The Sea Gull

I stare at the black and white photo. It is over fifty years, but it is yesterday. The hands of the clock move backward.

Across a lace-covered table sit a young woman and an older man. The woman gazes at him with a mournful, pleading expression. The man stares deeply at her, his right thumb pressed against the mustache on his upper lip. The woman is Masha. I am that woman. I am Masha. I am transported back to that evening as on the wings of a homing pigeon.

I am dressed in black, my dark hair pulled back off my forehead, cascading in waves down to my shoulders. I look pleadingly into the eyes of Trigorin, the writer who sits opposite me, hoping my confessions to him will bring me solace. I do not want to live for there is nothing to live for. The man I love with all my soul, a young poet, does not and never will return my love. It is hopeless. I want to kill myself, though I lack the courage. Instead I dull my pain by taking snuff and drinking vodka. I tell my confidante of my decision to marry a schoolteacher, towards whom I feel nothing but contempt. The teacher worships me. Lacking the courage to die, I shall settle for an incomplete life. I pour more vodka. I clink glasses with Trigorin, who cautions me against over-imbibing. I dismiss him with the assurace that most women drink as much as I although not in public. Clearly I am ahead of my time. I am a pretty, intelligent woman. Why, then, do I constantly feel the inferior? My mother, a vain, selfish woman concerned only with her own happiness, treats me as little more than a servant. My old father is scarcely a presence in my life. The writer confesses his own frustration. Although eager to remain here in the country, because of his domineering mistress, he will be forced to return to Moscow the following day. I empathize with this kind, gifted writer. Why can’t he insist to his lover that they follow his wishes? Is it possible he, too, feels unworthy?

I have kept him too long. It is time to make our farewells, but not before pleading with the writer not to forget me, to send me his books. Perhaps by reading them I will glean some joy in life. Please inscribe them, I plead, but do not say "to my esteemed friend." That would make me feel ordinary. I would like to feel special, to feel there is someone who truly understands me. So I instruct him to autograph them with the words: "To Marya, who doesn't know where she comes from nor why she is living in this world."

On my final words I am supposed to rise and make my exit. Only on this particular night, the evening on which the photograph was taken, I do not move. Instead, I remain rigid at the table, staring at the actor playing Trigorin, (who also happens to be my director) who looks deeply at me, before an almost imperceptible nod escapes his head, acknowledging a job well done. And then, out of nowhere, a strange thing happens. There is a thunder-like rumble coming from the front - the sound of applause. And now I am no longer the country girl in conversation with a famous writer, but an actress on stage in a large theatre in Los Angeles.

What is this? We have played this scene at least a dozen times, a dozen times I have quietly made my exit as the audiences’ gaze shifts to the other side of the stage to see the flamboyant Nina make her entrance. The moment passes; the spell breaks. What is this all about? Which of my family or friends is in the audience that evening? But, no, that isn't it at all, for I know no one in the house for this particular performance. This was quiet applause, appreciative applause. This was the spontaneous, appreciative applause telling us we had done it, and that they "got it." The actress playing the role of Masha rises from her chair and begins to exit. The applause lingers until she reaches the door and Nina enters from stage left.

In the wings, I stand for moment immobilized. So THIS is what it is all about this business of acting. Not about "a hand" at the end of a rousing scene. Not about people rising from their seats or curtain calls or bravos or bows, but about being at one with those out front - about a symbiosis of those on stage and off. It cannot be manufactured or purchased or forced, it only can only erupt of its own. I would to re-enter the stage, to repeat the scene. I would be happy to play it over and over and over again. I would like to walk to center stage and blow kisses that would express my love and gratitude to everyone out front. Even were I to commit such a gaffe, my shaking knees would not carry me. Instead, I descend the long narrow, winding iron staircase to my dressing room

Dorothy Sinclair