slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter, Nikita Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily and trembles violently] Heavens! Who are you? It is you … you Nikitushka? What … what are you doing here?
IVANITCH. I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms. Only please be good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to spend the night; indeed, I haven’t.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Ah! It is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think, the audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes and lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old man and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka! I am sixty-eight years old, and I am ill. I haven’t the heart left to go on. [Falls on IVANITCH’S neck and weeps] Don’t go away, Nikitushka; I am old and helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!
IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you to go home, sir!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go home; I have no home — none! none! — none!
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won’t go there. I won’t! I am all alone there. I have nobody, Nikitushka! No wife — no children. I am like the wind blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die, and no one will remember me. It is awful to be alone — no one to cheer me, no one to caress me, no one to help me to bed when I am drunk. Whom do I belong to? Who needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka.
IVANITCH. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. My audience has gone home. They are all asleep, and have forgotten their old clown. No, nobody needs me, nobody loves me; I have no wife, no children.
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don’t be so unhappy about it.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But I am a man, I am still alive. Warm, red blood is tingling in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I am an aristocrat, Nikitushka; I served in the army, in the artillery, before I fell as low as this, and what a fine young chap I was! Handsome, daring, eager! Where has it all gone? What has become of those old days? There’s the pit that has swallowed them all! I remember it all now. Forty-five years of my life lie buried there, and what a life, Nikitushka! I can see it as clearly as I see your face: the ecstasy of youth, faith, passion, the love of women — women, Nikitushka!
IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. When I first went on the stage, in the first glow of passionate youth, I remember a woman loved me for my acting. She was beautiful, graceful as a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant as a summer dawn. Her smile could charm away the darkest night. I remember, I stood before her once, as I am now standing before you. She had never seemed so lovely to me as she did then, and she spoke to me so with her eyes — such a look! I shall never forget it, no, not even in the grave; so tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and young! Enraptured, intoxicated, I fell on my knees before her, I begged for my happiness, and she said: “Give up the stage!” Give up the stage! Do you understand? She could love an actor, but marry him — never! I was acting that day, I remember — I had a foolish, clown’s part, and as I acted, I felt my eyes being opened; I saw that the worship of the art I had held so sacred was a delusion and an empty dream; that I was a slave, a fool, the plaything of the idleness of strangers. I understood my audience at last, and since that day I have not believed in their applause, or in their wreathes, or in their enthusiasm. Yes, Nikitushka! The people applaud me, they buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They don’t know me, I am as the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing enough to meet me … but allow a daughter or a sister to marry me, an outcast, never! I have no faith in them, [sinks onto the stool] no faith in them.
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death! Come, go home, have mercy on me!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I saw through it all that day, and the knowledge was dearly bought. Nikitushka! After that … when that girl … well, I began to wander aimlessly about, living from day to day without looking ahead. I took the parts of buffoons and low comedians, letting my mind go to wreck. Ah! but I was a great artist once, till little by little I threw away my talents, played the motley fool, lost my looks, lost the power of expressing myself, and became in the end a Merry Andrew instead of a man. I have been swallowed up in that great black pit. I never felt it before, but tonight, when I woke up, I looked back, and there behind me lay sixty-eight years. I have just found out what it is to be old! It is all over … [sobs] … all over.
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet … gracious! [Calls] Petrushka! Yegorka!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But what a genius I was! You cannot imagine what power I had, what eloquence; how graceful I was, how tender; how many strings [beats his breast] quivered in this breast! It chokes me to think of it! Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath, there; now listen to this:
“The shade of bloody Ivan now returning
Fans through my lips rebellion to a flame,
I am the dead Dimitri! In the burning
Boris shall perish on the throne I claim.
Enough! The heir of Czars shall not be seen
Kneeling to yonder haughty Polish Queen!”*
*From “Boris Godunoff,” by Pushkin. [translator’s note]
Is that bad, eh? [Quickly] Wait, now, here’s something from King Lear. The sky is black, see? Rain is pouring down, thunder roars, lightning — zzz zzz zzz — splits the whole sky, and then, listen:
“Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous thought-executing fires
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts
Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germons spill at once
That make ungrateful man!”
[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take the fool’s part! Be quick, I can’t wait!
IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
“O, Nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good Nuncle, in; ask thy daughter’s blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.”
SVIETLOVIDOFF.
“Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children.”
Ah! there is strength, there is talent for you! I’m a great artist!
