Page:Plays by Anton Tchekoff (1916).djvu/47

ACT II

brains are hysterical, devoured with a mania for self-analysis. They whine, they hate, they pick faults everywhere with unhealthy sharpness. They sneak up to me sideways, look at me out of a corner of the eye, and say: “That man is a lunatic,” “That man is a wind-bag.” Or, if they don’t know what else to label me with, they say I am strange. I like the woods; that is strange. I don’t eat meat; that is strange, too. Simple, natural relations between man and man or man and nature do not exist.

[He tries to go out; prevents him.

. I beg you, I implore you, not to drink any more!

. Why not?

. It is so unworthy of you. You are well-bred, your voice is sweet, you are even—more than any one I know—handsome. Why do you want to resemble the common people that drink and play cards? Oh, don’t, I beg you! You always say that people do not create anything, but only destroy what heaven has given them. Why, oh, why, do you destroy yourself? Oh, don’t, I implore you not to! I entreat you!

. [Gives her his hand] I won’t drink any more.

. Promise me.

. I give you my word of honour.

. [Squeezing his hand] Thank you.

. I have done with it. You see, I am perfectly sober again, and so I shall stay till the end of my life. [He looks at his watch] But, as I was saying, life holds nothing for me; my race is run. I am old, I am tired, I am trivial; my sensibilities are dead. I could never attach myself to any one again. I love no one, and—never shall! Beauty alone has the power to touch me still. I am deeply moved by it. Helena could turn my head in a day if she wanted to, but that is not love, that is not affection

[He shudders and covers his face with his hands.