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- Herausgeber: Wilde House
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
The Nihilists is a play by Oscar Wilde. It is a melodramatic tragedy set in Russia and is loosely based on the life of Vera Zasulich. It was Wilde's first play, and the first to be performed. In 1880, with only a few copies privately printed, arrangements were made with noted actresses for a production the United Kingdom, but this never materialized. The first ever public performance was in New York in 1883 at the Union Square Theatre based on revisions made by Wilde while lecturing in America in 1882. The play was not a success and folded after only one week. It is rarely revived.Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish author, playwright and poet. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London's most popular playwrights in the early 1890s. He is remembered for his epigrams, his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, his plays, as well as the circumstances of his imprisonment and early death.At the height of his fame and success, while his masterpiece, The Importance of Being Earnest (1895), was still on stage in London, Wilde had the Marquess of Queensberry prosecuted for libel. The Marquess was the father of Wilde's lover, Lord Alfred Douglas. The charge carried a penalty of up to two years in prison. The trial unearthed evidence that caused Wilde to drop his charges and led to his own arrest and trial for gross indecency with other men. After two more trials he was convicted and imprisoned for two years' hard labour. In 1897, in prison, he wrote De Profundis, which was published in 1905, a long letter which discusses his spiritual journey through his trials, forming a dark counterpoint to his earlier philosophy of pleasure. Upon his release he left immediately for France, never to return to Ireland or Britain. There he wrote his last work, The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898), a long poem commemorating the harsh rhythms of prison life. He died destitute in Paris at the age of 46.
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THE NIHILISTS
Oscar Wilde
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PERSONS IN THE PROLOGUE.
PERSONS IN THE PLAY.
PROLOGUE.
ACT I. [1]
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
CORRECTIONS AND ADDITIONS.
PERSONS IN THE PROLOGUE.
PETER SABOUROFF (an Innkeeper).
VERA SABOUROFF (his Daughter).
MICHAEL (a Peasant).
COLONEL KOTEMKIN.
Scene, Russia. Time, 1795.
PERSONS IN THE PLAY.
IVAN THE CZAR.
PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI (Prime Minister of Russia).
PRINCE PETROVITCH.
COUNT ROUVALOFF.
MARQUIS DE POIVRARD.
BARON RAFF.
GENERAL KOTEMKIN.
A PAGE.
Nihilists.
PETER TCHERNAVITCH, President of the Nihilists.
MICHAEL.
ALEXIS IVANACIEVITCH, known as a Student of Medicine.
PROFESSOR MARFA.
VERA SABOUROFF.
Soldiers, Conspirators, &c.
Scene, Moscow. Time, 1800.
PROLOGUE.
SCENE.—A Russian Inn.
Large door opening on snowy landscape at back of stage.
PETER SABOUROFF and MICHAEL.
PETER (warming his hands at a stove). Has Vera not come back yet,
Michael?
MICH. No, Father Peter, not yet; ‘tis a good three miles to the post
office, and she has to milk the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare
plaguey creature for a wench to handle.
PETER. Why didn’t you go with her, you young fool? she’ll never love you
unless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered.
MICH. She says I bother her too much already, Father Peter, and I fear
she’ll never love me after all.
PETER. Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn’t she? you’re young and wouldn’t be
ill-favoured either, had God or thy mother given thee another face.
Aren’t you one of Prince Maraloffski’s gamekeepers; and haven’t you got
a good grass farm, and the best cow in the village? What more does a
girl want?
MICH. But Vera, Father Peter—
PETER. Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas; I don’t think much of ideas
myself; I’ve got on well enough in life without ‘em; why shouldn’t my
children? There’s Dmitri! could have stayed here and kept the inn; many
a young lad would have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but he,
scatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must needs go off to Moscow to
study the law! What does he want knowing about the law! let a man do his
duty, say I, and no one will trouble him.
MICH. Ay! but Father Peter, they say a good lawyer can break the law as
often as he likes, and no one can say him nay.
PETER. That is about all they are good for; and there he stays, and has
not written a line to us for four months now—a good son that, eh?
MICH. Come, come, Father Peter, Dmitri’s letters must have gone
astray—perhaps the new postman can’t read; he looks stupid enough, and
Dmitri, why, he was the best fellow in the village. Do you remember how
he shot the bear at the barn in the great winter?
PETER. Ay, it was a good shot; I never did a better myself.
MICH. And as for dancing, he tired out three fiddlers Christmas come two
years.
PETER. Ay, ay, he was a merry lad. It is the girl that has the
seriousness—she goes about as solemn as a priest for days at a time.
MICH. Vera is always thinking of others.
PETER. There is her mistake, boy. Let God and our Little Father look to
the world. It is none of my work to mend my neighbour’s thatch. Why,
last winter old Michael was frozen to death in his sleigh in the
snowstorm, and his wife and children starved afterwards when the hard
times came; but what business was it of mine? I didn’t make the world.
Let God and the Czar look to it. And then the blight came, and the black
plague with it, and the priests couldn’t bury the people fast enough,
and they lay dead on the roads—men and women both. But what business
was it of mine? I didn’t make the world. Let God and the Czar look to
it. Or two autumns ago, when the river overflowed on a sudden, and the
children’s school was carried away and drowned every girl and boy in it.
I didn’t make the world—let God and the Czar look to it.
MICH. But, Father Peter—
PETER. No, no, boy; no man could live if he took his neighbour’s pack
on his shoulders. (Enter VERA in peasant’s dress.) Well, my girl,
you’ve been long enough away—where is the letter?
VERA. There is none to-day, Father.
PETER. I knew it.
VERA. But there will be one to-morrow, Father.
PETER. Curse him, for an ungrateful son.
VERA. Oh, Father, don’t say that; he must be sick.
PETER. Ay! sick of profligacy, perhaps.
VERA. How dare you say that of him, Father? You know that is not true.
PETER. Where does the money go, then? Michael, listen. I gave Dmitri
half his mother’s fortune to bring with him to pay the lawyer folk of
Moscow. He has only written three times, and every time for more money.
He got it, not at my wish, but at hers (pointing to VERA), and now for
five months, close on six almost, we have heard nothing from him.
