The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov: Plays, Novellas, Short Stories, Diary & Letters. Anton Chekhov

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СКАЧАТЬ Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [Jumps up.] I ask you, do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?

      MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.

      SMIRNOV. I'm not talking about stables, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not?

      MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how to treat a lady.

      SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I have.

      MRS. POPOV. No, you have not. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person! Respectable people don't speak so to ladies.

      SMIRNOV. How remarkable! How do you want one to speak to you? In French, perhaps! Madame, je vous prie! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day! And how this mourning becomes you!

      [He makes a low bow with mock ceremony.

      MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny! I think it vulgar!

      SMIRNOV. [Imitating her.] Not at all funny—vulgar! I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times have I fought duels for women, twelve I jilted and nine jilted me. There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bowed and scraped. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, loved in every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender passion, until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs—for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a kopeck! I am not speaking of present company, but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [he strikes his forehead] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the romantic creatures before him he imagines he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights; but if one looks into the soul—it's nothing but a common crocodile. [He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it in two.] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines it is a masterpiece of creation, and that it has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman! When she is in love, all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she swings her train about and tries to lead him by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, and naturally you know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? Never! Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock, than a faithful woman.

      MRS. POPOV. But allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps?

      SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man!

      MRS. POPOV. The man! [She laughs sarcastically.] The man true and faithful in love! Well, that is something new! [Bitterly.] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! So long as we have gone thus far, I may as well say that of all the men I have known, my husband was the best; I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love; I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshipped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of men betrayed me in every possible way. After his death I found his desk filled with love-letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months—it is horrible even to think about it—he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings—and in spite of everything I trusted him and was true to him. And more than that: he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.

      SMIRNOV. [Laughing disrespectfully.] Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, gaze up at the windows, and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!

      MRS. POPOV. [Springing up.] What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?

      SMIRNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder your nose!

      MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak so?

      SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to call things by their right names. I am not a woman, and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream.

      MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are screaming. Please leave me, I beg of you.

      SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

      MRS. POPOV. I won't give you the money.

      SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money?

      MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me!

      SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, please don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it.

      MRS. POPOV. [Breathing hard.] You are going to sit down?

      SMIRNOV. I already have.

      MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house!

      SMIRNOV. Give me the money.

      MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going?

      SMIRNOV. No.

      MRS. POPOV. No?

      SMIRNOV. No.

      MRS. POPOV. Very well.

      [She rings the bell.

      [Enter Luka.

      MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out.

      LUKA. [Going to Smirnov.] Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want?

      SMIRNOV. [Jumping up.] Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.

      LUKA. [Puts his hand to his heart.] Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill; I can't breathe!

      MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [Calling.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha!

      [She rings.

      LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill! Water!

      MRS. POPOV. [To Smirnov.] Leave! Get out!

      SMIRNOV. Kindly be a little more polite!

      MRS. POPOV. [Striking her fists and stamping her feet.] You are vulgar! You're a boor! A monster!

      SMIRNOV. What did you say?

      MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster!

      SMIRNOV. [Steps toward her СКАЧАТЬ