Man From the USSR & Other Plays by Vladimir Nabokov Page B

appear)
ACT ONE
    Troshcheykin’s studio. Doors on right and left [here, as in the original Russian text, stage directions are given from the audience’s point of view]. On a low easel, in front of which is an armchair (Troshcheykin always works in a sitting position), stands a nearly finished portrait of a boy in blue, with five round blank spaces (future balls) arranged in a half circle at his feet. Against the wall leans an unfinished old woman in lace, with a white fan. A window, an ottoman, a scatter rug, a screen, a wardrobe, three chairs, two tables, portfolios piled up in disorder.
    At first the stage is empty. Then a red-and-blue child’s ball appears from the right and rolls slowly across. Through the same door enters Troshcheykin. With his foot he shuffles out another ball, this one red and yellow, from under the table. Troshcheykin is in his late thirties. He is clean-shaven and wears a shabby but colorful long-sleeved sweater that he does not remove for the entire length of the three acts (which represent, by the way, the morning, afternoon and evening of the same day). He is infantile, nervous, capricious.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    Lyuba!
Lyuba!

(Lyubov’comes in from left. She is young, pretty and seems a bit lazy and vague.)
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    What a
disaster!
How do these things happen? Why have those balls gone wandering off all over the house? It’s scandalous. I refuse to spend all morning looking and bending. The kid is coming to pose today, and there are only
two
balls here. Where are the others?
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    LYUBOV’
    How do I know? There was one in the hallway.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    Here, this is the one that was in the hallway. The green one and the two speckled ones are missing. Vanished.
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    LYUBOV’
    Will you please stop pestering me. After all, it isn’t the end of the world. You can call your picture “Boy with Two Balls” instead of “Boy with Five Balls.”
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    That’s an intelligent suggestion. I would just like to know who actually spends his time scattering my props.... It’s a disgrace.
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    LYUBOV’
    You know as well as I that he was playing with them yesterday after his sitting.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    In that case they should have been picked up afterwards and put where they belong,
(sits in front of the easel)
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    LYUBOV’
    What do I have to do with it? Tell Marfa. She’s the one who does the housework.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    And pretty badly too. I’m going to go give her a little lecture.
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    LYUBOV’
    In the first place she has gone shopping, and in the second you’re terrified of her.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    Sure, that’s quite possible. Although, personally, I’d always thought I was simply being courteous. That boy of mine isn’t bad, though, is he? Just look at that velvet! I made his eyes so shiny partly because he is a jeweler’s son.
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    LYUBOV’
    I don’t know why you can’t paint in the balls first, and then finish the figure.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    How can I explain it....
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    LYUBOV’
    You don’t have to.
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    TROSHCHEYKIN
    You see, the balls have to
glow,
to cast their reflection on him, but I want the reflection firmly in place before tackling its source. You must remember that art moves against the sun. See what a nice mother-of-pearl sheen his legs have already. I must admit I really like that portrait. The hair came out well, with that hint of black curliness. There is a certain connection between precious stones and Negro blood. Shakespeare sensed it in
Othello.
So.
(looks at the other portrait)
As for Madame Vagabundov she is extremely pleased that I am painting her in a white dress against a Spanish background, and does not understand what a horrid, lacy grotesque that makes.... I’d really like to ask you to look for those balls, though, Lyuba. I don’t want them to remain in hiding.
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    LYUBOV’
    This is