In literature a drama genre deserves your attention. Dramas are usually called plays. Every person is made up of two parts: good and evil. Due to life circumstances, the human reveals one or another side of his nature. In drama we can see the full range of emotions : it can be love, jealousy, hatred, fear, etc. The best drama books are full of dialogue. This type of drama is one of the oldest forms of storytelling and has existed almost since the beginning of humanity. Drama genre - these are events that involve a lot of people. People most often suffer in this genre, because they are selfish. People always think to themselves first, they want have a benefit.The Light Shines in Darkness by graf Tolstoy Leo (the best novels to read .txt) đ
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LYĂBA. Not at all. I see he has grown fond of you, and he addressed himself chiefly to you last night.
BORĂS [finishes his coffee] Well, I'll go then.
LYĂBA. Yes, do, and I'll go and wake Lisa and TĂłnya.
Curtain.
Village street. IvĂĄn ZyĂĄbrev, covered with a sheepskin coat, is lying near a hut.
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. MalĂĄshka!
A tiny girl comes out of the hut with a baby in her arms. The baby is crying.
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. Get me a drink of water.
MalĂĄshka goes back into the hut, from where the baby can be heard screaming. She brings a bowl of water.
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. Why do you always beat the youngster and make him howl? I'll tell mother.
MALĂSHKA. Tell her then. It's hunger makes him howl!
IVĂN ZYĂBREV [drinks] You should go and ask the DĂ©mkins for some milk.
MALĂSHKA. I went, but there wasn't any. And there was no one at home.
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. Oh! if only I could die! Have they rung for dinner?
MALĂSHKA. They have. Here's the master coming.
Enter Nicholas IvĂĄnovich.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. Why have you come out here?
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. Too many flies in there, and it's too hot.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. Then you're warm now?
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. Yes, now I'm burning all over.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. And where is Peter? Is he at home?
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. At home, at this time? Why, he's gone to the field to cart the corn.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. And I hear that they want to put him in prison.
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. That's so, the Policeman has gone to the field for him.
Enter a pregnant Woman, carrying a sheaf of oats and a rake. She immediately hits MalĂĄshka on the back of the head.
WOMAN. What d'you mean by leaving the baby? Don't you hear him howling! Running about the streets is all you know.
MALĂSHKA [howling] I've only just come out. Daddy wanted a drink.
WOMAN. I'll give it you. [She sees the land-owner, N. I. SarĂœntsov] Good-day, sir. Children are a trouble! I'm quite done up, everything on my shoulders, and now they're taking our only worker to prison, and this lout is sprawling about here.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. What are you saying? He's quite ill!
WOMAN. He's ill, and what about me? Am I not ill? When it's work, he's ill; but to merry-make or pull my hair out, he's not too ill. Let him die like a hound! What do I care?
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. How can you say such wicked things?
WOMAN. I know it's a sin; but I can't subdue my heart. I'm expecting another child, and I have to work for two. Other people have their harvest in already, and we have not mowed a quarter of our oats yet. I ought to finish binding the sheaves, but can't. I had to come and see what the children were about.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. The oats shall be cutâI'll hire someone, and to bind the sheaves too.
WOMAN. Oh, binding's nothing. I can do that myself, if it's only mown down quick. What d'you think, Nicholas IvĂĄnovich, will he die? He is very ill!
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. I don't know. But he really is very ill. I think we must send him to the hospital.
WOMAN. Oh God! [Begins to cry] Don't take him away, let him die here.[28] [To her husband, who utters something] What's the matter?
IVĂN ZYĂBREV. I want to go to the hospital. Here I'm treated worse than a dog.
WOMAN. Well, I don't know. I've lost my head. MalĂĄshka, get dinner ready.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. What have you for dinner?
WOMAN. What? Why, potatoes and bread, and not enough of that. [Enters hut. A pig squeals, and children are crying inside].
IVĂN ZYĂBREV [groans] Oh Lord, if I could but die!
Enter BorĂs.
BORĂS. Can I be of any use?
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. Here no one can be of use to another. The evil is too deeply rooted. Here we can only be of use to ourselves, by seeing on what we build our happiness. Here is a family: five children, the wife pregnant, the husband ill, nothing but potatoes to eat, and at this moment the question is being decided whether they are to have enough to eat next year or not. Help is not possible. How can one help? Suppose I hire a labourer; who will he be? Just such another man: one who has given up his farming, from drink or from want.
BORĂS. Excuse me, but if so, what are you doing here?
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. I am learning my own position. Finding out who weeds our gardens, builds our houses, makes our garments, and feeds and clothes us. [Peasants with scythes and women with rakes pass by and bow. Nicholas IvĂĄnovich, stopping one of the Peasants] ErmĂl, won't you take on the job of carting for these people?
ERMĂL [shakes his head] I would with all my heart, but I can't possibly do it. I haven't carted my own yet. We are off now to do some carting. But is IvĂĄn dying?
ANOTHER PEASANT. Here's Sebastian, he may take on the job. I say, Daddy Sebastian! They want a man to get the oats in.
SEBASTIAN. Take the job on yourself. At this time of year one day's work brings a year's food. [The Peasants pass on].
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. They are all half-starved; they have only bread and water, they are ill, and many of them are old. That old man, for instance, is ruptured and is suffering, and yet he works from four in the morning to ten at night, though he is only half alive. And we? Is it possible, realising all this, to live quietly and consider oneself a Christian? Or let alone a Christianâsimply not a beast?
BORĂS. But what can one do?
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. Not take part in this evil. Not own the land, nor devour the fruits of their labour. How this can be arranged, I don't yet know. The fact of the matter isâat any rate it was so with meâI lived and did not realise how I was living. I did not realise that I am a son of God and that we are all sons of Godâand all brothers. But as soon as I realised itârealised that we have all an equal right to liveâmy whole life was turned upside down. But I cannot explain it to you now. I will only tell you this: I was blind, just as my people at home are, but now my eyes are opened and I cannot help seeing; and seeing it all, I can't continue to live in such a way. However, that will keep till later. Now we must see what can be done.
Enter Policeman, Peter, his wife, and boy.
PETER [falls at Nicholas IvĂĄnovich's feet] Forgive me, for the Lord's sake, or I'm ruined. How can the woman get in the harvest? If at least I might be bailed out.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. I will go and write a petition for you. [To Policeman] Can't you let him remain here for the present?
POLICEMAN. Our orders are to take him to the police-station now.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH [to Peter] Well then go, and I'll do what I can. This is evidently my doing. How can one go on living like this? [Exit].
Curtain.
In the same country-house. It is raining outside. A drawing-room with a grand piano. TĂłnya has just finished playing a sonata of Schumann's and is sitting at the piano. StyĂłpa is standing by the piano. BorĂs is sitting. LyĂșba, Lisa, MitrofĂĄn ErmĂlych and the young Priest are all stirred by the music.
LYĂBA. That andante! Isn't it lovely!
STYĂPA. No, the scherzo. Though really the whole of it is beautiful.
LISA. Very fine.
STYĂPA. But I had no idea you were such an artist. It is real masterly play. Evidently the difficulties no longer exist for you, and you think only of the feeling, and express it with wonderful delicacy.
LYĂBA. Yes, and with dignity.
TĂNYA. While I felt that it was not at all what I meant it to be. A great deal remained unexpressed.
LISA. What could be better? It was wonderful.
LYĂBA. Schumann is good, but all the same Chopin takes a stronger hold of one's heart.
STYĂPA. He is more lyrical.
TĂNYA. There is no comparison.
LYĂBA. Do you remember his prelude?
TĂNYA. Oh, the one called the George Sand prelude? [Plays the commencement].
LYĂBA. No, not that one. That is very fine, but so hackneyed. Do play this one. [TĂłnya plays what she can of it, and then breaks off].
TĂNYA. Oh, that is a lovely thing. There is something elemental about itâolder than creation.
STYĂPA [laughs] Yes, yes. Do play it. But no, you are too tired. As it is, we have had a delightful morning, thanks to you.
TĂNYA [rises and looks out of window] There are some more peasants waiting outside.
LYĂBA. That is why music is so precious. I understand Saul. Though I'm not tormented by devils, I still understand him. No other art can make one so forget everything else as music does. [Approaches the window. To Peasants] Whom do you want?
PEASANTS. We have been sent to speak to Nicholas IvĂĄnovich.
LYĂBA. He is not in. You must wait.
TĂNYA. And yet you are marrying BorĂs who understands nothing about music.
LYĂBA. Oh, surely not.
BORĂS [absently] Music? Oh no. I like music, or rather I don't dislike it. Only I prefer something simplerâI like songs.
TĂNYA. But is not this sonata lovely?
BORĂS. The chief thing is, that it is not important; and it rather hurts me, when I think of the lives men live, that so much importance is attached to music.
They all eat sweetmeats, which are standing on the table.
LISA. How nice it is to have a fiancé here and sweetmeats provided!
BORĂS. Oh that is not my doing. It's mamma's.
TĂNYA. And quite right too.
LYĂBA. Music is precious because it seizes us, takes possession of us, and carries us away from reality. Everything seemed gloomy till you suddenly began to play, and really it has made everything brighter.
LISA. And Chopin's valses. They are hackneyed, but all the same âŠ
TĂNYA. This ⊠[plays].
Enter Nicholas IvĂĄnovich. He greets BorĂs, TĂłnya, StyĂłpa, Lisa, MitrofĂĄn ErmĂlych and the Priest.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. Where's mamma?
LYĂBA. I think she's in the nursery.
StyĂłpa calls the Man-servant.
LYĂBA. Papa, how wonderfully TĂłnya plays! And where have you been?
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. In the village.
Enter servant, AfanĂĄsy.
STYĂPA. Bring another samovĂĄr.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH [greets the Man-servant, and shakes hands with him[29]] Good-day. [Servant becomes confused. Exit Servant. Nicholas IvĂĄnovich also goes off].
STYĂPA. Poor AfanĂĄsy! He was terribly confused. I can't understand papa. It is as if we were guilty of something.
Enter Nicholas IvĂĄnovich.
NICHOLAS IVĂNOVICH. I was going back to my room without having told you what I feel. [To TĂłnya] If what I say should offend youâwho are our guestâforgive me, but I cannot help saying it. You, Lisa, say that TĂłnya plays well. All you here, seven or eight healthy young men and women, have slept till ten o'clock, have eaten and drunk and are still eating; and you play and discuss music: while there, where I have just been, they were all up at three in the morning, and those who pastured the horses at night have not slept at all; and old and young, the sick and the weak, children and nursing-mothers and pregnant women are working to the utmost limits of their strength, so that
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