Vanya On 42nd Street Page #2

Now it's after 6:00.

He writes and reads all night.

What is it?

Excuse me. He wants his tea.

Wake up the house, put on the samovar.

Modern ways.

- How much longer are they here?

- Ah. A hundred years.

- He wants to move here.

- No!

Magnificent. Beautiful views.

- What a prospect.

- Beautiful indeed, Your Excellency.

And tomorrow I'll show you the plantation, Papa.

Would you like that?

Uh, ladies and gentlemen,

the tea is served.

Oh, would you please ask them

to send it to my study?

There's some things I have to do.

I know you'll like the plantation, Papa.

It's hot, sweltering.

Our great scholar dresses for December.

He's quite a careful man.

Mmm. I am happy today.

Birds singing, sun shining.

You know, whatever

I find myself doing today -

just now, walking in the garden, or just

standing here, looking at this table -

I feel happy.

God bless you.

- And her eyes, uh -

- Vanya.

- Yes.

- Tell us something.

- What should I tell you?

- Something new.

Something new.

What's new? Nothing's new.

Everything's old.

Nothing's changed.

I'm the same.

Probably a little bit worse

because I've grown lazy...

complain all day.

What's new?

Hmm? My old crow, my old mother's still

prating on about her dear rights of women...

one eye on the grave...

the other one looking in her book

for the secret of life.

What about the professor?

The professor, uh, goes on as before.

All day and half of the night,

he sits at his desk and he writes.

What is he working on?

Why doesn't he turn

to some magnificent subject...

like his autobiography?

Now, there's a book -

a worked-out academic...

gout, rheumatism, migraine...

the liver inflamed with jealousy and envy...

lives on the estate of his first wife.

From choice?

No, because he's too cheap

to live in the town.

And the man prates constantly

about his misfortunes.

What are they? He has none.

The son of a poor deacon.

He's a scholarship student at the seminary.

Gets a degree, gets a teaching chair.

Now he's "Your Excellency," and he marries

the daughter of a senator, and so on.

But I say, forget that...

because this man

is so exceedingly fortunate...

as to write and lecture for 25 years...

upon a subject

of which he knows less than nothing.

Twenty-five years,

this wise man tells us about art.

Twenty-five years,

he reads the works of others...

he prattles about realism and naturalism...

specious nonsense

which the clever have long known...

and the stupid really don't care about.

Not a living soul

knows who he is or cares...

nor is he missed from a position

which he held for 25 years.

Isn't that something?

For 25 years, this man kept

some more worthy man out of a job.

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