[II-9]

[Chekhov]

(Trigorin enters, lost in his thoughts.)

TRIGORIN: (taking notes and talking to himself) "Takes snuff, drinks vodka, always wears black . . . and the schoolmaster's in love with her . . ."

NINA: Good morning, Boris.

TRIGORIN: Nina. Something's come up, and I'm sorry to say we're leaving today. We probably won't meet again, you and I - which is unfortunate. I don't often have the pleasure of being around someone as young and charming as yourself. I've forgotten what's it like to be eighteen or nineteen. I can't imagine what it's like. I'm sure this is why the young female characters in my stories ring untrue. How I'd love be in your shoes for an hour, to know what you're thinking and feeling.

NINA: I'd like to be in your shoes as well.

TRIGORIN: But why?

NINA: To know what it's like to be a famous writer. What is it like?

TRIGORIN: I've never thought about it. Either you're exaggerating my fame or I'm not feeling much of anything.

NINA: And when you read about yourself in the papers?

TRIGORIN: If they praise me, good; in they criticize me, not so good. Then I can feel awful for a day or two.

NINA: What an extraordinary world! If you only knew how much I envy you. People have such different fates. Some barely drag through their miserable lives, every dreary day like the next, so unhappy. But one in a million, like you, have lives that are interesting and worthwhile. You must be very happy.

TRIGORIN: Me? (He shrugs.) You talk about fame and happiness but these are just words to me, about as meaningful as fruit salad. You are very young - and very kind.

NINA: But your life is beautiful.

TRIGORIN: What's so beautiful about it? (He looks at his watch.) Time for me to get back to work. But you do ask interesting questions - so, okay, let's talk. Let's talk about this beautiful life of mine. (He thinks a moment.) You know how a person can become obsessed about something? Like the moon? So that day and night, that's all they think about? Well, I have a moon of my own - writing. I'm constantly obsessed with a single thought - I have to write. I have to write! As soon as I finish writing a story, I have to write another - and then a third, and a fourth, and another. I write at lightning speed and can't stop. One story after another. Now tell me - what's so beautiful about that?

(Nina doesn't reply.)

TRIGORIN: Life is strange. I find myself getting energy talking to you. All the same, in the back of my mind is the thought that there's an unfinished story waiting for me in my room. See the cloud? Don't you think it looks like a grand piano? And so I'm making a mental note now to add this in my story, a cloud that looks like a grand piano. Everything we've been talking about is locked up in my literary storeroom. Maybe I can make use of it later. So tell me - what's so beautiful about my life?

(Nina is still silent.)

TRIGORIN: I try to rest, to find diversion - at the theater, or going fishing. But then an idea comes crashing into my head like a cannonball, and I'm back at my desk writing and writing and writing. I'm always like that. I never rest. I feel like my life is being consumed.

(A pause.)

TRIGORIN: It was worse when I was your age. Young writers are so insecure, so awkward in the world. Who needs a young writer? He's like a gambler without any money. You know, I've never met my readers but for some reason I picture them as hostile. Theater audiences are worse - whenever a new play of mine opened, I imagined that the dark-haired people in the audience were openly hostile but the blond-haired people merely indifferent. It was terrible! Pure torture.

NINA: But writing itself - getting inspired and then creating something - must make you happy.

TRIGORIN: Yes. I love writing. I enjoy reading my proofs. And then when it's published, I hate it. It's never what I meant. And I get angry and depressed.

(He laughs.) Then the critics say, "Charming, clever - but certainly not Tolstoy or Turgenev." They'll be saying that til my dying day. "Not Tolstoy or Turgenev." When I'm dead, my friends will stand at my grave and say, "He was a good writer - but no Tolstoy or Turgenev."

NINA: I don't understand you. I think you're spoiled by success.

TRIGORIN: What success? I don't like myself. I finally don't even like my work. I live in a daze - most of the time I don't even understand what I'm writing about. I love nature - the lake, the trees, the sky. Nature stirs up a deep passion in me and an urge to write - but I'm only a landscape artist. I'm also a man, a citizen, who loves his country and its people. Writers should write about people. About their suffering and their dreams. Meanwhile the world goes forward so fast I feel like I'm chasing a train, and in the end all I write about are landscapes. So I'm a failure.

NINA: You're working too hard. Maybe you're not satisfied but other people think you're a great man. If I were a writer like you, I'd dedicate my life to the people and try and raise them to my level. The people would pull my chariot.

TRIGORIN: A chariot? You think I'm Agamemnon?

NINA: I'd endure anything to be a famous writer or actress! The disapproval of my family and friends, poverty, disappointment. I'd live in a garret and survive on dry bread. I'd suffer whatever it took - to be famous! The thought makes my head spin . . .

(Irina calls from the back of the house).

[continue]