Swan Song | Page 8

a man, I am still alive. Warm, red blood
is tingling in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I am an aristocrat,
Nikitushka; I served in the army, in the artillery, before I fell as low as
this, and what a fine young chap I was! Handsome, daring, eager!
Where has it all gone? What has become of those old days? There's the
pit that has swallowed them all! I remember it all now. Forty-five years

of my life lie buried there, and what a life, Nikitushka! I can see it as
clearly as I see your face: the ecstasy of youth, faith, passion, the love
of women--women, Nikitushka!
IVANITCH. It is time you went to sleep, sir.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. When I first went on the stage, in the first glow of
passionate youth, I remember a woman loved me for my acting. She
was beautiful, graceful as a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant
as a summer dawn. Her smile could charm away the darkest night. I
remember, I stood before her once, as I am now standing before you.
She had never seemed so lovely to me as she did then, and she spoke to
me so with her eyes--such a look! I shall never forget it, no, not even in
the grave; so tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and young! Enraptured,
intoxicated, I fell on my knees before her, I begged for my happiness,
and she said: "Give up the stage!" Give up the stage! Do you
understand? She could love an actor, but marry him--never! I was
acting that day, I remember--I had a foolish, clown's part, and as I acted,
I felt my eyes being opened; I saw that the worship of the art I had held
so sacred was a delusion and an empty dream; that I was a slave, a fool,
the plaything of the idleness of strangers. I understood my audience at
last, and since that day I have not believed in their applause, or in their
wreathes, or in their enthusiasm. Yes, Nikitushka! The people applaud
me, they buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They don't
know me, I am as the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing enough to
meet me . . . but allow a daughter or a sister to marry me, an outcast,
never! I have no faith in them, [sinks onto the stool] no faith in them.
IVANITCH. Oh, sir! you look dreadfully pale, you frighten me to death!
Come, go home, have mercy on me!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. I saw through it all that day, and the knowledge
was dearly bought. Nikitushka! After that . . . when that girl . . . well, I
began to wander aimlessly about, living from day to day without
looking ahead. I took the parts of buffoons and low comedians, letting
my mind go to wreck. Ah! but I was a great artist once, till little by
little I threw away my talents, played the motley fool, lost my looks,
lost the power of expressing myself, and became in the end a Merry

Andrew instead of a man. I have been swallowed up in that great black
pit. I never felt it before, but to-night, when I woke up, I looked back,
and there behind me lay sixty-eight years. I have just found out what it
is to be old! It is all over . . . [sobs] . . . all over.
IVANITCH. There, there, dear master! Be quiet . . . gracious! [Calls]
Petrushka! Yegorka!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. But what a genius I was! You cannot imagine what
power I had, what eloquence; how graceful I was, how tender; how
many strings [beats his breast] quivered in this breast! It chokes me to
think of it! Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath, there; now listen
to this:
"The shade of bloody Ivan now returning Fans through my lips
rebellion to a flame, I am the dead Dimitri! In the burning Boris shall
perish on the throne I claim. Enough! The heir of Czars shall not be
seen Kneeling to yonder haughty Polish Queen!"*
*From "Boris Godunoff," by Pushkin. [translator's note]
Is that bad, eh? [Quickly] Wait, now, here's something from King Lear.
The sky is black, see? Rain is pouring down, thunder roars,
lightning--zzz zzz zzz--splits the whole sky, and then, listen:
"Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and
hurricanoes spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the
cocks! You sulphurous thought-executing fires Vaunt-couriers of
oak-cleaving thunderbolts Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking
thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's
moulds, all germons spill at once That make ungrateful man!"
[Impatiently] Now, the part of the fool. [Stamps his foot] Come take