| Author: | Anton Pavlovich Chekhov | ISBN: | 9781465589927 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Anton Pavlovich Chekhov |
| ISBN: | 9781465589927 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
SCENE: A well-furnished reception-room in MRS. POPOV’S home. MRS. POPOV is discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. LUKA is also present. LUKA: It isn’t right, ma’am. You’re wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries; everything that breathes is enjoying life; even the cat knows how to be happy—slips about the courtyard and catches birds—but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister. Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven’t left this house for a whole year. MRS. POPOV: And I shall never leave it—why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead. LUKA: There you are again! It’s too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead; it was the will of the Lord, and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it’s time to stop. One can’t weep and wear mourning forever! My wife died a few years ago. I grieved for her. I wept a whole month—and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He sighs.] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don’t go out and you receive no one. We live—you’ll pardon me—like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by mice—as though there weren’t any more nice people in the world! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. The regiment is stationed in Riblov—officers—simply beautiful! One can’t see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear ma’am, young and pretty as you are, if you’d only let your spirits live—! Beauty can’t last forever. When ten short years are over, you’ll be glad enough to go out a bit and meet the officers—and then it’ll be too late.
SCENE: A well-furnished reception-room in MRS. POPOV’S home. MRS. POPOV is discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. LUKA is also present. LUKA: It isn’t right, ma’am. You’re wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries; everything that breathes is enjoying life; even the cat knows how to be happy—slips about the courtyard and catches birds—but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister. Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven’t left this house for a whole year. MRS. POPOV: And I shall never leave it—why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead. LUKA: There you are again! It’s too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead; it was the will of the Lord, and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it’s time to stop. One can’t weep and wear mourning forever! My wife died a few years ago. I grieved for her. I wept a whole month—and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He sighs.] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don’t go out and you receive no one. We live—you’ll pardon me—like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by mice—as though there weren’t any more nice people in the world! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. The regiment is stationed in Riblov—officers—simply beautiful! One can’t see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear ma’am, young and pretty as you are, if you’d only let your spirits live—! Beauty can’t last forever. When ten short years are over, you’ll be glad enough to go out a bit and meet the officers—and then it’ll be too late.
