other men, not knowing why I am alive or what it is that I want. Love seems to me to be folly, caresses false. I see no sense in working or playing, and all passionate speeches seem insipid and tiresome. So I carry my sadness with me wherever I go; a cold weariness, a discontent, a horror of life. Yes, I am lost for ever and ever. Before you stands a man who at thirty-five is disillusioned, wearied by fruitless efforts, burning with shame, and mocking at his own weakness. Oh, how my pride rebels against it all! What mad fury chokes me! [He staggers] I am staggering—my strength is failing me. Where is Matthew? Let him take me home.
[Voices from the ball-room] The best man has arrived!
Enter Shabelski.
Shabelski. In an old worn-out coat—without gloves! How many scornful glances I get for it! Such silly jokes and vulgar grins! Disgusting people.
Enter Borkin quickly. He is carrying a bunch of flowers and is in a dress-coat. He wears a flower in his buttonhole.
Borkin. This is dreadful! Where is he? [To Ivanoff] They have been waiting for you for a long time in the church, and here you are talking philosophy! What a funny chap you are. Don’t you know you must not go to church with the bride, but alone, with me? I shall then come back for her. Is it possible you have not understood that? You certainly are an extraordinary man!
Enter Lvoff.
Lvoff. [To Ivanoff] Ah! So you are here? [Loudly] Nicholas Ivanoff, I denounce you to the world as a scoundrel!
Ivanoff. [Coldly] Many thanks!
Borkin. [To Lvoff] Sir, this is dastardly! I challenge you to a duel!
Lvoff. Monsieur Borkin, I count it a disgrace not only to
