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.
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 re- cite 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.
