NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. I don't know. But he really is very ill. I think we must send him to the hospital.

WOMAN. Oh G.o.d! [Begins to cry] Don't take him away, let him die here.[28] [To her husband, who utters something] What's the matter?

[28] The woman, for all her roughness, is sorry to part from her husband.

IVaN ZYaBREV. I want to go to the hospital. Here I'm treated worse than a dog.

WOMAN. Well, I don't know. I've lost my head. Malashka, get dinner ready.

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. What have you for dinner?

WOMAN. What? Why, potatoes and bread, and not enough of that. [Enters hut. A pig squeals, and children are crying inside].

IVaN ZYaBREV [groans] Oh Lord, if I could but die!

Enter Boris.

BORiS. Can I be of any use?

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. Here no one can be of use to another. The evil is too deeply rooted. Here we can only be of use to ourselves, by seeing on what we build our happiness. Here is a family: five children, the wife pregnant, the husband ill, nothing but potatoes to eat, and at this moment the question is being decided whether they are to have enough to eat next year or not. Help is not possible. How can one help? Suppose I hire a labourer; who will he be? Just such another man: one who has given up his farming, from drink or from want.

BORiS. Excuse me, but if so, what are you doing here?

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. I am learning my own position. Finding out who weeds our gardens, builds our houses, makes our garments, and feeds and clothes us. [Peasants with scythes and women with rakes pa.s.s by and bow.

Nicholas Ivanovich, stopping one of the Peasants] Ermil, won't you take on the job of carting for these people?

ERMiL [shakes his head] I would with all my heart, but I can't possibly do it. I haven't carted my own yet. We are off now to do some carting.

But is Ivan dying?

ANOTHER PEASANT. Here's Sebastian, he may take on the job. I say, Daddy Sebastian! They want a man to get the oats in.

SEBASTIAN. Take the job on yourself. At this time of year one day's work brings a year's food. [The Peasants pa.s.s on].

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. They are all half-starved; they have only bread and water, they are ill, and many of them are old. That old man, for instance, is ruptured and is suffering, and yet he works from four in the morning to ten at night, though he is only half alive. And we? Is it possible, realising all this, to live quietly and consider oneself a Christian? Or let alone a Christian--simply not a beast?

BORiS. But what can one do?

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. Not take part in this evil. Not own the land, nor devour the fruits of their labour. How this can be arranged, I don't yet know. The fact of the matter is--at any rate it was so with me--I lived and did not realise how I was living. I did not realise that I am a son of G.o.d and that we are all sons of G.o.d--and all brothers. But as soon as I realised it--realised that we have all an equal right to live--my whole life was turned upside down. But I cannot explain it to you now. I will only tell you this: I was blind, just as my people at home are, but now my eyes are opened and I cannot help seeing; and seeing it all, I can't continue to live in such a way. However, that will keep till later. Now we must see what can be done.

Enter Policeman, Peter, his wife, and boy.

PETER [falls at Nicholas Ivanovich's feet] Forgive me, for the Lord's sake, or I'm ruined. How can the woman get in the harvest? If at least I might be bailed out.

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH. I will go and write a pet.i.tion for you. [To Policeman] Can't you let him remain here for the present?

POLICEMAN. Our orders are to take him to the police-station now.

NICHOLAS IVaNOVICH [to Peter] Well then go, and I'll do what I can. This is evidently my doing. How can one go on living like this? [Exit].

Curtain.

SCENE 3

In the same country-house. It is raining outside. A drawing-room with a grand piano. Tonya has just finished playing a sonata of Schumann's and is sitting at the piano. Styopa is standing by the piano. Boris is sitting. Lyuba, Lisa, Mitrofan Ermilych and the young Priest are all stirred by the music.

LYuBA. That andante! Isn't it lovely!

STYoPA. No, the scherzo. Though really the whole of it is beautiful.

LISA. Very fine.

STYoPA. But I had no idea you were such an artist. It is real masterly play. Evidently the difficulties no longer exist for you, and you think only of the feeling, and express it with wonderful delicacy.

LYuBA. Yes, and with dignity.

ToNYA. While _I_ felt that it was not at all what I meant it to be. A great deal remained unexpressed.

LISA. What could be better? It was wonderful.

LYuBA. Schumann is good, but all the same Chopin takes a stronger hold of one's heart.

STYoPA. He is more lyrical.

ToNYA. There is no comparison.

LYuBA. Do you remember his prelude?

ToNYA. Oh, the one called the George Sand prelude? [Plays the commencement].

LYuBA. No, not that one. That is very fine, but so hackneyed. Do play this one. [Tonya plays what she can of it, and then breaks off].

ToNYA. Oh, that is a lovely thing. There is something elemental about it--older than creation.

STYoPA [laughs] Yes, yes. Do play it. But no, you are too tired. As it is, we have had a delightful morning, thanks to you.

ToNYA [rises and looks out of window] There are some more peasants waiting outside.

LYuBA. That is why music is so precious. I understand Saul. Though I'm not tormented by devils, I still understand him. No other art can make one so forget everything else as music does. [Approaches the window. To Peasants] Whom do you want?

PEASANTS. We have been sent to speak to Nicholas Ivanovich.

LYuBA. He is not in. You must wait.

ToNYA. And yet you are marrying Boris who understands nothing about music.

LYuBA. Oh, surely not.