Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (362 page)

A LIVING CALENDAR

Translated by John Middleton Murry 1915

 
STATE-COUNCILLOR SHARAMYKIN’S drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green,
couleur “Nuit d’Ukraine”
Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces ; but this does not spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters say, is well sustained.

Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high official’s grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man of about forty. Sharamykin’s children are moving about round the piano ; Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin’s room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There behind the door sits Sharamykin’s wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies’ committee, a lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of the committee for last year.

“Formerly our town was much better off in these things,” says Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. “ Never a winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and singers used to come . . . but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders, the devil only knows what comes. There’s no aesthetic pleasure at all. . . . We might be living in a forest. Yes. . . . And does your Excellency remember that Italian tragedian? . . . What’s his name ? ... He was so dark, and tall. . . . Let me think. . . . Oh, yes ! Luigi Ernesto di Ruggiero. . . . Remarkable talent. . . . And strength. He had only to say one word and the whole theatre was on the
qui vive
. My darling Anna used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for him and sold tickets for the performances in advance. ... In return he taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow ! He came here ... to be quite exact . . . twelve years ago. . . . No, that’s not true. . . . Less, ten years. . . . Anna dear, how old is our Nina ? “

“She’ll be ten next birthday,” calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. “ Why ? “

“Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious. . . . And good singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the
tenore di grazia
 ? What a charming fellow he was ! How good looking ! Fair ... a very expressive face, Parisian manners. . . . And what a voice, your Excellency ! Only one weakness : he would sing some notes with his stomach and would take
re
falsetto — otherwise everything was good. Tamberlik, he said, had taught him. . . . My dear Anna and I hired a hall for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing to us for whole days and nights. ... He taught dear Anna to sing. He came — I remember it as though it were last night — in Lent, some twelve years ago. No, it’s more .... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help me ! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya ?

“Twelve.”

“Twelve . . . then we’ve got to add ten months. . . . That makes it exact . . . thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then. . . . Take, for instance, the charity soirees. What enjoyable soirees we used to have before ! How elegant ! There were singing, playing, and recitation. . . . After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers were passionately fond of dear Anna’s voice, and kissed her hand incessantly. He-he ! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my diary ? It was, — I remember it as though it had only just happened, — in ‘76, . . . no, in ‘77. ... No ! Pray, when were the Turks here ? Anna dear, how old is our little Kolya ? “

“I’m seven, Papa ! “ says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal black hair.

“Yes, we’re old, and we’ve lost the energy we used to have,” Lopniev agreed with a sigh. “ That’s the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old. . . . The old fire is dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored. ... I was your Anna Pavlovna’s first assistant. Whether it was a charity soiree or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that I even got ill. ... I shan’t forget that winter. . . . Do you remember what a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of the fire ? “

“What year was it ? “

“Not so very long ago. ... In ‘79. No, in ‘80, 1 believe ! Tell me how old is your Vanya ? “

“Five,” Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.

“Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a time. It’s all over now. The old fire’s quite gone.”

Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up for the last time, and then is covered in ash.

Statue of Chekhov in Taganrog, his birth city

FATHERLESSNESS OR A PLAY WITHOUT A TITLE

Translated by John Cournos

This is Chehov’s first play, which was written in 1878 specifically for Maria Yermolova, a rising star of Maly Theatre.
 
Yermolova rejected the play and it was not published until 1923.
 
The lead character is “Mikhail Platonov”, a disillusioned provincial schoolmaster, and his name is used for the title in English translations. The work has been adapted and produced at the Almeida Theatre in London, the Bristol Old Vic, and by the Soulpepper Theatre Company in Toronto.

CHARACTERS

ANNA PETROVNA VOINITZEV

Widow of General Voinitzev

SERGEY PAVLOVITCH VOINITZEV

Her Step-Son

SOFYA EGOROVNA

His Wife

MIKHAIL VASSILYEVITCH

PLATONOV

IVAN IVANOVITCH

TRILETZKY

NIKOLAI IVANOVITCH

TRILETZKY A Doctor, His Son

ALEXANDRA IVANOVNA Platonov’s Wife, His Daughter

ABRAHAM ABRAHAMOVITCH

VENGEROVITCH (I)

A Jewish Money-Lender

ISAAC ABRAHAMOVITCH

VENGEROVITCH (IL)

His Son

PORFIRY SEMEONOVITCH GLAGOLYEV (I)

A Rich Old Man

KIRYL PORFIRYEVITCH GLAGOLYEV (IL)

His Son

STCHERBOOK A Neighbour

LIZA AND VERA His Daughters

PETRIN AND BUGROV Money-Lenders

MARYA EFIMOVNA GREKOVA A Young Woman from the Neighbourhood

OSSIP A Dark Character

YAKOV AND VASSILY Servants of Voinitzev

KATYA MARKO

ACT I

Scene:

A garden. In the foreground a -flower-bed and a winding path. In the centre of the flower-bed, a statue. On the head of the statue, a lighted lantern. There are forms, chairs, small tables. To the right, the fagade of the house is visible. There are steps leading up to it. The windows are open. From them are audible laughter, conversation, the sounds of a piano and violin. (The quadrille, valses, etc.) In the depth of the garden there is a Chinese summer-house decorated with lanterns. Over its entrance there is a monogram consisting of the letters “S. V.” Beyond the summer-house a game of skittles is being played. There is heard the rolling of balls, and outcries: “Five good ones!” “Four poor ones!” etc. The garden and the house are illuminated. Visitors are pacing the garden back and forth, and occasionally a servant is seen. Vassily and Jakov, in black frock coats, drunken, are hanging lanterns and lighting them.

TRILETZKY. Well said! (Sighs.) You are right.

BUGROV (taking out his wallet). You think it right to scoff too. ... It doesn’t take much to send you off into Ha! Ha! Ha! Is it proper to do that? No, you can’t say it is... Though I’m not educated as you are, still I’ve been baptized the same as my learned brother. ... If I talk stupidly, then you ought to instruct me, and not laugh at me... That’s what I think. We moujiks are human beings, though we don’t use powder and though our skins are tough. You don’t have much to say to us. Excuse me, if V m blunt... (He opens his wallet.) It’s the last time, Nikolai Ivanitch. (He counts.) One . . . six . . . twelve...

TRILETZKY (looks into the wallet). Heavens! And they say Russians haven’t any money! Where did you get so much?

BUGROV. Fifty... (Gives him the money.) It’s the last time.

TRILETZKY. And what’s that piece of paper? You’d better hand it over too... It’s looking so fondly at me! (He takes the money.) You’d better hand it over too!

BUGROV (giving him more money). Take it! You’re surely greedy, Nikolai Ivanitch!

TRILETZKY. They’re all one-rouble notes, so many one-rouble notes... Looks as though you had begged them all. They’re not counterfeit, by any chance?

BUGROV. Hand them back to me, if they’re counterfeit!

TRILETZKY. I’d hand them back, if you needed them.

. . Merely Timofey Gordeitch! I wish you’d get stouter still, and get a medal. Tell me, Timofey Gordeitch, why do you lead such an abnormal life? You drink a lot, you talk in a bass voice, you sweat, you don’t sleep when you ought to... For example, why aren’t you asleep right now? You’re a full-blooded, splenetic, inflammable sort of man. You ought to go to bed early! Why, you even have more veins than others. Is it right to go on killing oneself as you do?

BUGROV. But . . .

TRILETZKY. But me no buts! Now don’t get frightened... I’m joking. It’s too early for you to die... You have a good many years left before you! Have you a lot of money, Timofey Gordeitch?

BUGROV. Enough to see me through.

TRILETZKY. You’re a good, clever man, Timofey Gordeitch, but a great scoundrel! Excuse me... I say it in friendship. You’re my friend, aren’t you? Well, you’re a great scoundrel! Why do you hold that note against Voinitzev? Why do you give him money?

BUGROV. That needn’t concern you, Nikolai Ivan- itch!

TRILETZKY. I suppose you and Vengerovitch have an eye on the general’s widow’s set of chess! The widow, let me tell you, will take pity on her stepson, she won’t let him perish. Do you think she’ll give up her chess-men? [You’re a scoundrel, a scoundrel! ] You’re a great man, but a scoundrel! A rogue!

BUGROV. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Nikolai Ivanitch... I’ll go and have a nap somewhere near the summer-house, and when supper’s ready to be served you’ll come and wake me.

TRILETZKY. Excellent! Go and have your nap. [And don’t forget that you’re a scoundrel! ]

BUGROV (goes). And if they don’t serve supper, then wake me at half past ten! (Goes toward the summer- house.)