STEPAN: What?
DORA: I just want you to utter that word: hatred.
STEPAN: Hatred.
DORA: Yes, that’s right. Yanek could never say it well.
[A short silence. Then STEPAN comes toward her.]
STEPAN: I understand; you despise me. Still, are you quite sure you’re right to despise me? [Pauses. Then goes on speaking, with rising passion.] You’re all alike. Counting the cost of what you do in terms of your despicable love! I’m different, I love nothing, and I hate, yes I hate my fellow men. Why should I want their precious love? I learned all about it three years ago, in the convict prison. For three years I’ve borne its marks on me. And you want me to turn sentimental, and carry the bomb as if it were a cross. But I’m damned if I will! [He tears his shirt open. DORA makes a gesture of horror and shrinks away when she sees the marks of the lash.] There you are! There are the marks of their love! Now, do you still despise me?
[She goes up to him, and kisses him hastily.]
DORA: Who could despise suffering? I love you, too.
STEPAN [gazing at her, murmurs]: Sorry, Dora. [After a short silence he turns away.] Perhaps it’s only weariness, the burden of all those years of struggle and suspense, of police spies, hard labor in the prison and—to crown everything!—this. [Points to the scars.] How could I have the energy to love? But, anyhow, I still have the energy to hate. And that’s better than feeling nothing at all.
DORA: Yes, you’re right, it’s better.
[He looks at her. A clock strikes seven.]
STEPAN [swinging round]: The Grand Duke will be going by. [DORA goes to the window, pressing her forehead against a pane. A long silence. Then, in the distance, a rumble of carriage wheels. It grows louder, then recedes.] Let’s hope he is by himself.… [The rumble of wheels dies into the distance. A violent explosion rattles the windows. DORA gives a start and buries her head in her hands. A long silence.] Boria hasn’t thrown his bomb. That means Yanek has brought it off! The people have triumphed!
DORA [bursting into tears and flinging herself against him]: And it’s we who have killed him. It’s we who have killed him. It’s I!
STEPAN [shrilly]: What do you mean? Killed whom? Yanek?
DORA: The Grand Duke.
CURTAIN
ACT IV
A cell in the Pugatchev Tower of the Butirki Prison. Morning light is filtering through a barred window. When the curtain rises Kaliayev is looking toward the door. A GUARD enters, followed by a prisoner carrying a mop and bucket.
THE GUARD: Now then! Get down to it!
[The GUARD takes his stand at the window. FOKA, the prisoner, begins to wash the floor; he takes no notice of KALIAYEV. A short silence.]
KALIAYEV: What’s your name, brother?
FOKA: Foka.
KALIAYEV: Are you a convict?
FOKA: What else should I be?
KALIAYEV: What did you do?
FOKA: I killed.
KALIAYEV: You were hungry, no doubt?
THE GUARD: Ssh! Not so loud!
KALIAYEV: What?
THE GUARD: Don’t speak so loud. It’s really against the rules for you to talk. So I’d advise you to talk quietly, like the old man.
KALIAYEV: Is that why you killed—because you were hungry?
FOKA: No. I was thirsty.
KALIAYEV: Yes? And then?
FOKA: There was a hatchet lying around and I laid about with it good and proper. I killed three people, so they tell me. [KALIAYEV gazes at him.] Ah, my young gentleman, I see you don’t call me brother any more. Cooled off, have you?
KALIAYEV: No. I, too, have killed.
FOKA: How many?
KALIAYEV: I’ll tell you, brother, if you want me to. But tell me first; you’re sorry for … for what happened, aren’t you?
FOKA: Sure, I’m sorry. Twenty years’ hard, that’s a long stretch. Enough to make anyone feel sorry.
KALIAYEV: Twenty years. I come here when I’m twenty-three—and when I go out, my hair is gray.
FOKA: Oh, cheer up! There’s no knowing with a judge; depends on whether he’s married, and what his wife is like. Maybe he’ll be in a good humor and let you off easy. And then you’re a fine gentleman. It ain’t the same for a gentleman and people like me. You’ll get off lightly.
KALIAYEV: I doubt it. And anyhow I don’t want to. Feeling shame for twenty years—how horrible that would be!
FOKA: Shame? Where does the shame come in? That’s just one of those crackbrained notions you gentlemen have.… How many people did you kill?
KALIAYEV: One man.
FOKA: One man? Why, that’s nothing!
KALIAYEV: I killed the Grand Duke Serge.
FOKA: The Grand Duke? Well, I’ll be damned! You fine gentlemen never know where to draw the line. Yes, it looks black for you.
KALIAYEV: Very black. But I had to do it.
FOKA: Why? What business does a man like you have getting himself into trouble like that? Ah, I see. Over a woman, wasn’t it? A good-looking young lad like you … I see!
KALIAYEV: I am a socialist.
THE GUARD: Not so loud.
KALIAYEV [deliberately raising his voice]: I am a revolutionary socialist.
FOKA: What a story! And why the hell did you have to be … what you said just now? You had only to stay put, and you were on velvet. The world is made for bright young noblemen like you.
KALIAYEV: No. It is made for you, my friend. There are too many crimes, there’s too much poverty in the world today. When some day there is less poverty, there will be fewer crimes. If Russia were free you would not be here.
FOKA: That’s as it may be. One thing’s sure: whether one’s free or not, it doesn’t pay to take a drop too much.
KALIAYEV: That’s so. Only a man usually takes to drink because he is oppressed. A day will come when there’s no more point in drinking, when nobody will feel ashamed, neither the fine gentleman, nor the poor devil who is down and out. We shall all be brothers and justice will make our hearts transparent. Do you know what I’m talking about?
FOKA: Yes. The Kingdom of God, they call it.
THE GUARD: Not so loud.
KALIAYEV: No, you’re wrong there, brother. God can’t do anything to help; justice is our concern. [A short silence.] Don’t you understand? Do you know that old tale about Saint Dimitri?
FOKA: No.
KALIAYEV: He had made a date with God, far out in the steppes. When he was on his way to keep the appointment he came on a peasant whose cart was stuck in the mud. And Saint Dimitri stopped to help him. The mud was thick and the wheels were so deeply sunk that it took him the best part of an hour, helping to pull the cart out. When this was done Dimitri made haste to the appointed place. But he was too late. God had left.
FOKA: And then?
KALIAYEV: Then—there are some who always arrive too late, because there are too many bogged carts on the way, too many brothers to help out. [FOKA is fidgeting uneasily.] What’s the matter?
THE GUARD: Not so loud. And you, my man, don’t dawdle!
FOKA: I don’t feel easy! It ain’t natural, all this stuff you’re telling me about saints and carts and whatnot. Sounds to me crazy, getting oneself put in prison for ideas like that. And then, there’s something else.
KALIAYEV [looking at him]: Something else? What do you mean?
FOKA: What’s done to people who kill Grand Dukes?
KALIAYEV: They’re hanged.
FOKA: You’ve said it!
[He begins to move away. The GUARD, who has been grinning, gives a loud guffaw.]
KALIAYEV: Stop! What have you got against me?
FOKA: Nothing. Only, fine gentleman as you are, I wouldn’t like to make a fool of you. It’s all right talking like we’ve been doing just to pass the time—but if you’re going to be hanged, no, it ain’t playing fair, like.
KALIAYEV: Why not?
THE GUARD [laughing]: Come on, old man! Spit it out!
FOKA: Because all this talk about you and me being brothers just won’t wash. I’m the hangman.
KALIAYEV: Oh! I thought you were a prisoner, like me.
FOKA: So I am. But they’ve given me that job, and I get a year knocked off my sentence for every man I hang. It’s gravy for nothing!
KALIAYEV: So, to atone for your crimes, they make you commit new ones?
FOKA: Oh, come now, you can’t call them crimes; I’m only carrying out orders. And anyhow, crimes or not, they don’t care. If you want to know what I think, they ain’t Christians.
KALIAYEV: And how many times have you officiated since you came here?
FOKA: Twice. That’s two years to the good.
[KALIAYEV shrinks away from him. The GUARD shepherds FOKA toward the door.]
KALIAYEV: So you’re an executioner?
FOKA [from the doorway]: And you, sir—what about you?
[FOKA goes out. A sound of footsteps, words of command, in the corridor. Followed by the GUARD, SKURATOV enters; he is very spick and span.]
SKURATOV [to the GUARD]: You can go. [To KALIAYEV] Good morning. You don’t know who I am, do you? But I know you. [Laughs.] Quite a celebrity, aren’t you? May I introduce myself? [KALIAYEV keeps silent.] Ah, you don’t feel like talking—I understand. That’s the effect of solitary confinement: seven days and nights. It wears a man down. Well, we’ve put a stop to that; from now on you may have visitors. Indeed, you’ve had one already—that old fellow, Foka. A queer customer, isn’t he? I thought he’d interest you.… You must be pleased at the change; it’s good to see a human face again after a week’s solitary confinement, isn’t it?
KALIAYEV: That depends on the face.
SKURATOV: Ah, a neat retort! I see you know your own mind, my young friend. [A short silence.] So, unless I am much mistaken, my face displeases you?
KALIAYEV: Yes.
SKURATOV: That’s a great pity.
