The three sisters; a drama in four acts

Introduction

Like "The Cherry Orchard," which it preceded to the stage by three years, Anton TchekhofPs "The Three Sisters" is a veracious and illuminating cross section of Russian life among the provincial intelligentsia prior to the Revolution of 1905. Traces of this dull, drab, monotonous existence, in which smoldering passion flares up fitfully, survived that upheaval and as before became one of the causes of the contemporary Revolution. Apparently, that life is obliterated to-day, and so even if "The Three Sisters" had no compelling human appeal, it would be invaluable as an artist's eye-witness account of a departed epoch.

But it has a compelling human appeal, with its recurrent refrain of pensive ambition thwarted at every turn, and thwarted, too, by characteristics existing alongside the ambition rather than by outside influences.

That appeal will be apparent to the reader and in highly intensified degree to the spectator of the Moscow Art Theatre's searchingly intimate interpretation of the play. It is interesting to recount here the human side of the composition and production of "The Three Sisters."

This deeply moving drama of suppressed longings was the first of TchekhofPs plays to be w r ritten expressly for the theatre which had found its own function through opening for him a channel on the Russian stage. "The Sea-Gull" had merely been rescued from previous failure in Petrograd. "Uncle Vanya" had been snatched by Stanislavsky from timid and over-fastidious hands at the Small Imperial Theatre. "The Three Sisters," on the other hand, was composed with Stanislavsky and his artists particularly in mind as its interpreters, but only after extraordinary proof to the playwright that the Moscow Art Theatre was his legitimate outlet.

Ill health had kept Tchekhoff in the Crimea, preiv INTRODUCTION.

venting him from seeing the Art Theatre's productions of "The Sea-Gull" and "Uncle Vanya." He only halfbelieved the rumors of their success. To convince him, therefore, and to elicit the desired new manuscript, the entire company journeyed southward at the close of the Moscow season in the spring of 1900 and gave special performances in Sevastopol and Yalta for TchekhofTs benefit.

"The Three Sisters" was written at Yalta in the summer of 1900, rewritten in Moscow in early autumn, read to the actors for the first time in the presence of the author, placed in rehearsal and produced February 13 (our calendar), 1901. During rehearsals, Tchekhoff fled with misgivings to Nice and as the date of the premiere approached, he concealed his whereabouts in Naples, without the faintest hope that the play would achieve the success it did.

Still, to this period belongs the most intimate relationship achieved between playhouse and playwright. Tchekhoff's advice was sought and given on matters pertaining to the rest of the repertory. And it was at this time that the company's leading actress, Mme. Knipper, became his wife.

Some one has said that in his methods as a producer, Stanislavsky has heeded the dicta of Diderot: "No emotion can be interpreted with success except in a moderate and chastened form"; and "Restraint is essential in all artistic interpretation." Restraint, minimization, the loosening of the tension and the sharpening of the attention — these, assuredly, are the secrets not only of the producer of "The Three Sisters" but of its author, as well.

It is significant to note in conclusion that to-day, twenty-two years after its first performance, five of the most important roles in "The Three Sisters" are still played by the same actors who originally embodied them and found their inspiration in the unobtrusive but penetrating guidance of the playwright himself.

The Editor.

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

Andrei Sergeievitch Prozoroff.

Natalia Ivanovna (Natasha) —

His fiancee, later his wife.

Olga

Masha VHis sisters.

Irina Fyodor Ilyitch Kuligin —

High school teacher; married to Masha. Alexander Ignateievitch Vershinin —

Lieutenant-Colonel in charge of a battery. Nikolai Lvovitch Tuzenbach —

Baron, Lieutenant in the army.

Vassily Vassilievitch Solyony — Captain. Ivan Romanovitch Tchebutikin — Army doctor. Alexei Petrovitch Fedotik — Second lieutenant. Vladimir Carlovitch Rode — Second lientenant. Ferapont —

Door-keeper at local council offices, an old man. Anfisa — Nurse.

The action takes place in a provincial town.

Act One

In Prozoroff's home. A sitting-room with pillars; behind is seen a large living-room. It is midday, outside the sun is shining brightly. In the living-room the table is being laid for lunch.

Olga, in the regulation blue dress of a teacher at a girVs high school, is walking about correcting exercise books; Masha, in a black dress, her hat in her lap, sits and reads a book; Irina, in white, stands at one side, deep in thought.

Olga. Father died just a year ago, on the fifth of May, your birthday, Irina. It was very cold and it snowed. I thought I would never survive it, and you fainted dead away. Now a year has gone by and we are already thinking of it without pain, and you are dressed in white and you seem cheerful. [Clock strikes twelve] And the clock struck just the same way then. [Pause] I remember that there was music at the funeral, and they fired a volley across the grave. He was a Brigadier-General yet there were few people present. Of course, it was raining, raining hard, and snowing.

Irina. Why recall it?

[Baron Tuzenbach, Tchebutikin and Solyony appear by the table in the living-room, behind the pillars]

Olga. It's so warm to-day that we can keep the windows open, though the birch trees are not yet in flower. Father was put in command of a brigade, and he left

i

Moscow with us eleven years ago. I remember perfectly that it was early May and everything in Moscow was in bloom. It was warm, too, everything was bathed in sunshine. Eleven years have gone, and I remember everything as if it were only yesterday. Oh, God ! This morning when I awakened and saw the glorious sunshine and the budding spring, my heart filled with joy, and I longed so much to go home.

Tchebutikin. Will you bet on it?

Tuzenbach. Oh, nonsense.

[Masha, lost in reverie over her book, whistles softly]

Olga. Don't whistle, Masha. How can you! [Pause] With teaching High School every day and giving lessons every evening, I have headaches all the time. Strange thoughts come to me, as if I were alreadv an old woman. And really, during the four years that I have been working here, I have felt as if every day my strength and youth were being squeezed out of me, drop by drop. And only one desire grows and gains in strength. . . .

Irina. To go to Moscow. To sell the house, leave everything here, and go to Moscow . . .

Olga. Yes ! To Moscow, and as soon as possible.

[Tchebutikin and Tuzenbach laugh]

Irina. I expect brother will become a professor, but (Still, he won't wish to live here. Poor Masha is the only drawback.

Olga. Masha will come to Moscow every year, for the whole summer.

[Masha is whistling gently]

Irina. God willing, everything will be arranged.

[Looks out of the window] It's nice out to-day. I don't know why I'm so gay. I remembered this morning it was my birthday, and suddenly I felt so happy^nd thought of my childhood days, when mother was still with us. What glorious thoughts I had, what thoughts!

Olga. You're all radiance to-day, I've never seen you look so lovely. And Masha is pretty, too. Andrei wouldn!t be bad-looking, if he hadn't taken on so much weight; it does spoil his appearance. But I've grown old and very thin ; I suppose it's because I get angry with the girls at school. To-day I'm free. I'm at home. I haven't a headache, and I feel younger than I did yesterday. I'm only twenty-eight. . . . All's well, God is everywhere, but it seems to me that if only I were married and could stay at home all day, it would be «even better. [Pause] I would love my husband.

Tuzenbach [to Solyony] I'm tired of listening to your rot. [Entering the sitting-room] I forgot to say that Vershinin, our new Lieutenant-Colonel of artillery, is coming to see us to-day. [Sits downwt the piano]

Olga. Well — I'm very glad.

Irina. Is he old?

Tuzenbach. Not very. Forty or forty-five, at the most. [Plays softly] He seems rather a good sort. He's certainly no fool, only he likes to hear himself talk.

Irina. Is he interesting?

Tuzenbach. Oh, he's all right, but there's his wife, his mother-in-law, and two daughters. This is his second wife. He pays visits and tells everybody that he has a wife and two daughters. He'll tell you so, too, when he comes here. His wife is half-witted, she wears her hair in a braid down her back and talks a blue streak. She philosophizes, and tries to commit suicide frequently, apparently in order to annoy her husband. In his place I would have left her long ago, but he bears up patiently, and only complains.

Solyony [enters with Tchebutikin from the living-room'] With one hand I can lift only fifty-four pounds, but with both hands I can lift 180, or even 200. From this I conclude that two men are not twice as strong as one, but three times, perhaps even more. . . .

Tchebutikin [reads a newspaper as he walks'] If your hair is coming out . . . take an ounce of naphthaline and half a bottle of alcohol . . . dissolve and use daily. . . . [Makes a note in his pocket diary] I'll make a note of it! [To Solyony] Listen. You cork the bottle well, push a glass tube through the cork. . . . Then you take a small quantity of . . .

Irina. Ivan Romanovitch, dear Ivan Romanovitch !

Tchebutikin. Well, what is it, my dear little girl?

Irina. Why am I so happy to-day? I feel as if I were sailing under a great blue sky with huge white birds around me. Why is that? Why?

Tchebutikin [kisses her hands, tenderly] My white bird. . . .

Irina. When I awoke this morning and got up and washed, everything was like an open book to me, and I seemed to grasp the meaning of life. Dear Ivan Romanovitch, I understand everything. Every one must toil in the sweat of his brow, whoever he may be. In this alone is the aim and object of his life, his happiness, his ambition. How splendid it is to be a workman who gets up at daybreak and breaks stones in the street, or a shepherd, or a schoolmaster, who teaches children, or a railroad mechanic. . . . My God, if I can't be a man who works, I would rather be an ox, or a horse, or any work animal, than a young woman who wakes up at twelve o'clock, has her coffee in bed, and then spends two hours dressing. • . . Oh, it's awful ! Sometimes I crave work as a thirsty man craves water on a hot day. And if I don't get up early in the future and work, Ivan Romanovitch, then you may refuse me your friendship.

Tchebutikin [tenderly] I agree, I agree. . . .

Olga. Father used to make us get up at seven. Now Irina wakes at seven and lies and meditates about something till nine at least. And she looks so serious! [Laughs]

Irina; You're so used to me as a little girl that it seems queer to you that I should ever be serious. I'm twenty!

Tuzenbach. I can understand that craving for work. God ! I've never worked in my life. I was born in chilly, lazy Petersburg, of a family that never needed to work nor ever had to worry. I remember when I came home from my regiment, a footman had to pull off my boots while I fidgeted and my mother gazed at me in adoration and wondered when others looked on disapprovingly. They shielded me from work; they almost succeeded, almost ! The day of reckoning is here. Something formidable is threatening us ; a strong, cleansing storm is gathering; it is coming nearer and nearer; it will soon sweep our world clean of laziness, indifference, prejudice against work, and wretched boredom. I shall soon work, and within twenty-five or thirty years, every one will work! Every one !

Tchebutikin. I shan't work.

Tuzenbach. You do not matter.

Solyony. In twenty-five years' time, we shall all be dead, thank the Lord. In two or three years a stroke will carry you off, or else I'll grow impatient and blow your brains out, my angel.

[Takes a scent-bottle out of his pocket and sprays his chest and hands~\

Tchebutikin [laughs] It's quite true, I have never done anything in my life. After I left the university I never moved a finger or opened a book, I just read the papers. . . . [Takes another newspaper out of his pocket] Here we are. . . . According to the papers there used to be a writer, named Dobroluboff, but what he wrote — I don't know • . . God only knows . . . [Rapping is heard from the -floor below] There. . . . They're calling me downstairs, somebody's come to see me. I'll be back in a minute . . . won't be long . . . [Exit hurriedly, scratching his beard]

Irina. He's up to something.

Tuzenbach. Yes, he looked so pleased as he went out that I'm pretty certain he'll bring you a present in a moment.

Irina. How unpleasant !

Olga. Yes, it's awful. He's always doing silly things.

Masha. "A green oak stands by the sea.

A chain of gold around it . . .

A chain of gold around it . • » n

[Masha rises and hums softly"]

Olga. You're not very cheerful to-day, Masha. [Masha hums, putting on her hat] Where are you off to?

Masha. Home.

Irina. That's odd. . . .

Tuzenbach. Leaving the birthday party?

Masha. It doesn't matter. I'll come back in the evening. Good-bye, dear. [Kisses Irina] Once more let me wish you many happy returns ! In the old days when father was alive, every time we had a birthday, thirty or forty officers used to come, and there was plenty of noise and fun, and to-day there's only a man and a half, and it's as quiet as the grave. I'm off . . . I'm out of sorts to-day, and gloomy, so don't you mind me. [Laughs through her tears] We'll talk later on. Good-by for the present, my dear; I'll go somewhere.

Irina [displeased] You are queer. . . .

Olga [crying] I understand you, Masha.

Solyony. When a man talks philosophy, well, it is philosophy or at any rate sophistry ; but when a woman, or two women, talk philosophy — it's all nonsense.

Masha. What do you mean by that, you awful creature?

Solyony. Oh, nothing. You jump on me before I can say Booh! [Pause.]

Masha [angrily, to Olga] Stop bawling!

[Enter Anfisa and Ferapont with a cake]

Anfisa. This way, my dear. Come in, your feet are clean. [To Irina] The District Council, from Mikhail Ivanitch Protopopoff sends this cake.

Irina. Thank you. Please thank him. [Takes the cake]

Ferapont. What ?

Irina [louder] Please thank him.

Olga. Give him some pie, nurse. Ferapont, go, you'll get some pie.

Ferapont. What ?

Anfisa. Come on, grand-dad, Ferapont Spiridonitch. Come on. [Exeunt]

Masha. I don't like this Mikhail Potapitch or Ivanitch, Protopopoff. We should not invite him here.

Irina. I never asked him.

Masha. That's right.

[Enter Tchebutikin followed by a soldier carrying a silver samovar; there are exclamations of astonishment and dissatisfaction]

Olga [covers her face with her hands] A samovar! That's terrible! [Exit into the living-room, walks up to table]

Irina. My dear Ivan Romanovitch, what are you doing!

Tuzenbach [laughs] I told you so!

Masha. Ivan Romanovitch, you are absolutely shameless!

Tchebutikin. My dear ones, you are all I have, everything I care for in all the world. I'll soon be sixty.

I'm an old man, a lonely insignificant old man. The one good thing about me is my love for you, and if it hadn't been for that, I would have died long ago. ... [To Irind\ My dear little girl, Гѵе known you since you were born, I've carried you in my arms. ... I loved your dead mother. . . .

Masha. But why such expensive presents?

Tchebutikin [angrily, through his tears] Expensive presents . . . You should be scolded! . . . [To the orderly] Take the samovar in there . . . [teasing] Expensive presents !

[The Orderly goes into the living-room with the samovar]

Anfisa [enters and crosses stage] My dear, a strange Colonel is calling! He's taken off his coat already, children, he's coming in here. Irina darling, you'll be a nice and polite little girl, won't you? . . . [Going into living-room] It's long past the lunch hour. . , . Oh Lord . . . [Exit]

Tuzenbach. It must be Vershinin. [Enter Vershinin] Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin!

Vershinin [to Masha and Irina] I have the honor of introducing myself, my name is Vershinin. I am very glad that I've met you at last. Why — you are grown up! Dear! Dear!

Irina. Please sit down. We're very glad you came.

Vershinin [gayly] I am glad, so very glad! But there are three sisters, surely. I remember — three little girls. I forget your faces, but your father, Colonel Prozoroff, used to have three little girls; I remember that ю THE THREE SISTERS

perfectly ; I saw them with my own eyes. How time does fly ! Oh, dear, how it does fly !

Tuzenbach. Alexander Ignateievitch comes from Moscow.

Irina. From Moscow? Are you from Moscow?

Vershinin. Yes, from Moscow. Your late father used to command a battery there, and I was an officer in the same brigade. [To Masha] I seem to remember your face a little.

Masha. I don't remember you.

Irina. Olga! Olga! [Shouts into the living-room] Olga! Come here! [Olga enters from living-room] Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin comes from Moscow, it appears.

Vershinin. You are doubtless Olga Sergeievna, the eldest, and you are Maria . . . and you Irina, the youngest. . . .

Olga. So you come from Moscow?

Vershinin. Yes. I went to school in Moscow and entered the army there; I served there for a long time until at last I got my battery and was transferred here, as you see. I don't really remember you, I only remember that there were three sisters. I have a vivid recollection of your father. I have only to shut my eyes to see him as if he were alive. I used to visit your house in Moscow. . . .

Olga. I always thought I remembered everybody, but . . .

Vershinin. My name is Alexander Ignateievitch.

THE THREE SISTERS n

Irina. Alexander Ignateievitch, youVe come from Moscow. What a surprise !

Olga. We are going there, to live, you see.

Irina. We expect to be there by autumn. It's our native town; we were born there, in Old Basmanny Street . . . [They both laugh gayly]

Mash a. We've unexpectedly met a fellow townsman. [Briskly] I remember now: Do you remember, Olga, they used to speak at home of a "lovelorn Major." You were only a Lieutenant then, and in love with somebody, but for some reason they always called you a Major in fun.

Vershinin [laughs] That's it . . . the lovelorn Major, that's it!

Masha. You wore only mustaches then. You have grown older! [Through her tears] How you have grown older !

Vershinin. Yes, when they used to call me the lovelorn Major, I was young and in love. I've grown out of both now.

Olga. But you haven't a single white hair. You're older, but you're not yet old.

Vershinin. Still, I'm forty-two. Have you been away from Moscow long?

Irina. Eleven years. What are you crying for, Masha, you little fool . . . [Crying] And I'm crying, too.

Masha. It's all right. And where did you live?

Vershinin. In Old Basmanny Street.

Olga. So did we.

Vershinin. Once I lived in Niemetskaya Street. That was when the Red Barracks were my headquarters. There's a gloomy bridge in between with the water rushing below. One grows melancholy when one is alone there. [Pause] Here the river is so wide and fine ! It's a splendid river!

Olga. Yes, but it's so cold. It's very cold here, and the mosquitoes

Vershinin. What are you saying! Here you have such a fine healthy Russian climate. You've a forest, a river . . . and birches. Dear, modest birches, I like them more than any other tree. It's good to live here. Only it's odd that the railway station should be thirteen miles away. . . . Nobody knows why.

Solyony. I know why. [All look at him] Because if it was near it wouldn't be far off, and if it's far off, it can't be near.

[An awkward pause]

Tuzenbach. Vassily Vassilievitch — he is always jesting!

Olga. Now I know who you are. I remember.

Vershinin. I used to know your mother.

Tchebutikin. She was a good woman, God rest her soul.

Irina. Mother is buried in Moscow.

Olga. At the Novo-Devitsky Cemetery.

Mash a. Imagine, I'm beginning to forget her face. We'll be forgotten the same way — forgotten !

Vershinin. Yes, forgotten! It's our fate, it can't be helped. The time will come when everything that seems serious, significant, or very important to us will be forgotten, or considered trivial. [Pause] And the curious thing is that we can't possibly find out what will come to be regarded as great and important, and what will be worthless or ridiculous. Didn't the discoveries of Copernicus, or Columbus, say, seem unnecessary and ludicrous at first, while rubbish written by a fool was considered the whole truth? And it may happen that our present mode of life with which we are so satisfied, will in time appear strange, inconvenient, stupid, unclean, perhaps even sinful. . . .

Tuzenbach. Who knows? But, on the other hand, they may call our life noble and honor its memory. We've abolished torture and capital punishment, we live in security, but how much suffering there is still!

Solyony [in a feeble voice] There, there. . . . The Baron will go without his dinner if you only let him talk philosophy.

Tuzenbach. Vassily Vassilievitch, please leave me alone. [Takes another chair] This is a bore, you know.

Solyony [feebly] There, there, there.

Tuzenbach [to Vershinin] The amount of suffering we see to-day — there is so much of it ! — shows that society has already reached a specific moral improvement.

Vershinin. Yes, yes, of course.

Tchebutikin. You said just now, Baron, that they may call our life noble; but we are very petty. . . . [Stands up] See how small I am. But I can console myself by saying that my life is noble and lofty. [Violin played back stage]

Masha. That's Andrei playing — our brother.

Irina. He's a cultured man. I expect he will be a professor some day. Father was a soldier, but his son chose an academic career.

Masha. That was father's wish.

Olga. We teased him to-day. We think he's a bit in love.

Irina. With a girl in town. She will probably be here to-day.

Masha. You should see the way she dresses! Quite prettily, quite fashionably, too, but so unbecomingly! Some queer bright yellow skirt with a wretched little fringe and a red bodice. And her cheeks look so washed out, so washed out! Andrei isn't in love; I can't believe it. After all, he has taste! He's simply making fun of us. I heard yesterday that she was going to marry Protopopoff, the chairman of the Local Council. That would do her nicely. . . . [At the side door] Andrei, come here! Just for a minute, dear!

[Enter Andrei]

Olga. My brother, Andrei Sergeievitch.

Vershinin. My name is Vershinin.

Andrei. Mine is Prozoroff. [Wipes his perspiring face] You've come to take charge of the battery?

Olga. Just think, Alexander Ignateievitch comes from Moscow.

Andrei. That's all right. Now my little sisters won't give you any rest.

Vershinin. I've already managed to bore them.

Irina. Just look what a nice little picture frame

Andrei gave me to-day. [Shows it] He made it himself.

Vershinin [looks at the frame and does not know what to say] Yes. . . . It's a thing that . . .

Irina. And he made that frame over there, on the piano as well. [Andrei waves his hand and walks away]

Olga. He has a degree, plays the violin, carves all sorts of things out of wood, and is really a jack-of-alltrades. Don't go away, Andrei ! Heis got into a habit of always going away. Come here!

[Masha and Irina take his arms and laughingly lead him back]

Masha. Come, come!

Andrei. Please leave me alone.

Masha. You are funny. Alexander Ignateievitch used to be called the lovelorn Major, but he never minded.

Vershinin. Not the least.

Masha. I'd like to call you the lovelorn fiddler!

Irina. Or the lovelorn professor!

Olga. He's in love! Little Andrei is in love!

Irina [applauds] Bravo, bravo! Encore! Little Andrei is in love.

Tchebutikin [goes up behind Andrei and puts his arms about him] We were created for love only!

[Roars with laughter, then sits down holding his newspaper in his hands]

Andrei. That's enough, quite enough. • . . [Wipes his face] I couldn't sleep all night and now I am not quite myself. I read until four o'clock, then tried to sleep, but nothing happened. I thought about one thing іб THE THREE SISTERS

and another, and then dawn came and the sun crept into my bedroom. This summer, while Fm here, I'd like to translate a book from the English. . . .

Vershinin. Do you read English?

Andrei. Yes; father, rest his soul, educated us almost violently. It may seem trivial and foolish, but it's nevertheless true, that after his death I began to fill out, and I gained a good deal of weight within the year, as if my body had been freed from some tremendous pressure. Thanks to father, my sisters and I 'know French, German, and English, and Irina knows Italian as well. But we paid dearly for it all!

Masha. A knowledge of three languages is an unnecessary luxury in this town. It isn't even a luxury but a sort of superfluous thing, like a sixth finger. We know a great deal too much.

Vershinin. Well, I say! [Laughs] You know a great deal too mifth! I don't think there can really be a town so dull and stupid as to have no room for a clever, cultured person. Let us suppose even that among the hundred thousand inhabitants of this backward and crude town, there are only three persons like yourself. It stands to reason that you won't be able to conquer that dark mob around you; little by little as you grow older you will be bound to give way and lose yourselves in this crowd of a hundred thousand human beings; their life will suck you under, but still, you won't disappear without having influenced anybody; later on, others like you will come, perhaps six of them, then twelve, and so on, until at last your sort will be in the majority.

In two or three hundred years life on this earth will be gorgeously beautiful and glorious. Mankind needs such a life, and if it is not ours to-day then we must look forward to it, wait, think, prepare for it. We must see and know more than our fathers and grandfathers saw and knew. [Laughs] And you complain that you know too much.

Masha [takes off her hat] I'll stay to lunch.

Irina [sighs] Really, all that should be written down.

[Andrei has gone out quietly]

Tuzenbach. You say that many years later, life on this earth will be beautiful and glorious. That's true. But to take part in it now, even indirectly, we must work and make ready —

Vershinin [gets up] Yes. What a lot of flowers you have. [Looks round] It's a beautiful apartment! I envy you! All my life I moved from one quarter to another, and they never had more than two chairs, a sofa, and a fireplace which smoked. I've never had flowers like these in my life. . . . [Rubs* his hands] Well, well!

Tuzenbach. Yes, we must work. You are probably thinking to yourself: The German is growing sentimental. But I assure you I'm a Russian, I can't even speak German. My father belonged to the Orthodox Church. . . . [Pause]

Vershinin [walks about the stage] I often wonder: suppose we could begin life over again, perfectly aware of our actions? Suppose we could use one life, already ended, as a sort of rough draft for another? I think i8 THE THREE SISTERS

that every one of us would try, more than anything else, not to repeat himself; at the very least he would rearrange his manner of life, he would make sure of rooms like these, with flowers and light ... I have a wife and two daughters. My wife's health is delicate and so on and so forth, and if I had to begin life all over again I would not marry. . . . No, no!

[Enter Kuligin in a regulation tunic]

Kuligin [going up to Irind] Dear sister, allow me to congratulate you on your birthday and to wish you, sincerely and from the bottom of my heart, good health and everything else in the world. And then let me offer you this book as a present. [Gives it to her] It is the history of our High School during the last fifty years, written by myself. The book is worthless, and written because I had nothing else to do, but read it all the same. How are you, gentlemen? [To Vershinin] My name is Kuligin, I am a teacher of the local High School, with the rank of Assistant Councilor of Pedagogics. [To Irina] You will in this book find a list of all our High School graduates of the last fifty years. Feci quod potuij faciant meliora potentes. [Kisses Masha]