SHAMRAEFF. She acted most beautifully at the Poltava Fair in 1873; she was really magnificent. But tell me, too, where Tchadin the comedian is now? He was inimitable as Rasplueff, better than Sadofski. Where is he now?
ARKADINA. Don’t ask me where all those antediluvians are! I know nothing about them. [She sits down.]
SHAMRAEFF. [Sighing] Pashka Tchadin! There are none left like him. The stage is not what it was in his time. There were sturdy oaks growing on it then, where now but stumps remain.
DORN. It is true that we have few dazzling geniuses these days, but, on the other hand, the average of acting is much higher.
SHAMRAEFF. I cannot agree with you; however, that is a matter of taste, de gustibus.
Enter TREPLIEFF from behind the stage.
ARKADINA. When will the play begin, my dear boy?
TREPLIEFF. In a moment. I must ask you to have patience.
ARKADINA. [Quoting from Hamlet] My son,
“Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.”