by Anton Chekhov
Version by Jean-Claude Van Itallie
Act III: Chebutykin
Read by Emma Rye
To hell… to hell with them all… They think I’m a doctor, that I can cure everything. But I remember nothing. I’ve forgotten everything. I remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. To hell with them all. Last Wednesday I treat a woman in Zaspyi — and she dies, yes. It’s my fault. I knew something, a little something, twenty-five years ago. But now I know nothing, absolutely nothing. Maybe I’m not human. Maybe I just dream I have arms and legs and a head. Maybe I don’t exist. Maybe I just dream I walk, eat, and sleep. Oh, if only I didn’t exist. To hell with them all. At the club last week someone mentions Shakespeare and Voltaire. I haven’t read them, but I pretend I have. And so do the others. Oh, misery — hell. When I think about that woman who died Wednesday because of me, and about everything else — it’s too terrible to bear. I am disgusting and I drink… drink. I’m disgusting.