Anton Chekhov: Plays, Short Stories, Diary & Letters (Collected Edition). Anton Chekhov
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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 the 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.
MRS. POPOV. [Resolutely.] Please don't speak of these things again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems so. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him! I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust toward me, cruel, and—he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove to him how I can love. There, in the Beyond, he'll find me the same as I was until his death.
LUKA. What is the use of all these words, when you'd so much rather go walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors?
MRS. POPOV. [Weeping.] Oh!
LUKA. Madam, dear madam, what is it? In Heaven's name!
MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always drove him to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horse-man he was! How fine he looked when he pulled at the reins with all his might! Tobby, Tobby—give him an extra measure of oats to-day!
LUKA. Yes, ma'am.
[A bell rings loudly.
MRS. POPOV. [Shudders.] What's that? I am at home to no one.
LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [He goes out, centre.
MRS. POPOV. [Gazing at the photograph.] You shall see, Nikolai, how I can love and forgive! My love will die only with me—when my poor heart stops beating. [She smiles through her tears.] And aren't you ashamed? I have been a good, true wife; I have imprisoned myself and I shall remain true until death, and you—you—you're not ashamed of yourself, my dear monster! You quarrelled with me, left me alone for weeks——
[Luka enters in great excitement.
LUKA. Oh, ma'am, some one is asking for you, insists on seeing you——
MRS. POPOV. You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one?
LUKA. I said so, but he won't listen; he says it is a pressing matter.
MRS. POPOV. I receive no one!
LUKA. I told him that, but he's a wild man; he swore and pushed himself into the room; he's in the dining-room now.
MRS. POPOV. [Excitedly.] Good. Show him in. The impudent——!
[Luka goes out, centre.
MRS. POPOV. What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my peace? [She sighs.] Yes, it is clear I must enter a convent. [Meditatively.] Yes, a convent.
[Smirnov enters, followed by Luka.
SMIRNOV. [To Luka.] Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [Discovering Mrs. Popov—politely.] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself: Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country gentleman, Grigori Stepanovitch Smirnov! I'm compelled to bother you about an exceedingly important matter.
MRS. POPOV. [Without offering her hand.] What is it you wish?
SMIRNOV. Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be acquainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred roubles. Inasmuch as I have to pay the interest to-morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the money to-day.
MRS. POPOV. Twelve hundred—and for what was my husband indebted to you?
SMIRNOV. He bought oats from me.
MRS. POPOV. [With a sigh, to Luka.] Don't forget to give Tobby an extra measure of oats.
[Luka goes out.
MRS. POPOV. [To Smirnov.] If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I shall, of course, pay you, but I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will return from the city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your request. Furthermore, to-day it is just seven months since the death of my husband, and I am not in a mood to discuss money matters.
SMIRNOV. And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll seize my estate!
MRS. POPOV. Day after to-morrow you will receive the money.
SMIRNOV. I don't need the money day after to-morrow; I need it to-day.
MRS. POPOV. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day.
SMIRNOV. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.
MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't it?
SMIRNOV. So you can't pay?
MRS. POPOV. I cannot.
SMIRNOV. Hm! Is that your last word?
MRS. POPOV. My last.
SMIRNOV. Absolutely?
MRS. POPOV. Absolutely.
SMIRNOV. Thank you. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And they expect me to stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked me why I was always worrying. Why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept; in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money, and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?
MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then you will get your money.
SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager; I came to see you. What the devil—pardon the language—do I care for your manager?
MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you any further.
[She goes out, left.
SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! Do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? The husband is dead and all that; the manager is—the devil with him!—travelling somewhere. Now, tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon?