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The Seagull 287
Trigorin embodies her dream of a brilliant and in
teresting life.
Nina. How I envy you, if you but knew it! How
different are the lots of different people! Some can
hardly drag on their tedious, insignificant existence; they
are all alike, all miserable; others, like you, for instance
you are one in a million are blessed with a brilliant,
interesting life, all full of meaning. . . . You are happy.
. . . What a delightful life yours is!
Trigorin. What is there so fine about it? Day and
night I am obsessed by the same persistent thought; I
must write, I must write, I must write. . . . No sooner
have I finished one story than I am somehow compelled to
write another, then a third, and after the third a fourth.
... I have no rest for myself; I feel that I am devour
ing my own life. . . . I ve never satisfied myself. . . .
I have the feeling for nature; it wakes a passion in me,
an irresistible desire to write. But I am something more
than a landscape painter; I m a citizen as well; I love my
country, I love the people; I feel that if I am a writer
I am bound to speak of the people, of its suffering, of its
future, to speak of science, of the rights of man, etc., etc.;
and I speak about it all, volubly, and am attacked angrily
in return by everyone; I dart from side to side like a fox
run down by hounds ; I see that life and science fly farther
and farther ahead of me, and I fall farther and farther
behind, like the countryman running after the train; and
in the end I feel that the only thing I can write of is the
landscape, and in everything else I am untrue to life,
false to the very marrow of my bones.
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