Swan Song

     “Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain!     Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;     I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;     I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children.”

Ah! there is strength, there is talent for you! I’m a great artist! Now, then, here’s something else of the same kind, to bring back my youth to me. For instance, take this, from Hamlet, I’ll begin.. Let me see, how does it go? Oh, yes, this is it. [Takes the part of Hamlet]

“O! the recorders, let me see one. – To withdraw with you. Why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?”

IVANITCH. “O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.”

SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?”

IVANITCH. “My lord, I cannot.”

SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I pray you.”

IVANITCH. “Believe me, I cannot.”

SVIETLOVIDOFF. “I do beseech you.”

IVANITCH. “I know no touch of it, my lord.”

SVIETLOVIDOFF. “‘Tis as easy as lying: govern these vantages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.”

IVANITCH. “But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony: I have not the skill.”

SVIETLOVIDOFF. “Why, look you, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. S’blood! Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me!” [laughs and clasps] Bravo! Encore! Bravo! Where the devil is there any old age in that? I’m not old, that is all nonsense, a torrent of strength rushes over me; this is life, freshness, youth! Old age and genius can’t exist together. You seem to be struck dumb, Nikitushka. Wait a second, let me come to my senses again. Oh! Good Lord! Now then, listen! Did you ever hear such tenderness, such music? Sh! Softly;

     “The moon had set. There was not any light,     Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars pale     In outer air, and what by fits made bright     Hot oleanders in a rosy vale     Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark     Went in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.”

[The noise of opening doors is heard] What’s that?

IVANITCH. There are Petrushka and Yegorka coming back. Yes, you have genius, genius, my master.

SVIETLOVIDOFF. [Calls, turning toward the noise] Come here to me, boys! [To IVANITCH] Let us go and get dressed. I’m not old! All that is foolishness, nonsense! [laughs gaily] What are you crying for? You poor old granny, you, what’s the matter now? This won’t do! There, there, this won’t do at all! Come, come, old man, don’t stare so! What makes you stare like that? There, there! [Embraces him in tears] Don’t cry! Where there is art and genius there can never be such things as old age or loneliness or sickness.. and death itself is half.. [Weeps] No, no, Nikitushka! It is all over for us now! What sort of a genius am I? I’m like a squeezed lemon, a cracked bottle, and you – you are the old rat of the theatre.. a prompter! Come on! [They go] I’m no genius, I’m only fit to be in the suite of Fortinbras, and even for that I am too old… Yes… Do you remember those lines from Othello, Nikitushka?

     “Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!     Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars     That make ambition virtue! O farewell!     Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,     The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,     The royal banner, and all quality,     Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!”

IVANITCH. Oh! You’re a genius, a genius!

SVIETLOVIDOFF. And again this:

     “Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,     Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:     Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,     And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.”

They go out together, the curtain falls slowly.

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From “Boris Godunoff,” by Pushkin.