VOYNITSKY. Well? Am I not a madman, and therefore irresponsible? Haven't I the right to talk nonsense?
ASTROV. That line's old as time! You're not mad; you're simply a ridiculous fool. You're full of beans. I used to think every fool was out of his senses, but now I see that lack of sense is a man's normal state, and you're perfectly normal.
VOYNITSKY. [Covers his face with his hands] Oh! If you knew how ashamed I am! These piercing pangs of shame are like nothing on earth. [In an agonised voice] I can't endure them! [He leans against the table] What can I do? What can I do?
ASTROV. Nothing.
VOYNITSKY. You must give me something! Oh, my God! I'm forty-seven years old. I may live to sixty; I still have thirteen years before me; an eternity! How will I be able to endure life for thirteen years? What shall I do? How can I fill them? Oh, don't you see? [He presses ASTROV'S hand convulsively] Don't you see, if only I could live the rest of my life in some new way! If I could only wake some still, bright morning and feel that life had begun again; that the past was forgotten and had vanished like smoke. [He weeps] Oh, to begin life anew! Tell me, tell me how to begin, what to begin with.
ASTROV. [Crossly] What nonsense! What sort of a new life can you and I look forward to? We can have no hope.
VOYNITSKY. None?
ASTROV. None. Of that I am convinced.
VOYNITSKY. Give me something at least. [He puts his hand to his heart] I feel such a burning pain here.
ASTROV. [Shouts angrily] Stop it! [Then, more gently] It may be that in one or two hundred years posterity, which will despise us for our blind and stupid lives, will find some road to happiness; but we -- you and I -- have but one hope, the hope that we may be visited by visions, perhaps by pleasant ones, as we lie resting in our graves. [Sighing] Yes, brother, there were only two respectable, intelligent men in this district, you and I. Ten years or so of this life of ours, this miserable life, have sucked us under. Its rotten atmosphere has poisoned our blood, and we have become as contemptible and petty as the rest. [With vigor] But don't keep trying to talk your way out of it! Give me what you took from me, will you?
VOYNITSKY. I took nothing from you.
ASTROV. You took a little bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case. [A pause] Listen! If you're positively determined to make an end to yourself, go into the woods and shoot yourself there. Give up the morphine, or there will be a lot of talk and guesswork; people will think I gave it to you. I don't like the idea of having to perform a postmortem on you. Do you think I should find it entertaining?
SONYA comes in.
VOYNITSKY. Leave me alone.
ASTROV. [To SONYA] Sonya, your uncle has stolen a bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case and won't give it back. Tell him that his behaviour is -- well, unwise. Besides, I haven't time for this, I must be going.
SONYA. Uncle Vanya, did you take the morphine? [A pause]
ASTROV. Yes, he took it. I'm absolutely sure.
SONYA. Give it back! Why do you want to frighten us? [Tenderly] Give it back, Uncle Vanya! My misfortune is perhaps even greater than yours, but I'm not plunged in despair. I endure my sorrow, and shall endure
