Here I am dangerously ill, and you won’t even give me any medicine.
Dorn. What shall I prescribe for you? Camomile tea? Soda? Quinine?
Sorin. Don’t inflict any of your discussions on me again. [He nods toward the sofa] Is that bed for me?
Paulina. Yes, for you, sir.
Sorin. Thank you.
Dorn. [Sings] “The moon swims in the sky to-night.”
Sorin. I am going to give Constantine an idea for a story. It shall be called “The Man Who Wished—L’Homme qui a voulu.” When I was young, I wished to become an author; I failed. I wished to be an orator; I speak abominably, [Exciting himself] with my eternal “and all, and all,” dragging each sentence on and on until I sometimes break out into a sweat all over. I wished to marry, and I didn’t; I wished to live in the city, and here I am ending my days in the country, and all.
Dorn. You wished to become State Councillor, and—you are one!
Sorin. [Laughing] I didn’t try for that, it came of its own accord.
Dorn. Come, you must admit that it is petty to cavil at life at sixty-two years of age.
Sorin. You are pig-headed! Can’t you see I want to live?
Dorn. That is futile. Nature has commanded that every life shall come to an end.
Sorin. You speak like a man who is satiated with life. Your thirst for it is quenched, and so you are calm and indifferent, but even you dread death.
Dorn. The fear of death is an animal passion which must be overcome. Only those who believe in a future life and tremble for sins committed, can logically fear death; but you,
