"AntonChekhov-Ivanoff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chekhov Anton)

Plan your life for quiet; the greyer and more monotonous you can
make the background, the better. My dear boy, do not try to fight
alone against thousands; do not tilt with windmills; do not dash
yourself against the rocks. And, above all, may you be spared the
so-called rational life, all wild theories and impassioned talk.
Everything is in the hands of God, so shut yourself up in your
shell and do your best. That is the pleasant, honest, healthy way
to live. But the life I have chosen has been so tiring, oh, so
tiring! So full of mistakes, of injustice and stupidity! [Catches
sight of SHABELSKI, and speaks angrily] There you are again,
Uncle, always under foot, never letting one have a moment's quiet
talk!

SHABELSKI. [In a tearful voice] Is there no refuge anywhere for a
poor old devil like me? [He jumps up and runs into the house.]

IVANOFF. Now I have offended him! Yes, my nerves have certainly
gone to pieces. I must do something about it, I must---

LVOFF. [Excitedly] Ivanoff, I have heard all you have to say
and--and--I am going to speak frankly. You have shown me in your
voice and manner, as well as in your words, the most heartless
egotism and pitiless cruelty. Your nearest friend is dying simply
because she is near you, her days are numbered, and you can feel
such indifference that you go about giving advice and analysing
your feelings. I cannot say all I should like to; I have not the
gift of words, but--but I can at least say that you are deeply
antipathetic to me.

IVANOFF. I suppose I am. As an onlooker, of course you see me
more clearly than I see myself, and your judgment of me is
probably right. No doubt I
am terribly guilty. [Listens] I think I hear the carriage
coming. I must get ready to go. [He goes toward the house and
then stops] You dislike me, doctor, and you don't conceal it.
Your sincerity does you credit. [He goes into the house.]

LVOFF. [Alone] What a confoundedly disagreeable character! I have
let another opportunity slip without speaking to him as I meant
to, but I simply cannot talk calmly to that man. The moment I
open my mouth to speak I feel such a commotion and suffocation
here [He puts his hand on his breast] that my tongue sticks to
the roof of my mouth. Oh, I loathe that Tartuffe, that
unmitigated rascal, with all my heart! There he is, preparing to
go driving in spite of the entreaties of his unfortunate wife,
who adores him and whose only happiness is his presence. She
implores him to spend at least one evening with her, and he
cannot even do that. Why, he might shoot himself in despair if he
had to stay at home! Poor fellow, what he wants are new fields
for his villainous schemes. Oh, I know why you go to Lebedieff's