but he was a well-known actor. When the celebrities that requent my mother’s drawing-room deign to notice me at all, I know they only look at me to measure my insignificance; I read their thoughts, and suffer from humiliation.
Sorin. Tell me, by the way, what is Trigorin like? I can’t understand him, he is always so silent.
Treplieff. Trigorin is clever, simple, well-mannered, and a little, I might say, melancholic in disposition. Though still under forty, he is surfeited with praise. As for his stories, they are—how shall I put it?—pleasing, full of talent, but if you have read Tolstoi or Zola you somehow don’t enjoy Trigorin.
Sorin. Do you know, my boy, I like literary men. I once passionately desired two things: to marry, and to become an author. I have succeeded in neither. It must be pleasant to be even an insignificant author.
Treplieff. [Listening] I hear footsteps! [He embraces his uncle] I cannot live without her; even the sound of her foot-steps is music to me. I am madly happy. [He goes quickly to meet Nina, who comes in at that moment] My enchantress! My girl of dreams!
Nina. [Excitedly] It can’t be that I am late? No, I am not late.
Treplieff. [Kissing her hands] No, no, no!
Nina. I have been in a fever all day, I was so afraid my father would prevent my coming, but he and my stepmother have just gone driving. The sky is clear, the moon is rising. How I hurried to get here! How I urged my horse to go faster and faster! [Laughing] I am so glad to see you!
Sorin. Oho! Your eyes look as if you had been crying. You mustn’t do that.
Nina. It is nothing, nothing. Do let us hurry. I must go
