A dirty, ill-lighted underground dove; people are lying around drinking, sleeping, playing cards and making love. Near the front a small table at which FÉDYA sits; he is in rags and has fallen very low. By his side is PETUSHKÓV, a delicate spiritual man, with long yellow hair and beard. Both are rather drunk.

Candle light is the only lighting in this Scene.

Petushkóv (R.C. of table C.). I know. I know. Well, that’s real love. So what happened then?

Fédya (L. C. of table C., pensively). You might perhaps expect a girl of our own class, tenderly brought up, to be capable of sacrificing for the man she loved, but this girl was a gypsy, reared in greed, yet she gave me the purest sort of self-sacrificing love. She’d have done anything for nothing. Such contrasts are amazing.

Petushkóv. I see. In painting we call that value. Only to realize bright red fully when there is green around it. But that’s not the point. What happened?

Fédya. Oh, we parted. I felt it wasn’t right to go on taking, taking where I couldn’t give. So one night we were having dinner in a little restaurant, I told her we’d have to say good-bye. My heart was so wrung all the time I could hardly help crying.

Petushkóv. And she?

Fédya. Oh, she was awfully unhappy, but she knew I was right. So we kissed each other a long while, and she went back to her gypsy troupe—(Slowly.) Maybe she was glad to go——

[A pause.

Petushkóv. I wonder.

Fédya. Yes. The single good act of my soul was not ruining that girl.

Petushkóv. Was it from pity?

Fédya. I sorry for her? Oh, never. Quite the contrary. I worshiped her unclouded sincerity, the energy of her clear, strong will, and God in Heaven, how she sang. And probably she is singing now, for some one else. Yes, I always looked up at her from beneath, as you do at some radiance in the sky. I loved her really. And now it’s a tender beautiful memory.

Petushkóv. I understand. It was ideal, and you left it like that.

Fédya (ruminatingly). And I’ve been attracted often, you know. Once I was in love with a grande dame, bestially in love, dog-like. Well, she gave me a rendezvous, and I didn’t, couldn’t, keep it, because suddenly I thought of her husband, and it made me feel sick. And you know, it’s queer, that now, when I look back, instead of being glad that I was decent, I am as sorry as if I had sinned. But with Masha it’s so different; I’m filled with joy that I’ve never soiled the brightness of my feeling for her. (He points his finger at the floor.) I may go much further down.

Petushkóv (interrupting). I know so well what you mean. But where is she now?

Fédya. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. All that belongs to another life, and I couldn’t bear to mix that life and this life.

[A POLICE OFFICER enters from up R., kicks a man who is lying on the floor—walks down stage, looks at FÉDYA and PETUSHKÓV, then exits.

Petushkóv. Your life’s wonderful. I believe you’re a real idealist.

Fédya. No. It’s awfully simple. You know among our class—I mean the class I was born in—there are only three courses: the first, to go into the civil service or join the army and make money to squander over your sensual appetites. And all that was appalling to me—perhaps because I couldn’t do it. The second thing is to live to clear out, to destroy what is foul, to make way for the beautiful. But for that you’ve got to be a hero, and I’m not a hero. And the third is to forget it all—overwhelm it with music, drown it with wine. That’s what I did. And look (he spreads his arms out) where my singing led me to.

[He drinks.

Petushkóv. And what about family life? The sanctity of the home and all that—I would have been awfully happy if I’d had a decent wife. As it was, she ruined me.

Fédya. I beg your pardon. Did you say marriage? Oh, yes, of course. Well, I’ve been married, too. Oh, my wife was quite an ideal woman. I don’t know why I should say was, by the way, because she’s still living. But there’s something—I don’t know; it’s rather difficult to explain—But you know how pouring champagne into a glass makes it froth up into a million iridescent little bubbles? Well, there was none of that in our married life. There was no fizz in it, no sparkle, no taste, phew! The days were all one color—flat and stale and gray as the devil. And that’s why I wanted to get away and forget. You can’t forget unless you play. So trying to play I crawled in every sort of muck there is. And you know, it’s a funny thing, but we love people for the good we do them, and we hate them for the harm. That’s why I hated Lisa. That’s why she seemed to love me.

Petushkóv. Why do you say seemed?

Fédya (wistfully). Oh, she couldn’t creep into the center of my being like Masha. But that’s not what I mean. Before the baby was born, and afterwards, when she was nursing him, I used to stay away for days and days, and come back drunk, drunk, and love her less and less each time, because I was wronging her so terribly. (Excitedly.) Yes. That’s it, I never realized it before. The reason why I loved Masha was because I did her good, not harm. But I crucified my wife, and her contortions filled me almost with hatred.

[FÉDYA drinks.

Petushkóv. I think I understand. Now in my case——

[ARTIMIEV enters R. U., approaches with a cockade on his cap, dyed mustache, and shabby, but carefully mended clothes.

Artimiev (stands L. of table). Good appetite, gentlemen! (Bowing to FÉDYA.) I see you’ve made the acquaintance of our great artist.

Fédya (coolly). Yes, I have.

Artimiev (to PETUSHKÓV). Have you finished your portrait?

Petushkóv. No, they didn’t give me the commission, after all.

Artimiev (sitting down on end of table). I’m not in your way, am I?

[FÉDYA and PETUSHKÓV don’t answer.

Petushkóv. This gentleman was telling me about his life.

Artimiev. Oh, secrets? Then I won’t disturb you. Pardon me for interrupting. (To himself as he moves away.) Damn swine!

[He goes to the next table, sits down and in the dim candlelight he can just be seen listening to the conversation.

Fédya. I don’t like that man.

Petushkóv. I think he’s offended.

Fédya. Let him be. I can’t stand him. If he’d stayed I shouldn’t have said a word. Now, it’s different with you. You make me feel all comfortable, you know. Well, what was I saying?

Petushkóv. You were talking about your wife. How did you happen to separate?

Fédya. Oh, that? (A pause.) It’s a rather curious story. My wife’s married.

Petushkóv. Oh, I see! You’re divorced.

Fédya. No. (Smiling.) She’s a widow.

Petushkóv. A widow? What do you mean?

Fédya. I mean exactly what I say. She’s a widow. I don’t exist.

Petushkóv (puzzled). What?

Fédya (smiling drunkenly). I’m dead. You’re talking to a corpse.

[ARTIMIEV leans towards them and listens intently.

Funny, I seem to be able to say anything to you. And it’s so long ago, so long ago. And what is it after all to you but a story? Well, when I got to the climax of torturing my wife, when I’d squandered everything I had or could get, and become utterly rotten, then, there appeared a protector.

Petushkóv. The usual thing, I suppose?

Fédya. Don’t think anything filthy about it. He was just her friend, mine too, a very good, decent fellow; in fact the opposite of myself. He’d known my wife since she was a child, and I suppose he’d loved her since then. He used to come to our house a lot. First I was very glad he did, then I began to see they were falling in love with each other, and then—an odd thing began to happen to me at night. Do you know when she lay there asleep beside me (he laughs shrilly) I would hear him, pushing open the door, crawling into the room, coming to me on his hands and knees, groveling, whining, begging me (he is almost shouting) for her, for her, imagine it! And I, I had to get up and give my place to him. (He covers his eyes with his hands in a. convulsive moment.) Phew! Then I’d come to myself.

Petushkóv. God! It must have been horrible.

Fédya (wearily). Well, later on I left her—and after a while, they asked me for a divorce. I couldn’t bear all the lying there was to be got through. Believe me it was easier to think of killing myself. And so I tried to commit suicide, and I tried and I couldn’t. Then a kind friend came along and said, “Now, don’t be foolish!” And she arranged the whole business for me. I sent my wife a farewell letter—and the next day my clothes and pocketbook were found on the bank of the river. Everybody knew I couldn’t swim. (Pause.) You understand, don’t you?

Petushkóv. Yes, but what about the body? They didn’t find that?

Fédya (smiling drunkenly). Oh yes, they did! You just listen! About a week afterwards some horror was dragged out of the water. My wife was called in to identify it. It was in pretty bad shape, you know. She took one glance. “Is that your husband?” they asked her. And she said, “Yes.” Well, that settled it! I was buried, they were married, and they’re living very happily right here in this city. I’m living here, too! We’re all living here together! Yesterday I walked right by their house. The windows were lit and somebody’s shadow went across the blind. (A pause.) Of course there’re times when I feel like hell about it, but they don’t last. The worst is when there’s no money to buy drinks with.

[He drinks.

Artimiev. (rising and approaching them). Excuse me, but you know I’ve been listening to that story of yours? It’s a very good story, and what’s more a very useful one. You say you don’t like being without money, but really there’s no need of your ever finding yourself in that position.

Fédya. (interrupting). Look here, I wasn’t talking to you and I don’t need your advice!

Artimiev. But I’m going to give it to you just the same. Now you’re a corpse. Well, suppose you come to life again!

Fédya. What?

Artimiev. Then your wife and that fellow she’s so happy with—they’d be arrested for bigamy. The best they’d get would be ten years in Siberia. Now you see where you can have a steady income, don’t you?

Fédya. (furiously). Stop talking and get out of here!

Artimiev. The best way is to write them a letter. If you don’t know how I’ll do it for you. Just give me their address and afterwards when the ruble notes commence to drop in, how grateful you’ll be!

Fédya. Get out! Get out, I say! I haven’t told you anything!

Artimiev. Oh, yes, you have! Here’s my witness! This waiter heard you saying you were a corpse!

Fédya. (beside himself). You damn blackmailing beast——

[Rising.

Artimiev. Oh, I’m a beast, am I? We’ll see about that! (FÉDYA rises to go, ARTIMIEV seizes him.) Police! Police! (FÉDYA struggles frantically to escape.)

[The POLICE enter and drag him away.

CURTAIN

(Source: 1918 translation by Arthur Hopkins for the production at Plymouth Theatre, New York.)