Page:Plays by Anton Tchekoff (1916).djvu/216

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Here I am dangerously ill, and you won’t even give me any medicine.

. What shall I prescribe for you? Camomile tea? Soda? Quinine?

. Don’t inflict any of your discussions on me again. [He nods toward the sofa] Is that bed for me?

. Yes, for you, sir.

. Thank you.

. [Sings] “The moon swims in the sky to-night.”

. I am going to give Constantine an idea for a story. It shall be called “The Man Who Wished—L’Homme qui a voulu.” When I was young, I wished to become an author; I failed. I wished to be an orator; I speak abominably, [Exciting himself] with my eternal “and all, and all,” dragging each sentence on and on until I sometimes break out into a sweat all over. I wished to marry, and I didn’t; I wished to live in the city, and here I am ending my days in the country, and all.

. You wished to become State Councillor, and—you are one!

. [Laughing] I didn’t try for that, it came of its own accord.

. Come, you must admit that it is petty to cavil at life at sixty-two years of age.

. You are pig-headed! Can’t you see I want to live?

. That is futile. Nature has commanded that every life shall come to an end.

. You speak like a man who is satiated with life. Your thirst for it is quenched, and so you are calm and indifferent, but even you dread death.

. The fear of death is an animal passion which must be overcome. Only those who believe in a future life and tremble for sins committed, can logically fear death; but you,