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+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]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWAN SONG ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+SWAN SONG
+
+by Anton Checkov
+
+
+
+
+Plays By Anton Tchekoff
+
+
+Translated From The Russian, With An Introduction By Marian Fell
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+ Introduction
+ Chronological List of Works
+ The Swan Song
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+ANTON TCHEKOFF
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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."
+
+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!"
+
+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."
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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."
+
+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."
+
+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."
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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."
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+"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.
+
+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.
+
+"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.
+
+"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.
+
+"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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL WORKS OF ANTON TCHEKOFF
+
+ 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
+
+
+
+
+THE SWAN SONG
+
+
+
+
+CHARACTERS
+
+VASILI SVIETLOVIDOFF, a comedian, 68 years old
+
+NIKITA IVANITCH, a prompter, an old man
+
+
+The Swan Song
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+IVANITCH. It is I, sir.
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
+
+IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita
+Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to
+go home, sir!
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won't go home; I have no home--none! none!--none!
+
+IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live?
+
+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.
+
+IVANITCH. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master.
+
+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.
+
+IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don't be so unhappy about it.
+
+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!
+
+IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
+
+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.
+
+IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death!
+Come, go home, have mercy on me!
+
+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.
+
+IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls]
+Petrushka! Yegorka!
+
+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:
+
+ "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]
+
+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:
+
+ "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!"
+
+[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the
+fool's part! Be quick, I can't wait!
+
+IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
+
+"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."
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF.
+
+ "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."
+
+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]
+
+"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?"
+
+IVANITCH. "O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too
+unmannerly."
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this
+pipe?"
+
+IVANITCH. "My lord, I cannot."
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I pray you."
+
+IVANITCH. "Believe me, I cannot."
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I do beseech you."
+
+IVANITCH. "I know no touch of it, my lord."
+
+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."
+
+IVANITCH. "But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I
+have not the skill."
+
+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;
+
+ "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."
+
+[The noise of opening doors is heard] What's that?
+
+IVANITCH. There are Petrushka and Yegorka coming back. Yes, you have
+genius, genius, my master.
+
+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?
+
+ "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!"
+
+IVANITCH. Oh! You're a genius, a genius!
+
+SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this:
+
+ "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."
+
+They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Swan Song, by Anton Checkov
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