The Complete Plays

THE PROPOSAL

“A vulgarish and boringish vaudevillette, but suitable for the provinces” was how Chekhov disparaged The Proposal, even as he asked friends to intercede with the censors on its behalf. Inspired by the success of The Bear, he was anxious to get his next farce on the boards. It had its first production at the theater at the Imperial residence at Tsarskoe Selo on August 9, 1889, with a cast of Pavel Svobodin (who had created Shabelsky) as Lomov, Mariya Ilinskaya as Nataliya, and the popular fat comedian Varlamov as Chubukov. It was greeted with unbroken laughter, not least from Tsar Alexander III, who congratulated the actors. The Proposal shared The Bear’s fate as a favorite curtain-raiser and benefit play in the provinces for years.

The Proposal is the first of Chekhov’s farces to employ the device of thwarted expectation of what the title announces. Just as the characters in The Wedding and The Celebration fail to pull off the intended ceremonies, so the offer of marriage in this play is continually postponed and eventually eliminated. Botched proposals are a Chekhovian speciality. The cross-purposes of the “imaginary invalid” Lomov, incongruously decked out in tails and gloves, and Nataliya, in her apron, mount to a boisterous, breathless pitch. Chekhov understood how to accelerate the basic misapprehensions into a barrage of insults, and, after building to a climax, how to reinvigorate the action by introducing a fresh contretemps (which he may have learned from Turgenev’s one-act Luncheon with the Marshal of Nobility). Later, the final interview of Tusenbach and Irina in Three Sisters and Lopakhin’s failure to propose to Varya in The Cherry Orchard will show Chekhov modulating the tone to one of shattered hopes and mutually conflicting illusions.

THE PROPOSAL

Прe‰ложeниe

A Joke in One Act

CHARACTERS

STEPAN STEPANOVICH CHUBUKOV,¹ a landowner

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA, his daughter, 25

IVAN VASILYEVICH LOMOV,² Chubukov’s neighbor, a healthy, well-fed, but very hypochrondriacal landowner

The action takes place on Chubukov’s estate.

A parlor in Chubukov’s house.

I

CHUBUKOV and LOMOV (enters wearing a tailcoat and white gloves).

CHUBUKOV (going to meet him). Darling boy, look who it is! Ivan Vasilye-vich! Absolutely delighted! (Shakes his hand.) This is what I call a pleasant surprise, laddy . . . How are you?

LOMOV. Well, thank you kindly. And how are you getting on?

CHUBUKOV. We plug along in a modest sort of way, my cherub, all the better for your asking and so on. Have a seat, please do . . . The thing of it is, it’s wrong to neglect your neighbors, laddy. Darling boy, why are you in formal dress? A tailcoat, gloves, and so on. You headed anywhere in particular, my trusty friend?

LOMOV. No, I’m only calling on you, respected Stepan Stepanych.

CHUBUKOV. Then why the tailcoat, the elegance!

LOMOV. Well, you see, here’s what it’s about. (Takes him by the arm.) I have come, respected Stepan Stepanych, to trouble you with a certain question. More than once now I have had the honor of calling on your assistance, and you have always, in a manner of speaking . . . but, excuse me, I’m getting excited. I’ll take a sip of water, respected Stepan Stepanych. (Drinks water.)

CHUBUKOV (aside). He’s here to ask for money! He won’t get it! (To him.) What’s the matter, my beauty?

LOMOV. Well, you see, Respect Stepanych . . . sorry, Stepan Respectych . . . I mean, I’m awfully excited, as you may have noticed . . . In short, you’re the only one who can assist me, although, of course, I don’t deserve it in any way and . . . and I don’t have the right to count on your support . . .

CHUBUKOV. Ah, stop beating around the bush, laddy! Spit it out! Well?

LOMOV. Right away . . . this very minute. The fact is, I have come here to ask for the hand of your daughter Nataliya Stepanovna.

CHUBUKOV (overjoyed). Darling boy! Ivan Vasilyevich! Say that again — did I hear it right?

LOMOV. I have the honor to ask . . .

CHUBUKOV (interrupting). My darling boy . . . I am delighted and so on . . . The thing of it is and so forth. (Embraces and kisses him.) I’ve wanted this for a long time. It’s always been my wish. (Sheds a tear.) And I’ve always been fond of you, my cherub, like my own son. God grant you both wisdom and love and so on, and I’ve really wanted . . . Why am I standing around like a lunkhead? I’m dazed with delight, quite dazed! Oof, with all my heart . . . I’ll go and call Natasha and that sort of thing.

LOMOV (deeply moved). Respected Stepan Stepanych, what do you think, can I count on her consent?

CHUBUKOV. The thing of it is, a good-looking fellow like you and . . . how can she not consent! She loves you like a cat loves catnip, I’ll wager, and so on . . . Be right back! (Exits.)

II

LOMOV (alone).

LOMOV. It’s cold . . . I’m trembling all over, as if I were about to take an exam. The main thing is to make up your mind. If you think about it too long, and hesitate, talk it over a lot and wait for the perfect woman or true love, then you’ll never get married . . . Brrr! . . . It’s cold! Nataliya Stepanovna is an excellent housekeeper, passable looking, educated . . . what more do I need? However, there goes a ringing in my ears with all this excitement. (Drinks water.) And I’ve really got to get married . . . First of all, I’m already thirty-five — what they call a critical age. Second of all, I need an orderly, well-regulated life . . . I’ve got heart trouble, constant palpitations, I’m touchy and always flying off the handle . . . Right now, look, my lips are quivering and my right eyelid’s starting to flicker . . . But the most awful thing is when I go to sleep. No sooner do I get in bed and start to doze off, when suddenly something starts in my left side—a twitch! and it moves to my shoulders and head . . . I leap out of bed like a lunatic, pace the floor a bit and lie down again, but no sooner do I start to doze off, when there it is in my side again—that twitch! And so it goes twenty times over . . .

III

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA and LOMOV.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (enters). Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s only you, and Papa was saying: go inside, there’s a dealer come about the merchandise. Good morning, Ivan Vasilyevich!

LOMOV. Good morning, respected Nataliya Stepanovna!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Excuse me, I’m in an apron and housedress . . . We’ve been shelling peas for drying. Why has it been so long since your last visit? Please sit down . . .

They sit down.

Would you like some breakfast?

LOMOV. No thank you, I’ve already eaten . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Go ahead and smoke . . . Here are the matches . . . Splendid weather, but yesterday it rained so hard that none of the farmhands did a lick of work all day. How much hay have you mown? Can you imagine, I was a greedy little pig and mowed the whole field, and now I’ve got second thoughts, I’m afraid my hay might rot. It would have been better to wait. But what’s this? I do believe you’re wearing a tailcoat! That’s a new one! You going to a dance or what? By the way, you’re looking good . . . Honestly, why are you all dolled up?

LOMOV (excited). Well, you see, respected Nataliya Stepanovna . . . The fact is that I’ve made up my mind to ask you to hear me out . . . Of course, you must be wondering and even angry, but I . . . (Aside.) It’s awfully cold!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What’s this about?

Pause.

Well?

LOMOV. I shall endeavor to be brief. As you know, respected Nataliya Stepa-novna, it’s been a long time now, since we were children, in fact, that I’ve had the honor of knowing your family. My late auntie and her husband, who, as I expect you know, bequeathed me my land, always had the deepest regard for your daddy and your late mamma. The Lomov clan and the Chubukov clan have always been on the friendliest and, one might even say, familial footing. Besides, as I expect you know, my land is closely adjacent to yours. If you will don’t mind recalling, my Bullock Fields are bounded by your grove of birch trees.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Sorry to interrupt you. You said “my Bullock Fields” . . . Are they actually yours?

LOMOV. They’re mine, ma’am . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Well, is that so! The Bullock Fields are ours, not yours!

LOMOV. No, ma’am, they’re mine, respected Nataliya Stepanovna.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That’s news to me. How do you figure they’re yours?

LOMOV. How do I figure? I’m talking about the Bullock Fields that form a wedge between your birch grove and Stinkhole Swamp.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That’s right, yes, yes . . . They’re ours . . .

LOMOV. No, you’re mistaken, respected Nataliya Stepanovna—they’re mine.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Come to your senses, Ivan Vasilyevich! Since when have they been yours?

LOMOV. Since when? As long as I can remember, they’ve always been ours.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Now, that’s really going too far!

LOMOV. You can see it in the deeds, respected Nataliya Stepanovna. Bullock Fields were once in dispute — that’s true; but now everybody knows that they’re mine. And there’s no point arguing about it. If you don’t mind, my auntie’s granny made over those Fields without limit of time or payment for the use of your daddy’s granddaddy’s peasants, so that they would bake bricks for her. Our daddy’s granddaddy’s peasants had had the use of the Fields rent-free for some forty years and were used to considering them their own, so later when circumstances altered . . .³

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. It’s not at all the way you’re telling it! Both my granddaddy and my great-granddaddy assumed that their land ran up to Stinkhole Swamp—which means, Bullock Fields are ours. What’s there to argue about?—I don’t understand. It’s really annoying!

LOMOV. I can show it to you in the deeds, Nataliya Stepanovna!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. No, you must be joking or putting me on . . . What a surprise! We’ve owned the land for nigh on to three hundred years, and all of a sudden somebody points out to you that it’s not your land! Ivan Vasilyevich, forgive me, but I can’t believe my own ears . . . It’s not that I care so much about the Fields. They’re barely a dozen acres or so, and they’re worth maybe three hundred rubles, but it’s the unfairness of the thing that upsets me. Say what you will, but I cannot put up with unfairness.

LOMOV. Hear me out, for pity’s sake! Your daddy’s granddaddy’s peasants, as I’ve already had the honor to tell you, baked bricks for my auntie’s granny. Auntie’s granny, eager to do something nice for them . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Granddaddy, granny, auntie . . . I can’t make head or tail of this! They’re our Fields, and that’s that.

LOMOV. Mine, ma’am!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Ours! You can show me proofs for two days running, you can put on a dozen tailcoats, but they’re ours, ours, ours! . . . I won’t take what’s yours and I won’t give up what’s mine . . . Say whatever you like!

LOMOV. I don’t need Bullock Fields, Nataliya Stepanovna, but it’s the principle of the thing. If you like, then, please, I’ll give them to you.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I can give them to you myself, they’re mine! . . . This is all very peculiar, to put it mildly, Ivan Vasilyevich! Up to now we considered you a good neighbor, a friend, last year we lent you our threshing machine, and that’s why we couldn’t finish threshing our own wheat until November, and now you treat us as if we were gypsies. You make us a present of our own land. Excuse me but this is not neighborly behavior! To my way of thinking, it’s downright impertinence, if you don’t mind my saying so . . .

LOMOV. In other words, I’m supposed to be appropriating what’s yours? Madam, I have never grabbed other people’s land and won’t allow anyone to accuse me of such a thing . . . (Quickly goes to the carafe and drinks water.) Bullock Fields are mine!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That’s a lie, they’re ours!

LOMOV. Mine!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That’s a lie! I’ll prove it to you! This very day I’ll send men with scythes to those Fields!

LOMOV. What, ma’am?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. This very day my men will be mowing it down!

LOMOV. I’ll toss ‘em out on their ear!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. You wouldn’t dare!

LOMOV (clutches at his heart). Bullock Fields are mine! Understand? Mine!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Stop shouting, please! You can shout and talk yourself hoarse with anger in your own home, but please get a grip on yourself while you’re here!

LOMOV. Madam, if it were not for my appalling, agonizing palpitations, if the veins were not throbbing in my temples, I would speak to you in quite a different tone! (Shouts.) Bullock Fields are mine!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Ours!

LOMOV. Mine!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Ours!

LOMOV. Mine!

IV

The same and CHUBUKOV.

CHUBUKOV (entering). What’s going on? What’s all this shouting for?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa, please explain to this gentleman who owns Bullock Fields: us or him?

CHUBUKOV (to him). The Fields’re ours, my chick!

LOMOV. For pity’s sake, Stepan Stepanych, how do you figure they’re yours? You of all people should have some sense! My auntie’s granny handed over the Fields on a temporary, rent-free basis for the use of your granddaddy’s peasants. The peasants used the land for forty years and got to thinking of it as their own, so when circumstances altered . . .

CHUBUKOV. Excuse me, my valued friend . . . You’re forgetting that the peasants paid your granddaddy nothing and so on, precisely because the Fields were in dispute at the time and so forth . . . And now every whipper-snapper knows perfectly well that they are ours. In other words, you haven’t seen the surveyor’s map!

LOMOV. But I’ll prove to you that they’re mine!

CHUBUKOV. You won’t prove it, my dearest boy.

LOMOV. No, I will prove it!

CHUBUKOV. Laddy, why shout like that? Shouting certainly doesn’t prove anything. I don’t want what’s yours and I’m not inclined to give up what’s mine. On what grounds? If it comes to that, my dear, dear boy, if you’re inclined to dispute the Fields and so on, I’d rather turn them over to the farmers than to you. So there!

LOMOV. I don’t understand! What right have you got to give away other people’s property?

CHUBUKOV. Permit me to know whether I have the right or not. The thing of it is, young man, that I’m not used to being spoken to in that tone of voice and so on. I am twice your age, young man, and I request you to speak to me without losing your head and so forth.

LOMOV. No, you simply take me for a fool and laugh at me! You’re calling my land your land and even expect me to be calm and collected and talk to you like a human being! Good neighbors don’t behave this way, Stepan Stepanych! You’re not a neighbor, but a land grabber!

CHUBUKOV. What’s that, sir? What did you say?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa, send the men out with scythes to the Fields right away!

CHUBUKOV (to Lomov). What did you just say, my good sir?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Bullock Fields are ours, and I won’t give them up, I won’t, I won’t!

LOMOV. We’ll see about that! I’ll prove in court that they’re mine!

CHUBUKOV. In court! Go ahead and take it to court, my good sir, and so forth! Go ahead! I know you, the thing of it is, you’ve just been waiting for a chance to sue us and so on . . . A litigious character! Every member of your family has been lawsuit crazy! Every last one!

LOMOV. Please refrain from insulting my family! Every member of the Lomov clan has been honorable and not a single one has been tried for embezzlement like your beloved uncle!

CHUBUKOV. But every member of your Lomov clan has been crazy as a loon!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Every one, every one, every one!

CHUBUKOV. Your grandfather drank like a fish, and that young auntie of yours, you know the one, Nastasiya Mikhailovna, ran off with an architect and so on . . .

LOMOV. And your mother was lopsided. (Clutches at his heart.) There’s a twitching in my side . . . A hammering in my head . . . Holy saints! . . . Water!

CHUBUKOV. Well, your father cheated at cards and ate like a slob!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. And your auntie’s a scandal-monger, to put it mildly!

LOMOV. My left leg’s paralyzed . . . Well, you’re a bunch of schemers . . . Ugh, my heart! . . . And it’s no secret to anyone that just before the elections you bri . . . There’re spots before my eyes . . . Where’s my hat?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. How contemptible! How dishonorable! How nasty!

CHUBUKOV. Well, you personally, the thing of it is, are a spiteful, two-faced and underhanded individual! Yessiree!

LOMOV. There’s my hat . . . My heart . . . Where’s the way out? Where’s the door? Ugh! . . . I think I’m dying . . . My foot’s dragging . . . (Goes to the door.)

CHUBUKOV (following him). And never set those feet in my house again!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Take us to court! Then we’ll see!

LOMOV staggers out.

V

CHUBUKOV and NATALIYA STEPANOVNA.

CHUBUKOV. The hell with him! (Walks around in agitation.)

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. How do you like that stinker? After that try and believe in good neighbors!

CHUBUKOV. The bastard! The overstuffed dummy!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What a crackpot! Appropriates somebody else’s land and then dares to brag about it.

CHUBUKOV. And this hobgoblin, this, thing of it is, thing that goes bump in the night has the unmitigated gall to propose marriage and so forth! How about that? A marriage proposal!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What’s that about a marriage proposal?

CHUBUKOV. I’ll say! He drove over here to propose to you.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. To propose? To me? Why didn’t you tell me this before?

CHUBUKOV. That’s why he got himself all dolled up in a tailcoat! Like a frankfurter in a tight casing! The puny runt!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. To me? Propose! Ah! (Drops into an armchair and moans.) Bring ‘im back! Bring ‘im back! Ah! Bring ‘im back!

CHUBUKOV. Bring who back?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Quick, quick! I feel faint! Bring ‘im back! (Goes into hysterics.)

CHUBUKOV. What’s the matter? (Clutches his head.) What a miserable wretch I am! I should shoot myself! I should hang myself! They’re torturing me to death!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I’m dying! Bring ‘im back!

CHUBUKOV. Phooey! Right away. Stop bawling! (Runs out.)

-----------------

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (alone, moans). What have we done? Bring ‘im back! Bring ‘im back!

-----------------

CHUBUKOV (runs back in). He’s coming right away and so on, damn him! Oof! Talk to him yourself, the thing of it is I don’t want to . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). Bring ‘im back!

CHUBUKOV (shouts). He’s on his way, I tell you. “Oh, Lord, a heavy burden this, Be father to a grown-up miss . . .”⁴ I’ll cut my throat! I’ll definitely cut my throat! We’ve cursed the man, heckled him, kicked him out, and it’s all because of you . . . you!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. No . . . you!

CHUBUKOV. So now the thing of it is it’s my fault!

LOMOV appears in the doorway.

Well, you talk to him! (Exits.)

VI

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA and LOMOV.

LOMOV (enters, utterly exhausted). The most awful palpitations . . . My leg’s numb . . . my side is throbbing . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Excuse me, we got a bit carried away, Ivan Vasi-lyevich . . . Now I remember: Bullock Fields are in fact yours.

LOMOV. My heart’s pounding horribly . . . The Fields are mine . . . There are spots before both my eyes . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. The fields are yours, yours . . . Do sit down . . .

They sit down.

We were wrong . . .

LOMOV. I insist on the principle of the thing . . . I don’t care about the land, but I do care about the principle . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. The principle, exactly . . . Let’s have a little talk about something else.

LOMOV. Especially since I’ve got proof. My auntie’s granny made over to your daddy’s granddaddy’s peasants . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. All right, all right, that’s enough of that . . . (Aside.) I don’t know how to begin . . . (To him.) Planning to go hunting soon?

LOMOV. For grouse, respected Nataliya Stepanovna, I think I’ll start when the harvest’s over. Oh, did you hear? Imagine my bad luck! My Dasher, whom you are good enough to know, has gone lame.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What a shame! How did it happen?

LOMOV. I don’t know. I suppose he dislocated something or some other dogs bit him . . . (Sighs.) My very best dog, not to mention what he cost me! I actually paid Mironov one hundred twenty-five rubles for him.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. You paid too much, Ivan Vasilyevich!

LOMOV. To my way of thinking, it was pretty cheap. He’s a wonderful dog.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa paid eighty-five rubles for his Splasher, and, after all, Splasher is far superior to your Dasher!

LOMOV. Splasher superior to Dasher! What are you talking about! (Laughs.) Splasher superior to Dasher!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Of course, he’s superior! It’s true, Splasher is still a pup, he’s not matured yet, but judging by his paws and his carriage you won’t find his better at Volchanetsky’s.⁵

LOMOV. Excuse me, Nataliya Stepanovna, but actually you’re forgetting that he’s got an underslung jaw, and a dog with an underslung jaw can’t get a good grip.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. An underslung jaw? That’s the first time I’ve heard that!

LOMOV. I assure you, the lower jawbone is shorter than the upper.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Did you measure it?

LOMOV. I did. He’ll be all right as far as tracking goes, of course, but when it comes to retrieving, he can hardly . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. In the first place, our Splasher is pedigreed, a thoroughbred greyhound, sired by Buckle-down and Chiseler, but as for that rust-colored mutt of yours there’s no point in talking about blood-lines . . . And besides he’s old and hideous as a swaybacked nag.

LOMOV. He may be old, but I wouldn’t take five of your Splashers for him . . . You must be kidding? Dasher is a dog, whereas Splasher . . . it’s ridiculous even to argue about it . . . Things like your Splasher you can find at any kennel — common as dirt. Twenty-five rubles would be asking too much.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Ivan Vasilyevich, you are possessed today by a certain demon of contradiction. First you decide that the Fields belong to you, next you think that Dasher is superior to Splasher. I don’t like it when a man doesn’t say what’s on his mind. After all, you know perfectly well that Splasher is a hundred times better than your . . . that stupid Dasher. Why do you have to contradict?

LOMOV. I see, Nataliya Stepanovna, that you take me for either a blind man or a fool. Why can’t you get it through your head that your Splasher has an underslung jaw!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. That isn’t true.

LOMOV. His jaw is underslung!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (shouts). That isn’t true!

LOMOV. What are you yelling for, madam?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Why do you talk such rubbish? This is really aggravating! It’s high time you put your Dasher to sleep, and yet you go on comparing him with Splasher!

LOMOV. Excuse me, I can’t prolong this argument. I have palpitations.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I’ve noticed that the hunters who argue the most are the ones who know the least.

LOMOV. Madam, I implore you to be quiet . . . My heart is pounding away . . . (Shouts). Be quiet!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I will not be quiet until you admit that Splasher is a hundred times better than your Dasher!

LOMOV. A hundred times worse! He should drop dead, your Splasher! Temples . . . eyes . . . shoulder . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Well, your stupid Dasher doesn’t have to drop dead, because he’s already dead on his feet!

LOMOV (weeps). Will you be quiet! I’m having a heart attack!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I will not be quiet!

VIII

The same and CHUBUKOV.

CHUBUKOV (enters). What’s going on now?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Papa, tell me honestly, in all conscience: which dog is better—our Splasher or his Dasher?

LOMOV. Stepan Stepanovich, I entreat you, just tell me one thing: does your Splasher have an underslung jaw or not? Yes or no?

CHUBUKOV. And what if he does? A lot of difference that makes! On the other hand there’s no better dog in the district and so on.

LOMOV. But isn’t my Dasher actually better? In all honesty?

CHUBUKOV. Don’t get overexcited, my dear friend . . . Allow me . . . Your Dasher, the thing of it is, has his good points . . . He’s pedigreed, his paws are firm, his haunches ride high, and so forth. But that dog, if you must know, my beauty, has two fundamental flaws: he’s old and his bite’s too short.

LOMOV. Excuse me, I have palpitations . . . Let’s look at the facts . . . Please remember that on Maruskin Meadows my Dasher was coursing neck and neck with the Count’s Smasher, while your Splasher was lagging a whole half-mile behind.

CHUBUKOV. He was lagging behind, because the Count’s master of hounds struck him with his whip.

LOMOV. For good reason. The rest of the dogs are chasing the fox, while Splasher starts to worry a sheep.

CHUBUKOV. That’s not true, sir! . . . Laddy, I’m a hot-tempered fellow, and, the thing of it is, I suggest that you drop this argument. He struck him because everyone gets jealous when he looks at another man’s dog . . . Yessiree! They’re all haters! And you, my good sir, are not blameless! The thing of it is, the minute you spot any man’s dog that’s better than your Dasher, you start in right away with a kind of . . . sort of . . . and so forth . . . I remember it all, indeed I do!

LOMOV. And so do I!

CHUBUKOV (mimicking). And so do I . . . And just what do you remember?

LOMOV. Palpitations . . . My leg’s gone numb . . . . I can’t bear it.

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (mimicking). Palpitations . . . What sort of a hunter are you? You ought to be lying in a warm corner of the kitchen, swatting spiders, not chasing the fox! Palpitations . . .

CHUBUKOV. Truth be told, what sort of hunter are you? With your palpitations, the thing of it is, you should stay at home, and not jolt up and down in a saddle. It would be a fine thing if you actually did some hunting, but you only ride in order to start arguments and mess with other people’s dogs and so on. I’m a hot-tempered fellow, we’ll change the subject. The thing of it is, though, you’re no hunter!

LOMOV. And you are? You ride only to suck up to the Count and spin your schemes . . . My heart! . . . You’re a schemer!

CHUBUKOV. What’s that, sir? I’m a schemer! (Shouts.) Shut your mouth!

LOMOV. Schemer!

CHUBUKOV. Spoiled brat! Puppy!

LOMOV. Old buzzard! Hypocritical fraud!

CHUBUKOV. Shut up, or I’ll shoot you with a uncleaned gun like a partridge! You pipsqueak!

LOMOV. Everybody knows that—ugh, my heart! — that you beat your late wife . . . Leg . . . temples . . . Spots . . . I’m falling, falling! . . .

CHUBUKOV. And your housekeeper leads you around by the nose!

LOMOV. Look, look, look . . . my heart’s fit to burst! My shoulder’s come detached . . . Where’s my shoulder? . . . I’m dying! (Drops into an armchair.) Doctor! (Faints.)

CHUBUKOV. Spoiled brat! Mamma’s boy! Pipsqueak! I feel faint! (Drinks water.) I feel faint!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. What kind of a hunter are youl You don’t even know how to sit on a horse! (to her father.) Papa! What’s wrong with him? Papa! Look, papa! (Yelps.) Ivan Vasilyevich! He’s dead!

CHUBUKOV. I feel faint . . . I’m gasping for breath! . . . Air! . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. He’s dead! (Tugs at Lomov’s sleeve.) Ivan Vasilich! Ivan Vasilich! What have we done? He’s dead! (Drops into an armchair.) Get a doctor, get a doctor! (Goes into hysterics.)

CHUBUKOV. Oof! . . . What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). He’s dead! . . . dead!

CHUBUKOV. Who’s dead? (After a glance at Lomov.) As a matter of fact he is dead! Good Lord! Water! Call a doctor! (Lifts a glass to Lomov’s lips.) Drink this! . . . No, he’s not drinking . . . Which means, the thing of it is, he’s dead . . . I’m the most miserable man on earth! Why didn’t I put a bullet in my brain? Why haven’t I shot myself before now? What am I waiting for? Give me a knife! Give me a pistol!

LOMOV stirs.

He’s reviving, I think . . . Drink some water! . . . That’s right . . .

LOMOV. Spots . . . mist . . . Where am I?

CHUBUKOV. Get married right away—and then you can go to hell! She’s consented! (Uniting Lomov’s and his daughters hands.) She’s consented and so forth. My blessings on you and so on. Only leave me in peace!

LOMOV. Huh? What? (Getting up a bit.) How’s that?

CHUBUKOV. She’s consented! So? Kiss one another and . . . to hell with you!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA (moans). He’s alive . . . Yes, yes, I consent . . .

CHUBUKOV. Kiss one another!

LOMOV. Huh? How’s that? (Exchanges kisses with Nataliya Stepanovna.) Very nice . . . Excuse me, what’s this all about? Ah, yes, I get it . . . Heart . . . spots . . . I’m happy, Nataliya Stepanovna . . . (Kisses her hand.) My leg’s gone numb . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. I . . . I’m happy too . . .

CHUBUKOV. There’s a weight off . . . Oof!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. But . . . all the same, now you’ve got to agree: Dasher is not as good as Splasher.

LOMOV. Better!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse!

CHUBUKOV. Now, domestic bliss is off to a running start! Champagne.

LOMOV. Better!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse! Worse! Worse!

CHUBUKOV (trying to shout over them). Champagne! Champagne!

Curtain

VARIANTS TO

The Proposal

The variants come from the censor’s copy (C), the lithographed publication (L), the newspaper New Times (NT), the journal The Performer (P), and the collection Plays (Pl).

page 439 / After: It’s not at all the way you’re telling it! — The peasants have nothing to do with it. (C, L)

page 441 / After: or him? — LOMOV. Yes, yes, whose are the Fields? (C, L, P)

page 442 / Before: What did you just say, my good sir? — Shut up! (C, L)

page 442 / Before: Bullock fields are ours — I won’t shut up! (C, L)

page 442 / After: Go ahead! —

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Even if there are a hundred, two hundred courts, I won’t let you, I won’t let you, I won’t let you!

CHUBUKOV. Shut up! (To Lomov.) (C, L)

page 443 / After: Yessiree! — NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Good neighbors don’t behave this way! (C, L)

page 443 / After: Then we’ll see! — I’ll send the men with scythes this very minute! (C, L)

page 444 / After: No . . . you! — You’re uneducated and crude! If it hadn’t been for you, he wouldn’t have left! (C, P)

page 444 / After: the thing of it is it’s my fault! — Well, hold on a bit, my dear girl, and so on: when I shoot myself or hang myself, you’ll know it’s all your fault! Yours! You drove me to it! (C, L)

page 445 / After: about something else. — Did you go to the fair in Nikitovka? (C, L)

page 445 / After: that’s enough of that . . . — Let’s forget it.

Pause.

LOMOV. Not that I care about the Fields, let ‘em go, but it’s the principle of the thing . . .

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. All right, all right . . . (C, L)

page 447 / After: or his Dasher? — CHUBUKOV. Are you arguing again? Again? I can’t stand this! (C, L)

page 448 / After: has his good points . . . — NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Absolutely none!

CHUBUKOV. He’s pedigreed . . . (C, L)

page 448 / After: That’s not true, sir! . . . — The master of hounds is a drunken ignoramus, and that’s why he hit him. (C, L)

page 449 / After: Puppy! — A walking medicine chest!

page 449 / After: Hypocritical fraud! — I know you through and through!

page 449 / After: You pipsqueak! —

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Splasher is a million times better than Dasher! Bullock Fields are ours! So there!

CHUBUKOV. Bullock Fields are ours! (C, L)

page 450 / After: NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse! —

LOMOV. Better!

NATALIYA STEPANOVNA. Worse! (C, L, NT, P)

NOTES

1 From chubuk, a long-stemmed pipe of Turkish origin.

2 From lom, a shard, scrap, bit of waste.

3 Lomov uses the euphemistic term polozhenie, or situation, referring to the Imperial decree of 1861, emancipating the serfs but not endowing them with land.

4 A direct quotation from A. S. Griboedov’s satiric comedy Woe from Wit (Act I, scene 10).

5 A well-known breeder.