Shipwreck. Tom Stoppard

this? We haven’t come from Moscow.

       Granovsky goes unsmilingly towards the house.

      NATALIE Have you been quarrelling?

      HERZEN Disputing. He’ll get over it. The only trouble is, we were having such an interesting talk …

       He turns the basket upside down, letting a single mushroom fall out.

      NATALIE Oh, Alexander! I can see one from here!

       She snatches the basket and runs off with it. Herzen takes her chair.

      HERZEN What were you and Natalie saying about me? Well, thank you very much, anyway.

      OGAREV What were you and Granovsky arguing about?

      HERZEN The immortality of the soul.

      OGAREV Oh, that.

      NICHOLAS KETSCHER, aged forty, a thin, avuncular figure to the younger men, comes from the house carrying, with a slightly ceremonial air, a tray with a coffeepot on a small spirit lamp, and cups. In silence Herzen, Ogarev and Turgenev watch him put the tray on a garden table and pour a cup, which he brings to Herzen. Herzen sips the coffee.

      HERZEN It’s the same.

      KETSCHER What?

      HERZEN It tastes the same.

      KETSCHER So you think the coffee is no better?

      HERZEN No.

       The others are now nervous. Ketscher gives a short barking laugh.

      KETSCHER Well, it really is extraordinary, your inability to admit you’re wrong even on such a trifling matter as a cup of coffee.

      HERZEN It’s not me, it’s the coffee.

      KETSCHER No, I mean it’s beyond anything, this wretched vanity of yours.

      HERZEN I didn’t make the coffee, I didn’t make the coffeepot, it’s not my fault that—

      KETSCHER To hell with the coffee! You’re impossible to reason with! It’s over between us. I’m going back to Moscow! (Ketscher leaves.)

      OGAREV Between the coffee and the immortality of the soul, you’ll end up with no friends at all.

       Ketscher returns.

      KETSCHER Is that your last word?

       Herzen takes another sip of coffee.

      HERZEN I’m sorry.

      KETSCHER Right.

       Ketscher leaves again, passing Granovsky entering.

      GRANOVSKY (to Ketscher) How’s the …? (Seeing Ketscher’s face, Granovsky lets the matter drop.) Aksakov’s in the house.

      HERZEN Aksakov? Impossible.

      GRANOVSKY (helping himself to coffee) Just as you like. (He makes a face at the taste of the coffee.) He’s ridden over from some friends of his …

      HERZEN Well, why doesn’t he come out? There’s no need for old friends to fall out over …

       Ketscher returns as though nothing has passed. He pours himself coffee.

      KETSCHER Aksakov’s come. Where is Natalie?

      HERZEN Picking mushrooms.

      KETSCHER Ah … good. I must say they were excellent at breakfast. (He sips his coffee while the others watch him, and considers it.) Vile. (He puts the cup down and, in a flurry, he and Herzen are kissing each other’s cheeks and clasping each other, competing in self-blame.)

      KETSCHER By the way, did I tell you, we’re all going to be in the dictionary?

      HERZEN I’m already in the dictionary.

      GRANOVSKY He doesn’t mean the German dictionary, in which you make a singular appearance, Herzen, and only by accident …

      KETSCHER No, I’m talking about a new word altogether.

      HERZEN Excuse me, Granovsky, but I wasn’t an accident, I was the child of an affair of the heart, given my surname for my mother’s German heart. Being half Russian and half German, at heart I’m Polish, of course … I often feel quite partitioned, sometimes I wake up screaming in the night that the Emperor of Austria is claiming the rest of me.

      GRANOVSKY That’s not the Emperor of Austria, it’s Mephistopheles, and he is.

       Turgenev laughs.

      OGAREV What’s the new word, Ketscher?

      KETSCHER You can whistle for it now. (furiously to Herzen) Why do you feel you have to make off with every conversation like a bag-snatcher?

      HERZEN (protesting, to Ogarev) I don’t, do I, Nick?

      GRANOVSKY Yes, you do.

      KETSCHER (to Granovsky) It’s you as well!

      HERZEN In the first place, I have a right to defend my good name, not to mention my mother’s. In the second place—

      OGAREV Stop him, stop him!

       Herzen joins in the laughter against himself.

      KONSTANTIN AKSAKOV, aged twenty-nine, comes from the house. He seems to be in costume. He wears an embroidered side-fastening shirt and a velvet skullcap. His trousers are tucked into tall boots.

      HERZEN Aksakov! Have some coffee!

      AKSAKOV (formally) I wanted to tell you in person that relations are over between us. It’s a pity, but there is no help for it. You understand that we can no longer meet as friends. I want to shake you by the hand and say goodbye.

       Herzen allows his hand to be shaken. Aksakov starts to walk back.

      HERZEN What is the matter with everybody?

      OGAREV Aksakov, why do you dress like that?

      AKSAKOV (turning angrily) Because I am proud to be Russian!

      OGAREV But people think you’re a Persian.

      AKSAKOV I have nothing to say to you, Ogarev. As a matter of fact, I don’t hold it against you, compared with some of your friends who spend their time gallivanting around Europe … because I understand that in your case you’re not chasing after false gods but only after a false—

      OGAREV (hotly) You be careful, sir, or you will hear from me!

      HERZEN (leaping in) That’s enough of that talk!—

      AKSAKOV You Westernisers apply for passports with letters from your doctors and then go off and drink the water in Paris …

       Ogarev relapses, seething.

      TURGENEV (mildly) Not at all, not at all. You can’t drink the water in Paris.

      AKSAKOV Go to France for your cravats if you must, but why do you have to go to France for your ideas?

      TURGENEV