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 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.”