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diff --git a/1753-h/1753-h.htm b/1753-h/1753-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4a8980 --- /dev/null +++ b/1753-h/1753-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1175 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Swan Song, by Anton Checkov + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Swan Song, by Anton Checkov + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Swan Song + +Author: Anton Checkov + +Release Date: February 21, 2006 [EBook #1753] +Last Updated: September 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWAN SONG *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + SWAN SONG + </h1> + <h2> + by Anton Checkov + </h2> + <h4> + Translated From The Russian, With An Introduction By Marian Fell + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CHRONOLOGICAL LIST <br /> OF + THE PRINCIPAL WORKS <br /> OF ANTON TCHEKOFF + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE SWAN SONG </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <h3> + ANTON TCHEKOFF + </h3> + <p> + THE last years of the nineteenth century were for Russia tinged with doubt + and gloom. The high-tide of vitality that had risen during the Turkish war + ebbed in the early eighties, leaving behind it a dead level of apathy + which lasted until life was again quickened by the high interests of the + Revolution. During these grey years the lonely country and stagnant + provincial towns of Russia buried a peasantry which was enslaved by want + and toil, and an educated upper class which was enslaved by idleness and + tedium. Most of the “Intellectuals,” with no outlet for their energies, + were content to forget their ennui in vodka and card-playing; only the + more idealistic gasped for air in the stifling atmosphere, crying out in + despair against life as they saw it, and looking forward with a pathetic + hope to happiness for humanity in “two or three hundred years.” It is the + inevitable tragedy of their existence, and the pitiful humour of their + surroundings, that are portrayed with such insight and sympathy by Anton + Tchekoff who is, perhaps, of modern writers, the dearest to the Russian + people. + </p> + <p> + Anton Tchekoff was born in the old Black Sea port of Taganrog on January + 17, 1860. His grandfather had been a serf; his father married a merchant’s + daughter and settled in Taganrog, where, during Anton’s boyhood, he + carried on a small and unsuccessful trade in provisions. The young + Tchekoff was soon impressed into the services of the large, + poverty-stricken family, and he spoke regretfully in after years of his + hard-worked childhood. But he was obedient and good-natured, and worked + cheerfully in his father’s shop, closely observing the idlers that + assembled there, and gathering the drollest stories, which he would + afterward whisper in class to his laughing schoolfellows. Many were the + punishments which he incurred by this habit, which was incorrigible. + </p> + <p> + His grandfather had now become manager of an estate near Taganrog, in the + wild steppe country of the Don Cossacks, and here the boy spent his + summers, fishing in the river, and roving about the countryside as brown + as a gipsy, sowing the seeds of that love for nature which he retained all + his life. His evenings he liked best to spend in the kitchen of the + master’s house among the work people and peasants who gathered there, + taking part in their games, and setting them all laughing by his witty and + telling observations. + </p> + <p> + When Tchekoff was about fourteen, his father moved the family to Moscow, + leaving Anton in Taganrog, and now, relieved of work in the shop, his + progress at school became remarkable. At seventeen he wrote a long + tragedy, which was afterward destroyed, and he already showed flashes of + the wit that was soon to blaze into genius. + </p> + <p> + He graduated from the high school at Taganrog with every honour, entered + the University of Moscow as a student of medicine, and threw himself + headlong into a double life of student and author, in the attempt to help + his struggling family. + </p> + <p> + His first story appeared in a Moscow paper in 1880, and after some + difficulty he secured a position connected with several of the smaller + periodicals, for which, during his student years, he poured forth a + succession of short stories and sketches of Russian life with incredible + rapidity. He wrote, he tells us, during every spare minute, in crowded + rooms where there was “no light and less air,” and never spent more than a + day on any one story. He also wrote at this time a very stirring + blood-and-thunder play which was suppressed by the censor, and the fate of + which is not known. + </p> + <p> + His audience demanded laughter above all things, and, with his deep sense + of the ridiculous, Tchekoff asked nothing better. His stories, though + often based on themes profoundly tragic, are penetrated by the light and + subtle satire that has won him his reputation as a great humourist. But + though there was always a smile on his lips, it was a tender one, and his + sympathy with suffering often brought his laughter near to tears. + </p> + <p> + This delicate and original genius was at first subjected to harsh + criticism, which Tchekoff felt keenly, and Trigorin’s description in “The + Sea-Gull” of the trials of a young author is a cry from Tchekoff’s own + soul. A passionate enemy of all lies and oppression, he already + foreshadows in these early writings the protest against conventions and + rules, which he afterward put into Treplieff’s reply to Sorin in “The + Sea-Gull”: “Let us have new forms, or else nothing at all.” + </p> + <p> + In 1884 he took his degree as doctor of medicine, and decided to practise, + although his writing had by now taken on a professional character. He + always gave his calling a high place, and the doctors in his works are + drawn with affection and understanding. If any one spoke slightingly of + doctors in his presence, he would exclaim: “Stop! You don’t know what + country doctors do for the people!” + </p> + <p> + Tchekoff fully realised later the influence which his profession had + exercised on his literary work, and sometimes regretted the too vivid + insight it gave him, but, on the other hand, he was able to write: “Only a + doctor can know what value my knowledge of science has been to me,” and + “It seems to me that as a doctor I have described the sicknesses of the + soul correctly.” For instance, Trigorin’s analysis in “The Sea-Gull” of + the state of mind of an author has well been called “artistic diagnosis.” + </p> + <p> + The young doctor-writer is described at this time as modest and grave, + with flashes of brilliant gaiety. A son of the people, there was in his + face an expression that recalled the simple-hearted village lad; his eyes + were blue, his glance full of intelligence and kindness, and his manners + unaffected and simple. He was an untiring worker, and between his patients + and his desk he led a life of ceaseless activity. His restless mind was + dominated by a passion of energy and he thought continually and vividly. + Often, while jesting and talking, he would seem suddenly to plunge into + himself, and his look would grow fixed and deep, as if he were + contemplating something important and strange. Then he would ask some + unexpected question, which showed how far his mind had roamed. + </p> + <p> + Success was now rapidly overtaking the young author; his first collection + of stories appeared in 1887, another one in the same year had immediate + success, and both went through many editions; but, at the same time, the + shadows that darkened his later works began to creep over his + light-hearted humour. + </p> + <p> + His impressionable mind began to take on the grey tinge of his time, but + much of his sadness may also be attributed to his ever-increasing ill + health. + </p> + <p> + Weary and with an obstinate cough, he went south in 1888, took a little + cottage on the banks of a little river “abounding in fish and crabs,” and + surrendered himself to his touching love for nature, happy in his passion + for fishing, in the quiet of the country, and in the music and gaiety of + the peasants. “One would gladly sell one’s soul,” he writes, “for the + pleasure of seeing the warm evening sky, and the streams and pools + reflecting the darkly mournful sunset.” He described visits to his country + neighbours and long drives in gay company, during which, he says, “we ate + every half hour, and laughed to the verge of colic.” + </p> + <p> + His health, however, did not improve. In 1889 he began to have attacks of + heart trouble, and the sensitive artist’s nature appears in a remark which + he made after one of them. “I walked quickly across the terrace on which + the guests were assembled,” he said, “with one idea in my mind, how + awkward it would be to fall down and die in the presence of strangers.” + </p> + <p> + It was during this transition period of his life, when his youthful + spirits were failing him, that the stage, for which he had always felt a + fascination, tempted him to write “Ivanoff,” and also a dramatic sketch in + one act entitled “The Swan Song,” though he often declared that he had no + ambition to become a dramatist. “The Novel,” he wrote, “is a lawful wife, + but the Stage is a noisy, flashy, and insolent mistress.” He has put his + opinion of the stage of his day in the mouth of Treplieff, in “The + Sea-Gull,” and he often refers to it in his letters as “an evil disease of + the towns” and “the gallows on which dramatists are hanged.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote “Ivanoff” at white-heat in two and a half weeks, as a protest + against a play he had seen at one of the Moscow theatres. Ivanoff (from + Ivan, the commonest of Russian names) was by no means meant to be a hero, + but a most ordinary, weak man oppressed by the “immortal commonplaces of + life,” with his heart and soul aching in the grip of circumstance, one of + the many “useless people” of Russia for whose sorrow Tchekoff felt such + overwhelming pity. He saw nothing in their lives that could not be + explained and pardoned, and he returns to his ill-fated, “useless people” + again and again, not to preach any doctrine of pessimism, but simply + because he thought that the world was the better for a certain fragile + beauty of their natures and their touching faith in the ultimate salvation + of humanity. + </p> + <p> + Both the writing and staging of “Ivanoff” gave Tchekoff great difficulty. + The characters all being of almost equal importance, he found it hard to + get enough good actors to take the parts, but it finally appeared in + Moscow in 1889, a decided failure! The author had touched sharply several + sensitive spots of Russian life—for instance, in his warning not to + marry a Jewess or a blue-stocking—and the play was also marred by + faults of inexperience, which, however, he later corrected. The critics + were divided in condemning a certain novelty in it and in praising its + freshness and originality. The character of Ivanoff was not understood, + and the weakness of the man blinded many to the lifelike portrait. + Tchekoff himself was far from pleased with what he called his “literary + abortion,” and rewrote it before it was produced again in St. Petersburg. + Here it was received with the wildest applause, and the morning after its + performance the papers burst into unanimous praise. The author was + enthusiastically feted, but the burden of his growing fame was beginning + to be very irksome to him, and he wrote wearily at this time that he + longed to be in the country, fishing in the lake, or lying in the hay. + </p> + <p> + His next play to appear was a farce entitled “The Boor,” which he wrote in + a single evening and which had a great success. This was followed by “The + Demon,” a failure, rewritten ten years later as “Uncle Vanya.” + </p> + <p> + All Russia now combined in urging Tchekoff to write some important work, + and this, too, was the writer’s dream; but his only long story is “The + Steppe,” which is, after all, but a series of sketches, exquisitely drawn, + and strung together on the slenderest connecting thread. Tchekoff’s + delicate and elusive descriptive power did not lend itself to painting on + a large canvas, and his strange little tragicomedies of Russian life, his + “Tedious Tales,” as he called them, were always to remain his + masterpieces. + </p> + <p> + In 1890 Tchekoff made a journey to the Island of Saghalien, after which + his health definitely failed, and the consumption, with which he had long + been threatened, finally declared itself. His illness exiled him to the + Crimea, and he spent his last ten years there, making frequent trips to + Moscow to superintend the production of his four important plays, written + during this period of his life. + </p> + <p> + “The Sea-Gull” appeared in 1896, and, after a failure in St. Petersburg, + won instant success as soon as it was given on the stage of the Artists’ + Theatre in Moscow. Of all Tchekoff’s plays, this one conforms most nearly + to our Western conventions, and is therefore most easily appreciated here. + In Trigorin the author gives us one of the rare glimpses of his own mind, + for Tchekoff seldom put his own personality into the pictures of the life + in which he took such immense interest. + </p> + <p> + In “The Sea-Gull” we see clearly the increase of Tchekoff’s power of + analysis, which is remarkable in his next play, “The Three Sisters,” + gloomiest of all his dramas. + </p> + <p> + “The Three Sisters,” produced in 1901, depends, even more than most of + Tchekoff’s plays, on its interpretation, and it is almost essential to its + appreciation that it should be seen rather than read. The atmosphere of + gloom with which it is pervaded is a thousand times more intense when it + comes to us across the foot-lights. In it Tchekoff probes the depths of + human life with so sure a touch, and lights them with an insight so + piercing, that the play made a deep impression when it appeared. This was + also partly owing to the masterly way in which it was acted at the + Artists’ Theatre in Moscow. The theme is, as usual, the greyness of + provincial life, and the night is lit for his little group of characters + by a flash of passion so intense that the darkness which succeeds it seems + well-nigh intolerable. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Vanya” followed “The Three Sisters,” and the poignant truth of the + picture, together with the tender beauty of the last scene, touched his + audience profoundly, both on the stage and when the play was afterward + published. + </p> + <p> + “The Cherry Orchard” appeared in 1904 and was Tchekoff’s last play. At its + production, just before his death, the author was feted as one of Russia’s + greatest dramatists. Here it is not only country life that Tchekoff shows + us, but Russian life and character in general, in which the old order is + giving place to the new, and we see the practical, modern spirit invading + the vague, aimless existence so dear to the owners of the cherry orchard. + A new epoch was beginning, and at its dawn the singer of old, dim Russia + was silenced. + </p> + <p> + In the year that saw the production of “The Cherry Orchard,” Tchekoff, the + favourite of the Russian people, whom Tolstoi declared to be comparable as + a writer of stories only to Maupassant, died suddenly in a little village + of the Black Forest, whither he had gone a few weeks before in the hope of + recovering his lost health. + </p> + <p> + Tchekoff, with an art peculiar to himself, in scattered scenes, in + haphazard glimpses into the lives of his characters, in seemingly trivial + conversations, has succeeded in so concentrating the atmosphere of the + Russia of his day that we feel it in every line we read, oppressive as the + mists that hang over a lake at dawn, and, like those mists, made visible + to us by the light of an approaching day. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE <br /> PRINCIPAL WORKS OF ANTON TCHEKOFF + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PLAYS + + “The Swan Song” 1889 + “The Proposal” 1889 + “Ivanoff” 1889 + “The Boor” 1890 + “The Sea-Gull” 1896 + “The Tragedian in Spite of Himself” 1899 + “The Three Sisters” 1901 + “Uncle Vanya” 1902 + “The Cherry Orchard” 1904 + + NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES + + “Humorous Folk” 1887 + “Twilight, and Other Stories” 1887 + “Morose Folk” 1890 + “Variegated Tales” 1894 + “Old Wives of Russia” 1894 + “The Duel” 1895 + “The Chestnut Tree” 1895 + “Ward Number Six” 1897 + + MISCELLANEOUS SKETCHES + + “The Island of Saghalien” 1895 + “Peasants” 1898 + “Life in the Provinces” 1898 + “Children” 1899 +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE SWAN SONG + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h3> + CHARACTERS + </h3> + <p> + VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old<br /> NIKITA IVANITCH, a + prompter, an old man <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <i> The scene is laid on the stage of a country theatre, at night, after + the play. To the right a row of rough, unpainted doors leading into the + dressing-rooms. To the left and in the background the stage is encumbered + with all sorts of rubbish. In the middle of the stage is an overturned + stool.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <div style="margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;"> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. [With a candle in his hand, comes out of a dressing-room + and laughs] Well, well, this is funny! Here’s a good joke! I fell asleep + in my dressing-room when the play was over, and there I was calmly + snoring after everybody else had left the theatre. Ah! I’m a foolish old + man, a poor old dodderer! I have been drinking again, and so I fell + asleep in there, sitting up. That was clever! Good for you, old boy! + [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! Where the devil are you? Petrushka! The + scoundrels must be asleep, and an earthquake wouldn’t wake them now! + Yegorka! [Picks up the stool, sits down, and puts the candle on the + floor] Not a sound! Only echos answer me. I gave Yegorka and Petrushka + each a tip to-day, and now they have disappeared without leaving a trace + behind them. The rascals have gone off and have probably locked up the + theatre. [Turns his head about] I’m drunk! Ugh! The play to-night was + for my benefit, and it is disgusting to think how much beer and wine I + have poured down my throat in honour of the occasion. Gracious! My body + is burning all over, and I feel as if I had twenty tongues in my mouth. + It is horrid! Idiotic! This poor old sinner is drunk again, and doesn’t + even know what he has been celebrating! Ugh! My head is splitting, I am + shivering all over, and I feel as dark and cold inside as a cellar! Even + if I don’t mind ruining my health, I ought at least to remember my age, + old idiot that I am! Yes, my old age! It’s no use! I can play the fool, + and brag, and pretend to be young, but my life is really over now, I + kiss my hand to the sixty-eight years that have gone by; I’ll never see + them again! I have drained the bottle, only a few little drops are left + at the bottom, nothing but the dregs. Yes, yes, that’s the case, Vasili, + old boy. The time has come for you to rehearse the part of a mummy, + whether you like it or not. Death is on its way to you. [Stares ahead of + him] It is strange, though, that I have been on the stage now for + forty-five years, and this is the first time I have seen a theatre at + night, after the lights have been put out. The first time. [Walks up to + the foot-lights] How dark it is! I can’t see a thing. Oh, yes, I can + just make out the prompter’s box, and his desk; the rest is in pitch + darkness, a black, bottomless pit, like a grave, in which death itself + might be hiding.... Brr.... How cold it is! The wind blows out of the + empty theatre as though out of a stone flue. What a place for ghosts! + The shivers are running up and down my back. [Calls] Yegorka! Petrushka! + Where are you both? What on earth makes me think of such gruesome things + here? I must give up drinking; I’m an old man, I shan’t live much + longer. At sixty-eight people go to church and prepare for death, but + here I am—heavens! A profane old drunkard in this fool’s dress—I’m + simply not fit to look at. I must go and change it at once.... This is a + dreadful place, I should die of fright sitting here all night. [Goes + toward his dressing-room; at the same time NIKITA IVANITCH in a long + white coat comes out of the dressing-room at the farthest end of the + stage. SVIETLOVIDOFF sees IVANITCH—shrieks with terror and steps + back] Who are you? What? What do you want? [Stamps his foot] Who are + you? + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. It is I, sir. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you? + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita + Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I! + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily and + trembles violently] Heavens! Who are you? It is you . . . you + Nikitushka? What . . . what are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms. Only please be + good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to spend + the night; indeed, I haven’t. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. Ah! It is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think, the + audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes and + lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and yet + not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old man + and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka! I am sixty-eight + years old, and I am ill. I haven’t the heart left to go on. [Falls on + IVANITCH’S neck and weeps] Don’t go away, Nikitushka; I am old and + helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it is dreadful, + dreadful! + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to + go home, sir! + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home—none! none!—none! + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live? + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go there. I won’t! I am all alone there. I have + nobody, Nikitushka! No wife—no children. I am like the wind + blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die, and no one will remember + me. It is awful to be alone—no one to cheer me, no one to caress + me, no one to help me to bed when I am drunk. Whom do I belong to? Who + needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka. + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. My audience has gone home. They are all asleep, and have + forgotten their old clown. No, nobody needs me, nobody loves me; I have + no wife, no children. + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don’t be so unhappy about it. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. But I am a man, I am still alive. Warm, red blood is + tingling in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I am an aristocrat, + Nikitushka; I served in the army, in the artillery, before I fell as low + as this, and what a fine young chap I was! Handsome, daring, eager! + Where has it all gone? What has become of those old days? There’s the + pit that has swallowed them all! I remember it all now. Forty-five years + of my life lie buried there, and what a life, Nikitushka! I can see it + as clearly as I see your face: the ecstasy of youth, faith, passion, the + love of women—women, Nikitushka! + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. When I first went on the stage, in the first glow of + passionate youth, I remember a woman loved me for my acting. She was + beautiful, graceful as a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant as a + summer dawn. Her smile could charm away the darkest night. I remember, I + stood before her once, as I am now standing before you. She had never + seemed so lovely to me as she did then, and she spoke to me so with her + eyes—such a look! I shall never forget it, no, not even in the + grave; so tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and young! Enraptured, + intoxicated, I fell on my knees before her, I begged for my happiness, + and she said: “Give up the stage!” Give up the stage! Do you understand? + She could love an actor, but marry him—never! I was acting that + day, I remember—I had a foolish, clown’s part, and as I acted, I + felt my eyes being opened; I saw that the worship of the art I had held + so sacred was a delusion and an empty dream; that I was a slave, a fool, + the plaything of the idleness of strangers. I understood my audience at + last, and since that day I have not believed in their applause, or in + their wreathes, or in their enthusiasm. Yes, Nikitushka! The people + applaud me, they buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They + don’t know me, I am as the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing + enough to meet me . . . but allow a daughter or a sister to marry me, an + outcast, never! I have no faith in them, [sinks onto the stool] no faith + in them. + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death! + Come, go home, have mercy on me! + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. I saw through it all that day, and the knowledge was + dearly bought. Nikitushka! After that . . . when that girl . . . well, I + began to wander aimlessly about, living from day to day without looking + ahead. I took the parts of buffoons and low comedians, letting my mind + go to wreck. Ah! but I was a great artist once, till little by little I + threw away my talents, played the motley fool, lost my looks, lost the + power of expressing myself, and became in the end a Merry Andrew instead + of a man. I have been swallowed up in that great black pit. I never felt + it before, but to-night, when I woke up, I looked back, and there behind + me lay sixty-eight years. I have just found out what it is to be old! It + is all over . . . [sobs] . . . all over. + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls] + Petrushka! Yegorka! + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. But what a genius I was! You cannot imagine what power I + had, what eloquence; how graceful I was, how tender; how many strings + [beats his breast] quivered in this breast! It chokes me to think of it! + Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath, there; now listen to this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The shade of bloody Ivan now returning + Fans through my lips rebellion to a flame, + I am the dead Dimitri! In the burning + Boris shall perish on the throne I claim. + Enough! The heir of Czars shall not be seen + Kneeling to yonder haughty Polish Queen!”* + + *From “Boris Godunoff,” by Pushkin. [translator’s note] +</pre> + <p> + Is that bad, eh? [Quickly] Wait, now, here’s something from King Lear. + The sky is black, see? Rain is pouring down, thunder roars, lightning—zzz + zzz zzz—splits the whole sky, and then, listen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! + You cataracts and hurricanoes spout + Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! + You sulphurous thought-executing fires + Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts + Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder, + Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! + Crack nature’s moulds, all germons spill at once + That make ungrateful man!” + </pre> + <p> + [Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the + fool’s part! Be quick, I can’t wait! + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool] + </p> + <p> + “O, Nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this + rain-water out o’ door. Good Nuncle, in; ask thy daughter’s blessing: + here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.” + </p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain! + Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters; + I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; + I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children.” + </pre> + <p> + Ah! there is strength, there is talent for you! I’m a great artist! Now, + then, here’s something else of the same kind, to bring back my youth to + me. For instance, take this, from Hamlet, I’ll begin . . . Let me see, + how does it go? Oh, yes, this is it. [Takes the part of Hamlet] + </p> + <p> + “O! the recorders, let me see one.—To withdraw with you. Why do + you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a + toil?” + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. “O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too + unmannerly.” + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this + pipe?” + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. “My lord, I cannot.” + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I pray you.” + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. “Believe me, I cannot.” + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do beseech you.” + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. “I know no touch of it, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. “‘Tis as easy as lying: govern these vantages with your + finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse + most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.” + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. “But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I + have not the skill.” + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. “Why, look you, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You + would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out + the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the + top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this + little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. S’blood! Do you think I am + easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, + though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me!” [laughs and clasps] + Bravo! Encore! Bravo! Where the devil is there any old age in that? I’m + not old, that is all nonsense, a torrent of strength rushes over me; + this is life, freshness, youth! Old age and genius can’t exist together. + You seem to be struck dumb, Nikitushka. Wait a second, let me come to my + senses again. Oh! Good Lord! Now then, listen! Did you ever hear such + tenderness, such music? Sh! Softly; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The moon had set. There was not any light, + Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars pale + In outer air, and what by fits made bright + Hot oleanders in a rosy vale + Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark + Went in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.” + </pre> + <p> + [The noise of opening doors is heard] What’s that? + </p> + <p> + IVANITCH. There are Petrushka and Yegorka coming back. Yes, you have + genius, genius, my master. + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Calls, turning toward the noise] Come here to me, boys! + [To IVANITCH] Let us go and get dressed. I’m not old! All that is + foolishness, nonsense! [laughs gaily] What are you crying for? You poor + old granny, you, what’s the matter now? This won’t do! There, there, + this won’t do at all! Come, come, old man, don’t stare so! What makes + you stare like that? There, there! [Embraces him in tears] Don’t cry! + Where there is art and genius there can never be such things as old age + or loneliness or sickness . . . and death itself is half . . . [Weeps] + No, no, Nikitushka! It is all over for us now! What sort of a genius am + I? I’m like a squeezed lemon, a cracked bottle, and you—you are + the old rat of the theatre . . . a prompter! Come on! [They go] I’m no + genius, I’m only fit to be in the suite of Fortinbras, and even for that + I am too old.... Yes.... Do you remember those lines from Othello, + Nikitushka? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! + Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars + That make ambition virtue! O farewell! + Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, + The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, + The royal banner, and all quality, + Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!” + </pre> + <p> + IVANITCH. Oh! You’re a genius, a genius! + </p> + <p> + SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, + Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: + Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, + And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.” + </pre> + <p> + They go out together, the curtain falls slowly. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Swan Song, by Anton Checkov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWAN SONG *** + +***** This file should be named 1753-h.htm or 1753-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/5/1753/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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