Swan Song | Page 7

in honour of the
occasion. Gracious! My body is burning all over, and I feel as if I had
twenty tongues in my mouth. It is horrid! Idiotic! This poor old sinner
is drunk again, and doesn't even know what he has been celebrating!
Ugh! My head is splitting, I am shivering all over, and I feel as dark
and cold inside as a cellar! Even if I don't mind ruining my health, I
ought at least to remember my age, old idiot that I am! Yes, my old age!
It's no use! I can play the fool, and brag, and pretend to be young, but
my life is really over now, I kiss my hand to the sixty-eight years that
have gone by; I'll never see them again! I have drained the bottle, only
a few little drops are left at the bottom, nothing but the dregs. Yes, yes,
that's the case, Vasili, old boy. The time has come for you to rehearse

the part of a mummy, whether you like it or not. Death is on its way to
you. [Stares ahead of him] It is strange, though, that I have been on the
stage now for forty-five years, and this is the first time I have seen a
theatre at night, after the lights have been put out. The first time.
[Walks up to the foot-lights] How dark it is! I can't see a thing. Oh, yes,
I can just make out the prompter's box, and his desk; the rest is in pitch
darkness, a black, bottomless pit, like a grave, in which death itself
might be hiding.... Brr.... How cold it is! The wind blows out of the
empty theatre as though out of a stone flue. What a place for ghosts!
The shivers are running up and down my back. [Calls] Yegorka!
Petrushka! Where are you both? What on earth makes me think of such
gruesome things here? I must give up drinking; I'm an old man, I shan't
live much longer. At sixty-eight people go to church and prepare for
death, but here I am--heavens! A profane old drunkard in this fool's
dress--I'm simply not fit to look at. I must go and change it at once....
This is a dreadful place, I should die of fright sitting here all night.
[Goes toward his dressing-room; at the same time NIKITA IVANITCH
in a long white coat comes out of the dressing-room at the farthest end
of the stage. SVIETLOVIDOFF sees IVANITCH--shrieks with terror
and steps back] Who are you? What? What do you want? [Stamps his
foot] Who are you?
IVANITCH. It is I, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Who are you?
IVANITCH. [Comes slowly toward him] It is I, sir, the prompter,
Nikita Ivanitch. It is I, master, it is I!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Sinks helplessly onto the stool, breathes heavily
and trembles violently] Heavens! Who are you? It is you . . . you
Nikitushka? What . . . what are you doing here?
IVANITCH. I spend my nights here in the dressing-rooms. Only please
be good enough not to tell Alexi Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to
spend the night; indeed, I haven't.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. Ah! It is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think, the

audience called me out sixteen times; they brought me three wreathes
and lots of other things, too; they were all wild with enthusiasm, and
yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor, drunken old
man and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka! I am
sixty-eight years old, and I am ill. I haven't the heart left to go on. [Falls
on IVANITCH'S neck and weeps] Don't go away, Nikitushka; I am old
and helpless, and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it is dreadful,
dreadful!
IVANITCH. [Tenderly and respectfully] Dear master! it is time for you
to go home, sir!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won't go home; I have no home--none!
none!--none!
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Have you forgotten where you live?
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I won't go there. I won't! I am all alone there. I
have nobody, Nikitushka! No wife--no children. I am like the wind
blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die, and no one will remember
me. It is awful to be alone--no one to cheer me, no one to caress me, no
one to help me to bed when I am drunk. Whom do I belong to? Who
needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka.
IVANITCH. [Weeping] Your audience loves you, master.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. My audience has gone home. They are all asleep,
and have forgotten their old clown. No, nobody needs me, nobody
loves me; I have no wife, no children.
IVANITCH. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Don't be so unhappy about it.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But I am