It Is All in Your Power

Vladimir Shtykov, a young but already successful Riga playwright, was a proponent of direct contact with the audience. That’s why, having once escaped to Moscow for a couple of months, he didn’t inform the management of the theater where his play was performing of his arrival. Trying to maintain complete anonymity, he refused a room at the Intourist hotel, and, staying with his wife’s relatives, people far removed from the arts, he attended the theater like a mere common man.

Shtykov liked to watch his plays from the thick of the crowd. He believed that by sitting within the audience, the author could better immerse himself in the mood his work evoked in others. After all, only by carefully studying how a character’s lines are reflected on the audience’s faces can a playwright understand the strengths and weaknesses of his work.

An amateur playwright may complain that the most difficult stage of a play performance is getting the approval of the artistic council. But no, Shtykov disagreed – the reaction of the audience was the hardest approval, and most rewarding approval, to get. After all, whether or not a play was successful was in their power, not his, nor the council’s.

At one of the performances, not long before Shtykov departed for Riga, his seatmate was an intelligent-looking man of about fifty. The fellow seemed familiar to Shtykov. Tensing, he remembered that he had already encountered him several times during intermissions in the smoking areas. The man was striking, with his long, melancholy nose, his touching bow tie, and such a focused, introspective expression that it seemed as if he had tasked himself with mentally multiplying a five-digit number by an eight-digit number. 

“Probably a scientist,” Shtykov determined with the insight of his profession. And, after some thought, he clarified: “A biologist…”

Throughout the first act, Shtykov kept his eyes fixed on the supposed biologist. The “biologist” turned out to be an extraordinary spectator. It was clear that from the moment the curtain rose and the spotlights snatched a piece of the stage from the darkness, the rest of the world ceased to exist for him: he leaned forward, gripped the back of his chair convulsively, and watched the action unfold, transfixed. From time to time, he jumped up, covered his face with his hands, and coughed loudly. A woman with gold teeth, sitting in front of them, tried to call him to order, but Shtykov hissed at her so defiantly that she, frightened, buried herself in her sparkling evening gown and did not turn around again.

“It's a strange thing,” Shtykov mused, looking sympathetically at his neighbor. “It would seem that this man had watched the play before, already knows how it will end, and yet he can't help himself: he worries, he experiences, he mentally puts himself in the characters’ shoes, he lives the lives of others. That's the power, the purpose of art: to help people overcome their limitations in time and space, to lead them beyond the lonely, powerless, mortal self! Who knows what tragedy this elderly man carries in his soul?! What doubts, questions torment him? What makes him return again and again to my play? Perhaps he found a solution to some of his problems? Or a justification for some of his actions? Or does the fate of some character resemble his own? Who knows, perhaps it was my work that supported him in his difficult time, filled his life with meaning, hope... It turns out it wasn’t for nothing that I spent nights poring over drafts, agonizing over every word, every phrase; it wasn’t for nothing that I spent my youth on this, it wasn't for nothing that I ruined my eyesight, my health! It was not for nothing! This complete stranger is my reward, my success!”

During intermission, Shtykov found his neighbor in the foyer, near framed photographs of the theater's actors. Shtykov approached him and handed him a pack of cigarettes:

“Help yourself!”

“You’re very kind,” he said, accepting a cigarette and obligingly flicking a lighter under Shtykov’s nose. “I was just looking at the actors…” he added, as if making an excuse of sorts.

“Well, how did you like the play?” Shtykov immediately got down to business.

“Very much so,” the man said, taking a deep drag. “Very much so…”

Shtykov hoped for a continuation of the sentence, but nothing followed: the “biologist” stared at the tip of his smoldering cigarette and sank into a prolonged silence. Judging by his detached look, it was clear that the ensuing pause did not bother him at all. Meanwhile, the time allotted for intermission ticked away without return. Soon, the first spectators, having managed to grab a bite, began to emerge from the buffet. Among them was the woman with gold teeth. She took a few steps towards the actors' photographs, but, seeing who was standing next to her, she abruptly shied away and blended into the crowd.

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen you here,” Shtykov decided to approach his inquiry differently, “You're apparently a big theatergoer…”

“Well, that’s a bit of a mystery,” the “biologist” shrugged vaguely. “I attend... How could I not? I can't do otherwise. For me, it’s all connected to this,” he said while gesturing at the photographs.

“For me, it's all connected to this…” he repeated, as if speaking to himself now.

“Exactly,” Shtykov chimed in. “For me too.”  Apropos, don't you get the impression that Gorelov's character is too underdeveloped?”

“Gorelov?” the “biologist” frowned.

“Well, Ksenia's husband... Remember, the one who quits his headship of a department at the agricultural academy and goes off to the countryside to work as a simple agronomist? It seems to me that the author doesn't explain the hero's actions clearly: the logic of his behavior isn’t fully established. What do you think?”

“Yes,” the “biologist” hesitated. “Perhaps you're right, but not entirely…”

“And you, it seems, aren’t the talkative type,” Shtykov thought with some disappointment. “Well, what can you do? You come across them from time to time; there's a whole mess going on inside him—concepts and ideas, but he can’t express them.”

At that moment, the bell rang, signaling the end of the intermission. The “biologist” took a final drag and began to stub out his cigarette on the edge of the trash can.

Shtykov hesitated.

Perhaps I should tell him who I am? he thought agonizingly.

“Thank you very much for the cigarette,” the man said, and, seeing Shtykov hesitate, added, “It’s time to go, it’s starting…”

“Wait!” Shtykov stopped him. “I want to tell you something…”

He stepped close and whispered: “I am the author of this play.”

The “biologist” let out a short, delicate laugh, making it clear he appreciated the joke.

“I am the author,” Shtykov repeated louder. “My name is Shtykov. You can read it on the poster…”

Seeing distrust in the “biologist’s” eyes, he rummaged through his pockets and pulled out his passport.

“Here you are, my documents. Here’s a photograph… Do you believe me now? 

The thing is, I spent the entire first act watching you closely and came to the conclusion that you understand my work very subtly; you managed to grasp all the accents I placed with surprising accuracy. As the author, it is extremely important for me to know your opinion on certain details. I simply need to talk to you!”

“And I needed it!” the “biologist” exclaimed, beaming. “You can't even imagine how necessary it is!”

He grabbed Shtykov by the arm and led him away from the audience.

“So you are that Shtykov?!” he muttered. “That very Shtykov… What luck!”

“Where are we going?” the slightly confused playwright asked.

“Where? Of course, to the buffet!”

“But what about the play?” Shtykov objected hesitantly.

“The play? The play can wait…”

Goodness, Shtykov thought sadly, how vain man is: just three minutes ago he was yearning for art, completely captivated by what was happening on stage, but the moment a celebrity appeared, art was forgotten…

They entered the buffet and sat down at a set table.

“Shtykov,” the “biologist” muttered, his clear, rapt eyes never leaving the playwright. “What a coincidence—that very same Shtykov!”

The waitress approached. They each ordered a glass of cognac.

Feeling somewhat out of place under the “biologist’s” adoring gaze, Shtykov immediately tried to steer the conversation in a serious, businesslike direction.

“Didn't Makar Krasilin’s line seem a bit naive to you?” he asked, downing his glass and eating an orange slice.

“Oh, no!” the “biologist” retorted heatedly. “On the contrary, it’s a very subtle, deeply psychologically nuanced line!”

“And yet,” Shtykov insisted, “you must admit it has weak points. For example, Makar's monologue about the squirrel. Remember his first meeting with Victoria at the dance in the village club? ‘What is the mystery of love, the mystery of passion, compared to the mystery of the squirrel? Passions and love come and go, but the squirrel remains forever! Love does not exist outside of life, and life does not exist outside of the squirrel. We, scientists…’”

“Doesn't all this sound forced, amateurish? You, as a biologist…”

“I'm not a biologist. I’m a gas engineer…”

“Oh, excuse me,” Shtykov said, embarrassed. “For some reason, I thought you were a biologist. By the way, we never introduced ourselves to each other: Vladimir Karlovich Shtykov…”

“Ilya Grigorievich Ivanov.”

“Ivanov?” Shtykov rejoiced. “What a pleasant name! Let’s drink to our acquaintance!”

He motioned to the waitress for more cognac.

“Ilya Grigorievich,” he continued after they clinked glasses and drank, “I’d like to ask you one question. It concerns a particular detail… a specific professional detail, but as a true connoisseur of the theatre, you should have noticed it. If you remember, at the very end of the play, there's an unexpected—even controversial—twist. Many accuse me of lacking logic there. I’m referring to the scene where Victoria herself, the first one, declares her love to Makar. By the haystack—”

“Exactly!” Ilya Grigorievich interrupted, jumping up in his chair. “You’ve hit the nail on the head! This is exactly the scene I wanted to talk to you about!”

“So, you noticed!” Shtykov beamed. “You appreciated it! Well done! Thank you for consoling me—it means my efforts weren’t in vain!”

“Vladimir Karlovich!” Ilya Grigorievich folded his hands almost in prayer. “Vladimir Karlovich, I am in your power! Change the scene by the haystack!”

“Change it how?” A half-smile froze on Vladimir Karlovich's face.

“Change it—or better yet, remove it altogether…”

“Remove it?!”

“What are you talking about? This is the key scene! Everything rests on it! You're probably confused . Think carefully—this is the scene where Victoria says:

‘Makar, leave this monstrous, indifferent city! Run from here, run! I understand there's an opportunity there to serve civilization, to progress. There’s your work… But here…?’ A silent scene of Makar's contemplation follows. Finally, he throws his briefcase to the ground, approaches Victoria with a swaying gait, and they merge in a prolonged embrace…”

“Merging…” Ilya Grigorievich repeated mechanically.

“Yes, they merge! And it sounds like a hymn to the triumph of feeling over the pragmatism of our age! And you are asking me to cut this scene?”

“Yes.”

“But why?!”

“Because the actress playing Victoria is my wife…”

“Your wife?” Vladimir Karlovich raised his eyebrows. “So what's the big deal? I don't see the connection. What does your wife have to do with it?”

“Because she’s twenty years younger than me. And that one—the one playing Makar, the dark-haired one—she says it’s just acting, but I see her face when he holds her… Didn’t you notice? How many times has she promised me she wouldn’t! It seemed to hold out for a month, but at the last performance, it happened again…”

He cast a miserable, hunted glance at Vladimir Karlovich and quietly said:

“I beg you, help me. Everything is in your power.”