Treplieff. [To Trigorin, as he takes the magazine] Many thanks; you are very kind.
Trigorin. Your admirers all send you their regards. Every one in Moscow and St. Petersburg is interested in you, and all ply me with questions about you. They ask me what you look like, how old you are, whether you are fair or dark. For some reason they all think that you are no longer young, and no one knows who you are, as you always write under an assumed name. You are as great a mystery as the Man in the Iron Mask.
Treplieff. Do you expect to be here long?
Trigorin. No, I must go back to Moscow to-morrow. I am finishing another novel, and have promised something to a magazine besides. In fact, it is the same old business.
During their conversation Arkadina and Paulina have put up a card-table in the centre of the room; Shamraeff lights the candles and arranges the chairs, then fetches a box of lotto from the cupboard.
Trigorin. The weather has given me a rough welcome. The wind is frightful. If it goes down by morning I shall go fishing in the lake, and shall have a look at the garden and the spot—do you remember?—where your play was given. I remember the piece very well, but should like to see again where the scene was laid.
Masha. [To her father] Father, do please let my husband have a horse. He ought to go home.
Shamraeff. [Angrily] A horse to go home with! [Sternly] You know the horses have just been to the station. I can’t send them out again.
Masha. But there are other horses, [Seeing that her father remains silent] You are impossible!
Medviedenko. I shall go on foot, Masha.
