Swan Song | Page 9

the fool's part! Be quick, I can't wait!
IVANITCH. [Takes the part of the fool]
"O, Nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this

rain-water out o' door. Good Nuncle, in; ask thy daughter's blessing:
here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools."
SVIETLOVIDOFF.
"Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder,
fire, are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I
never gave you kingdom, call'd you children."
Ah! there is strength, there is talent for you! I'm a great artist! Now,
then, here's something else of the same kind, to bring back my youth to
me. For instance, take this, from Hamlet, I'll begin . . . Let me see, how
does it go? Oh, yes, this is it. [Takes the part of Hamlet]
"O! the recorders, let me see one.-- To withdraw with you. Why do you
go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a
toil?"
IVANITCH. "O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too
unmannerly."
SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I do not well understand that. Will you play upon
this pipe?"
IVANITCH. "My lord, I cannot."
SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I pray you."
IVANITCH. "Believe me, I cannot."
SVIETLOVIDOFF. "I do beseech you."
IVANITCH. "I know no touch of it, my lord."
SVIETLOVIDOFF. " 'Tis as easy as lying: govern these vantages with
your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will
discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops."
IVANITCH. "But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony:

I have not the skill."
SVIETLOVIDOFF. "Why, look you, how unworthy a thing you make
of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops;
you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me
from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much
music, exce llent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it
speak. S'blood! Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot
play upon me!" [laughs and clasps] Bravo! Encore! Bravo! Where the
devil is there any old age in that? I'm not old, that is all nonsense, a
torrent of strength rushes over me; this is life, freshness, youth! Old age
and genius can't exist together. You seem to be struck dumb,
Nikitushka. Wait a second, let me come to my senses again. Oh! Good
Lord! Now then, listen! Did you ever hear such tenderness, such music?
Sh! Softly;
"The moon had set. There was not any light, Save of the lonely legion'd
watch-stars pale In outer air, and what by fits made bright Hot
oleanders in a rosy vale Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark
Went in and out, like passion's bashful hope."
[The noise of opening doors is heard] What's that?
IVANITCH. There are Petrushka and Yegorka coming back. Yes, you
have genius, genius, my master.
SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Calls, turning toward the noise] Come here to me,
boys! [To IVANITCH] Let us go and get dressed. I'm not old! All that
is foolishness, nonsense! [laughs gaily] What are you crying for? You
poor old granny, you, what's the matter now? This won't do! There,
there, this won't do at all! Come, come, old man, don't stare so! What
makes you stare like that? There, there! [Embraces him in tears] Don't
cry! Where there is art and genius there can never be such things as old
age or loneliness or sickness . . . and death itself is half . . . [Weeps] No,
no, Nikitushka! It is all over for us now! What sort of a genius am I?
I'm like a squeezed lemon, a cracked bottle, and you--you are the old
rat of the theatre . . . a prompter! Come on! [They go] I'm no genius,

I'm only fit to be in the suite of Fortinbras, and even for that I am too
old.... Yes.... Do you remember those lines from Othello, Nikitushka?
"Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed
troops and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring
drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride,
pomp and circumstance of glorious war!"
IVANITCH. Oh! You're a genius, a genius!
SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this:
"Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk
the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the
darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of
heaven."
They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Swan