ARKADINA. That is the talk of a decadent.
TREPLIEFF. Go back to your beloved stage and act the miserable ditch-water plays you so much admire!
ARKADINA. I never acted in a play like that in my life. You couldn’t write even the trashiest music-hall farce, you idle good-for-nothing!
TREPLIEFF. Miser!
ARKADINA. Rag-bag!
TREPLIEFF sits down and begins to cry softly.
ARKADINA. [Walking up and down in great excitement] Don’t cry! You mustn’t cry! [She bursts into tears] You really mustn’t. [She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his head] My darling child, forgive me. Forgive your wicked mother.
TREPLIEFF. [Embracing her] Oh, if you could only know what it is to have lost everything under heaven! She does not love me. I see I shall never be able to write. Every hope has deserted me.
ARKADINA. Don’t despair. This will all pass. He is going away to-day, and she will love you once more. [She wipes away his tears] Stop crying. We have made peace again.
TREPLIEFF. [Kissing her hand] Yes, mother.