Proposal Natalya lines

LOMOV: ... But the very worst of all is the way I sleep. I no sooner get into bed and begin to go off when suddenly something in my left side gives a pull, and I can feel it in my shoulder and head. ... I jump up like a lunatic, walk about a bit, and lie down again, but as soon as I begin to get off to sleep there's another pull! And this may happen twenty times. ...

Well, there! It's you, and papa said, "Go; there's a merchant come for his goods." How do you do, Ivan Vassilevitch!

LOMOV: How do you do, honoured Natalya Stepanovna?

You must excuse my apron and néligé. We're shelling peas for drying. Why haven't you been here for such a long time? Sit down. Won't you have some lunch?

LOMOV: No, thank you, I've had some already.

Then smoke. Here are the matches. The weather is splendid now, but yesterday it was so wet that the workmen didn't do anything all day. How much hay have you stacked? Just think, I felt greedy and had a whole field cut, and now I'm not at all pleased about it because I'm afraid my hay may rot. I ought to have waited a bit. But what's this? Why, you're in evening dress! Well, I never! Are you going to a ball, or what?--though I must say you look better. Tell me, why are you got up like that?

LOMOV: [Excited] You see, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, the fact is, I've made up my mind to ask you to hear me out. ... Of course you'll be surprised and perhaps even angry, but a ... [Aside] It's awfully cold!

What's the matter? Well?

LOMOV: I shall try to be brief. You must know, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, that I have long, since my childhood, in fact, had the privilege of knowing your family. My late aunt and her husband, from whom, as you know, I inherited my land, always had the greatest respect for your father and your late mother. The Lomovs and the Chubukovs have always had the most friendly, and I might almost say the most affectionate, regard for each other. And, as you know, my land is a near neighbour of yours. You will remember that my Oxen Meadows touch your birchwoods.

Excuse my interrupting you. You say, "my Oxen Meadows." But are they yours?

LOMOV: Yes, mine.

What are you talking about? Oxen Meadows are ours, not yours!

LOMOV: No, mine, honoured Natalya Stepanovna.

Well, I never knew that before. How do you make that out?

LOMOV: How? I'm speaking of those Oxen Meadows which are wedged in between your birchwoods and the Burnt Marsh.

Yes, yes. They're ours.

LOMOV: No, you're mistaken, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, they're mine.

Just think, Ivan Vassilevitch! How long have they been yours?

LOMOV: How long? As long as I can remember.

Really, you won't get me to believe that!

LOMOV: But you can see from the documents, honoured Natalya Stepanovna. Oxen Meadows, it's true, were once the subject of dispute, but now everybody knows that they are mine. There's nothing to argue about. You see, my aunt's grandmother gave the free use of these Meadows in perpetuity to the peasants of your father's grandfather, in return for which they were to make bricks for her. The peasants belonging to your father's grandfather had the free use of the Meadows for forty years, and had got into the habit of regarding them as their own, when it happened that ...

No, it isn't at all like that! Both my grandfather and great-grandfather reckoned that their land extended to Burnt Marsh, which means that Oxen Meadows were ours. I don't see what there is to argue about. It's simply silly!

LOMOV: I'll show you the documents, Natalya Stepanovna!

No, you're simply joking, or making fun of me. What a surprise! We've had the land for nearly three hundred years, and then we're suddenly told that it isn't ours! Ivan Vassilevitch, I can hardly believe my own ears. ... These Meadows aren't worth much to me. They only come to five dessiatins, and are worth perhaps 300 roubles, but I can't stand unfairness. Say what you will, but I can't stand unfairness.

LOMOV: Hear me out, I implore you! The peasants of your father's grandfather, as I have already had the honour of explaining to you, used to bake bricks for my aunt's grandmother. Now my aunt's grandmother, wishing to make them a pleasant…

I can't make head or tail of all this about aunts and grandfathers and grandmothers! The Meadows are ours, and that's all.

LOMOV: Mine (no punctuation)

Ours! You can go on proving it for two days on end, you can go and put on fifteen dress-jackets, but I tell you they're ours, ours, ours! I don't want anything of yours and I don't want to give up anything of mine. So there!

LOMOV: Natalya Ivanovna, I don't want the Meadows, but I am acting on principle. If you like, I'll make you a present of them.

I can make you a present of them myself, because they're mine! Your behaviour, Ivan Vassilevitch, is strange, to say the least! Up to this we have always thought of you as a good neighbour, a friend: last year we lent you our threshing-machine, although on that account we had to put off our own threshing til November, but you behave to us as if we were vagrants. Giving me my own land, indeed! No, really, that's not at all neighbourly! In my opinion, it's even impudent, if you want to know.

LOMOV: Then you make out that I'm a land-grabber? Madam, never in my life have I grabbed anybody else's land, and I shan't allow anybody to accuse me of having done so. ... [Quickly steps to the carafe and drinks more water] Oxen Meadows are mine!

It's not true, they're ours!

LOMOV: Mine! (#1)

It's not true! I'll prove it! I'll send my mowers out to the Meadows this very day!

LOMOV: What?

My mowers will be there this very day!

LOMOV: I'll give it to them in the neck!

You dare!

LOMOV: [Clutches at his heart] Oxen Meadows are mine! You understand? Mine!

Please don't shout! You can shout yourself hoarse in your own house, but here I must ask you to restrain yourself!

LOMOV: If it wasn't, madam, for this awful, excruciating palpitation, if my whole inside wasn't upset, I'd talk to you in a different way! [Yells] Oxen Meadows are mine!

Ours!

LOMOV: Mine! (#2)

Ours!

CHUBUKOV: What's the matter? What are you shouting at?

Papa, please tell to this gentleman who owns Oxen Meadows, we or he?

CHUBUKOV: What's that? What did you say?

Papa, send the mowers out to the Meadows at once!

CHUBUKOV: What did you say, sir?

Oxen Meadows are ours, and I shan't give them up, shan't give them up, shan't give them up!

CHUBUKOV: You Lomovs have had lunacy in your family, all of you!

All, all, all!

CHUBUKOV: Your father was a guzzling gambler!

And there haven't been many backbiters to equal your aunt!

LOMOV: My left foot has gone to sleep. ... You're an intriguer. ... Oh, my heart! ... And it's an open secret that before the last elections you bri ... I can see stars. ... Where's my hat?

It's low! It's dishonest! It's mean!

CHUBUKOV: [Following him] And don't set foot in my house again!

Take it to court! We'll see!

CHUBUKOV: Devil take him! [Walks about in excitement.]

What a rascal! What trust can one have in one's neighbours after that!

CHUBUKOV: The villain! The scarecrow!

The monster! First he takes our land and then he has the impudence to abuse us.

CHUBUKOV: And that blind hen, yes, that turnip-ghost has the confounded cheek to make a proposal, and so on! What? A proposal!

What proposal?

CHUBUKOV: Why, he came here so as to propose to you.

To propose? To me? Why didn't you tell me so before?

CHUBUKOV: So he dresses up in evening clothes. The stuffed sausage! The wizen-faced frump!

To propose to me? Ah! Bring him back! Back! Ah! Bring him here.

CHUBUKOV: Bring whom here?

Quick, quick! I'm ill! Fetch him!

CHUBUKOV: What's that? What's the matter with you? [Clutches at his head] Oh, unhappy man that I am! I'll shoot myself! I'll hang myself! We've done for her!

I'm dying! Fetch him!

CHUBUKOV: Tfoo! At once. Don't yell!

What have they done to me! Fetch him back! Fetch him!

CHUBUKOV: He's coming, and so on, devil take him! Ouf! Talk to him yourself; I don't want to. ...

Fetch him!

CHUBUKOV: [Yells] He's coming, I tell you. Oh, what a burden, Lord, to be the father of a grown-up daughter! I'll cut my throat! I will, indeed! We cursed him, abused him, drove him out, and it's all you ... you!

No, it was you!

LOMOV: My heart's palpitating awfully. ... My foot's gone to sleep. ... There's something keeps pulling in my side.

Forgive us, Ivan Vassilevitch, we were all a little heated. I remember now: Oxen Meadows really are yours.

LOMOV: My heart's beating awfully. ... My Meadows. ... My eyebrows are both twitching. ...

The Meadows are yours, yes, yours. Do sit down. We were wrong.

LOMOV: I did it on principle. ... My land is worth little to me, but the principle ...

Yes, the principle, just so. Now let's talk of something else.

LOMOV: The more so as I have evidence. My aunt's grandmother gave the land to your father's grandfather's peasants ...

Yes, yes, let that pass. I wish I knew how to get him started. Are you going to start shooting soon?

LOMOV: I'm thinking of having a go at the blackcock, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, after the harvest. Oh, have you heard? Just think, what a misfortune I've had! My dog Guess, whom you know, has gone lame.

What a pity! Why?

LOMOV: I don't know. ... Must have got twisted, or bitten by some other dog. ... [Sighs] My very best dog, to say nothing of the expense. I gave Mironov 125 roubles for him.

It was too much, Ivan Vassilevitch.

LOMOV: I think it was very cheap. He's a first-rate dog.

Papa gave 85 roubles for his Squeezer, and Squeezer is heaps better than Guess!

LOMOV: Squeezer better than. Guess? What an idea! [Laughs] Squeezer better than Guess!

Of course he's better! Of course, Squeezer is young, he may develop a bit, but on points and pedigree he's better than anything that even Volchanetsky has got.

LOMOV. Excuse me, Natalya Stepanovna, but you forget that he is overshot, and an overshot always means the dog is a bad hunter!

Overshot, is he? The first time I hear it!

LOMOV: I assure you that his lower jaw is shorter than the upper.

Have you measured?

LOMOV: Yes. He's all right at following, of course, but if you want him to get hold of anything ...

In the first place, our Squeezer is a thoroughbred animal, the son of Harness and Chisels, while there's no getting at the pedigree of your dog at all. He's old and as ugly as a worn-out cab-horse.

LOMOV: He is old, but I wouldn't take five Squeezers for him. ... Why, how can you? ... Guess is a dog; as for Squeezer, well, it's too funny to argue. ... Anybody you like has a dog as good as Squeezer ... you may find them under every bush almost. Twenty-five roubles would be a handsome price to pay for him.

There's some demon of contradiction in you today, Ivan Vassilevitch. First, you pretend that the Meadows are yours; now, that Guess is better than Squeezer. I don't like people who don't say what they mean, because you know perfectly well that Squeezer is a hundred times better than your silly Guess. Why do you want to say it isn't?

LOMOV: I see, Natalya Stepanovna, that you consider me either blind or a fool. You must realize that Squeezer is overshot!

It's not true.

LOMOV: He is!

It's not true!

LOMOV: Why shout, madam?

Why talk rot? It's awful! It's time your Guess was shot, and you compare him with Squeezer!

LOMOV: Excuse me; I cannot continue this discussion: my heart is palpitating.

I've noticed that those hunters argue most who know least.

LOMOV: Madam, please be silent. ... My heart is going to pieces. ... [Shouts] Shut up!

I shan't shut up until you acknowledge that Squeezer is a hundred times better than your Guess!

LOMOV: A hundred times worse! Be hanged to your Squeezer! His head ... eyes ... shoulder ...

There's no need to hang your silly Guess; he's half-dead already!

LOMOV: [Weeps] Shut up! My heart's bursting!

I shan't shut up.

CHUBUKOV: What's the matter now?

Papa, tell us truly, which is the better dog, our Squeezer or his Guess.

LOMOV: My heart ... my foot's gone to sleep. ... I can't ...

mY hEaRt. What sort of a hunter are you? You ought to go and lie on the kitchen oven and catch blackbeetles, not go after foxes! mY hEaRt!

CHUBUKOV: Boy! Milksop! Fool! I'm sick! [Drinks water] Sick!

What sort of a hunter are you? You can't even sit on a horse! Papa, what's the matter with him? Papa! Look, Papa! Ivan Vassilevitch! He's dead!

CHUBUKOV: I'm sick! ... I can't breathe! ... Air!

He's dead. Ivan Vassilevitch! Ivan Vassilevitch! What have you done to me? He's dead. A doctor, a doctor!

CHUBUKOV: Oh! ... What is it? What's the matter?

He's dead! Dead!

CHUBUKOV: She's willing! Well? Kiss and be damned to you!

He's alive. Yes, yes, I'm willing.

LOMOV: Eh? Kiss whom? [They kiss] Very nice, too. Excuse me, what's it all about? Oh, now I understand ... my heart ... stars ... I'm happy. Natalya Stepanovna. ... [Kisses her hand] My foot's gone to sleep. ...

I… I'm happy too.

CHUBUKOV: What a weight off my shoulders. ... Ouf!

But… still, you will admit now that Guess is worse than Squeezer.

LOMOV: Better!

Worse!

LOMOV: He's better!

Worse! worse! worse!