Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 125

SMIRNOV. So you can't pay?

MRS. POPOV. I cannot.

SMIRNOV. Hm.--Is that your last word?

MRS. POPOV. My last.

SMIRNOV. Absolutely?

MRS. POPOV. Absolutely.

SMIRNOV. Thank you. We shan't forget it. [_He shrugs his shoulders._]

And then they expect me to stand for all that. The toll gatherer just now met me in the road and asked, why are you always worrying, Grigorji Stepanovitch? Why in heaven's name shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept, in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money and all you give me is moods. Why shouldn't I worry?

MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town and then you will get your money?

SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager, I came to see you. What the devil--pardon the language--do I care for your manager?

MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am neither used to such language nor such manners. I shan't listen to you any further. [_She goes out left._]

SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! And do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? Well yes, the husband is dead and all that, the manager is--the devil with him--traveling somewhere. Now tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or push my head into a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarreled with Kurzin until I came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov is ill and this one in here has--moods! Not one of the crew will pay up!

And all because I've spoiled them all, because I'm an old whiner, an old dish rag! I'm too tender hearted with them. But you wait! I'll show you!

I permit n.o.body to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge from the spot until she pays! Brrr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger and I can hardly breathe--ah, I'm even growing ill. [_He calls out._] Servant!

[_Luka enters._]

LUKA. What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV. Bring me Kvas or water! [_Luka goes out._] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is just at the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss money matters. See! Pure woman's logic. That's why I never liked to talk to women and why I hate to do it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!--I'm getting cold as ice, this affair has made me so angry. I only need to see such a romantic creature from the distance to get so angry that I have cramps in the calves? It's enough to make one yell for help!

[_Enter Luka._]

LUKA [_hands him water_]. Madam is ill and is not receiving.

SMIRNOV. March! [_Luka goes out._] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't receive either. I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As heaven is a witness I'll get my money. You don't disturb me with your mourning--or with your dimples.

We know these dimples! [_He calls out the window._] Simon, unharness. We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again. [_Imitating him._] Stop. I'll show you how. Stop. [_Leaves window._] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no money, didn't sleep well last night and now mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches, perhaps I ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [_Calling._] Servant!

LUKA. What do you wish?

SMIRNOV. A little drink. [_Luka goes out. Smirnov sits down and looks at his clothes._] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest--the lady probably took me for a highwayman. [_He yawns._] It was a little impolite to come into a reception room with such clothes. Oh well, no harm done. I'm not here as guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors.

LUKA [_entering with gla.s.s_]. You take a great deal of liberty, sir.

SMIRNOV [_angrily_]. What?

LUKA. I--I--I just--

SMIRNOV. Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet.

LUKA [_angrily_]. Nice mess! This fellow won't leave! [_He goes out._]

SMIRNOV. Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world! I even feel ill--servant!

[_Mrs. Popov comes in with downcast eyes._]

MRS. POPOV. Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg of you, please to cease disturbing my quiet.

SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV. I told you once plainly in your native tongue that I haven't the money on hand; wait until day after to-morrow.

SMIRNOV. And I also have the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV. But what can I do when I haven't the money? How strange!

SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not?

MRS. POPOV. I can't.

SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here and stay until I get the money. [_He sits._]

You will pay day after to-morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [_Jumps up._] I ask you: do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?

MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.

SMIRNOV. I'm not asking you about a stable, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not?

MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how a lady should be treated.

SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I know how to treat ladies.

MRS. POPOV. No, you don't. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person--respectable people don't speak so with ladies.

SMIRNOV. Oh, how remarkable! How do you want one to speak with you? In French perhaps. Madame, je vous prie--how fortunate I am that you won't pay me my money! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day. And how this mourning becomes you. [_He makes an ironic bow._]

MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny--vulgar!

SMIRNOV [_imitating her_]. Not at all funny--vulgar. I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times I have fought duels over women, twelve women I threw over and nine threw me over.

There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bows and sc.r.a.pings. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved pa.s.sionately, I loved to madness, in every key, chattered like a magpie on emanc.i.p.ation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender pa.s.sion until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more.

Enough! Black eyes, pa.s.sionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs,--for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a copper cent. I am not speaking of the present company but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are all conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [_he strikes his forehead_] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the romantic creatures before him he imagines that he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights--but if one looks into the soul--it's nothing but a common crocodile. [_He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it in two._] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines that it is a chef-d'oeuvre and that it has a monopoly on all the tender pa.s.sions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman! When she is in love all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she trails her train about and tries to lead him around by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman and you naturally know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? You never saw one. Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodc.o.c.k than a faithful woman.

MRS. POPOV. But just allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love?

The man, perhaps?

SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man!

MRS. POPOV. The man! [_She laughs ironically._] The man is true and faithful in love! Well, that is something new. [_She laughs bitterly._]

How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! As long as we have gone as far as we have I may as well say that of all the men I have known my husband was the best--I loved him pa.s.sionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love, I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshiped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of all men betrayed me right and left in every possible fashion. After his death I found his desk filled with a collection of love letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months--it is horrible to even think about it--he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings,--and in spite of all that I trusted him and was true to him.

And more than that, he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.