ACT+2+SCRIPT

ACT II

/The lawn in front of SORIN'S house. The house stands in the background, on a broad terrace. The lake, brightly reflecting the rays of the sun, lies to the left. There are flower-beds here and there. It is noon; the day is hot. ARKADINA, DORN, and MASHA are sitting on a bench on the lawn, in the shade of an old linden. An open book is lying on DORN'S knees/.

ARKADINA. [To MASHA] Stand up for a minute. [They both get up] Stand right next to me. You’re twenty-two and I …am almost twice your age. Which of us looks younger, Doctor?

DORN. You do, of course.

ARKADINA. There you are! And why? Because I work - I feel things, I do things! You, on the other hand, never move from one spot. That’s not living. I believe in living in the moment. I make it a rule never to think of old age or death. What will be will be.

MASHA. I feel as if I’ve been on the earth a thousand years, and my life trails behind me like an endless scarf. Usually I have no desire to live at all; which is foolish, I know. People have to pull themselves together and forget that kind of nonsense.

DORN. [Sings softly] "Tell her, oh flowers?"

ARKADINA. And I always keep myself looking proper; always well groomed, and carefully dressed, with my hair all done up. Would I leave the house - even come into the garden - wearing a dressing gown or with my hair undone? Never! The reason I am in this remarkable state of preservation is that I refuse to let myself get frumpy, let myself go like some people... [She puts her arms akimbo, and walks up and down on the lawn] See what I mean? As perky as a fifteen-year-old - I could still play one today.

DORN. I see. Still, I think I’ll keep reading. [He takes up his book] Now where was I, we had just come to part about the grain farmer and the rats.

ARKADINA. Yes, the rats. Go on. [She sits down] No, wait give me the book, I’ll read. It’s my turn. [She takes the book and looks for the place] The rats, the rats. Ah, here we go. [She reads] "It is every bit as dangerous for society people to dote on writers and invite them into their homes as it is for a grain farmer to raise rats in his granary. Yet society loves authors. And so, once a woman has found one whom she wishes to make her own, she lays siege to him with all manner of compliments, favours, little acts of kindness..." Well, that may be true of the French, but that's certainly not how it happens here in Russia. By the time a Russian woman sets her sights on a writer, you can be damn sure she's fallen head over heels in love with him. Look at Trigorin and me, for example.

[SORIN comes in leaning on a cane, with NINA beside him. MEDVIEDENKO follows, pushing an armchair.]

SORIN. [In a caressing voice, as if speaking to a child] Just look you- what a happy bunch. Yes, today's a good day, isn’t it? Your father and stepmother have gone all the way to Tver, and you have three whole days of freedom!

NINA. [Sits down beside ARKADINA, and embraces her] Yes, I’m all yours. I’m so happy.

SORIN. [Sits down in his arm-chair] Doesn’t she look lovely today?

ARKADINA. Yes, lovely. You’ve put on your prettiest dress; doesn’t she look sweet? So thoughtful of you. [She kisses NINA] But we mustn't overdo the compliments, it arouses envy in the fates. Where's Trigorin?

NINA. He’s out fishing off the pier.

ARKADINA. How he can stand the boredom, I'll never know. [She begins to read again.]

NINA. What are you reading?

ARKADINA. Maupassant, my dear. "On the River". [She reads a few lines to herself] The next bit is rather dull. And not even true. [She lays down the book] I’m so fraught with worry. Can no one tell me what’s wrong with my son? Why is he so sullen and depressed lately? He spends all his time out on the lake; I hardly ever see him any more.

MASHA. He’s heartsick. [Timidly, to NINA] Would you mind reciting something from his play?

NINA. [Shrugging her shoulders] Really? You found it that interesting?

MASHA. [With suppressed rapture] When he recites from it, his eyes light up and his face goes pale. His voice becomes rich and haunting, and he transforms into a poet.

[SORIN begins to snore.]

DORN. Sweet dreams!

ARKADINA. Sorin!

SORIN. Eh?

ARKADINA. You sleeping?

SORIN. No, I wasn't. [A pause.]

ARKADINA. You have to take better care of yourself brother, dear. You should be on some sort of medication for your ailments.

SORIN. I'd be glad to take something, if only the doctor would prescribe it.

DORN. You're sixty-five. What's the point?

SORIN. A person still wants to live at sixty-five.

DORN. [Crossly] Humph! Drink some chamomile tea.

ARKADINA. I think a trip to a spa for some treatments would do him good.

DORN. Sure, why not; I mean, it couldn’t hurt.

ARKADINA. What's that supposed to mean?

DORN. What’s to get, here? Isn't it obvious?

MEDVIEDENKO. It’s obvious he should give up smoking.

SORIN. That’s enough! [A pause.]

DORN. No, it’s sensible. Wine and tobacco undermine one’s uniqueness. Once you have a cigar or a glass of vodka you are no longer just Peter Sorin, but Peter Sorin plus another entity. It’s as if your ego breaks in two: you start to see yourself in the third person.

SORIN. That's easy for you to say. You attack smoking and drinking but you’ve had a life. Not me. I have never lived; I have never had any of your experiences. You’ve gotten your fill of life, and that’s why you can sit and philosophize. But I still desire to live, and that’s what makes me drink my wine with dinner and smoke my cigars, and... all the rest.

DORN. Life is too precious to waste, and to go to a health spa at sixty-five only to sit there and regret that you didn’t get more pleasure out of life when you were younger is, if you don’t mind me saying, trifling.

MASHA. Lunch should be ready by now. [She walks away languidly, with a dragging step] My foot has gone to sleep.

DORN. Wonder how many more drinks she’ll have before lunch.

SORIN. She’s been a bit depressed.

DORN. That’s the least of her worries, “Doctor”.

SORIN. What right do you have to judge her; you’ve gotten all you need from life.

ARKADINA. Could anything be more tiring than this pleasant country boredom? So hot, so quiet. No one doing anything, everyone philosophizing. It's very pleasant, listening to one's friends disputing away... but oh, to be in a hotel room learning one's lines.

NINA. [With enthusiasm] You are so right. I completely understand how you feel.

SORIN. Obviously, it is much more pleasant to live in town. One can read a book or the papers with your telephone right by your side, no one comes in unannounced, you have servants, you can always grab a cab, and all-

DORN. [Sings] "Tell her, oh flowers?-"

SHAMRAEFF comes in, followed by PAULINA.

SHAMRAEFF. Here they are. How is everyone? [He kisses ARKADINA'S hand and then NINA'S] Delightful. I am overjoyed to see you are looking so well. [To ARKADINA] My wife tells me that you were thinking of going into town with her today. Is that true?

ARKADINA. Yes, that’s the plan.

SHAMRAEFF. Wonderful idea! But how will you get there dear lady? Today we harvest the rye and all the men and horses are busy. Exactly which horses were you planning to use, if I may ask?

ARKADINA. Which horses? How should I know?

SORIN. Listen, we have the horses.

SHAMRAEFF. The carriage horses! Where do I find harnesses for them? I can't believe it! I can't understand it! Dear lady, I have the greatest admiration for your talents. I would gladly give ten years of my life, but I cannot give you any horses!

ARKADINA. But what if I //had// to go into town? This is all very peculiar.

SHAMRAEFF. My dearest lady, you have no talent for running a farm.

ARKADINA. [In a burst of anger] How dare you treat me like this again! If that’s how it’s going to be I have no choice but to return to Moscow today. Call me a carriage from town, or if that’s too much trouble I'll head off to the station //on foot//.

SHAMRAEFF. [Losing his temper] Then you leave me no choice but to resign. You’ll have to find someone else to run the estate. [He goes out.]

ARKADINA. Every summer it's the same. Every summer I come down here and I am insulted! Never again. I will never set foot in this place again!

[She goes out to the left, towards the wharf. In a few minutes she is seen entering the house, followed by TRIGORIN, who carries a bucket and fishing rod.]

SORIN. [Losing his temper] What the hell did he mean by that deliberate show of disrespect? I want all the horses brought back here this minute!

NINA. [To PAULINA] Why would he do that? How could he refuse Madame Arkadina? She’s a famous actress; I would think that her every wish, every whim even, would be much more important than any work here on the farm? This is hard to believe.

PAULINA. [In despair] What am I supposed to do? Honestly, just put yourself in my position; I ask you, what can I possibly do?

SORIN. [To NINA] We’d better go find my sister; perhaps if we all beg her, she can be convinced to stay. [He looks in the direction in which SHAMRAEFF went out] He is absolutely insufferable; that man is a regular tyrant.

NINA. [Preventing him from getting up] Stay put, stay put; we'll help you. [She and MEDVIEDENKO push the chair before them] This is just awful!

SORIN. True, true, it is awful; but he won’t go. I’ll talk to him right away, [They go out. Only DORN and PAULINA are left.]

DORN. How tiresome you people are! It’s maddening. Your husband should be tossed out of here on his ass, but once the dust settles Sorin, the old granny, and his sister will be begging him for forgiveness. You mark my words.

PAULINA. Why would he send the carriage horses into the fields? These mix-ups happen almost every day. If you only knew how anxious he makes me! I feel sick; look at me! I'm shaking! I can’t take it any longer. [Imploringly] Eugene, I’m begging you, please take me away from this. Life is short and we’re not getting any younger. Can’t we end this charade? Don’t we owe it to ourselves to spend the rest of our lives together. [A pause.]

DORN. I’m fifty-five years old. It’s a little late for me to change my ways.

PAULINA. You're not fooling me. If I were the only woman in your life you wouldn’t be so quick turn me down. I know you; you just like to keep your options open. You're only keeping me at bay because there are others and you want to have them all and I accept that, I get it. Oh, now what? I see, I'm bothering you.

[NINA is seen near the house picking a bunch of flowers.]

DORN. No, it is all right.

PAULINA. I am tortured by jealousy. I know you are a doctor and can't escape these women. But I understand you. I know -

DORN. [TO NINA, who comes toward him] How's everything in there?

NINA. Madame Arkadina is crying, and Sorin's having an asthma attack.

DORN. We should go. Give them both some camomile tea.

NINA. [Hands him the bunch of flowers] Here are some flowers for you.

DORN. Thank you. [He goes into the house.]

PAULINA. [Following him] What pretty flowers! [As they reach the house she says in a low voice] Can I have the flowers! Give them to me!

[DORN hands her the flowers; she tears them to pieces and flings them away. They both go into the house.]

NINA. [Alone] A famous actress…completely beside herself…and all over nothing? It’s unbelievable. But then, I guess it’s no less strange than watching a celebrated author do nothing all day but sit by a lake and fish. He’s an icon who has all of the newspapers falling all over him wanting an interview. His books are for sale everywhere, they’re translated into I don’t know how many different languages, and yet, he’s in pure ecstasy if he catches a few small perch. I always thought celebrities were stuck up; that they hated us little people and how we go out of our way to glorify them; I just assumed they were getting back at us by showing off, by making such a big deal of their extravagant tastes. But now I see them weep and play cards and fly off the handle just like everyone else.

[TREPLIEFF comes in without a hat on, carrying a gun and a dead seagull.}

TREPLIEFF. You're alone?

NINA. Yes.

[TREPLIEFF lays the seagull at her feet.}

NINA. What's this supposed to mean?

TREPLIEFF. I was wretched enough to kill this seagull today. So now I present it to you as an offering.

NINA. What is your problem? [She picks up the gull and stands looking at it.]

TREPLIEFF. [After a pause] And soon my life will be over.

NINA. I don’t even know who you are anymore.

TREPLIEFF. I know exactly how you feel. My life changed the moment I no longer knew who you were. You've failed me; your eyes are cold when you look at me; you don't want me anywhere near you.

NINA. You're so irritable lately. And everything you say is so dark and full of symbolism... forgive me if I don't get it. I'm not smart enough to understand you.

TREPLIEFF. This all started the day my play failed so dismally. Women can't accept failure. So I've burnt the script, every single page. Oh, you'll never understand the depth of my despair! You've pulled away from me and the pain is unbelievable; it's like suddenly waking up to find that this lake had all dried up and disappeared into the earth. You think you're too simple to understand me; but, oh, what's to understand? You hated my play, and you have no faith in my talent. You find me common and worthless, just like everyone else. [Stamping his foot] I understand your feelings too well! And it's like a dagger in my head. It's my curse that and my stupidity. It sucks away my spirit like a viper! [He sees TRIGORIN, who approaches reading a book] Here comes the real genius, "Enter Hamlet, reading. [Mockingly] "Words, words, words." I can see you warm up to his golden rays; I see your smile slip out from behind the clouds and the coldness in your eyes melt and your whole being starts to glow. Well, off you go. I won't stand in your way. [He goes out.]

TRIGORIN. [Making notes in his book] Takes snuff, drinks vodka; always dressed in black; has a schoolteacher madly devoted to her.

NINA. Hi. How're you doing?

TRIGORIN. Nina. How are you? Apparently things have taken an unexpected turn and we'll be leaving today. As if the universe has decided that we should never see each other again. I can't say I like that thought. These days, I rarely meet women as charming and as open as you are. Whe I look at you I wish I could remember what it felt like to be nineteen again. I wish the young girls in my books seemed as full of live as you are. I wish that I could see life through your eyes for even just an hour, to think your thoughts, to experience the world as full of possibility again; to truly understand what it is like to be you.

NINA. And I would like to change places with you.

TRIGORIN. Why?

NINA. To feel what a famous genius feels. To just see what it's like to be famous. I mean, what sensations does it arouse in you?

TRIGORIN. How //does// it feel? I don' t really know. As far as I can tell, it isn't anything special. I've never really thought about it. [Thoughtfully] Either you've got an exaggerated idea of how famous I am, or it doesn't feel like anything at all.

NINA. What's it like when you read all about yourself in the papers?

TRIGORIN. If it's good news, I'm happy; if the critics attack me, I'm absolutely miserable for a week.

NINA. Isn't life wonderful. I am so jealous of you! I mean, we all have different fortunes. It's just that some people drag theirs behind them like a limp, and dull and useless corpse; they get lost in the crowd dragged down by their own despair. Meanwhile, to the chosen few like you, for instance, comes a bright, sparkling destiny full of insight and meaning. You are so, so lucky.

TRIGORIN. Lucky? Hardly. [He shrugs his shoulders] Hmm. The more I listen to you talk about fame and fortune, and a bright, sparkling life the more I see all these fine words for what they really are: a soft, sticky, sweet temptation -- that I never eat. You are so very young, and so very... kind.

NINA. Your life is beautiful.

TRIGORIN. What's so beautiful about it? [He looks at his watch] Please, excuse me, I must get back to my writing. My time is limited. [He laughs] You seemed to have touched a raw nerve; I'm just a little sensitive, I guess, a bit cranky. But then again, let's take a closer look at this bright and beautiful life of mine, shall we. [After a few moments' thought] People often obsess about things. Take, for instance, a man who thinks only about the moon all day and all night. I have a such an obsession. Day and night I have but one thought, one desire- to write, to write, to write! Before I've finished one book, there's something urging me to write another, and another, and another. I'm endlessly writing like I'm on a treadmill. I rush from one story to the next, and I can't stop myself. What's so bright and beautiful about that? Oh, trust me, my life is a thrill-a-minute! Even now, as happy as I am to be here talking to you, I am constantly reminded that I have an unfinished story waiting for me. I catch a glimpse of a cloud like that one there, in shape of a grand piano and before I know it, I've made a mental note that I must use that image in a story- how a cloud floated by in the shape of grand piano. I smell the heliotrope; I say under my breath: what a sickly scent, a flower for a widow; I can use that to capture a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence -and lock it away cause you never know, it may come in handy! As soon as I take a break, I try going to the theatre or try fishing, hoping my mind will get some rest, but no! A new idea hits me. I long for my desk, and I rush back there to write once more. And so it goes for ever and ever. I can find no peace from myself, and I realize that I'm wasting my life. For the honey I feed to strangers, I rob my best blossoms of their pollen, tear them up, trample the roots. I must be crazy? My friends and family surely can't be speaking to me as if I were sane. 'What are you writing now? What masterpiece are you going to give us next?' It is always the same; same old story, till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration is some kind of deception, that they are lying to me because they know I am crazy, and one day they'll snatch me from behind and whisk me off to the nut house. I wasted my youth, my best years, continually agonizing over my writing. A young author, especially if he's unsuccessful at first, feels clumsy, an imposter, inept and useless in the world. He's always tense, on edge; he can't stop himself from hanging round people connected with literature and art; an unacknowledged and unknown figure who's afraid to look them in the eyes, like a compulsive gambler with no money. I didn't know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly. I was terrified of the public, and when my first play appeared, I felt as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with hostility, and all the blue ones with cold indifference. It was horrible -- torture.

NINA. But doesn't the thrill of inspiration and the passion to create give you moments of ultimate happiness?

TRIGORIN. Yes. I love the writing part, and even reading the proofs, but once it's published I can't stand it. All I can see are the shortcomings, the mistakes; I end up second guessing myself and thinking I shouldn't have written it at all in the first place. I'm disappointed in myself, I feel useless and disillusioned... (laughs) Then to add insult to injury the people read it and say: "Yes, it's clever alright, even charming, but it's no Tolstoy," or "I like it, but Turgenieff's 'Fathers and Sons is much better,'" and that's just the way it's gonna be. It'll be charming and clever 'til the day I die, charming and clever...and nothing else. And when I'm gone my tombstone will say: "Here lies Trigorin, a clever writer, but not as good as Turgenieff."

NINA. [laughing] Oh, I'm terribly sorry. But I just don't get you. Maybe your great success has gone to your head.

TRIGORIN. My success? Ha! My writing has never brought me any pleasure. Only self-loathing. I walk around in a fog. Most of the time, I barely even know what it is that I'm working on, it's meaning is a mystery to me...I love this spot, this lake, the trees, the endless sky; Mother Nature speaks to me out here and fills me with inspiration, and then my passion to write is immeasurable. But I refuse to be just a landscape artist, I am a citizen, too. I love my country, and her people; I feel that, as a writer, it is my duty to speak of their suffering, their future, about science, and the rights of man, and so forth. So I write on every subject, with great speed, urged on and snapped at on all sides, and I race and dodge like a fox with a pack of hounds on his trail. I can see science and society move on, while I fall further and further behind, like a peasant who has missed his train at a station, and finally I come back to the conclusion that all I am fit for is to describe landscapes, and that whatever else I try hasn't the slightest ring of truth to it.

NINA. You're so focussed on creating, you have no idea of how much your work means to people. So what if you're not happy with yourself? Everyone else sees you as great man, a wonderful artist. If I were a writer with your talent, I'd devote myself to the people, knowing ultimately that their well-being depends on their ability to rise up to my level, they would harness themselves to my chariot.

TRIGORIN. A chariot? Who do you think I am, Agamemnon? [They both smile.]

NINA. For the joy of being a writer or an actress I would put up with poverty, with the perpetual frustration of everyday life, the resentment of friends, the disappointment of my family; even the pain of continually second guessing myself; and for these sacrifices I would demand only one thing - fame- enduring, spectacular fame! [She covers her face with her hands] Whoa! My head is reeling!

THE VOICE OF ARKADINA. [From inside the house] Boris! Boris Trigorin!

TRIGORIN. I'm being summoned... Time to pack, I suppose. I don't feel much like leaving, though. [His eyes rest on the lake] This place is so peaceful, the lake is magnificent!

NINA. Do you see that big house over on the far shore?

TRIGORIN. Yes.

NINA. It belonged mother's family. I was born there, and I've lived beside this lake all my life. I know every inch of it, every tiny island.

TRIGORIN. Such a beautiful place to live. [He catches sight of the dead sea-gull] What the hell is that?

NINA. A seagull. Konstantine shot it.

TRIGORIN. A beautiful bird. I really can't stand the thought of leaving. I don't suppose you could persuade Madame Arkadina to stay a little longer? [He writes something in his note-book.]

NINA. What are you writing?

TRIGORIN. Nothing definite, just an idea. [He puts the book back in his pocket] An image for a short story. A young woman grows up by a lake, just like you did. She loves the lake, it's part of her; she drawn to it the way the seagulls are and when she's near the lake she's as happy and carefree as they are. But then a man comes by, just by chance and once he sees her and simply for having want of nothing to do, he destroys her. Like this seagull here. [A pause. ARKADINA appears at one of the windows.]

ARKADINA. Boris Trigorin, where are you?

TRIGORIN. Coming.

[He goes toward the house, looking back at NINA. ARKADINA remains at the window.]

TRIGORIN. What is it?

ARKADINA. We're not going after all.

[TRIGORIN goes into the house. NINA comes forward and stands lost in thought.]

NINA. I must be dreaming?!

[The curtain falls]