Anton Chekhov: Plays, Short Stories, Diary & Letters (Collected Edition). Anton Chekhov
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Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, gaze up at the windows, and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!
MRS. POPOV. [Springing up.] What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?
SMIRNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder your nose!
MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak so?
SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to call things by their right names. I am not a woman, and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream.
MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are screaming. Please leave me, I beg of you.
SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.
MRS. POPOV. I won't give you the money.
SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money?
MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me!
SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, please don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it.
MRS. POPOV. [Breathing hard.] You are going to sit down?
SMIRNOV. I already have.
MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house!
SMIRNOV. Give me the money.
MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going?
SMIRNOV. No.
MRS. POPOV. No?
SMIRNOV. No.
MRS. POPOV. Very well.
[She rings the bell.
[Enter Luka.
MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out.
LUKA. [Going to Smirnov.] Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want?
SMIRNOV. [Jumping up.] Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.
LUKA. [Puts his hand to his heart.] Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill; I can't breathe!
MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [Calling.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha!
[She rings.
LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill! Water!
MRS. POPOV. [To Smirnov.] Leave! Get out!
SMIRNOV. Kindly be a little more polite!
MRS. POPOV. [Striking her fists and stamping her feet.] You are vulgar! You're a boor! A monster!
SMIRNOV. What did you say?
MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster!
SMIRNOV. [Steps toward her quickly.] Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me?
MRS. POPOV. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you?
SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature you can insult me without being punished? I challenge you!
LUKA. Merciful Heaven! Water!
SMIRNOV. We'll have a duel.
MRS. POPOV. Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck I am afraid of you?
SMIRNOV. I allow no one to insult me, and I make no exception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex"!
MRS. POPOV. [Trying to cry him down.] Boor, boor, boor!
SMIRNOV. It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only the man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let there be equity in all things. There's a limit!
MRS. POPOV. You wish to fight a duel? Very well.
SMIRNOV. Immediately.
MRS. POPOV. Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [She hurries away, then turns.] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you!
[She goes out.
SMIRNOV. I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental young puppy. For me there is no weaker sex!
LUKA. Oh, sir. [Falls to his knees.] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have frightened me to death already, and now you want to fight a duel.
SMIRNOV. [Paying no attention.] A duel. That's equity, emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? [Imitating her.] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can one say to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor, it's the first time in my life that I ever saw such a woman.
LUKA. Oh, sir. Go away. Go away!
SMIRNOV. That is a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No shilly-shallying, but fire, powder, and noise! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that.
LUKA. [Weeping.] Oh, sir, go away.
[Enter Mrs. Popov.
MRS. POPOV. Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel, please show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before!
LUKA. God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman. Why has this horror come to us?
[He goes out.
SMIRNOV. [Looking at the pistols.] You see, there are different kinds. There are special duelling pistols, with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors; fine pistols! A pair like that cost at least ninety roubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [Aside.] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman!
MRS. POPOV. Like this?
SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back—so—then you aim—put your head back a little. Just stretch your arm out, please. So—then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble.
MRS. POPOV. It isn't well to shoot inside; let's go into the garden.
SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now, I am going to shoot into the air.
MRS. POPOV. That is too much! Why?
SMIRNOV. Because—because. That's my business.
MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h, No, no, my dear sir, no flinching! Please follow me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that head I hate so much. Are you afraid?
SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid.
MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight?
SMIRNOV. Because—because—I—like you.
MRS. POPOV. [With an angry laugh.] You like me! He dares to say he likes me! [She points to the door.] Go.
SMIRNOV. [Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and starts. At the door he stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he approaches her, hesitating.] Listen! Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me—how can I express myself? The thing is like this—such things are—[He raises his voice.] Now, is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the back of the chair, which breaks.] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand? I—I'm almost in love!
MRS. POPOV. Leave! I hate you.
SMIRNOV. Lord!