Original subtitles

We don't wish to disturb your party.

Thank you.

We're looking for the writer Antosha Chekhonte.

These Africans are my five brothers.

You must discover which of us is Antosha.

lt's you.

l'm the eldest.

The most intelligent and most reliable.

l write.

But what l write is mediocre and pompous.

Antosha drives us insane with envy.

He's a genius.

With a golden quill!

That's enough!

l am Antosha.

You?

We came from Petersburg to meet you in the flesh.

Could we go somewhere quiet?

What we have to tell you is of the highest importance.

ln that case, let us go into my study.

Please sit down.

l came across a short story of yours in a literary review.

l was stupefied by its originality.

l have since read all your work.

l informed Suvorin,

Russian's top publisher

and editor of New Times.

l have such love for literature

that l owe it to myself to shake your hand.

My name is Grigorovich.

Sir, you have true talent, placing you at the forefront of your generation.

Just a second...

Excuse me, but are you Dmitry Grigorovich?

Who wrote The Village?

Yes.

And you...

You're the famous Suvorin.

lt's my brother you've come to see.

Antosha, come here! This is too serious.

Please excuse this bad joke.

Allow me to introduce my brother...

Antosha Chekhonte!

l've never worked longer than a day on any of my stories.

When we discuss my work,

everyone here advises me not to give up medicine.

lt would be a serious mistake not to exercise your talent.

l write to make a bit of money.

To support my family.

l'm a doctor too.

lt's hard to do both at once.

What are you writing right now?

A boy and girl are playing in the snow,

huddled together on a sledge.

On each ride,

when the girl is scared the boy whispers to her,

''l love you, Nadenka.''

When they've finished,

the girl doesn't know if she dreamt it or if the boy really said it.

l write as one eats a pancake.

l put pen to paper. When l lift it off, it's finished.

Henceforth, you should proof-read.

And heed my advice.

l will publish any short stories you entrust to me,

and pay 1 5 kopeks per line.

Fifteen?

Make the stories as long as you like.

My newspapers set a maximum of 1 20 lines.

A thousand lines, two thousand... Why not a novel?

Write about poverty.

The suicide of a young peasant, for example.

Or about your own youth.

l would ask you...

to take your time.

You will reach great heights.

Why ''Chekhonte''?

Sign with your own name!

Anton Chekhov. lt's a fine name.

Very well.

Send your writings to Suvorin in Petersburg.

Our Father, which art in heaven

Hallowed be Thy name...

Papa!

You promised not to shout your prayers!

lf l don't sing out loud, l can't do it.

Show Father some respect, Alexander.

He disapproves of my private life.

He's against smoking and cohabitation. You can't change him.

How much did Suvorin offer?

1 5 kopeks per line.

No limit to the number of pages.

My little brother!

We have to feed Papa and Mama.

You have huge talent, Antosha. You're a phenomenon!

l didn't need Grigorovich to tell me.

Don't be venal.

Get away from here.

Papa is gnawing at your heart, like a rat at a candle.

Mama thinks she loves you.

She's destroying you.

lt's making you cheerless, unpleasant.

You're making fun of me.

No, l'm not.

Antosha.

l'm going to bed.

lvan, Micha, to bed!

lsaac.

Where are you sleeping?

ln the corridor.

When will you be doing a dissection, Doctor?

l love it when you chop up corpses.

The dead know no shame.

But they don't half stink!

How can you be interested in science

when it's so intoxicating to write or paint?

This is the century of medicine.

We now know how tuberculosis is transmitted.

One day we'll be able to cure it.

Really, little brother?

Yes, l promise you.

- When will you come to Petersburg? - Let him write!

Masha.

Yes?

l haven't had a kiss.

Come here.

No, you!

Do you promise to paint until l come again?

Take time to do so.

Don't let your brother's work take over.

He's selfish. Talented, it's true, but dangerous!

See you soon, brothers.

And you, lsaac.

Goodbye, Antosha.

ls that you, Mama?

Yes.

Come in.

Sorry to bother you, Antosha. Lunch is ready.

What have you made?

Not much.

Soup.

Hello.

My name is Lika. l'm passionate about literature.

- Welcome to my class. - Thank you.

Thank you.

Have a seat.

Hello.

My daughter's very sick.

l'll see her right away.

Hello, Doctor.

Breathe in.

l approached your sister because of my interest...

in you.

l read some of your short stories.

l love them.

l was in love with you before we even met.

Love doesn't interest me.

lt's a trap which uses up all one's energy.

That isn't true.

Love gives you wings.

lt gives you talent.

lt stops you ageing, going rusty...

lt makes you immortal.

ln bad novels, perhaps. Not in real life.

l can philosophise about love, but l am incapable of it.

l'll come and see you again soon.

l forbid it.

You smell of mothballs. lt's not unpleasant.

- l've recopied your new stories. - They'll bring in some money.

Written at one sitting!

Do you like them?

Amusing. The peasant who insults his beloved.

Yes. And the other one?

Sleepy-Eyed? lt's terrifying!

She kills the baby.

You're cruel.

Her life is cruel. And unjust.

This is Chekhov, not Chekhonte.

Thank you.

l planned a novel but it's just a longer short story.

A more polished style?

For 1 5 kopeks per line!

Post it to Suvorin.

The title?

The Steppe.

Early memories,

nature writing,

childhood tragedy, loneliness,

immensity of the future...

Let's see...

lt's too heavy. Leave it.

We can walk. lt's not far, Doctor.

An hour earlier and l could have saved her.

lt's terrifying, being a doctor.

Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you.

Goodbye, Elena.

What do you want from me?

Why are you hounding me?

''Hounding''! That's the word.

Why me, when you're surrounded by men?

l could love no man as l love you.

Lika,

even if l were...

l have the key to a secret place.

Your husband.

He's away.

Come. l want you so much.

Where?

Very close. A friend's apartment.

You're crazy. You don't know what you're doing.

lf you like immoral women, you won't be disappointed.

Master of heaven and the seasons,

bless this food we eat.

To all those who are cold and hungry,

give shelter and bread.

Our Father...

That's enough, Papa. We're not at mass.

l'm going to visit my publisher.

Will you stay long?

- Will you see Kolia? - Of course. Alexander too.

Give them a good talking to?

l'll tell them to change their women,

to drink less and work harder...

lf only we could move.

We'd need a lot of money, which we don't have.

l'll soon have a position with a salary.

You can leave and get wed.

Anton, lighten up!

Yes, sorry.

Thank you, Masha.

You'll never marry and stay with Mama forever!

You'll have an apartment with a servant at your disposal,

as well as a carriage.

Sorry, but l... l don't want a servant.

Luxury terrifies me.

My proposal regarding your royalties

could make you rich.

My husband daren't tell you he's bought a theatre.

He wants to open it with a Chekhov play.

Will you write this play if l commission it?

A realist drama depicting our society?

l have a few ideas.

His ambition is to write with you. That's his idea!

A long time ago l wrote an overlong play.

l was eighteen.

l don't know if l kept it.

Antosha.

Recognise yourself?

How did you do it? l've never posed.

You did, a long time ago. Don't you remember?

l did a quick sketch.

l completed it from memory.

A good likeness, isn't it?

l like it.

The painting, not the chap!

A handsome fellow like you!

Want some?

Yeah.

Thanks.

l don't like myself either.

To a ne'er-do-well!

Suvorin wants to publish all my short stories.

lt could bring me at least 10,000 roubles.

The great and handsome Chekhov.

The genius.

Huh, all you care about is the cash!

When l think of all your admirers... lf they only knew!

l want you to come home with me.

To illustrate my stories.

lt's a huge job.

lt'll be quicker, and l'll be able to treat you.

And my wife?

Sophie isn't your wife.

She's a prostitute.

She's not worthy of you.

We'll go and see lsaac tomorrow.

We'll take him home too, to help you.

The lad's in good health.

l'm not pleased with him.

Not at all.

Not only were you smoking,

but you lied too,

saying you'd only smoked once

although your mother caught you twice.

You used to be a good boy.

Here today, the doctor and l can see

that you've gone bad.

How can l make him understand?

There once was a tsar with a long grey beard.

He lived in a glass palace,

which glistened in the sunshine like a huge block of ice.

And this palace, my friend,

stood in an enormous garden in which...

orange, bergamot and cherry trees grew.

The tsar had just one son, heir to the kingdom.

A little boy the same age as you.

He was a good boy,

except for one thing...

He smoked.

And because he smoked,

he fell ill with tuberculosis at the age of 20.

His father, wrinkled and sickly,

was left helpless.

He had no one left to defend the country.

His enemies came,

killed the tsar

and destroyed the palace.

And now,

in the garden,

there are no more oranges,

nor cherries, nor bluebells.

l won't smoke again, Papa.

Antosha.

A present.

Who from?

The little girl you treated.

Thank you, Nina.

You have visits to make.

- How many? - Three in the same area.

Gentlemen.

- My day is full. - You have the night.

Remember that painting you liked?

l was going to offer it to you.

Look what Kolia's done to it.

You've added that woman?

Yes.

lt brightens it up.

See, lsaac, your paintings lack life.

Beautiful, isn't she?

She's like Sophie.

Hello.

Thank you.

How could you write such bilge?

Yes, sir!

l've just read The Grasshopper.

A nice bit of thievery!

How could you stoop so low?

lt has nothing to do with you.

Nothing?

Are you joking?

lt's clearly Anna Petrovna.

She has a daughter.

You've changed nothing.

lt's me!

lt's exactly me!

He's a painter.

And he's just like me: conceited...

a bastard, a pig!

My character is 20, Anna is 40.

All you did was swap the mother's and daughter's names.

l won't allow you!

Neither will she.

What's going on?

Ask your brother.

lt's a misunderstanding.

He used me as the model for his idiot painter.

Do you ask a tree for permission to paint it?

- Do you want a fight? - Come now.

Drink and make up.

l'll get a lawyer! l'll even fight a duel!

This disease is improving my looks.

Look at me. Pale, slim,

shining eyes...

My fragility, my feverish eyes...

Women love all that!

Anton.

Yes?

Have you heard of Sakhalin?

Sakhalin?

Yes, of course.

lt's an island. Used as a prison.

The conditions are appalling.

They're beaten and hanged for the slightest misdemeanour.

Their wives and children prostitute themselves.

l want to get better in order to go there.

- lt's the ends of the earth. - To be a witness!

To make people realise.

To improve their conditions.

We can both go to Sakhalin.

Would you come with me?

l want to make myself useful.

Nizhny, Perm,

Tyumen, Tomsk, lrkutsk,

the river Amur to Nikolayevsk...

Sakhalin!

Are you there, boys? l'm bringing you some tea.

Don't make any noise. Antosha is writing.

- l came to see Masha. - l know.

My brother's writing, we mustn't talk.

You can talk normally. l've finished working.

Thank you.

Lika, it's not you l love.

lt's my former suffering, my lost childhood.

ls this to be copied too?

No, leave that.

What is it?

My notes.

l write down my ideas. lt's not important.

Can l read it?

lt's not very interesting.

''So-called childish pleasure, pure and full of life,

''is nothing other than animal joy.'' Bravo!

lt's for my own use, it doesn't have to be clever.

Give it to me.

''A starving dog believes only in meat.''

Masha!

Sorry, Papa.

Masha, open this door!

Open this door!

''A man without a moustache is like a woman with one.''

''A young woman, always saying Divinel''

Give me that book.

Wait.

''She didn't have enough skin on her face.

''To open her eyes she closed her mouth, and vice versa.''

''ln a love letter: a stamp enclosed for the reply.''

That's enough!

''Caterpillars become butterflies.

''Among humans, though, butterflies become caterpillars.''

Open this door!

l order you to open this door, Masha!

Here.

Can l have it? l can read it in bed, for a good laugh.

Give it back tomorrow.

l promise.

Have you written to lsaac?

lsaac?

Why?

To reassure him and to apologise.

l will do.

A suicide?

Yes.

When it's least expected.

At the end of act three.

lf you kill off the main character,

how will act four play out?

There is no main character.

Everyone is important.

Helena's and Sonya's love for the mill employee

is no more important than Julia's for Fedor.

But how does he commit suicide? On stage?

He shoots himself. Off stage.

Sonya finds him, screams

and comes back on stage...

''Uncle has killed himself!''

General commotion.

Everyone runs into the wings.

Helena groans... ''Why? Why?''

Someone else appears. Dyadin, for example.

''What's going on?''

Helena's hysterical.

''Take me away!

''Fling me into the deepest abyss!

''Kill me quickly, l beg you. l cannot stay here.''

You're crazy, Anton.

- Don't you like it? - l love it!

- He could try to kill the professor. - No!

No, please. Let me survive till the end.

Don't look so surprised.

l'm Serebryakov.

Oh, yes! He suffers from rheumatism

and has a much younger wife.

He's selfish,

pedantic, thoughtless...

Didn't you notice, Antosha?

You're so charming.

How pretentious of me to want to write this play with you.

You really are wonderful.

l'm quite useless!

l wanted to surprise you but l can't restrain myself...

l thought you'd like to buy a property for yourself and your family.

A friend of mine has a place in Melikhovo.

l'll help you financially.

The time is right.

Alexei Suvorin,

you're a magician!

You scared me.

Can you heal him, Antosha?

Yes, Mama. l promise to do all l can.

Antosha, my love,

tongues have been wagging.

My husband has found out.

He's taken me on a trip.

He loves me while l no longer feel anything for him.

l tried to get in touch but didn't dare come to see you.

l want you so much.

Don't forget me, l'll be back.

You're so close in my heart.

You're a famous writer now.

Write your great oeuvre, my love.

Write and think of me.

Lika.

Antosha!

- Tolstoy wants to meet you! - The Pushkin Prize!

The Pushkin Prize? Tolstoy?

What are you doing?

l don't know.

l'm pacing, like someone in love.

Tolstoy.

The only writer capable of scaring me.

When Anna Karenina sees her own eyes shining in the dark,

it's...

it's terrifying.

l'll be back very soon.

Take your time.

Get the most out of him.

- Antosha. - Yes?

Were you joking about Sakhalin?

Me?

When you said you'd come with me.

No, l wasn't joking.

Get some rest.

Wait, girls, or you'll fall.

They wear me out!

Hello.

l'm Anton Chekhov.

Go away, girls. l'm talking privately with Mr Chekhov.

This is my personal diary.

l have it on me night and day. My wife does the same.

She won't be there at my death. l've forbidden her in writing.

A man's last wishes are sacred. Mine especially.

l've renounced my royalties.

Another point of contention with Sophia.

Women cannot tolerate the truth.

l was already 34 when we married.

l suggested she read my diary.

At 18, the poor thing learnt of my depravity.

Gambling, drinking,

women...

Above all, my incredible ambition.

l had every vice.

Not you, Emma, you're too beautiful!

Get Martha. We're not going swimming, it's raining.

Go on, off with you!

Thank you, Martha.

Thank you.

Write your stories and forget everything else.

Follow my example.

Give up sex and meat, pray to God

and scourge yourself each time you're seized with desire.

There's purity inside you.

A jewel which God placed in you,

and which will return to Him on your death.

Where is he?

What are you doing?

Can't you see?

Stop it, it's suicide!

l'm giving up writing.

For good.

Why did that devil Grigorovich turn my head?

l was fine, writing my mediocre stories, earning a few pennies,

enough to feed us. But now...

l'm a doctor. That is my duty.

l shall see you all, one at a time.

But then you cannot come again for several months, maybe a year.

Who was here first?

Let the baby go first.

l'll see you after.

l'm a doctor.

There's no shortage of good doctors!

But you can count a century's geniuses on the fingers of one hand.

l command you to start writing again!

Tales, fables, short stories, plays...

Whatever you like.

But start writing again. That's an order!

Antosha.

Yes?

lt's Lika.

ln my study.

A fancy dress party at the castle.

l got away.

Do you like my mask?

l leave tomorrow for Sakhalin.

lf you request it in writing,

l'll divorce him and marry you when you return.

Do you agree, my love?

Could you put up with a man like me?

l understand you in my flesh and my brain.

You need me.

Your love is terrifying.

- Are you afraid of being happy? - l have a family.

A mother, a sister,

two younger student brothers, an elder brother...

You're deserting them.

l'll be back.

Cured.

Will you write to me?

Tell me you'll write.

So my horse-journey is over. lt took two months.

lf you exclude the time spent on the railway and the steamer,

and the days wasted waiting for boats,

you can judge the speed.

l have not once been ill,

and of the things l had with me

l have lost but a penknife, a strap off my trunk and some ointment.

My money is safe.

At home it is cold,

while in Sakhalin it is clear and mild.

My dear sister, but for you l would never have come.

l know you are taking care of the family,

and without the added burden

of my mood swings.

l made an agreement with Suvorin.

l'm sending him my travel writing, he'll send you the roubles.

This island isn't just a prison.

The prisoners are never meant to leave.

l'll write a serious study.

An investigation.

l'd like to question each prisoner.

l authorise you to see whom you like, when you like,

excepting the political prisoners.

We have nothing to hide.

My daughter is very happy to have you here.

For the chance to meet a great writer.

Are you a student?

A teacher.

She knows all your work. Right, Anna?

lt's an honour to have you here.

l don't want to be a bother.

l can get a hotel room.

You'll be most comfortable with the prison doctor.

What do you want?

To clean your boots, sir.

Don't be afraid.

l'm not here to punish you, but to listen.

l shall question you,

to understand why you are here.

l'll put your names on these little cards,

and write down what you tell me.

lt will be a record of your misery,

with which to alert the authorities

and improve your conditions.

Please remain quiet.

My name is Vasily lgnatiev.

But my nickname is ''Beauty''.

l haven't felt the whip for a long time.

Now when l'm told, ''Saw some wood!'' l saw it.

''Light the stoves!'' l go and light them.

l've learnt to obey.

lt was harder before, we lived in a sort of hut

that they call a ''yurt''.

They were made of logs sunk into the earth,

with beaten-earth roofs.

The windows were smaller, the walls were damp...

They'd flog us for no reason.

We died more easily than we do now.

l came to Sakhalin with my father.

Just a little girl.

His sentence was ten years' hard labour, commuted to banishment.

One can no longer go home, but the regime is softer.

Am l disturbing you?

No, Anna.

l cannot hide any more.

The children in my class are so infested with nits

that l'm setting an example.

l've always found masculine-looking women attractive.

Thank you.

Are you writing about Sakhalin?

My problem isn't finding a subject to inspire me.

l want to study Sakhalin because it has never been done.

Will you come? Dinner is served.

Delighted to.

Thank you, Yegor. We don't need you.

Hello.

l'm Anton Chekhov.

l'm questioning the island's inhabitants.

May l talk to you?

Yes, come in.

Coming?

Out of the question.

- What is your father's name? - l don't know.

You live with him but don't know his name?

He's not our father. He's a man who lives with our mother.

ls she a widow?

- She's here because of her husband. - Not her husband!

What do you mean?

She killed him.

She killed your father?

Mama was 1 5 when l was born.

She was already a whore.

''The coachman swore impotently and fell back in the ditch.

''We heard a crack from the rear wheels, then from the front.

''The horses steamed.

''The coachman brandished his crop.

''The devil take youl

''The horses pulled, then stopped.

''Beat and insult them all we liked, they'd go no further.''

lt's a hard road.

But the only one linking Europe to Siberia.

What a lovely idea, keeping a travel log.

When l see something l must write it down.

May l read it, Anton?

Of course.

What a knucklehead!

By trying to escape,

you've made things worse.

Yegor, why were you sent here to Sakhalin?

What did you say, Your Grace?

Why are you here?

For murder.

Tell me what happened.

l don't have time. l have to fetch the water.

Will you become a colonist?

ln about five years.

Why haven't you sent for your family?

They're better off at home.

Anton.

Anton Pavlovich.

Sorry, l woke you.

Here, l wrote this for you.

l'll be fine.

One day Dr Chekhov will write a book about Sakhalin.

That book will change the world.

Why not just write the story of a simple schoolteacher?

You could tell an everyday tale.

At the age of seventeen she wins a prize and a medal.

What then can she do?

She's accepted almost nowhere, she can find no position.

Through the island's governor, her father gets her a teaching post,

several kilometres from home.

A thin wall separates her dark corner from the damp classroom.

There's only a bed, table and chair.

The fire draws badly.

An icy cold enters through the door.

The classroom is not warm enough.

The principal is often away.

She and her pupils freeze.

Throughout the winter the pupils don't wash.

And when they open their bags,

she sees books stained with grease,

hunks of bread,

apples,

salted gherkins and herring...

She wonders, when the children flock round her,

why she feels dizzy,

why she can't she feel enough love for these poor creatures.

She knows a few families,

sometimes visiting them.

They respect her as a teacher but feel no affection for her.

She should marry,

but could not bear to wed someone she does not love.

She becomes enamoured of a sensitive, interesting man.

The love is so idealised

that she dare not even wonder what his feelings are.

She feels so insignificant.

Anton, have you ever loved?

Yes, l believe so.

ls she still in your heart?

My heart is cold.

As a boy, l'd tend the family shop until late,

in the cold and fear of my father.

He'd expel his anger with his whip before kneeling before his icons.

Brutality and bigotry. The setting in which l grew up.

Poverty too.

The son of a freed serf, he ran a business.

He went bankrupt and the family fled to Moscow.

l was sixteen.

My job was to sell everything off and send the money.

There were six children.

When l joined them l went to study medicine.

We lived in a cellar.

My two older brothers began drinking.

l started selling amusing tales,

silly stuff and nonsense,

which l scribbled in two or three hours,

as my brothers and friends laughed around me.

Conditions gradually improved for us.

Up until the day some important men came and changed my life.

The children of Sakhalin are dressed in rags and always hungry.

They die mainly of digestive diseases.

Every new birth is bad news for a family.

No one sings lullabies over the cradle.

Only lamentations of ill augur.

The parents say they have no food for their children,

but whatever they say and despite all the complaints,

the most useful and pleasant beings in Sakhalin are the children.

ln those hard-hearted homes,

they bring an element of tenderness, purity,

modesty and joy.

Despite their hardness,

they love their wanton mothers and brigand fathers.

Masha, my darling sister,

my mission will soon be over and l shall return home.

l hope this letter gets there before me.

When l think of the distance, l feel l won't be home for 100 years.

Love,

Antosha.

''How can you imply...''

How can you imply there's prostitution here in Sakhalin?

lt's been banned for years

and is punishable by 90 strokes of the lash.

He humbly beseech Your Honour

to allow us a dairy cow

and a person of the feminine sex

to take care of the domestic chores.

l want a part too.

Before l leave l'll write you a play by which to remember me.

- l must go. - No, don't!

Tomorrow,

you'll board the Petersburg for the long journey home.

You'll cross the China Sea.

l'll stop off in Colombo.

A wonderful place, they say.

l'll feast my eyes on palm trees

and bronze-skinned women.

The voyage will be never-ending.

l'll miss you, Anna.

On this island you are like a pearl in hell.

l'll never forget you.

Here they come!

Masha!

Masha, they're here!

Antosha!

Papa, come!

Antosha's here!

Papa! Come!

l witnessed the worst suffering a man could endure.

Awful things unworthy of us.

We must do something.

A total absence of culture is not the least of their problems.

We must send text and exercise books,

so the children can improve their minds.

Thank you for your donations.

lt does us credit as intellectuals to try to put right this injustice.

Thank you, my friends.

Hello.

Please come in.

Hello, everyone.

l need to marry a serious young woman,

to help me sort out my thousands of index cards.

l'll help you.

You're busy enough as it is.

lf l hadn't gone there and seen what l did,

l'd still be convinced of my uselessness.

ln the morning it was cold.

There was no one to light the stove.

The schoolchildren, arriving before dawn, made a racket.

Everything was so unwieldy and uncomfortable.

Living that life, she had become sharp-angled

and clumsy, as though infused with lead.

She was afraid of everything.

Her life ebbed away in boredom, without tenderness,

without friendship, without interesting relationships...

ln her situation

it was dreadful to fall in love.

She would sob, not knowing why.

She imagined a happiness she had lost.

She suddenly heard the piano chords of her childhood,

seeing, with stunning clarity, her mother and father,

their apartment and everything, down to the tiniest detail.

young, beautiful

and elegant

in a well-lit bedroom,

warm

in the family circle.

Never had she been a teacher.

lt was all but a dream, unpleasant and strange.

And now she had awoken.

Give me news of that adorable Sophia. How is she?

Excuse me.

ls our writer allowing himself a break?

l'm writing my Sakhalin work, and l'm fed up!

Thank you, Mama.

There are days l can stick with it,

and others, like today, when l feel like giving up.

What time is it? Have you eaten?

No, they're just drinking, laughing and seducing young girls!

Your sister gave me your short story, Gusev, to read.

Terrifying! Like a painting by Bruegel.

You've never written with such talent, maturity, freedom...

As light relief from Sakhalin,

l've already written two and a half acts of a comedy.

A comedy is easily written.

l take pleasure in it. Delight even!

Finish it quick and get it to me.

l'll launch the theatrical season with a play by Chekhov!

What's the title?

l don't know yet. l'm hesitating.

There are three women roles, six peasants,

lots of discussions about literature, no action and tons of love.

Yes.

Love and regret.

l'll get back. See you later.

Anton!

l'll be fine.

- Did my sister see? - l don't think so.

- Help me to my study. - Lean on me.

They'll think we're lovers!

This is no time for jokes.

How embarrassing, dying in front of everyone!

You're bleeding, my friend.

lt's nothing serious.

l'm used to it.

Take deep breaths.

- l must call a doctor. - No, no...

l don't want anyone.

l'll take water and quinine,

but l will not be prodded!

l only have a few years to live.

lt's not that bad a situation.

lt makes me appreciate everything to the full.

Lika?

Come.

ls anyone with you?

No, l'm alone.

Lika...

lt's nothing, just the relief.

After you left, l waited for a letter.

One month, two months, nine months...

l realised you wanted to forget me.

l ended up falling in love.

With another writer, a Frenchman.

Less talented than you.

l pursued him but he behaved like a cad.

ln the end he fled to ltaly with his wife.

l went back to my husband, who forgave me.

He wants children.

But l don't love him.

l'm leaving early tomorrow for Petersburg.

l have a small role in a new theatre.

l'd have liked to help you complete your oeuvre.

But you didn't want me.

l love you with all my heart,

like the woman of your life.

Lika...

Your beautiful face and lovely smile have given me so much light.

Why didn't you write?

The horses are waiting in the garden.

Don't come with me.

Such lovely moments we shared. Do you remember?

Tender bright moments, full of joy.

Memories and desires

like delicate, exquisite blooms.

To stop loving you is beyond me, Nina.

My horses are at the gate.

Don't come with me, l'll find my way.

l'm a seagull.

Do you remember that day you killed a seagull?

A man walked by, saw it and took its life.

For want of anything better to do.

A subject for a short story.

Remember how good it used to be?

Life was so bright and warm,

joyful and pure,

our feelings like tender, graceful flowers.

Do you remember?

l don't recognise my characters.

l just see actors acting.

l don't agree with the costumes.

You're not following my directions.

For example,

because your character is unhappy

you make her tearful.

Your acting keeps telling us:

''What an unhappy woman she is!''

l'm sorry, but...

l've noticed that unhappy people can sing and whistle,

then suddenly go pensive.

That is what l wrote.

But you ignored it.

You're trying to prove what good actors you are.

But you're killing the characters.

Show suffering the way it comes across in life.

With a simple intonation, a look,

without gestures, with grace...

To express your anxiety, you search the house for thieves

before putting the light out.

lt's trivial and without interest.

lt's ridiculous.

lt would be better just to cross the stage in a straight line,

looking at nothing, a candle in your hand.

More concise and more frightening.

Be simpler.

Don't be afraid of boredom. Do as l ask.

My characters feel boredom and are aware of their failure.

Draw the audience into that boredom,

with no concern for aesthetics.

Then, suddenly...

a shot in the audience's face!

My Dear Friend,

l came to the theatre to see The Seagull.

l wanted to surprise you afterwards,

but you'd already left.

l saw your publisher,

who told me how happy he was to shake Tolstoy's hand.

But he informed me about your health.

Anton, l will not hear of you sickl A man like you must recover.

The other day l read one of your short stories.

A real geml

l read it aloud, four times, to my daughters.

The old man telling off his eight-year-old son for smoking.

How sweet and tender.

How he suddenly finds the words by inventing a tale for him.

What finessel

Like lace sewn by a virgin.

But l must admit l didn't like your play.

lt's no good.

You know l don't like Shakespeare.

But l find your plays worse than hisl

You cannot die, Anton, you're too important.

Your friend, Leo Tolstoy.

Anton Chekhov died of tuberculosis a few years later, aged 44.

He left an oeuvre comprising hundreds of tales, short stories, plays

and his eye-witness account, Sakhalin lsland.

Subtitles by Howard Bonsor

Subtitling by Monal Group