SCENE X
MÍTYA and LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [At the door] Stop, don't be silly! [Through the door the girls are heard laughing] They won't let me out! Oh, what girls! [Walks away from the door] They're always up to something.
MÍTYA. [Hands her a chair] Be seated, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, and talk to me for just a moment. I'm very glad to see you in my room.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Why are you glad? I don't understand.
MÍTYA. Oh, why!—It is very pleasant for me to see on your side such consideration; it is above my deserts to receive it from you. This is the second time I have had the good fortune—
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. There's nothing in that! I came here, sat awhile, and went away again. That means nothing. Maybe I'll go away again at once.
MÍTYA. Oh, no! Don't go!—Why should you! [Takes the paper out of his pocket] Permit me to present to you my work, the best I can do—from my heart.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What is this?
MÍTYA. I made these verses just for you.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Trying to hide her joy] Still, it may be just some sort of foolishness—not worth reading.
MÍTYA. That I cannot judge, because I wrote it myself, and without studying besides.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Read it.
MÍTYA. Directly.
Seats himself at the table, and takes the paper: LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA approaches very near to him.
"In the meadow no grasses wither,
And never a flower doth fade;
However a fair lad fadeth
That once was a lusty blade.
He loved a handsome damsel;
For that his grief is great,
And heavy his misfortune,
For she came of high estate.
The lad's heart is breaking,
But vain his grief must be,
Because he loved a damsel
Above his own degree.
When all the night is darkened
The sun may not appear;
And so the pretty maiden.
She may not be his dear."
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Sitting and reflecting for some time] Give it here. [Takes the paper and hides it, then rises] Now I will write something for you.
MÍTYA. You!
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Only I don't know how to do it in verse, but—just plain
Russian.
MÍTYA. I shall regard such a kindness from you as a great happiness to myself. [Gives her paper and pen] Here they are.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. It's a great pity that I write so abominably. [She writes; MÍTYA tries to look] Only don't you look, or I'll stop writing and tear it up.
MÍTYA. I won't look. But kindly condescend to permit me to reply, in so far as I am able, and to write some verses for you on a second occasion.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Laying down the pen] Write if you wish—only I've inked all my fingers; if I'd only known, I'd better not have written.
MÍTYA. May I have it?
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, take it; only don't dare to read it while I'm here, but after, when I've gone.
Folds together the paper and gives it to him; he conceals it in his pocket.
MÍTYA. It shall be as you wish.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Rises] Will you come up-stairs to us?
MÍTYA. I will—this minute.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Good-by.
MÍTYA. To our pleasant meeting!
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA goes to the door; from the doorway LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH comes in.