and the other on
her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new
life.

ASTROFF. And the Professor?

VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as
usual--

"Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow,
We write, write, write,
Without respite
Or hope of praise in the future or now."

Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a
really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired
professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches,
and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the
estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford
to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though,
as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of
a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the
son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But
I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five
years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For
twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about
realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he
has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and
stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been
making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the
man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years
he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely
unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth
like a demi-god!

ASTROFF. I believe you envy him.

VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan
himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was
a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us,
noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she
loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as
pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores
him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her.
His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in
his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom
to him. Why? What for?

ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him?

VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately s