The Bear

Sir, in my solitude I have grown unaccustomed to the masculine voice, and I can’t stand shouting. I must ask you not to disturb my peace.

Pay me the money, and I’ll go.

I told you perfectly plainly; I haven’t any money to spare; wait until the day after to-morrow.

And I told you perfectly plainly I don’t want the money the day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don’t pay me to-day, I’ll have to hang myself to-morrow.

But what can I do if I haven’t got the money? You’re so strange!

Then you won’t pay me now? Eh?

I can’t.

In that case I stay here and shall wait until I get it.

You’re going to pay me the day after to-morrow? Very well! I’ll stay here until the day after to-morrow. I’ll sit here all the time....

I ask you: Have I got to pay the interest to-morrow, or haven’t I? Or do you think I’m doing this for a joke?

Please don’t shout! This isn’t a stable!

I wasn’t asking you about a stable, but whether I’d got my interest to pay to-morrow or not?

You don’t know how to behave before women!

No, I do know how to behave before women!

No, you don’t! You’re a rude, ill-bred man! Decent people don’t talk to a woman like that!

What a business! How do you want me to talk to you? In French, or what?

Madame, je vous prie.... How happy I am that you don’t pay me.... Ah, pardon. I have disturbed you! Such lovely weather to-day! And how well you look in mourning!

That’s silly and rude.

Silly and rude! I don’t know how to behave before women! Madam, in my time I’ve seen more women than you’ve seen sparrows! Three times I’ve fought duels on account of women. I’ve refused twelve women, and nine have refused me! Yes! There was a time when I played the fool, scented myself, used honeyed words, wore jewellery, made beautiful bows. I used to love, to suffer, to sigh at the moon, to get sour, to thaw, to freeze.... I used to love passionately, madly, every blessed way, devil take me; I used to chatter like a magpie about emancipation, and wasted half my wealth on tender feelings, but now—you must excuse me! You won’t get round me like that now! I’ve had enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, ruby lips, dimpled cheeks, the moon, whispers, timid breathing—I wouldn’t give a brass farthing for the lot, madam! Present company always excepted, all women, great or little, are insincere, crooked, backbiters, envious, liars to the marrow of their bones, vain, trivial, merciless, unreasonable, and, as far as this is concerned excuse my outspokenness, a sparrow can give ten points to any philosopher in petticoats you like to name! You look at one of these poetic creatures: all muslin, an ethereal demi-goddess, you have a million transports of joy, and you look into her soul—and see a common crocodile!

But the most disgusting thing of all is that this crocodile for some reason or other imagines that its chef d’oeuvre, its privilege and monopoly, is its tender feelings. Why, confound it, hang me on that nail feet upwards, if you like, but have you met a woman who can love anybody except a lapdog? When she’s in love, can she do anything but snivel and slobber? While a man is suffering and making sacrifices all her love expresses itself in her playing about with her scarf, and trying to hook him more firmly by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, you know from yourself what is the nature of woman. Tell me truthfully, have you ever seen a woman who was sincere, faithful, and constant? You haven’t! Only freaks and old women are faithful and constant! You’ll meet a cat with a horn or a white woodcock sooner than a constant woman!

Then, according to you, who is faithful and constant in love? Is it the man?

Yes, the man!

The man!

Men are faithful and constant in love! What an idea!

What right have you to talk like that? Men are faithful and constant! Since we are talking about it, I’ll tell you that of all the men I knew and know, the best was my late husband.... I loved him passionately with all my being, as only a young and imaginative woman can love, I gave him my youth, my happiness, my life, my fortune, I breathed in him, I worshipped him as if I were a heathen, and... and what then? This best of men shamelessly deceived me at every step! After his death I found in his desk a whole drawerful of love-letters, and when he was alive—it’s an awful thing to remember!—he used to leave me alone for weeks at a time, and make love to other women and betray me before my very eyes; he wasted my money, and made fun of my feelings.... And, in spite of all that, I loved him and was true to him. And not only that, but, now that he is dead, I am still true and constant to his memory. I have shut myself for ever within these four walls, and will wear these weeds to the very end....

Weeds!... I don’t understand what you take me for. As if I don’t know why you wear that black domino and bury yourself between four walls! I should say I did! It’s so mysterious, so poetic! When some junker or some tame poet goes past your windows he’ll think: “There lives the mysterious Tamara who, for the love of her husband, buried herself between four walls.” We know these games!

What? How dare you say all that to me?

You may have buried yourself alive, but you haven’t forgotten to powder your face!

How dare you speak to me like that?

Please don’t shout, I’m not your steward! You must allow me to call things by their real names. I’m not a woman, and I’m used to saying what I think straight out! Don’t you shout, either!

I’m not shouting, it’s you! Please leave me alone!

Pay me my money and I’ll go.

I shan’t give you any money!

Oh, no, you will.

I shan’t give you a farthing, just to spite you. You leave me alone!

I have not the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, so please don’t make scenes.

I don’t like it.

So you sit down?

I do.

I ask you to go away!

Give me my money....

Oh, how angry I am! How angry I am!

I don’t want to talk to impudent scoundrels! Get out of this!

Aren’t you going? No?

No.

No?

No!