aith, 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.