SASHA. You’re talking nonsense, Misha!
PLATONOV. God forbid you ever understand! Do not understand! Let the world be square so ships sail off the edge!62 Where would we find faithful wives, if it weren’t for women like you, Sasha? (Tries to kiss her.)
SASHA (won’t let him). Get out of here! (Angrily.) Why did you marry me, if I’m such a fool! You should have found yourself a clever woman! I didn’t force you!
PLATONOV (roars with laughter). So you know how to get angry? Ah, what the hell! Why, this is a genuine discovery in the field of . . . Which field? A genuine discovery, my darling! So you know how to get angry? You’re not joking?
SASHA (gets up). Go to bed, pal! If you didn’t drink, you wouldn’t be making discoveries! Drunkard! And a schoolteacher at that! You’re not a teacher, but a piggy-wig! Get to bed! (Slaps him on the back and exits into the schoolhouse.)
SCENE IV
PLATONOV (alone).
PLATONOV. Am I actually drunk? That can’t be, I didn’t drink that much . . . And yet, my head’s not quite normal . . .
Pause.
And when I talked to Sofya, was I . . . drunk? (Thinks.) No, I wasn’t! I was not, unfortunately, good grief! I was not! My damned sobriety! (Leaps up.) How has her wretched husband done me any harm? Why did I sling such mud at him in her hearing? Don’t forgive me for this, conscience of mine! I babbled away to her like a little kid, struck poses, played scenes, boasted . . . (Mimics himself.) “Why didn’t you marry a hard-working man, a man who’s suffering?” Why should she marry a hard-working man, a man who’s suffering? Why, you lunatic, did you say things you didn’t believe? Ah! . . . She believed them . . . She listened to the ravings of an idiot and looked down at her feet! Went all limp, the wretched woman, melted . . . How stupid all this is, how despicable, absurd! It’s perfectly revolting . . . (Laughs.) A self-centered bully! They used to poke fun at our merchants for being self-centered bullies, laugh them to scorn63. . . It was laughter through tears and tears through laughter . . . Who laughs at me? When? Ridiculous! He doesn’t take bribes, doesn’t steal, doesn’t beat his wife, thinks decent thoughts, but . . . he’s a scoundrel! A ridiculous scoundrel! An above-average scoundrel! . . .
Pause.
I have to leave here . . . I’ll ask the school inspector for another post . . . I’ll write to town today . . .
Enter VENGEROVICH JR.
SCENE V
PLATONOV and VENGEROVICH JR.
VENGEROVICH JR. (entering). Hm . . . The schoolhouse, in which that half-baked sage sleeps on forever . . . Is he doing his usual sleeping or his usual bickering? (On seeing Platonov.) There he is, hollow, yet reverberant . . . Neither sleeping nor bickering . . . An abnormal state of affairs . . . (To him.) Still up?
PLATONOV. As you see! Why stop here? Let me wish you a good night!
VENGEROVICH JR. I’ll be going right away. You’re bound by the spell of solitude? (Looks around.) You feel yourself a lord of creation? On such a splendid night . . .
PLATONOV. On your way home?
VENGEROVICH JR. Yes . . . Father took the carriage, and I am compelled to make my way on foot. Enjoying yourself? But then isn’t it pleasant—don’t you agree?—to drink champagne and under its influence have the nerve for self-scrutiny! May I sit beside you?
PLATONOV. You may.
VENGEROVICH JR. Thank you. (Sits down.) I like to say thank you for everything. How sweet to sit here, here on these steps, and feel yourself monarch of all you survey! Where is your girlfriend, Platonov? After all, amid this rustling, this whispering of nature, the singing and chirping of grasshoppers, the only thing missing is lovers’ prattle to turn it all into paradise! This coy, flirtatious breeze lacks only the warm breath of a charming creature to make your cheeks flush with happiness! The whispering of Mother Nature lacks words of love . . . A woman!! You stare at me in amazement . . . Ha, ha! Am I not speaking my native tongue? True, it isn’t native to me . . . Once I’ve sobered up, I’ll blush more than once at such words . . . Still, why shouldn’t I spout poetry? Hm . . . Who’s stopping me?
PLATONOV. Nobody.
VENGEROVICH JR. Or, perhaps, this language of the gods is out of keeping with my status, my looks? Is my face unpoetic?
PLATONOV. It is unpoetic . . .
VENGEROVICH JR. Unpoetic . . . Hm . . . Delighted. We Jews do not have poetic features. Nature played us a dirty trick, didn’t endow us Jews with poetic features! We are usually judged by our faces and on the grounds that we have certain features, they deny us any poetic feelings . . . They say that Jews are not poets.
PLATONOV. Who says that?
VENGEROVICH JR. Everybody says it . . . But, after all, it’s dirty slander!
PLATONOV. Stop equivocating! Who says it?
VENGEROVICH JR. Everybody says it, but in fact we have a great many genuine poets, not Pushkins, not Lermontovs,64 but still the genuine article! Auerbach, Heine, Goethe . . .65
PLATONOV. Goethe’s German.
VENGEROVICH JR. Jewish!
PLATONOV. German!
VENGEROVICH JR. Jewish! I know what I’m talking about!
PLATONOV. And I know what I’m talking about, but have it your way! It’s hard to win an argument with a half-educated Jew.
VENGEROVICH JR. Very hard . . .
Pause.
But even if there were no poets! Big deal! We have poets — fine, we don’t have poets—even better! A poet, regarded as a man of feeling, is in most cases a parasite, an egotist . . . Did Goethe, as a poet, ever give a crust of bread to a single German proletarian?
PLATONOV. That’s stale! That’s enough of that, youngster! He didn’t take a crust of bread away from a German proletarian! That’s the important thing . . . Besides, better to be a poet than nothing! A million times better! Anyway, let’s not talk . . . Never mind the crust of bread, about which you haven’t the slightest clue, and poets, whom your shriveled-up soul doesn’t understand, and me, whom you will not leave in peace!
VENGEROVICH JR. I will not, I will not trouble your great heart, you effervescent fellow! . . . I will not pull the cozy coverlet off you . . . Sleep on!
Pause.
Just look at that sky! Yes . . . It’s nice here, peaceful, nothing but trees . . . None of those smug, self-satisfied faces . . . Yes . . . The trees are whispering but not to me . . . And the moon doesn’t gaze upon me as affably as she does on Platonov here . . . She’s trying to freeze me with a look . . . You, and I’m quoting, are not one of us . . . Get out of here, out of paradise, back to your grubby Yid place of business . . . Although that’s rot . . . I’m rambling . . . that’s enough! . . .
PLATONOV. Enough . . . Go on, youngster, go home! The longer you sit here, the more you run off at the mouth . . . And this running off at the mouth will make you blush later on, as you’ve said yourself! Go on!
VENGEROVICH JR. I want to run off at the mouth! (Laughs.) Now I’m a poet!