ergy and enthusiasm. I worked with these hands here, and
my words could move the dullest man to tears. I could weep with sorrow,
and grow indignant at the sight of wrong. I could feel the glow of
inspiration, and understand the beauty and romance of the silent nights
which I used to watch through from evening until dawn, sitting at my
worktable, and giving up my soul to dreams. I believed in a bright
future then, and looked into it as trustfully as a child looks into its
mother's eyes. And now, oh, it is terrible! I am tired and without hope;
I spend my days and nights in idleness; I have no control over my feet
or brain. My estate is ruined, my woods are falling under the blows of
the axe. [He weeps] My neglected land looks up at me as reproachfully
as an orphan. I expect nothing, am sorry for nothing; my whole soul
trembles at the thought of each new day. And what can I think of my
treatment of Sarah? I promised her love and happiness forever; I opened
her eyes to the promise of a future such as she had never even dreamed
of. She believed me, and though for five years I have seen her sinking
under the weight of her sacrifices to me, and losing her strength in
her struggles with her conscience, God knows she has never given me one
angry look, or uttered one word of reproach. What is the result? That I
don't love her! Why? Is it possible? Can it be true? I can't understand.
She is suffering; her days are numbered; yet I fly like a contemptible
coward from her white face, her sunken chest, her pleading eyes. Oh, I
am ashamed, ashamed! [A pause] Sasha, a young girl, is sorry for me in
my misery. She confesses to me that she loves me; me, almost an old man!
Whereupon I lose my head, and exalted as if by music, I yell: "Hurrah
for a new life and new happiness!" Next day I believe in this new life
and happiness as little as I believe in my happiness at home. What is
the matter with me? What is this pit I am wallowing in? What is the
cause of this weakness? What does this nervousness come from? If my sick
wife wounds my pride, if a servant makes a mistake, if my gun misses
fire, I lose my temper and get violent and altogether unlike myself.
I can't, I can't understand it; the easiest way out would be a bullet
through the head!
Enter LVOFF.
LVOFF. I must have an explanation with you, Ivanoff.
IVANOFF. If we are going to have an explanation every day, doctor, we
shall neither of us have the strength to stand it.
LVOFF.
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