or in Kursk, but here, in nature's lap. It would then at least be
poetical, even beautiful. Here you have the forests, the houses
half in ruins that Turgenieff writes of.

HELENA. How comical you are! I am angry with you and yet I shall
always remember you with pleasure. You are interesting and
original. You and I will never meet again, and so I shall tell
you--why should I conceal it?--that I am just a little in love
with you. Come, one more last pressure of our hands, and then let
us part good friends. Let us not bear each other any ill will.

ASTROFF. [Pressing her hand] Yes, go. [Thoughtfully] You seem to
be sincere and good, and yet there is something strangely
disquieting about all your personality. No sooner did you arrive
here with your husband than every one whom you found busy and
actively creating something was forced to drop his work and give
himself up for the whole summer to your husband's gout and
yourself. You and he have infected us with your idleness. I have
been swept off my feet; I have not put my hand to a thing for
weeks, during which sickness has been running its course
unchecked among the people, and the peasants have been pasturing
their cattle in my woods and young plantations. Go where you
will, you and your husband will always carry destruction in your
train. I am joking of course, and yet I am strangely sure that
had you stayed here we should have been overtaken by the most
immense desolation. I would have gone to my ruin, and you--you
would not have prospered. So go! E finita la comedia!

HELENA. [Snatching a pencil off ASTROFF'S table, and hiding it
with a quick movement] I shall take this pencil for memory!