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has the shape of a grand piano； I instantly make a mental note that I must
remember to mention in my story a cloud floating by that looked like a
grand piano。 I smell heliotrope； I mutter to myself： a sickly smell； the
colour worn by widows； I must remember that in writing my next
description of a summer evening。 I catch an idea in every sentence of
yours or of my own； and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary
store…room； thinking that some day they may be useful to me。 As soon as I
stop working I rush off to the theatre or go fishing； in the hope that I may
find oblivion there； but no！ Some new subject for a story is sure to come
rolling through my brain like an iron cannonball。 I hear my desk calling；
and have to go back to it and begin to write； write； write； once more。 And
so it goes for everlasting。 I cannot escape myself； though I feel that I am
consuming my life。 To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds； I am
doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers； to tear them from
their stems； and trample the roots that bore them under foot。 Am I not a
madman？ Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally
diseased？ Yet it is always the same； same old story； till I begin to think that
all this praise and admiration must be a deception； that I am being
hoodwinked because they know I am crazy； and I sometimes tremble lest I
should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum。 The
best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my
writing。 A young author； especially if at first he does not make a success；
feels clumsy； ill…at…ease； and superfluous in the world。 His nerves are all
on edge and stretched to the point of breaking； he is irresistibly attracted to
literary and artistic people； and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed；
fearing to look them bravely in the eye； like a man with a passion for
gambling； whose money is all gone。 I did not know my readers； but for
some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly； I was
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The Sea…Gull
mortally afraid of the public； and when my first play appeared； it seemed
to me as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with enmity；
and all the blue ones with cold indifference。 Oh； how terrible it was！ What
agony！
NINA。 But don't your inspiration and the act of creation give you
moments of lofty happiness？
TRIGORIN。 Yes。 Writing is a pleasure to me； and so is reading the
proofs； but no sooner does a book leave the press than it becomes odious
to me； it is not what I meant it to be； I made a mistake to write it at all； I
am provoked and discouraged。 Then the public reads it and says： 〃Yes； it is
clever and pretty； but not nearly as good as Tolstoi；〃 or 〃It is a lovely thing；
but not as good as Turgenieff's 'Fathers and Sons；' 〃 and so it will always
be。 To my dying day I shall hear people say： 〃Clever and pretty； clever and
pretty；〃 and nothing more； and when I am gone； those that knew me will
say as they pass my grave： 〃Here lies Trigorin； a clever writer； but he was
not as good as Turgenieff。〃
NINA。 You must excuse me； but I decline to understand what you are
talking about。 The fact is； you have been spoilt by your success。
TRIGORIN。 What success have I had？ I have never pleased myself； as
a writer； I do not like myself at all。 The trouble is that I am made giddy ； as
it were； by the fumes of my brain； and often hardly know what I am
writing。 I love this lake； these trees； the blue heaven； nature's voice speaks
to me and wakes a feeling of passion in my heart； and I am overcome by
an uncontrollable desire to write。 But I am not only a painter of landscapes；
I am a man of the city besides。 I love my country； too； and her people； I
feel that； as a writer； it is my duty to speak of their sorrows； of their future；
also of science； of the rights of man； and so forth。 So I write on every
subject； and the public hounds me on all sides； sometimes in anger； and I
race and dodge like a fox with a pack of hounds on his trail。 I see life and
knowledge flitting away before me。 I am left behind them like a peasant
who has missed his train at a station； and finally I come back to the
conclusion that all I am fit for is to describe landscapes； and that whatever
else I attempt rings abominably false。
NINA。 You work too hard to realise the importance of your writings。
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What if you are discontented with yourself？ To others you appear a great
and splendid man。 If I were a writer like you I should devote my whole
life to the service of the Russian people； knowing at the same time that
their welfare depended on their power to rise to the heights I had attained；
and the people should send me before them in a chariot of triumph。
TRIGORIN。 In a chariot？ Do you think I am Agamemnon？ ＇They both
smile。＇
NINA。 For the bliss of being a writer or an actress I could endure want；
and disillusionment； and the hatred of my friends； and the pangs of my
own dissatisfaction with myself； but I should demand in return fame； real；
resounding fame！ ＇She covers her face with her hands＇ Whew！ My head
reels！
THE VOICE OF ARKADINA。 ＇From inside the house＇ Boris！ Boris！
TRIGORIN。 She is calling me； probably to come and pack； but I don't
want to leave this place。 ＇His eyes rest on the lake＇ What a blessing such
beauty is！
NINA。 Do you see that house there； on the far shore？
TRIGORIN。 Yes。
NINA。 That was my dead mother's home。 I was born there； and have
lived all my life beside this lake。 I know every little island in it。
TRIGORIN。 This is a beautiful place to live。 ＇He catches sight of the
dead sea…gull＇ What is that？
NINA。 A gull。 Constantine shot it。
TRIGORIN。 What a lovely bird！ Really； I can't bear to go away。 Can't
you persuade Irina to stay？ ＇He writes something in his note…book。＇
NINA。 What are you writing？
TRIGORIN。 Nothing much； only an idea that occurred to me。 ＇He puts
the book back in his pocket＇ An idea for a short story。 A young girl grows
up on the shores of a lake； as you have。 She loves the lake as the gulls do；
and is as happy and free as they。 But a man sees her who chances to come
that way； and he destroys her out of idleness； as this gull