SORIN. I must be dangerously ill if you had to send for my sister. [He falls silent for a moment] A nice business this is! Here I am dangerously ill, and you won’t even give me any medicine.
DORN. What shall I prescribe for you? Camomile tea? Soda? Quinine?
SORIN. Don’t inflict any of your discussions on me again. [He nods toward the sofa] Is that bed for me?
PAULINA. Yes, for you, sir.
SORIN. Thank you.
DORN. [Sings] “The moon swims in the sky tonight.”
SORIN. 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.
DORN. You wished to become State Councillor, and — you are one!
SORIN. [Laughing] I didn’t try for that, it came of its own accord.
DORN. Come, you must admit that it is petty to cavil at life at sixty-two years of age.
SORIN. You are pig-headed! Can’t you see I want to live?
DORN. That is futile. Nature has commanded that every life shall come to an end.
SORIN. 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.
DORN. 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, for one thing, don’t believe in a future life, and for another, you haven’t committed any sins. You have served as a Councillor for twenty-five years, that is all.
SORIN. [Laughing] Twenty-eight years!
TREPLIEFF comes in and sits down on a stool at SORIN’S feet. MASHA fixes her eyes on his face and never once tears them away.
DORN. We are keeping Constantine from his work.
TREPLIEFF. No matter. [A pause.]
MEDVIEDENKO. Of all the cities you visited when you were abroad, Doctor, which one did you like the best?
DORN. Genoa.
TREPLIEFF. Why Genoa?
DORN. Because there is such a splendid crowd in its streets. When you leave the hotel in the evening, and throw yourself into the heart of that throng, and move with it without aim or object, swept along, hither and thither, their life seems to be yours, their soul flows into you, and you begin to believe at last in a great world spirit, like the one in your play that Nina Zarietchnaya acted. By the way, where is Nina now? Is she well?
TREPLIEFF. I believe so.
DORN. I hear she has led rather a strange life; what happened?
TREPLIEFF. It is a long story, Doctor.
DORN. Tell it shortly. [A pause.]
TREPLIEFF. She ran away from home and joined Trigorin; you know that?
DORN. Yes.
TREPLIEFF. She had a child that died. Trigorin soon tired of her and returned to his former ties, as might have been expected. He had never broken them, indeed, but out of weakness of character had always vacillated between the two. As far as I can make out from what I have heard, Nina’s domestic life has not been altogether a success.
DORN. What about her acting?
TREPLIEFF. I believe she made an even worse failure of that. She made her debut on the stage of the Summer Theatre in Moscow, and afterward made a tour of the country towns. At that time I never let her out of my sight, and wherever she went I followed. She always attempted great and difficult parts, but her delivery was harsh and monotonous, and her gestures heavy and crude. She shrieked and died well at times, but those were but moments.
DORN. Then she really has a talent for acting?
TREPLIEFF. I never could make out. I believe she has. I saw her, but she refused to see me, and her servant would never admit me to her rooms. I appreciated her feelings, and did not insist upon a meeting. [A pause] What more can I tell you? She sometimes writes to me now that I have come home, such clever, sympathetic letters, full of warm feeling. She never complains, but I can tell that she is profoundly unhappy; not a line but speaks to me of an aching, breaking nerve. She has one strange fancy; she always signs herself “The Seagull.” The miller in “Rusalka” called himself “The Crow,” and so she repeats in all her letters that she is a seagull. She is here now.
DORN. What do you mean by “here?”
TREPLIEFF. In the village, at the inn. She has been there for five days. I should have gone to see her, but Masha here went, and she refuses to see any one. Some one told me she had been seen wandering in the fields a mile from here yesterday evening.
MEDVIEDENKO. Yes, I saw her. She was walking away from here in the direction of the village. I asked her why she had not been to see us. She said she would come.
TREPLIEFF. But she won’t. [A pause] Her father and stepmother have disowned her. They have even put watchmen all around their estate to keep her away. [He goes with the doctor toward the desk] How easy it is, Doctor, to be a philosopher on paper, and how difficult in real life!
SORIN. She was a beautiful girl. Even the State Councillor himself was in love with her for a time.
DORN. You old Lovelace, you!
SHAMRAEFF’S laugh is heard.
PAULINA. They are coming back from the station.
TREPLIEFF. Yes, I hear my mother’s voice.
ARKADINA and TRIGORIN come in, followed by SHAMRAEFF.
SHAMRAEFF. We all grow old and wither, my lady, while you alone, with your light dress, your gay spirits, and your grace, keep the secret of eternal youth.
ARKADINA. You are still trying to turn my head, you tiresome old man.
TRIGORIN. [To SORIN] How do you do, Peter? What, still ill? How silly of you! [With evident pleasure, as he catches sight of MASHA] How are you, Miss Masha?
MASHA. So you recognised me? [She shakes hands with him.]
TRIGORIN. Did you marry him?
MASHA. Long ago.
TRIGORIN. You are happy now? [He bows to DORN and MEDVIEDENKO, and then goes hesitatingly toward TREPLIEFF] Your mother says you have forgotten the past and are no longer angry with me.
TREPLIEFF gives him his hand.
ARKADINA. [To her son] Here is a magazine that Boris has brought you with your latest story in it.
TREPLIEFF. [To TRIGORIN, as he takes the magazine] Many thanks; you are very kind.
TRIGORIN. Your admirers all send you their regards. Every one in Moscow and St. Petersburg is interested in you, and all ply me with questions about you. They ask me what you look like, how old you are, whether you are fair or dark. For some reason they all think that you are no longer young, and no one knows who you are, as you always write under an assumed name. You are as great a mystery as the Man in the Iron Mask.
TREPLIEFF. Do you expect to be here long?
TRIGORIN. No, I must go back to Moscow tomorrow. I am finishing another novel, and have promised something to a magazine besides. In fact, it is the same old business.
During their conversation ARKADINA and PAULINA have put up a card-table in the centre of the room; SHAMRAEFF lights the candles and arranges the chairs, then fetches