Trigorin.  How are you, Miss Nina?  Owing to an unforeseen development of circumstances, it seems that we are leaving here today.  You and I shall probably never see each other again, and I am sorry for it.  I seldom meet a young and pretty girl now; I can hardly remember how it feels to be nineteen, and the young girls in my books are seldom living characters.  I should like to change places with you, if but for an hour, to look out at the world through your eyes, and so find out what sort of a little person you are.

Nina.  And I should like to change places with you.

Trigorin.  Why?

Nina.  To find out how a famous genius feels.  What is it like to be famous?  What sensations does it give you?

Trigorin.  What sensations?  I don’t believe it gives any. [Thoughtfully] Either you exaggerate my fame, or else, if it exists, all I can say is that one simply doesn’t feel fame in any way.

Nina.  But when you read about yourself in the papers?

Trigorin.  If the critics praise me, I am happy; if they condemn me, I am out of sorts for the next two days.

Nina.  This is a wonderful world.  If you only knew how I envy you!  Men are born to different destinies.  Some dully drag a weary, useless life behind them, lost in the crowd, unhappy, while to one out of a million, as to you, for instance, comes a bright destiny full of interest and meaning.  You are lucky.

Trigorin.  I, lucky? [He shrugs his shoulders] H-m—­I hear you talking about fame, and happiness, and bright destinies, and those fine words of yours mean as much to me—­forgive my saying so—­as sweetmeats do, which I never eat.  You are very young, and very kind.

Nina.  Your life is beautiful.

Trigorin.  I see nothing especially lovely about it. [He looks at his watch] Excuse me, I must go at once, and begin writing again.  I am in a hurry. [He laughs] You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I am getting excited, and a little cross.  Let us discuss this bright and beautiful life of mine, though. [After a few moments’ thought] Violent obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man:  he may, for instance, think day and night of nothing but the moon.  I have such a moon.  Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting thought, to write, write, write!  Hardly have I finished one book than something urges me to write another, and then a third, and then a fourth—­I write ceaselessly.  I am, as it were, on a treadmill.  I hurry for ever from one story to another, and can’t help myself.  Do you see anything bright and beautiful in that?  Oh, it is a wild life!  Even now, thrilled as I am by talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me.  My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano; I instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story a