2008 --
*
"Funeral"? No, "Death"... Preshow -- Polka. Darkness, coughing. "Second Chekhov" (immortal) -- Chekhov vs. Anton, who is dying. Потом повторил для студента или для меня по-русски: "Я умираю". [And than he repeted for the student or fo me (Olga) in Russian: "I am dying."] 6 French "mini-scenes": transitions (Chekhov-Ben walks down).
[ * ] His death is first -- then "Chekhov" describes his own death, in contrast with Olga's romantic version.
[ On the stage -- farces? "Silent scenes"? The characters are waiting, frozen. ]
-- To translate and to include?
[ Chekhov's Letters ]
Он постоянно был один на один с болезнью. В письме Суворину сообщал: "Я на днях едва не упал, и мне минуту казалось, что я умираю. Быстро иду к террасе, на которой сидят гости, стараюсь улыбаться, не подать вида, что жизнь моя обрывается". И даже в такой критический момент приписка, весьма характерная для Чехова: "Как-то неловко падать и умирать при чужих".
Долго ждали речей, даже когда гроб был уже засыпан. Но передали, что покойным было выражено желание, чтоб над его могилой не было речей. Двое-трое ораторов из необозримо огромной толпы сказали заурядные слова, досадно нарушившие красноречивое молчание, которое было так уместно над свежей могилой грустного певца сумеречной эпохи.
Chekhov: "Коль принадлежишь к племени людей, то все равно рано или поздно будешь страдать и умрешь, а раз так, значит, надо прожить до конца своего тихо, не рвать занавес в клочья, не вынуждать близких к страданию".
HE (Anton): "Жить для того, чтобы умереть, вообще незабавно, но жить, зная, что умрешь преждевременно, - уже совсем глупо". To live in order todie isn't funny, but to live knowing that die before your time -- this is simply stupid. (about himself).
August 19, 1904 At last I am able to write to you, Anton, my dear, my sweet, so near and yet so far! I don't know where you are now. I've been waiting a long time for the day when I could write to you. Today, I went to Moscow and visited your grave ... How splendid it is, if you only knew. After the arid south everything here seems so lush, so scented, so fragrant, it smells of earth and fresh grass, the trees make such a gentle sound. I can't believe you are not among the living! I need desperately to write to you, to tell you everything I have been through since your final illness and that moment when your heart stopped beating, your poor, sick, worn-out heart. Now that I am actually writing to you, it seems strange but I have a quite irrational desire to do so. And as I write to you, I feel you are alive, out there somewhere, waiting for a letter. Dearest darling, my sweet love, let me speak some words of tenderness, let me stroke your soft, silky hair and look into your dear, shining, loving eyes. If only I knew whether you felt you were going to die. I think you did, vaguely perhaps, but you did .... [ end of 1? ] August 20 1904 Darling. I have just come back from seeing your brother, Ivan, I upset him by telling him about your last days but I felt it was good for him, even if it was distressing. And I could talk about everything, about you for ever, about Badenweiler, about something great, grand that occurred in that rich, emerald-green town in the Black Forest. Do you remember how we loved our carriage rides, our 'Rundreise', as we called them? You were so affectionate, I understood you so well at times like that. Do you remember how you would discreetly take my hand and squeeze if, and when I asked if you were all right, you would say nothing, just nod and give me a smile for an answer With what reverence I sometimes kissed your hand! You would hold my hand for a long time and so we drove through a fragrant pine wood. Your favourite spot was a lush, green glade, filled with sunlight. A stream babbled splendidly along a ditch and you kept telling the driver to drive more quietly, taking delight in a large expanse of fruit trees that stood in the open and weren't fenced in, and no one took or stole a single cherry or pear. You recalled our own, poor Russia... Do you remember the charming mill, so low it was completely hidden in the thick greenery and only the water sparkled on the wheel? How you liked the comfortable, clean villages and little gardens with the regulation rows of white lilies, rose bushes and kitchen gardens! And with what pain you said: Dearest, when will our peasant farmers live in little houses like these! Dearest, dearest one, where are you now ? ...
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