The Sea-Gull

ACT II

The lawn in front of SORIN'S house. The house stands in the back­ground, on a broad ter­race. The lake, bright­ly re­flect­ing the rays of the sun, lies to the left. There are flow­er-​beds here and there. It is noon; the day is hot. ARKAD­INA, DORN, and MASHA are sit­ting on a bench on the lawn, in the shade of an old lin­den. An open book is ly­ing on DORN'S knees.

ARKAD­INA. [To MASHA] Come, get up. [They both get up] Stand be­side me. You are twen­ty-​two and I am al­most twice your age. Tell me, Doc­tor, which of us is the younger look­ing?

DORN. You are, of course.

ARKAD­INA. You see! Now why is it? Be­cause I work; my heart and mind are al­ways busy, where­as you nev­er move off the same spot. You don't live. It is a max­im of mine nev­er to look in­to the fu­ture. I nev­er ad­mit the thought of old age or death, and just ac­cept what comes to me.

MASHA. I feel as if I had been in the world a thou­sand years, and I trail my life be­hind me like an end­less scarf. Of­ten I have no de­sire to live at all. Of course that is fool­ish. One ought to pull one­self to­geth­er and shake off such non­sense.

DORN. [Sings soft­ly]

“Tell her, oh flow­ers--”

ARKAD­INA. And then I keep my­self as cor­rect-​look­ing as an En­glish­man. I am al­ways well-​groomed, as the say­ing is, and care­ful­ly dressed, with my hair neat­ly ar­ranged. Do you think I should ev­er per­mit my­self to leave the house half-​dressed, with un­tidy hair? Cer­tain­ly not! I have kept my looks by nev­er let­ting my­self slump as some wom­en do. [She puts her arms akim­bo, and walks up and down on the lawn] See me, trip­ping on tip­toe like a fif­teen-​year-​old girl.

DORN. I see. Nev­er­the­less, I shall con­tin­ue my read­ing. [He takes up his book] Let me see, we had come to the grain-​deal­er and the rats.

ARKAD­INA. And the rats. Go on. [She sits down] No, give me the book, it is my turn to read. [She takes the book and looks for the place] And the rats. Ah, here it is. [She reads] “It is as dan­ger­ous for so­ci­ety to at­tract and in­dulge au­thors as it is for grain-​deal­ers to raise rats in their gra­naries. Yet so­ci­ety loves au­thors. And so, when a wom­an has found one whom she wish­es to make her own, she lays siege to him by in­dulging and flat­ter­ing him.” That may be so in France, but it cer­tain­ly is not so in Rus­sia. We do not car­ry out a pro­gramme like that. With us, a wom­an is usu­al­ly head over ears in love with an au­thor be­fore she at­tempts to lay siege to him. You have an ex­am­ple be­fore your eyes, in me and Trig­orin.

SORIN comes in lean­ing on a cane, with NI­NA be­side him. MED­VIEDENKO fol­lows, push­ing an arm-​chair.

SORIN. [In a ca­ress­ing voice, as if speak­ing to a child] So we are hap­py now, eh? We are en­joy­ing our­selves to-​day, are we? Fa­ther and step­moth­er have gone away to Tver, and we are free for three whole days!

NI­NA. [Sits down be­side ARKAD­INA, and em­braces her] I am so hap­py. I be­long to you now.

SORIN. [Sits down in his arm-​chair] She looks love­ly to-​day.

ARKAD­INA. Yes, she has put on her pret­ti­est dress, and looks sweet. That was nice of you. [She kiss­es NI­NA] But we mustn't praise her too much; we shall spoil her. Where is Trig­orin?

NI­NA. He is fish­ing off the wharf.

ARKAD­INA. I won­der he isn't bored. [She be­gins to read again.]

NI­NA. What are you read­ing?

ARKAD­INA. “On the Wa­ter,” by Mau­pas­sant. [She reads a few lines to her­self] But the rest is nei­ther true nor in­ter­est­ing. [She lays down the book] I am un­easy about my son. Tell me, what is the mat­ter with him? Why is he so dull and de­pressed late­ly? He spends all his days on the lake, and I scarce­ly ev­er see him any more.

MASHA. His heart is heavy. [Timid­ly, to NI­NA] Please re­cite some­thing from his play.

NI­NA. [Shrug­ging her shoul­ders] Shall I? Is it so in­ter­est­ing?

MASHA. [With sup­pressed rap­ture] When he re­cites, his eyes shine and his face grows pale. His voice is beau­ti­ful and sad, and he has the ways of a po­et.

SORIN be­gins to snore.

DORN. Pleas­ant dreams!

ARKAD­INA. Pe­ter!

SORIN. Eh?

ARKAD­INA. Are you asleep?

SORIN. Not a bit of it. [A pause.]

ARKAD­INA. You don't do a thing for your health, broth­er, but you re­al­ly ought to.

DORN. The idea of do­ing any­thing for one's health at six­ty-​five!

SORIN. One still wants to live at six­ty-​five.

DORN. [Cross­ly] Ho! Take some camomile tea.

ARKAD­INA. I think a jour­ney to some wa­ter­ing-​place would be good for him.

DORN. Why, yes; he might go as well as not.

ARKAD­INA. You don't un­der­stand.

DORN. There is noth­ing to un­der­stand in this case; it is quite clear.

MED­VIEDENKO. He ought to give up smok­ing.

SORIN. What non­sense! [A pause.]

DORN. No, that is not non­sense. Wine and to­bac­co de­stroy the in­di­vid­ual­ity. Af­ter a cigar or a glass of vod­ka you are no longer Pe­ter Sorin, but Pe­ter Sorin plus some­body else. Your ego breaks in two: you be­gin to think of your­self in the third per­son.

SORIN. It is easy for you to con­demn smok­ing and drink­ing; you have known what life is, but what about me? I have served in the De­part­ment of Jus­tice for twen­ty-​eight years, but I have nev­er lived, I have nev­er had any ex­pe­ri­ences. You are sa­ti­at­ed with life, and that is why you have an in­cli­na­tion for phi­los­ophy, but I want to live, and that is why I drink my wine for din­ner and smoke cigars, and all.

DORN. One must take life se­ri­ous­ly, and to take a cure at six­ty-​five and re­gret that one did not have more plea­sure in youth is, for­give my say­ing so, tri­fling.

MASHA. It must be lunch-​time. [She walks away lan­guid­ly, with a drag­ging step] My foot has gone to sleep.

DORN. She is go­ing to have a cou­ple of drinks be­fore lunch.

SORIN. The poor soul is un­hap­py.

DORN. That is a tri­fle, your hon­our.

SORIN. You judge her like a man who has ob­tained all he wants in life.

ARKAD­INA. Oh, what could be duller than this dear te­di­um of the coun­try? The air is hot and still, no­body does any­thing but sit and philosophise about life. It is pleas­ant, my friends, to sit and lis­ten to you here, but I had rather a thou­sand times sit alone in the room of a ho­tel learn­ing a role by heart.

NI­NA. [With en­thu­si­asm] You are quite right. I un­der­stand how you feel.

SORIN. Of course it is pleas­an­ter to live in town. One can sit in one's li­brary with a tele­phone at one's el­bow, no one comes in with­out be­ing first an­nounced by the foot­man, the streets are full of cabs, and all---

DORN. [Sings]

“Tell her, oh flow­ers---”

SHAM­RA­EFF comes in, fol­lowed by PAULI­NA.

SHAM­RA­EFF. Here they are. How do you do? [He kiss­es ARKAD­INA'S hand and then NI­NA'S] I am de­light­ed to see you look­ing so well. [To ARKAD­INA] My wife tells me that you mean to go to town with her to-​day. Is that so?

ARKAD­INA. Yes, that is what I had planned to do.

SHAM­RA­EFF. Hm--that is splen­did, but how do you in­tend to get there, madam? We are haul­ing rye to-​day, and all the men are busy. What hors­es would you take?

ARKAD­INA. What hors­es? How do I know what hors­es we shall have?

SORIN. Why, we have the car­riage hors­es.

SHAM­RA­EFF. The car­riage hors­es! And where am I to find the har­ness for them? This is as­ton­ish­ing! My dear madam, I have the great­est re­spect for your tal­ents, and would glad­ly sac­ri­fice ten years of my life for you, but I can­not let you have any hors­es to-​day.

ARKAD­INA. But if I must go to town? What an ex­traor­di­nary state of af­fairs!

SHAM­RA­EFF. You do not know, madam, what it is to run a farm.

ARKAD­INA. [In a burst of anger] That is an old sto­ry! Un­der these cir­cum­stances I shall go back to Moscow this very day. Or­der a car­riage for me from the vil­lage, or I shall go to the sta­tion on foot.

SHAM­RA­EFF. [los­ing his tem­per] Un­der these cir­cum­stances I re­sign my po­si­tion. You must find your­self an­oth­er man­ag­er. [He goes out.]

ARKAD­INA. It is like this ev­ery sum­mer: ev­ery sum­mer I am in­sult­ed here. I shall nev­er set foot here again.

She goes out to the left, in the di­rec­tion of the wharf. In a few min­utes she is seen en­ter­ing the house, fol­lowed by TRIG­ORIN, who car­ries a buck­et and fish­ing-​rod.

SORIN. [Los­ing his tem­per] What the deuce did he mean by his im­pu­dence? I want all the hors­es brought here at once!

NI­NA. [To PAULI­NA] How could he refuse any­thing to Madame Arkad­ina, the fa­mous ac­tress? Is not ev­ery wish, ev­ery caprice even, of hers, more im­por­tant than any farm work? This is in­cred­ible.

PAULI­NA. [In de­spair] What can I do about it? Put your­self in my place and tell me what I can do.

SORIN. [To NI­NA] Let us go and find my sis­ter, and all beg her not to go. [He looks in the di­rec­tion in which SHAM­RA­EFF went out] That man is in­suf­fer­able; a reg­ular tyrant.

NI­NA. [Pre­vent­ing him from get­ting up] Sit still, sit still, and let us wheel you. [She and MED­VIEDENKO push the chair be­fore them] This is ter­ri­ble!

SORIN. Yes, yes, it is ter­ri­ble; but he won't leave. I shall have a talk with him in a mo­ment. [They go out. On­ly DORN and PAULI­NA are left.]

DORN. How tire­some peo­ple are! Your hus­band de­serves to be thrown out of here neck and crop, but it will all end by this old granny Sorin and his sis­ter ask­ing the man's par­don. See if it doesn't.

PAULI­NA. He has sent the car­riage hors­es in­to the fields too. These mis­un­der­stand­ings oc­cur ev­ery day. If you on­ly knew how they ex­cite me! I am ill; see! I am trem­bling all over! I can­not en­dure his rough ways. [Im­plor­ing­ly] Eu­gene, my dar­ling, my beloved, take me to you. Our time is short; we are no longer young; let us end de­cep­tion and con­ceal­ment, even though it is on­ly at the end of our lives. [A pause.]

DORN. I am fifty-​five years old. It is too late now for me to change my ways of liv­ing.

PAULI­NA. I know that you refuse me be­cause there are oth­er wom­en who are near to you, and you can­not take ev­ery­body. I un­der­stand. Ex­cuse me--I see I am on­ly both­er­ing you.

NI­NA is seen near the house pick­ing a bunch of flow­ers.

DORN. No, it is all right.

PAULI­NA. I am tor­tured by jeal­ousy. Of course you are a doc­tor and can­not es­cape from wom­en. I un­der­stand.

DORN. [TO NI­NA, who comes to­ward him] How are things in there?

NI­NA. Madame Arkad­ina is cry­ing, and Sorin is hav­ing an at­tack of asth­ma.

DORN. Let us go and give them both some camomile tea.

NI­NA. [Hands him the bunch of flow­ers] Here are some flow­ers for you.

DORN. Thank you. [He goes in­to the house.]

PAULI­NA. [Fol­low­ing him] What pret­ty flow­ers! [As they reach the house she says in a low voice] Give me those flow­ers! Give them to me!

DORN hands her the flow­ers; she tears them to pieces and flings them away. They both go in­to the house.

NI­NA. [Alone] How strange to see a fa­mous ac­tress weep­ing, and for such a tri­fle! Is it not strange, too, that a fa­mous au­thor should sit fish­ing all day? He is the idol of the pub­lic, the pa­pers are full of him, his pho­to­graph is for sale ev­ery­where, his works have been trans­lat­ed in­to many for­eign lan­guages, and yet he is over­joyed if he catch­es a cou­ple of min­nows. I al­ways thought fa­mous peo­ple were dis­tant and proud; I thought they de­spised the com­mon crowd which ex­alts rich­es and birth, and avenged them­selves on it by daz­zling it with the in­ex­tin­guish­able hon­our and glo­ry of their fame. But here I see them weep­ing and play­ing cards and fly­ing in­to pas­sions like ev­ery­body else.

TREPLI­EFF comes in with­out a hat on, car­ry­ing a gun and a dead seag­ull.

TREPLI­EFF. Are you alone here?

NI­NA. Yes.

TREPLI­EFF lays the sea-​gull at her feet.

NI­NA. What do you mean by this?

TREPLI­EFF. I was base enough to-​day to kill this gull. I lay it at your feet.

NI­NA. What is hap­pen­ing to you? [She picks up the gull and stands look­ing at it.]

TREPLI­EFF. [Af­ter a pause] So shall I soon end my own life.

NI­NA. You have changed so that I fail to recog­nise you.

TREPLI­EFF. Yes, I have changed since the time when I ceased to recog­nise you. You have failed me; your look is cold; you do not like to have me near you.

NI­NA. You have grown so ir­ri­ta­ble late­ly, and you talk so dark­ly and sym­bol­ical­ly that you must for­give me if I fail to fol­low you. I am too sim­ple to un­der­stand you.

TREPLI­EFF. All this be­gan when my play failed so dis­mal­ly. A wom­an nev­er can for­give fail­ure. I have burnt the manuscript to the last page. Oh, if you could on­ly fath­om my un­hap­pi­ness! Your es­trange­ment is to me ter­ri­ble, in­cred­ible; it is as if I had sud­den­ly waked to find this lake dried up and sunk in­to the earth. You say you are too sim­ple to un­der­stand me; but, oh, what is there to un­der­stand? You dis­liked my play, you have no faith in my pow­ers, you al­ready think of me as com­mon­place and worth­less, as many are. [Stamp­ing his foot] How well I can un­der­stand your feel­ings! And that un­der­stand­ing is to me like a dag­ger in the brain. May it be ac­cursed, to­geth­er with my stu­pid­ity, which sucks my life-​blood like a snake! [He sees TRIG­ORIN, who ap­proach­es read­ing a book] There comes re­al ge­nius, strid­ing along like an­oth­er Ham­let, and with a book, too. [Mock­ing­ly] “Words, words, words.” You feel the warmth of that sun al­ready, you smile, your eyes melt and glow liq­uid in its rays. I shall not dis­turb you. [He goes out.]

TRIG­ORIN. [Mak­ing notes in his book] Takes snuff and drinks vod­ka; al­ways wears black dress­es; is loved by a schoolteach­er--

NI­NA. How do you do?

TRIG­ORIN. How are you, Miss Ni­na? Ow­ing to an un­fore­seen de­vel­op­ment of cir­cum­stances, it seems that we are leav­ing here to­day. You and I shall prob­ably nev­er see each oth­er again, and I am sor­ry for it. I sel­dom meet a young and pret­ty girl now; I can hard­ly re­mem­ber how it feels to be nine­teen, and the young girls in my books are sel­dom liv­ing char­ac­ters. I should like to change places with you, if but for an hour, to look out at the world through your eyes, and so find out what sort of a lit­tle per­son you are.

NI­NA. And I should like to change places with you.

TRIG­ORIN. Why?

NI­NA. To find out how a fa­mous ge­nius feels. What is it like to be fa­mous? What sen­sa­tions does it give you?

TRIG­ORIN. What sen­sa­tions? I don't be­lieve it gives any. [Thought­ful­ly] Ei­ther you ex­ag­ger­ate my fame, or else, if it ex­ists, all I can say is that one sim­ply doesn't feel fame in any way.

NI­NA. But when you read about your­self in the pa­pers?

TRIG­ORIN. If the crit­ics praise me, I am hap­py; if they con­demn me, I am out of sorts for the next two days.

NI­NA. This is a won­der­ful world. If you on­ly knew how I en­vy you! Men are born to dif­fer­ent des­tinies. Some dul­ly drag a weary, use­less life be­hind them, lost in the crowd, un­hap­py, while to one out of a mil­lion, as to you, for in­stance, comes a bright des­tiny full of in­ter­est and mean­ing. You are lucky.

TRIG­ORIN. I, lucky? [He shrugs his shoul­ders] H-m-- I hear you talk­ing about fame, and hap­pi­ness, and bright des­tinies, and those fine words of yours mean as much to me--for­give my say­ing so--as sweet­meats do, which I nev­er eat. You are very young, and very kind.

NI­NA. Your life is beau­ti­ful.

TRIG­ORIN. I see noth­ing es­pe­cial­ly love­ly about it. [He looks at his watch] Ex­cuse me, I must go at once, and be­gin writ­ing again. I am in a hur­ry. [He laughs] You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I am get­ting ex­cit­ed, and a lit­tle cross. Let us dis­cuss this bright and beau­ti­ful life of mine, though. [Af­ter a few mo­ments' thought] Vi­olent ob­ses­sions some­times lay hold of a man: he may, for in­stance, think day and night of noth­ing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I am held in the grip of one be­set­ting thought, to write, write, write! Hard­ly have I fin­ished one book than some­thing urges me to write an­oth­er, and then a third, and then a fourth--I write cease­less­ly. I am, as it were, on a tread­mill. I hur­ry for ev­er from one sto­ry to an­oth­er, and can't help my­self. Do you see any­thing bright and beau­ti­ful in that? Oh, it is a wild life! Even now, thrilled as I am by talk­ing to you, I do not for­get for an in­stant that an un­fin­ished sto­ry is await­ing me. My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand pi­ano; I in­stant­ly make a men­tal note that I must re­mem­ber to men­tion in my sto­ry a cloud float­ing by that looked like a grand pi­ano. I smell he­liotrope; I mut­ter to my­self: a sick­ly smell, the colour worn by wid­ows; I must re­mem­ber that in writ­ing my next de­scrip­tion of a sum­mer evening. I catch an idea in ev­ery sen­tence of yours or of my own, and has­ten to lock all these trea­sures in my lit­er­ary store-​room, think­ing that some day they may be use­ful to me. As soon as I stop work­ing I rush off to the the­atre or go fish­ing, in the hope that I may find obliv­ion there, but no! Some new sub­ject for a sto­ry is sure to come rolling through my brain like an iron can­non­ball. I hear my desk call­ing, and have to go back to it and be­gin to write, write, write, once more. And so it goes for ev­er­last­ing. I can­not es­cape my­self, though I feel that I am con­sum­ing my life. To pre­pare the hon­ey I feed to un­known crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dear­est flow­ers, to tear them from their stems, and tram­ple the roots that bore them un­der foot. Am I not a mad­man? Should I not be treat­ed by those who know me as one men­tal­ly dis­eased? Yet it is al­ways the same, same old sto­ry, till I be­gin to think that all this praise and ad­mi­ra­tion must be a de­cep­tion, that I am be­ing hood­winked be­cause they know I am crazy, and I some­times trem­ble lest I should be grabbed from be­hind and whisked off to a lu­natic asy­lum. The best years of my youth were made one con­tin­ual agony for me by my writ­ing. A young au­thor, es­pe­cial­ly if at first he does not make a suc­cess, feels clum­sy, ill-​at-​ease, and su­per­flu­ous in the world. His nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of break­ing; he is ir­re­sistibly at­tract­ed to lit­er­ary and artis­tic peo­ple, and hov­ers about them un­known and un­no­ticed, fear­ing to look them brave­ly in the eye, like a man with a pas­sion for gam­bling, whose mon­ey is all gone. I did not know my read­ers, but for some rea­son I imag­ined they were dis­trust­ful and un­friend­ly; I was mor­tal­ly afraid of the pub­lic, and when my first play ap­peared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in the au­di­ence were look­ing at it with en­mi­ty, and all the blue ones with cold in­dif­fer­ence. Oh, how ter­ri­ble it was! What agony!

NI­NA. But don't your in­spi­ra­tion and the act of cre­ation give you mo­ments of lofty hap­pi­ness?

TRIG­ORIN. Yes. Writ­ing is a plea­sure to me, and so is read­ing the proofs, but no soon­er does a book leave the press than it be­comes odi­ous to me; it is not what I meant it to be; I made a mis­take to write it at all; I am pro­voked and dis­cour­aged. Then the pub­lic reads it and says: “Yes, it is clever and pret­ty, but not near­ly as good as Tol­stoi,” or “It is a love­ly thing, but not as good as Tur­ge­ni­eff's 'Fa­thers and Sons,' ” and so it will al­ways be. To my dy­ing day I shall hear peo­ple say: “Clever and pret­ty; clever and pret­ty,” and noth­ing more; and when I am gone, those that knew me will say as they pass my grave: “Here lies Trig­orin, a clever writ­er, but he was not as good as Tur­ge­ni­eff.”

NI­NA. You must ex­cuse me, but I de­cline to un­der­stand what you are talk­ing about. The fact is, you have been spoilt by your suc­cess.

TRIG­ORIN. What suc­cess have I had? I have nev­er pleased my­self; as a writ­er, I do not like my­self at all. The trou­ble is that I am made gid­dy, as it were, by the fumes of my brain, and of­ten hard­ly know what I am writ­ing. I love this lake, these trees, the blue heav­en; na­ture's voice speaks to me and wakes a feel­ing of pas­sion in my heart, and I am over­come by an un­con­trol­lable de­sire to write. But I am not on­ly a painter of land­scapes, I am a man of the city be­sides. I love my coun­try, too, and her peo­ple; I feel that, as a writ­er, it is my du­ty to speak of their sor­rows, of their fu­ture, al­so of sci­ence, of the rights of man, and so forth. So I write on ev­ery sub­ject, and the pub­lic hounds me on all sides, some­times in anger, and I race and dodge like a fox with a pack of hounds on his trail. I see life and knowl­edge flit­ting away be­fore me. I am left be­hind them like a peas­ant who has missed his train at a sta­tion, and fi­nal­ly I come back to the con­clu­sion that all I am fit for is to de­scribe land­scapes, and that what­ev­er else I at­tempt rings abom­inably false.

NI­NA. You work too hard to re­alise the im­por­tance of your writ­ings. What if you are dis­con­tent­ed with your­self? To oth­ers you ap­pear a great and splen­did man. If I were a writ­er like you I should de­vote my whole life to the ser­vice of the Rus­sian peo­ple, know­ing at the same time that their wel­fare de­pend­ed on their pow­er to rise to the heights I had at­tained, and the peo­ple should send me be­fore them in a char­iot of tri­umph.

TRIG­ORIN. In a char­iot? Do you think I am Agamem­non? [They both smile.]

NI­NA. For the bliss of be­ing a writ­er or an ac­tress I could en­dure want, and dis­il­lu­sion­ment, and the ha­tred of my friends, and the pangs of my own dis­sat­is­fac­tion with my­self; but I should de­mand in re­turn fame, re­al, re­sound­ing fame! [She cov­ers her face with her hands] Whew! My head reels!

THE VOICE OF ARKAD­INA. [From in­side the house] Boris! Boris!

TRIG­ORIN. She is call­ing me, prob­ably to come and pack, but I don't want to leave this place. [His eyes rest on the lake] What a bless­ing such beau­ty is!

NI­NA. Do you see that house there, on the far shore?

TRIG­ORIN. Yes.

NI­NA. That was my dead moth­er's home. I was born there, and have lived all my life be­side this lake. I know ev­ery lit­tle is­land in it.

TRIG­ORIN. This is a beau­ti­ful place to live. [He catch­es sight of the dead sea-​gull] What is that?

NI­NA. A gull. Con­stan­tine shot it.

TRIG­ORIN. What a love­ly bird! Re­al­ly, I can't bear to go away. Can't you per­suade Iri­na to stay? [He writes some­thing in his note-​book.]

NI­NA. What are you writ­ing?

TRIG­ORIN. Noth­ing much, on­ly an idea that oc­curred to me. [He puts the book back in his pock­et] An idea for a short sto­ry. A young girl grows up on the shores of a lake, as you have. She loves the lake as the gulls do, and is as hap­py and free as they. But a man sees her who chances to come that way, and he de­stroys her out of idle­ness, as this gull here has been de­stroyed. [A pause. ARKAD­INA ap­pears at one of the win­dows.]

ARKAD­INA. Boris! Where are you?

TRIG­ORIN. I am com­ing this minute.

He goes to­ward the house, look­ing back at NI­NA. ARKAD­INA re­mains at the win­dow.

TRIG­ORIN. What do you want?

ARKAD­INA. We are not go­ing away, af­ter all.

TRIG­ORIN goes in­to the house. NI­NA comes for­ward and stands lost in thought.

NI­NA. It is a dream!

The cur­tain falls.