Dorn. I may have lost my judgment and my wits, but I must confess I liked that play. There was something in it. When the girl spoke of her solitude and the Devil’s eyes gleamed across the lake, I felt my hands shaking with excitement. It was so fresh and naive. But here he comes; let me say something pleasant to him.
Treplieff comes in.
Treplieff. All gone already?
Dorn. I am here.
Treplieff. Masha has been yelling for me all over the park. An insufferable creature.
Dorn. Constantine, your play delighted me. It was strange, of course, and I did not hear the end, but it made a deep impression on me. You have a great deal of talent, and must persevere in your work.
Treplieff seizes his hand and squeezes it hard, then kisses him impetuously.
Dorn. Tut, tut! how excited you are. Your eyes are full of tears. Listen to me. You chose your subject in the realm of abstract thought, and you did quite right. A work of art should invariably embody some lofty idea. Only that which is seriously meant can ever be beautiful. How pale you are!
Treplieff. So you advise me to persevere?
Dorn. Yes, but use your talent to express only deep and eternal truths. I have led a quiet life, as you know, and am a contented man, but if I should ever experience the exaltation that an artist feels during his moments of creation, I think I should spurn this material envelope of my soul and everything connected with it, and should soar away into heights above this earth.
Treplieff. I beg your pardon, but where is Nina?
Dorn. And yet another thing: every work of art should
