without ill-nature. You are a most malicious old man. [Seriously]
Seriously, Count you are extremely disagreeable, and very
tiresome and painful to live with. You are always grumbling and
growling, and everybody to you is a blackguard and a scoundrel.
Tell me honestly, Count, have you ever spoken well of any one?

SHABELSKI. Is this an inquisition?

ANNA. We have lived under this same roof now for five years, and
I have never heard you speak kindly of people, or without
bitterness and derision. What harm has the world done to you? Is
it possible that you consider yourself better than any one else?

SHABELSKI. Not at all. I think we are all of us scoundrels and
hypocrites. I myself am a degraded old man, and as useless as a
cast-off shoe. I abuse myself as much as any one else. I was rich
once, and free, and happy at times, but now I am a dependent, an
object of charity, a joke to the world. When I am at last
exasperated and defy them, they answer me with a laugh. When I
laugh, they shake their heads sadly and say, "The old man has
gone mad." But oftenest of all I am unheard and unnoticed by
every one.

ANNA. [Quietly] Screaming again.

SHABELSKI. Who is screaming?

ANNA. The owl. It screams every evening.

SHABELSKI. Let it scream. Things are as bad as they can be