and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he
hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is
everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of
fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of a common
deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the
son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on.
But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for
twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about
it. For twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's
thoughts about realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for
twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that
clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in;
for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains
out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and
presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been
masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely
unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the
earth like a demi-god!

ASTROFF. I believe you envy him.

VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women!
Don Juan himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was
my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue
heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers
than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic
purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as
themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day,
and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second
wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in his