MARIYA YEGOROVNA, his wife
SAVVA, an old wandering penitent
NAZAROVNA
female pilgrims
YEFIMOVNA
FEDYA, an itinerant factory worker
YEGOR MERIK, a tramp
KUZMA, a vagrant
A POSTAL COURIER
Mariya Yegorovna’s COACHMAN
PILGRIMS, DROVERS, VAGRANTS, etc.
The action takes place in one of the southern Russian provinces.
The stage represents Tikhons tavern. At right the bar and shelves of bottles. Upstage a door, leading outside. Above it on the outside hangs a red oil lantern. The floor and benches along the wall are completely packed with pilgrims and vagrants. Many of them are sleeping sitting up, for want of room. Very late at night. As the curtain rises thunder is heard and lightning flashes in the doorway.
SCENE I
TIKHON is behind the bar. On one of the benches, FEDYA is sprawling, quietly playing the concertina. Near him sits BORTSOV, dressed in threadbare summer clothes. On the floor near the benches SAVVA, NAZAROVNA, and YEFIMOVNA have found places.
YEFIMOVNA (to Nazarovna). Give the old-timer a poke, dearie! Looks as if he’s bound for glory.
NAZAROVNA (pulling an edge of the fustian coat off Savva’s face). God-fearin’ man, hey, god-fearin’ man! Ye alive, or be ye dyin’?
SAVVA. Why should I be dyin’? I’m alive, dearie. (Raises himself on one elbow.) Cover up my legs, ye poor old thing! There ye go. More to the right. There ye go, dearie. God keep ye.
NAZAROVNA (covering Savva’s legs). Sleep, my old dear.
SAVVA. Sleep, d’ye say? If I got the patience to put up with this torture, sleep’s the last thing I need, dearie. A sinner don’t deserve to be left in peace. What’s that noise, sister?
NAZAROVNA. God’s own thunder. The wind’s howling, and the rain’s pelting down cats and dogs. The droplets’re hitting the roof and the winders like dried peas.
Thunder.
Bless us, bless us, bless us . . .
FEDYA. Thundering and hooting and making a racket . . . and no end in sight! Whoosh . . . like a whole forest rustling . . . Whoosh . . . The wind’s howling like a dog . . . (Huddles up.) It’s cold! My clothes is soppin’ wet, you could take ‘n’ wring ‘em out, that door’s wide open . . . (Plays quietly.) My squeeze-box is soaked, good Christians, it’s outa music, otherwise I’d pump you out a concert that would knock your socks off! Wonderful! A quartrill, if you want, or a polka, let’s say . . . or some Russian pop tune . . . we can do it all. In town, when I shined shoes at the Grand Otel, the money was peanuts, but when it came to handling the squeeze-box I had all the notes down pat. And I know guitar too.
VOICE FROM THE CORNER. You fool, don’t talk foolish.
FEDYA. So says the fool.
Pause.
NAZAROVNA (to Savva). Old man, right now you should be lying in the warm, warming your poor leg.
Pause.
Old man! God-fearin’ man! (Nudges Savva.) Hey, you fixing to die?
FEDYA. You should have a little spot of vodka, gramps. You have a drink, and it’ll light a fire in your belly, light a fire, and take your mind off things. Have a drink!
NAZAROVNA. Leave off that blasphemiousness, young fella! Mebbe the old man’s going to glory and repenting his sins, and you with your smart talk and your squeeze-box . . . Stop that music! You shameless thing!
FEDYA. And why are you nagging at him? He may be at death’s door, but you . . . with yer old women’s blather . . . ‘Cause he’s a righteous man, he can’t chew you out, so you’re tickled pink, dee-lighted you got somebody gotta listen to you, you fool . . . Sleep, gramps, don’t listen! Let ‘em blab on, just you pay ‘em no mind. A woman’s tongue is the devil’s broom, it sweeps good sense and wisdom out of the room. Pay ‘em no mind . . . (Clasps his hands in distress.) You’re all skin and bones, pal! This is scary! Just like he was a dead skellington! Not a breath o’ life in him! Hey, you fixing to drop dead?
SAVVA. Why should I drop dead? God forbid, good people, I should die before my time . . . I’ll go through a bit of a bad spell, and then I’ll git up again with God’s help . . . The Mother o’ God won’t let me drop dead in foreign parts . . . I’ll die at home . . .
FEDYA. You come a far piece?
SAVVA. Vologda’s my home.1 Vologda itself . . . a small tradesman from them parts . . .
FEDYA. And where’s this Vologda?
TIKHON. Other side of Moscow . . . Province of . . .
FEDYA. My, my, my . . . You come a far piece, whiskers! All that way on foot?
SAVVA. On foot, laddie. Been to St. Tikhon’s, and now I’m on my way to the Holy Mountains . . .2 From the Holy Mountains, if it’s God’s will, to Odesta . . . From there, folks say, you can get a cheap fare to Jerusalem. S’posed to be twenty-one rubles . . .
FEDYA. So you been to Moscow?
SAVVA. I’ll say! nigh on to five times . . .
FEDYA. Nice sort of town? (Starts to smoke.) Worth the trip?
SAVVA. Plenty o’ shrines, laddie . . . Where there’s plenty o’ shrines, it’s nice all over . . .
BORTSOV (steps up to the bar and Tikhon). I’ll ask you once more! For Christ’s sake let me have one!
FEDYA. The main thing about a town is it should be clean . . . If it’s dusty, then water it down, if it’s muddy, mop it up. There should be tall buildings . . . a the-ayter, policemen . . . cab drivers, the kind that . . . I’ve lived in towns myself, so I know all about it.
BORTSOV. One little shot . . . just a short one. Put it on my tab! Let me have it!
TIKHON. Oh, sure.
BORTSOV. I’m begging you! Have a heart!
TIKHON. Go away!
BORTSOV. You don’t understand me . . . Understand, you ignoramus, if there’s an ounce of brains in your thick peasant’s skull, I’m not the one begging you, it’s, to use your own vulgar way of speaking, my guts begging! My disease begging! Can’t you understand!
TIKHON. There’s nothing to understand . . . Get out of here!
BORTSOV. In fact, if I don’t get a drink right away, understand, if I don’t satisfy this craving, I might do something violent. I’m capable of doing God knows what! You’ve seen in this tavern of yours, you lout, plenty of drunks in your time, and you still can’t figure out what makes them tick? They’re sick! Chain ‘em up, beat ‘em, stab ‘em, but let ‘em have vodka! Now, I’m pleading most humbly! Have a heart! I’m stooping to your level! My God, the way I’m stooping!
TIKHON. Let’s see your money, then you’ll get vodka . . .
BORTSOV. Where am I supposed to get money? It’s all drunk up! Every last bit of it! What am I supposed to give you? All I’ve got left is my overcoat, but I can’t give you that . . . It covers my naked body. You want my cap? (Takes off his cap and hands it to Tikhon.)