Selected plays

been on the table for two hours, and they're all out walking!

VOYNITSKY. All right, don't get excited; here they come.

Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRYAKOV, HELENA, SONYA, and TELEGIN come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk.

SEREBRYAKOV. Superb! Superb! What beautiful scenery!

TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency.

SONYA. Tomorrow we're going into the forest preserve. Want to come, papa?

VOYNITSKY. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready.

SEREBRYAKOV. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the study? I still have some work to finish.

SONYA. I am sure you'll love the forest preserve.

HELENA, SEREBRYAKOV, and SONYA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at the table beside MARINA.

VOYNITSKY. There goes our 'learned scholar' on a hot, sultry day like this, in his overcoat, galoshes, carrying an umbrella and wearing gloves!

ASTROV. He's trying to take good care of his health.

VOYNITSKY. How lovely Helena is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a more beautiful woman.

TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing, we are all living in peace and contentment -- what more could the soul desire? [Takes a glass of tea.] Much obliged to you -- much obliged.

VOYNITSKY. [Dreamily] Such eyes -- a glorious woman!

ASTROV. Come, Ivan, tell us something.

VOYNITSKY. [Indolently] What do you want me to say?

ASTROV. Haven't you any news for us?

VOYNITSKY. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps worse, because I've become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about the emancipation of women, with one eye on her grave and the other on her learned books, in which she's always looking for the dawn of a new life.

ASTROV. And the Professor?

VOYNITSKY. The Professor sits in his study from morning till night, as usual and writes, as the poet says --

'Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow,

We write, write, write,

Without respite

Or hope of praise in the future or now.'

Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. [Agitated] Only think what luck he's had! He's the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called 'your Excellency,' and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know