BorkinHurry up! Yes or no? We haven’t got all night.
BabakinaI’ll tell you what, Count. Come and stay in a day or two . . . It’s fun at my house, not like here . . . Come tomorrow . . . (To Borkin.) Is this a joke?
Borkin(angrily) Would I joke about anything as serious as this?
BabakinaOh, stop, stop – oh, I’m feeling awful . . . A Countess . . . I don’t feel well . . . I’m going to faint . . .
With a laugh, Borkin and the Count take her under the arms and, kissing her on the cheeks, lead her out.
Ivanov and Sasha run in from the garden.
Ivanov(clutching at his head in despair) No, it’s impossible! Don’t, Sasha, don’t – you must stop this!
Sasha(letting it all pour out) I’m madly in love with you. Without you my life has no meaning – no joy or happiness! You’re everything to me . . .
IvanovBut what’s the use? Why are you telling me? Oh God, I don’t understand what’s going on. Sasha, you mustn’t . . .
SashaFrom when I was just a little girl, you were the light of my life. I loved you body and soul, more than my life. But now . . . I love you, Nikolay Alekseevich. I’d go with you anywhere you like – the other side of the world – or to the grave. Only, for God’s sake, quick or I’ll stop breathing . . .!
Ivanov(bursts into happy laughter) What’s happening? Can it mean I can start again? A new life? Is that it, Shurochka? . . . Oh, my blessed one! (Pulls her towards him.) Your’re my lost youth, my innocence . . .
Anna enters from the garden and, catching sight of her husband and Sasha, stops as though rooted to the spot.
IvanovDoes it really mean I can start to live again? – does it? To live and work as I used to?
They kiss. Then Ivanov and Sasha see Anna.
(Horrified.) Anna!
Anna faints
End of Act Two.
Act Three
Ivanov’s study. A desk on which papers, books, official packages and knick-knacks and revolvers lie in disorder; among the papers is a lamp, a carafe of vodka, a plate with salted herrings, pieces of bread and pickled cucumbers. On the walls, maps, pictures, guns, pistols, sickles, whips and so on. Midday.
Shabelsky and Lebedev sit on either side of the desk. Borkin is in the middle of the stage, astride a chair. They sprawl, somewhat in their cups, like lords of the earth, ruling on the great issues of the world. Pyotr stands by the door.
LebedevNow France . . . France has a clear-cut and definite policy . . . Your Frenchy knows what he wants. He wants to kick the tripes out of your German sausage-maker, simple as that. But Germany’s whistling a different tune, my friend. Germany has plenty of other geese to cook besides France.
ShabelskyYou’re talking rubbish. If you ask me, the Germans are cowards, and so are the French. They’re pulling faces behind each other’s backs, but take my word for it, that’s as far as it will go. They won’t fight.
BorkinBut what I’m saying is, there’s no need to fight. All these rearmament congresses and vast expenditure . . . it’s completely unnecessary. You know what I’d do? Round up every dog in the country, give ‘em a good dose of rabies and let them loose across the border. The enemy will be frothing at the mouth in a month.
Lebedev(laughs) There’s a billion brilliant ideas swimming about in that little head, one for every fish in the ocean.
ShabelskyHe’s a genius.
LebedevGod bless you, Michel Michelich! You’re a hoot. (Soberly.) However, gentlemen, here we are jawing away and hardly a mention of vodka. Repetatur!
He fills three glasses.
Here’s to us.
They drink and eat.
Salted herring, Lord love it – greatest snack there is.
ShabelskyNo – cucumber. The best minds have been thinking about this since the world began and they haven’t come up with anything to beat a pickled cucumber. (To Pyotr.) We need more cucumbers, Pyotr, and tell the kitchen to do four onion pasties. Make sure they’re hot.
Pyotr goes out.
LebedevAnother snack vodka’s good with is caviar. I’ll tell you what, though, it requires intelligence. You take four ounces of caviar, two spring onions, some olive oil, mix it well and serve with a squeeze of lemon. The aroma by itself is enough to make you swoon.
BorkinTo follow a shot of vodka, fried gudgeon makes a nice little snack, I find. Only, you have to know how to fry it. You clean it, dip it in breadcrumbs, and fry till crisp – it’s got to be crunchy to the bite, crunch, crunch.
ShabelskyThat was a good snack at Babakina’s yesterday – white mushrooms.
LebedevOh, yes, indeed –
ShabelskyBut to a special recipe, you know, with onion, bay leaf, different kinds of herbs . . . The steam when they took the lid off the pan had a fragrance that was pure joy.
LebedevWho’s for another? Repetatur, gentlemen!
They drink.
Good health. (Looks at his pocket watch.) I’m going to miss Nicolas by the look of it. I must be going. So – white mushrooms at Babakina’s, is it? Is that why you’ve taken to calling on Marfutka all the time?
Shabelsky(nods at Borkin) It’s him – he wants to marry me off to her.
LebedevReally? . . . How old are you?
ShabelskySixty-two.
LebedevJust the right age for marriage. And Marfa’s just the woman for you.
BorkinThis is not about Marfutka, it’s about Marfutka’s cash in the bank.
LebedevIs that all you’re after? You might as well ask a goose for its liver.
BorkinJust wait till he’s married, it’ll be goose liver galore and you’ll be licking your lips in envy.
ShabelskyMy God, he’s serious. This genius here really thinks I’m going to do what he says and get married.
BorkinWhat do you mean? You’re already sold on it, aren’t you?
ShabelskyYou must be off your head . . . When was I ever sold on it?
BorkinWell, thanks very much! You mean you’re going to back out? First he’ll marry her, then he won’t marry her . . . Let the devil work it out. And I’ve given her my solemn word. So you won’t marry her, is that it?
Shabelsky(shrugs his shoulders) He’s serious. Extraordinary chap.
Borkin(indignant) If that’s the case, what was the point of getting an honest woman all excited for nothing? She’s mad keen to be a Countess, she can’t sleep or eat. Is that your idea of honourable behaviour?
Shabelsky(snaps his fingers) All right then, supposing I take the plunge into this dung-hill . . . eh? Just for the hell of it. Yes, all right. I’ll do it. Word of honour. What a lark.