d at myself, and it seemed to me
that the flowers and birds were laughing mockingly too.

SASHA. This is not anger, but madness!

IVANOFF. You think so, do you? No, I am not mad. I see things in their
right light now, and my mind is as clear as your conscience. We love
each other, but we shall never be married. It makes no difference how I
rave and grow bitter by myself, but I have no right to drag another
down with me. My melancholy robbed my wife of the last year of her life.
Since you have been engaged to me you have forgotten how to laugh and
have aged five years. Your father, to whom life was always simple and
clear, thanks to me, is now unable to understand anybody. Wherever I go,
whether hunting or visiting, it makes no difference, I carry depression,
dulness, and discontent along with me. Wait! Don't interrupt me! I am
bitter and harsh, I know, but I am stifled with rage. I cannot speak
otherwise. I have never lied, and I never used to find fault with my
lot, but since I have begun to complain of everything, I find fault with
it involuntarily, and against my will. When I murmur at my fate every
one who hears me is seized with the same disgust of life and begins to
grumble too. And what a strange way I have of looking at things!
Exactly as if I were doing the world a favour by living in it. Oh, I am
contemptible.

SASHA. Wait a moment. From what you have just said, it is obvious that
you are tired of your melancholy mood, and that the time has come for
you to begin life afresh. How splendid!

IVANOFF. I don't see anything splendid about it. How can I lead a new
life? I am lost forever. It is time we both understood that. A new life
indeed!

SASHA. Nicholas, come to your senses. How can you say you are lost? What
do you mean by such cynicism? No, I won't listen to you or talk with
you. Go to the church!

IVANOFF. I am lost!

SASHA. Don't talk so loud; our guests will hear you!

IVANOFF. If an intelligent, educated, and healthy man begins to complain
of his lot and go down-hill, there is nothing for him to do but to go on
down until he reaches the bottom--there is no hope for him. Where could
my salvation come from? How can I save myself? I cannot drink, because
it makes my head ache. I never could write bad poetry. I cannot pray for
strength and see anything lofty in the languor of my soul. Laziness is
laziness and weakness weakness. I can find no other names for them. I
am lost, I am lost; there is no d