[L-IV-2]
[Deemer]
(Treplev enters the living room. He sits at the piano, sometimes playing, sometimes talking to the audience.)
TREPLEV: Sometimes I feel like I know nothing about writing. Less now that I'm published, that I have an audience, however modest, than when I was starting out and declaring to anyone who would listen that I intended to bring new forms to the theater. ... Why doesn't Nina come to see me? I thought she would have by now. ... Enough.
(He gets up. He goes to a bookcase and removes several books. He reaches behind the adjacent books, feeling for something. He finds it. He brings out a small pistol.)
TREPLEV: Our little secret.
(He hides the pistol on his person. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a difficult entrance. Then he marches back to the study.)