HELENA. Yes, very much indeed.

SONIA. [Laughing] I have a stupid face, haven't I? He has just
gone out, and his voice is still in my ears; I hear his step; I
see his face in the dark window. Let me say all I have in my
heart! But no, I cannot speak of it so loudly. I am ashamed. Come
to my room and let me tell you there. I seem foolish to you,
don't I? Talk to me of him.

HELENA. What can I say?

SONIA. He is clever. He can do everything. He can cure the sick,
and plant woods.

HELENA. It is not a question of medicine and woods, my dear, he
is a man of genius. Do you know what that means? It means he is
brave, profound, and of clear insight. He plants a tree and his
mind travels a thousand years into the future, and he sees
visions of the happiness of the human race. People like him are
rare and should be loved. What if he does drink and act roughly
at times? A man of genius cannot be a saint in Russia. There he
lives, cut off from the world by cold and storm and endless roads
of bottomless mud, surrounded by a rough people who are crushed
by poverty and disease, his life one continuous struggle, with
never a day's respite; how can a man live like that for forty
years and keep himself sober and unspotted? [Kissing SONIA] I
wish you happiness with all my heart; you deserve it. [She gets
up] As for me, I am a worthless, futile woman. I have always been
futile; in music, in love, in my husband's house--in a word, in
everything. When you come to think of it, Sonia, I am really