always has this man of letters of hers on her mind, and the newspapers
are always frightening her to death, and I am tired of it. Plain, human
egoism sometimes speaks in my heart, and I regret that my mother is
a famous actress. If she were an ordinary woman I think I should be
a happier man. What could be more intolerable and foolish than my
position, Uncle, when I find myself the only nonentity among a crowd of
her guests, all celebrated authors and artists? I feel that they only
endure me because I am her son. Personally I am nothing, nobody. I
pulled through my third year at college by the skin of my teeth, as they
say. I have neither money nor brains, and on my passport you may read
that I am simply a citizen of Kiev. So was my father, but he was
a well-known actor. When the celebrities that frequent my mother's
drawing-room deign to notice me at all, I know they only look at me
to measure my insignificance; I read their thoughts, and suffer from
humiliation.

SORIN. Tell me, by the way, what is Trigorin like? I can't understand
him, he is always so silent.

TREPLIEFF. Trigorin is clever, simple, well-mannered, and a little, I
might say, melancholic in disposition. Though still under forty, he is
surfeited with praise. As for his stories, they are--how shall I put
it?--pleasing, full of talent, but if you have read Tolstoi or Zola you
somehow don't enjoy Trigorin.

SORIN. Do you know, my boy, I like literary men. I once passionately
desired two things: to marry, and to become an author. I have succeeded
in neither. It must be pleasant to be even an insignificant author.

TREPLIEFF. [Listening] I hear footsteps! [He embraces his uncle] I