That’s just self-indulgent. Nature has laws. All lives
end.
Sorin Yes, that’s easy for you to say, because you’re
fulfilled. You’re fulfilled and so losing life means nothing to
you. But when the moment comes, just wait, you’ll still be
frightened.
Dorn The fear of death is an animal fear. We have to fight
it. It’s not rational, unless of course you believe in everlasting
life and some kind of reckoning for one’s sins. But as far as I
know, you’re not a believer. And what sins have you
committed exactly? You served twenty-five years in the
Department of Justice.
Sorin (laughs) Twenty-seven.
Dorn All right, even worse.
Konstantin comes in and sits at Sorin’s feet. Masha watches
him like a hawk throughout.
We’re in Konstantin’s way. We’re stopping him work.
Konstantin Doesn’t matter. It’s fine.
There’s a pause.
Medvedenko And, Doctor, of all the foreign cities you’ve
visited, which was your favourite?
Dorn Genoa.
Medvedenko Why Genoa?
Dorn Without a doubt. In Genoa you leave your hotel, you
go into the street at night and there are people everywhere.
There’s a warm river of people. And you begin to stroll
among them with no particular aim, and there’s a moment
when you head this way, then you head that, and suddenly
you start to feel psychologically that you’re part of the crowd,
there’s no separation, you are the crowd. And at that point
you think, ‘Maybe there is such a thing as the soul of the
world. Maybe it exists.’ The soul that Nina Zarechnaya
embodied in your play. Talking of which, what happened to
her? Do we know? How is she doing?
Konstantin She’s doing well enough.
Dorn I heard a rumour that her life was now quite
disorderly. Do you know what that’s about?
Konstantin Doctor, it’s a long story.
Dorn Then summarise.
There’s a pause.
Konstantin In brief: she ran away from home and took up
with Trigorin. You heard that?
Dorn I heard that.
Konstantin She had a child. The child died. Trigorin fell out
 of love with her and abandoned her to go back to his previous
arrangements. No surprise there. In fact, being the coward he
is, he’d never let go of them. He’d somehow managed to keep
both things going. So, piecing things together, I’d guess
Nina’s private life has not exactly worked out.
Dorn And professionally?
Konstantin From what I’ve heard, even worse. She made
her debut in summer theatre near Moscow, then went to the
provinces. At the start, I never missed a performance. For a
while, I made a point of it. They always gave her leading
roles, but really her acting was tasteless, she pushed too hard,
her gestures were clumsy. There was no flow. There were
moments when you’d get a glimpse of talent – she did a
wonderful cry once, and there was one really good death
scene. But it was just moments, really.
Dorn But if you glimpsed it, then there is a talent.
Konstantin Difficult to say. On balance, yes, probably.
When I was in the audience she refused to see me afterwards,
and the staff wouldn’t let me into her hotel room. Which,
knowing what her mood must have been, didn’t surprise me. I
wasn’t going to insist.
There’s a pause.
I don’t know what else to say. When I got home, then I started
getting letters from her. Intelligent, warm, interesting letters.
She never said so but I could tell how unhappy she was. There
wasn’t a line that didn’t give off tension and neurosis. She
signed herself ‘The Seagull’. In Pushkin’s poem Rusalka, the
miller keeps saying he’s a raven. Well she keeps calling herself
the seagull. And now she’s here.
Dorn What on earth do you mean?
Konstantin In town. At the inn. She’s been here for five
days. If I could, I would go and see her. In fact Masha did try
to see her, but she’s refusing to see anyone. Semyon
Semyonovich is convinced he spotted her in the fields
yesterday after dinner.
Medvedenko It’s true. She was heading back into town. I
actually greeted her, I went up to her and invited her to come
and see us. She said she would.
Konstantin She won’t.
There’s a pause.
She’s been disowned by her family. Her father and stepmother
have placed guards everywhere to keep her off their estate.
He crosses to his writing table with Dorn.
Easy, isn’t it, Doctor, to philosophise on paper. Not so easy in
life.
Sorin She was a wonderful creature.
Dorn Say that again.
Sorin I said how wonderful she was. Civil Councillor Sorin
confesses he fell in love with her for a while.
Dorn You old rogue.
Shamraev’s laugh is heard.
Polina Sounds like the station party is back.
Konstantin Yes, I can hear my mother.
Arkadina and Trigorin come in, followed by Shamraev.
Shamraev Truly, dear lady, you defy the laws of nature.
The rest of us grow old, we’re all getting just a little bit
weatherbeaten, but you alone stay young. The clothes, the
vitality, the grace.
Arkadina Worming your way into my good opinion again.
You think I’m that gullible?
Trigorin Ah, Petr Nikolayevich, I can’t believe it, not ill
again, please, no! We can’t have that.
He turns, joyful, then shakes Masha’s hand.
And Marya Ilinichna!
Masha You remember me?
Trigorin And married, I hear.
Masha Long married.
Trigorin Happy?
He greets Dorn and Medvedenko, then nervously approaches
Konstantin.
Your mother tells me that you’re willing to put our past behind
you.
Konstantin holds out his hand.
Arkadina Boris Alexeyevich has brought the magazine with
your new story in it.
Konstantin Thank you. It’s kind of you.
He takes the book from Trigorin. They all sit.
Trigorin And news from your admirers as well. They send
their respects. In Petersburg and in Moscow, I am always
being asked about you. Everyone wants to know ‘What is he
like? How old is he? What colour is his hair?’ For some
reason they all think you’re middle-aged. Nobody has guessed
your identity. The pseudonym works perfectly. You might as
well be the Man in the Iron Mask.
Konstantin Are you here for long?
Trigorin No, it’s the usual absurdity. Back to Moscow
tomorrow, I think. I have a story that’s overdue, and then, oh,
I’m backed up as usual. A contribution I promised to an
anthology. There’s always more.
As they talk, Arkadina and Polina set up a folding card table in
the middle of the room. Shamraev lights candles and arranges
chairs. From the cupboard, a game of lotto is fetched.
It’s hardly welcoming weather. I’ve never known the wind so
strong. Tomorrow morning, if it drops, the plan is, head straight
for the lake and get some fishing in. Also: I need to take a good
look at the garden and exactly where your play was performed,
remember? I’ve been mulling over the idea of new story, and I
need to refresh my memory of the exact spot.
Masha Papa, please let my poor husband have a horse. He
needs to get home.
Shamraev (imitating her) Give him a horse, get him home!
For goodness’ sake, you know perfectly well they’ve just
been to the station and back. I can’t send them out again.
Masha You have other horses.
But Shamraev does not respond.
Oh, you’re impossible.
Medvedenko It’s all right, don’t worry. I can walk, Masha.
Polina Walk? In weather like this? Come on, everyone.
Medvedenko It’s only four miles. So, once more.
Polina is getting everyone round the table. Medvedenko kisses
Masha’s hand.
Goodbye. Goodbye, Mama.
Reluctantly Polina holds out her hand to be kissed.
I wasn’t meaning to be a nuisance, it’s just the baby. I have to
get back for the baby. Goodbye.
He bows to them all, then goes out apologetically.
Shamraev I don’t think he’ll have a problem on foot. It’s
not as if he were a general.
Polina Come on, everyone, let’s start playing. They’ll be
calling us in for supper in no time at all.
Polina has rapped firmly on the table. Dorn, Shamraev and
Masha sit down to play. Arkadina speaks to Trigorin.
Arkadina This is what we do, when the autumn evenings
draw in. We play lotto. It’s funny, it’s the actual set we had
when our mother played with us as children. It’s years old.
Won’t you come and join in before supper? It’s a boring
game, but it’s one of those things that isn’t so boring when
you get into it.
Now she and Trigorin have joined the others. She gives them
all three cards. Konstantin is leafing through the magazine.
Konstantin That says it all. He’s read his own story, but he
hasn’t even cut the pages on mine.
He puts the magazine down on the desk, then heads for the
door on the left. He passes his mother, kissing her on the head.
Arkadina Don’t you want to join us?
Konstantin Forgive me, I’m not in the mood. I’m going out.
He goes out.
Arkadina It’s ten kopecks to get in. Could you do mine for
me, Doctor?
Dorn Yes, of course.
Masha Now if all the stakes are in, here we go. Twenty-
two!
Arkadina Yes.
Masha Three!
Dorn That’s me.
Masha Have you put it down? Seven! Eighty-one! Ten!
Shamraev Give us a moment. Not so fast.
Arkadina You wouldn’t believe my curtain calls in
Kharkov. Just thinking of them makes my head spin.
Masha Thirty-four!
The melancholy waltz starts up again.
Arkadina The students had organised a standing ovation.
Three bouquets, two garlands and this, look.
She takes a brooch from her dress and throws it on the table.
Shamraev That really is something.
Masha Fifty!
Dorn Fifty-something, or fifty?
Masha Fifty.
Arkadina I had this astonishing costume. Give me credit: if
I know nothing else, I do know how to dress.
Polina Kostya always plays when he’s depressed.
Shamraev He’s taking a hammering in the press, isn’t he?
Masha Seventy-seven!
Arkadina The press! As if it mattered.
Trigorin It’s not really working out for him. He still hasn’t
really found his voice. His work seems blurred, as if it were
out of focus. At times it has a frantic quality. And no real
people, not people who live and breathe.
Masha Eleven!
Arkadina (looking at her brother) Petrusha, are we boring
you? He’s fast asleep.
Dorn The former Civil Councillor Grade Four has lost
consciousness.
Masha Seven! Ninety!
Trigorin I think it may be the environment. If I lived here,
beside a lake, would I bother to write? I’d have had some sort
of epic struggle, then at the end of it I’d have given up writing
for fishing.
Masha Twenty-eight!
Trigorin My idea of heaven: a chub on a line. Or a perch.
Dorn Yes, but Konstantin has something. He really does.
Something special. He thinks in images, and that’s unusual. It
makes for colourful writing, and it moves me deeply. It’s just
a pity that he doesn’t have any structure, he just produces an
effect, and we all know effect isn’t enough in literature. Irina
Nikolaevna, are you proud of having a writer for a son?
Arkadina You’re not going to believe this, but I haven’t
actually got round to reading him. I never have time.
Masha Twenty-six!
Konstantin comes in silently and goes to his desk.
Shamraev You know, Boris Alexeyevich, we still have
something belonging to you.
Trigorin To me?
Shamraev Konstantin shot a gull and you asked me to have
it stuffed.
Trigorin That’s strange. I don’t remember that. I really
don’t.
Masha Sixty-six! One!
Konstantin opens the window and listens.
Konstantin It’s so dark out there. I don’t know why I feel
so nervous tonight.
Arkadina Please shut the window, Kostya, there’s a
draught.
Konstantin closes the window.
Masha Eighty-eight!
Trigorin Ladies and gentlemen, I have to inform you, I have
a full house.
Arkadina Bravo, bravo!
Shamraev Bravo, congratulations.
Arkadina The luckiest man alive. From birth.
She gets up.
And now let’s all go and get something to eat. The famous
novelist has not eaten all day. We’ll resume after supper. (To
her son.) Leave all that for now, Kostya, we’re going to eat.
Konstantin I’m going to work. I’m not hungry.
Arkadina It’s up to you.
She wakes Sorin.
Petrusha, supper.
Arkadina takes Shamraev by the arm.
So let me tell you, in Kharkov, end of play, this is what
happened the moment the curtain fell …
Polina has put out the candles and now she and Dorn push
Sorin off in his wheelchair. They all go out of the left-hand
door. Only Konstantin is left, alone at his desk. He is preparing
to write, but first he looks at what he has already written.
Konstantin New forms. New forms! All the time I talk
about the need for new forms and yet when I read my own
work, it’s not new. Anything but. ‘The poster on the fence
proclaimed.’ ‘Her pale face, framed by dark hair.’ Framed,
proclaimed. It’s nothing but cliché.
He scratches out.
I’m going to keep the bit where the hero wakes to the sound of
the rain, and then I’m going to lose the rest. The description of
the moon and the evening is just so long and overwrought.
Trigorin has a formula, he can do it in his sleep. When he’s
writing, then the neck of a broken bottle glitters on the weir,
and the shadow of the mill-wheel darkens. And there it is. You
see it. The whole thing. Moonlit night. But with me, there’s all
the quivering light, the soft twinkling of the stars, the sound of
the distant piano dying on the fucking evening air. It’s
unbearable.
There’s a pause.
And, you know, I’ve begun to feel more and more that it’s
nothing to do with old form or new. Nothing at all. But that a
person should write without thinking about form at all. It
should just flow freely. From your soul.
At once a tap on the window, nearest the desk.
There’s somebody there.
He looks out of the window.
I can’t see anything.
He opens the door and looks out into the garden.
Somebody ran down the steps. Who is it? Who’s there?
Now Konstantin goes out. The sound of him walking quickly
away along the veranda. Then half a minute later he returns
with Nina.
Nina! Nina!
Nina is in floods of tears. She lays her head on his chest to try
and control herself.
Oh Nina, oh my Nina. It’s you. It’s you. I’ve been in agony all
day, I had a feeling.
He takes off her hat and cape.
Oh my beloved, my beautiful, at last you’re back. Don’t cry,
please let’s not cry.
Nina There’s someone here.
Konstantin There’s no one.
Nina Please lock the doors or someone will find us.
Konstantin No one will find us.
Nina I know your mother is here. Lock the doors.
Konstantin locks the right door, then goes to the left, and puts a
chair against it.
Konstantin It doesn’t have a lock, I’ll put a chair against it.
I promise you, you’re safe.
Nina gazes deeply into his eyes.
Nina Let me look at you. It’s warm in here, it’s nice. This
used to be the drawing room. Have I changed too?
Konstantin Yes. You’ve lost weight. And your eyes are
bigger. Nina, it’s so strange that you’ve finally come to see
me. You’ve turned me away so many times. And why’s it
taken so long? You’ve been here a week, I know that. I kept
calling by, standing under your window like a beggar.
Nina I was afraid you hated me. I have a dream every night
that you’re looking at me and you don’t recognise me. You
have no idea. From the moment I got here, I’ve been walking
on the estate, by the lake. So many times I’ve walked up to
the house. But I could never find the courage to come in.
Let’s sit down.
They sit.
How wonderful to talk. To talk at last. Can we talk? It’s nice
here, so warm, so comfortable. Can you hear the wind? I
remember in Turgenev somewhere he says, ‘On nights like
these how lucky a man is to sit under his own roof, in a warm
corner.’ I’m the seagull. No, that’s not right.
She rubs her forehead.
What was I saying? Turgenev. ‘And God protect those who
wander alone in the cold …’
She starts to cry again.
Konstantin Nina …
Nina It’s fine.
Konstantin Nina, you’re crying again …
Nina It’s all right, I promise you. It’s all right. It feels good
to cry. I haven’t cried for two years. Yesterday, when it was
dark, I went across to the garden to see if our theatre was still
there. It’s there. It’s been there all this time. And that’s when I
cried for the first time, when I saw it. I felt a weight being
lifted off me, I felt my heart clear. Look, I’m not crying any
more.
She takes his hand.
And there it is, you’re a writer now. You’re a writer and I’m an
actress. Even you and I have had finally to throw ourselves into
the scrum. When I lived here, I’d wake up every morning, first
thing I’d do is sing, like a child, full of joy. I was in love with
you, I was in love with glory. And now? First thing tomorrow,
up at the crack of dawn, and off to Yelets, travelling third-class,
with the peasants. And waiting in Yelets, all the most cultured
businessmen in town just longing to try their luck with me.
Life’s real, isn’t it?
Konstantin Why Yelets?
Nina Because I’m contracted for the winter season. And I
leave tomorrow.
Konstantin Nina, I’ve hated you, I’ve cursed you, I’ve
taken your letters and your photographs and torn them into
tiny pieces. But even as I did it I knew. I knew our souls are
bound together for the rest of time. I don’t have the strength
to stop loving you. I can’t. From the moment I lost you and I
became a professional writer, my life has been unbearable. I
suffer. That’s all I do. Nothing else. My youth vanished.
Suddenly I felt ninety years old. I say your name and I still
want to kiss the ground on which you walk. No matter where
I turn, I still see your face, that sweet smile that shone down
on me when I was happy.
Nina (bewildered) What is he saying? Why is he talking like
this?
Konstantin I have no one, I’m alone. It’s as if I’m living in
a dungeon, without any warmth, without any love. No matter
what I write, it comes out stale and lifeless and gloomy. Stay
here, Nina, I beg you. Or at least let me come with you.
Nina quickly puts her hat and cape back on.
Why not? Nina, tell me why not. Please. For God’s sake.
He has to sit and watch in silence as she dresses.
Nina I’ve got horses at the gate. Don’t come out, I’ll go by
myself. Can you get me some water?
She has begun to cry. He gets her a glass of water.
Konstantin Where are you going right now?
Nina Into town.
There’s a pause.
Is your mother here?
Konstantin Yes. My uncle’s been very ill. So on Thursday
we sent her a telegram.
Nina Why on earth do you kiss the ground I walk on? Why?
I ought to be put down like a dog.
She leans over the table.
You have no idea how tired I am. If only I could find peace.
Some peace. I’m the seagull. No, that isn’t right. I’m the
actress. The actress!
Arkadina and Trigorin can be heard laughing. Nina runs to the
door and looks through the keyhole.
So he’s here too.
She returns to Konstantin.
It no longer matters. Truly. He undermined me. He didn’t
believe in the theatre, he mocked my ambitions, and slowly he
infected me. I lost all my confidence. And there was all the
torture of being in love, of being jealous, the constant anguish
for my child. It killed my acting, because on to the stage
walked a nothing, a non-person. I didn’t know where to put my
hands, I didn’t know how to stand, I heard my own voice and it
 was horrible. You cannot imagine the hell of acting badly. I am
– the seagull. No, that’s not right. You remember that day when
you shot a gull? A man happens to come along, catches sight of
her, and for no other reason but that he can, he destroys her. A
subject for a short story. No, that’s not right.
She rubs her forehead again.
What was I saying? Oh yes, I was talking about acting. Well,
it’s all changed. I’m a real actress now, I go out there and I
couldn’t be happier. It’s like being drunk. When I speak, when
I move, I feel myself to be beautiful. And in some way, the act
of coming back here has been so good for me. I’ve had time to
walk and think, to think and walk, and I’ve replenished myself,
my spiritual resources. I’ve understood something at last,
Kostya. When we work, if we act or if we write, it mustn’t be
for glory, it mustn’t be for fame, none of the things I used to
dream about, it must be about the ability to endure. To carry
your cross and have faith. I have faith. And now things don’t
hurt so much. When I think of my vocation, I’m not afraid of
life.
Konstantin You have a vocation. You’re lucky. You know
where you’re heading. I’m still trapped in a sort of chaos, a
chaos of crazy dreams and half-felt images. I don’t know who
or what it’s all for. I have no faith. I have no vocation.
Nina is listening for the others.
Nina Shh … I’ve got to get going. Goodbye. When I’m a
great actress, promise you’ll come and see me. Please? And
now, it’s late. I can barely stand. I’m exhausted. I need to eat.
She squeezes his hand.
Konstantin If you stay then you can eat here.
Nina No, it’s not a good idea. Don’t see me off, I’ll go by
myself. The horses.
She gestures out to where they are.
So she brought him with her, did she? Fair enough, it doesn’t
matter. When you see Trigorin, don’t tell him I was here. I love
him. I love him more than ever before. A subject for a short
story. I love him, I love him with all my heart. To the point of
despair. Oh Kostya, do you remember how happy we were?
How bright, how warm, how full of joy our life once was? The
feelings we had, like beautiful flowers. Remember? I know it
by heart. ‘Humans, lions, eagles, partridges, deer, geese,
spiders, the fish swimming silent at the bottom of the sea,
micro-organisms too small to detect – in a word, everything
that lives, everything that has life, everything that is –
everything has lived out its cycle and died. In its place, nothing.
For thousands of years, the moon has shone down useless on an
empty world. The cranes no longer wake and call to each other
in the meadows. In the lime groves, the May beetles are silent.’
Impulsively Nina embraces Konstantin and runs out through
the door to the outside. Konstantin is silent. Then:
Konstantin It wouldn’t be good if someone saw her in the
garden and told Mama. It might upset Mama.
Systematically now he tears up all his manuscripts and throws
them under the desk. Then he unlocks the right-hand door and
goes out. Dorn tries to open the door on the left.
Dorn Strange. Someone’s jammed the door.
He comes in and puts the armchair back in its proper place.
It’s like an obstacle race.
In come Arkadina and Polina, then Yakov with the alcohol, and
Masha, then Shamraev and Trigorin.
Arkadina Put the red wine on the table. Boris Alexeyevich
likes beer. We’ll all have a drink while we play.
Polina And you can bring us some tea while you’re at it.
She lights candles, then sits at the table. Shamraev has led
Trigorin to the cupboard.
Shamraev Here, this is what I was talking about just now.
He takes out the stuffed seagull.
It was you who asked me to do it.
Trigorin Really?
He stares at the bird.
I don’t remember. I don’t remember at all.
From the right, offstage, the sound of a gunshot. Everyone is
startled.
Arkadina What on earth was that?
Dorn Don’t worry. Something’s exploded in my medicine
chest. I’m going to check.
He goes out. After half a minute he returns.
As I thought. It was a bottle of ether which burst.
Arkadina sits at the table.
Arkadina My God, that scared the life out of me. For a
moment it reminded me …
She puts her hands over her face.
I was gone for a moment there.
Dorn has picked up a magazine and is leafing through it. He
goes over to Trigorin.
Dorn I don’t know if you saw this article published in here a
couple of months ago. A report, a rather urgent report. From
America, as it happens. And I wanted to ask you …
He has put his arm on Trigorin’s back to lead him down to the
front.
Because this is a matter of particular interest to me …
He drops his voice, low.
Get Irina Nikolaevna out of here. Doesn’t matter where. The
fact is, Konstantin Gavrilovich has shot himself.
 About Anton Chekhov

Anton Chekhov (1860–1904), son of a former serf, graduated in

medicine from Moscow University in 1884. He began to make
his name first as a short-story writer, then in the theatre with the
one-act comedies The Bear, The Proposal and The Wedding. His
full-length plays are Platonov (written in 1878 but unpublished
and unperformed in his lifetime), Ivanov (1887), The Wood
Demon (1889), The Seagull (1896), Uncle Vanya (1899), Three
Sisters (1901) and The Cherry Orchard (1904).
 About David Hare

David Hare is a playwright and film-maker. His stage plays

include Plenty, Pravda (with Howard Brenton), Racing Demon,
Skylight, Amy’s View, Via Dolorosa, Stuff Happens, South
Downs, The Absence of War and The Judas Kiss. His films for
cinema and television include Wetherby, Damage, The Hours,
The Reader, and the Worricker Trilogy: Page Eight, Turks and
Caicos and Salting the Battlefield. He has also written English
adaptations of plays by Brecht, Gorky, Pirandello, Ibsen and
Lorca.
 By the Same Author

PLAYS ONE
(Slag, Teeth ’n’ Smiles, Knuckle, Licking Hitler, Plenty)

PLAYS TWO
(Fanshen, A Map of the World, Saigon, The Bay at Nice, The
Secret Rapture)

PLAYS THREE
(Skylight, Amy’s View, The Judas Kiss, My Zinc Bed)

RACING DEMON
MURMURING JUDGES
THE ABSENCE OF WAR
VIA DOLOROSA
THE BLUE ROOM
(from La Ronde by Schnitzler)
THE BREATH OF LIFE
THE PERMANENT WAY
STUFF HAPPENS
THE VERTICAL HOUR
GETHSEMANE
BERLIN/WALL
THE POWER OF YES
SOUTH DOWNS
BEHIND THE BEAUTIFUL FOREVERS
THE MODERATE SOPRANO
 adaptations
THE HOUSE OF BERNARDA ALBA by Lorca
ENEMIES by Gorky

screenplays
COLLECTED SCREENPLAYS
(Wetherby, Paris by Night, Strapless, Heading Home, Dreams
of Leaving)
THE HOURS

prose
ACTING UP
ASKING AROUND: BACKGROUND TO THE DAVID HARE TRILOGY
WRITING LEFT-HANDED
OBEDIENCE, STRUGGLE AND REVOLT
THE BLUE TOUCH PAPER
 Copyright

This collection first published in the UK in 2015 by

Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2015
Ivanov first published by Methuen in 1997
Platonov first published by Faber and Faber in 2001
Adaptations © David Hare 2015
Cover design by Faber
Cover image © Anton Chekhov, 1889
The right of David Hare to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in
accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,
distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as
specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and
conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable
copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct
infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be
liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–31303–7