Genius In Love

About Bankowsky's other books, the critics wrote,

A GLASS ROSE - A brilliantly constructed first novel . . . thoroughly convincing . . . great raw impact. TIME

Bankowsky is with one novel among our finest writers. LOS ANGELES TIMES

AFTER PENTECOST - A grit of reality and ecstasy . . . as remarkable and intense a novel as the season is likely to produce." N. Y. TIMES BOOK REVIEW

ON A DARK NIGHT - An ability to endow the most naturalistic of characters with mythical and heroic lineaments. N.Y. TIMES

THE PALE CRIMINALS - A high and strongly-marked talent right on the verge of full maturity. CHICAGO TRIBUNE

THE BARBARIANS AT THE GATES - "Devastating . . . the novel is a work of revelation. KANSAS CITY STAR

"Characters of a quasi-mythical stature . . . a lesson for all mankind. NATIONAL REVIEW

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DOSTOEVSKY IN LOVE

ACT I

ACT II

THE MAD MAN OF WEIMAR

PROLOGUE

ACT I

ACT II

EPILOGUE

TROIKA

ACT I

ACT II

GOD’S SPIES

ACT I

ACT II

HELOISE AT ARGENTEUIL

Books by Richard Bankowsky

A Glass Rose

After Pentecost

On A Dark Night

The Pale Criminals

The Barbarians At The Gates

Rex Nemorensis

The Judas Tapes

Hello Central Give Me Heaven

Genius In Love

GENIUS IN LOVE

Four Stageplays

and Libretto for Short Opera

by

RICHARD BANKOWSKY

Smashwords Edition

COPYRIGHT © 2010 BY RICHARD BANKOWSKY

For Professor Gerard (Doc)Larson

DOSTOEVSKY IN LOVE

A Romantic Comedy

CAST OF CHARACTERS

FYODOR MIKHAILOVICH DOSTOEVSKY (our hero)

ANYA GRIGORYEVNA SNITKIN (his stenographer)

POLINA SUSLOVA (his lost love)

MARIA DOSTOEVSKY (his deceased wife)

APOLLON MAIKOV (his best friend)

EMILYA DOSTOEVSKAYA (his sister in law)

FEDOSYA (his housemaid)

PASHA (his stepson)

NICHOLAS VERGUNOV (his deceased wife’s lover)

MILITARY OFFICER

PRIEST

PRISONERS

The action takes place in the study of Dostoevsky's flat in St. Petersburg, Russia, in the fall of l866.

ACT I

SCENE 1 - October 4, 1866. Evening.

SCENE 2 - Three weeks later. Late afternoon.

ACT II

SCENE 1 - A week later. Afternoon.

SCENE 2 - The dark hours of the next morning.

SCENE 3 - The next day. Afternoon.

All stage directions are from the point of view of the audience.

A C T I

SCENE 1

October 4, l866. Evening.

DRUMROLL. The curtain rises on a dark, silent stage. Cold blue reverie lights slowly begin to illuminate the apron revealing three shrouded PRISONERS, a military OFFICER in the uniform of the period, and an Orthodox priest. Two of the prisoners are dressed in long white shrouds and eyeless death hoods. The third prisoner, DOSTOEVSKY, wears a long afghan over his head like a shroud, but he wears everyday business clothes and shoes under it.

DRUMROLLS, as the priest approaches each of three prisoners offering a silver cross to kiss. As the priest approaches DOSTOEVSKY, quiet KNOCKING is heard offstage, and as DOSTOEVSKY kisses the cross and falls to his knees, the KNOCKING increases in intensity and the EXECUTION PARTY silently scatters and drifts off into the wings as in a dream.

The reverie lights fade and lights come up slowly on DOSTOEVSKY kneeling in his Petersburg study.

The study is generally gloomy and dimly lighted. Curtained French doors lead out to a vestibule and the rest of the second floor flat off stage. A second door right leads to a water closet. A large porcelain stove, armchairs, bookcases, a table with a lamp, cigarette box, two or three albums furnish a sitting area. A writing desk with a rosewood writing box on it, a soft divan draped in a shabby brown fabric, bookcases, and a trunk covered with a rug furnish a working/sleeping area. Oriental carpets on the floor; icons, woodcuts, a large mirror decorate faded, papered walls. Two large, beautifully shaped Chinese vases adorn the sills of the darkened windows. And above the couch, hangs a framed picture which is turned to the wall, its raw canvas underside facing into the room.

The rosewood writing box is open on the desk and next to it a book lies open. Crumpled manuscript is scattered around amid ashtrays full of cigarette butts, broken pencils, and empty tea glasses. As the knocking continues, D leaps to his feet and throws the afghan on to the divan. He wears a short, scraggly beard and mustache; his thinning hair is disheveled. He looks exhausted and ill, older than his forty-six years. He is in shirtsleeves, a tie loosened at the collar, a scarlet kerchief draped loosely around his neck.

D: (very agitated, confused) Come in! Come in!

(ENTER FEDOSYA, the maid, a middle aged, motherly woman wearing a shawl over her shoulders)

FEDOSYA: (concerned) Are you all right, sir? I've been knocking and knocking.

D: (impatiently) Yes, yes Fedosya! I'm fine.

F: I was afraid you had another attack.

D: No, no! I'm fine. What is it?

F: Professor Olkhin's student is here.

(The clock begins striking off stage)

D: Olkhin's student? (looking at his pocket watch) Eight thirty already?

F: Yes, you've written right through dinner again. This novel will be the death of you.

D: Never mind! Never mind! Send the fellow away. I'll write it myself if it kills me.

F: But sir . . .

D: It's hopeless anyway. (crumpling some manuscript paper and tossing it to the floor, shouting as he finds a cigarette and searches his desk for matches) Matches for god's sake! Matches!

F: (throwing up her hands, muttering) Cigarettes! Matches! Writing all day and night, skipping meals, smoking like a furnace! Phew! How can he bear the stench in here?"

(EXIT FEDOSYA muttering under her breath)

(D fumbles around looking for matches as ENTER ANYA, a young woman of twenty in a hooded black coat and carrying a thin black portfolio. Despite her youth, her bearing is serious, business-like, and mature for her age. ENTER FEDOSYA behind her trying to dissuade her from entering)

FEDOSYA: You mustn't my dear! He's not civilized!

ANYA: (moving toward D) If you would at least do me the courtesy of speaking to me, sir . . .

[Realizing his visitor is a woman and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, D guiltily removes the scarlet kerchief hanging round his neck and, closing it into the opened book lying on the table, deposits both in the rosewood box and smoothes his pomaded hair]

D: (to A) Olkhin didn't tell me. I wasn't expecting a . . . (shouting) Matches, Fedosya! Matches, for God's sake!

(EXIT FEDOSYA at a run, shaking her head and crossing herself, muttering) Please Lord, not another one.

D: I'm sorry, my dear. I can't use you. I will of course compensate you for any inconvenience.

A: It is not compensation I came for. I would gladly work for Dostoevsky without compensation.

D: Without compensation? You can't be serious.

A: Yes, to help Dostoevsky . . . to lighten the existence of the author whose work I so admire.

D: (finding a single match and lighting up, suddenly, extremely polite) Excuse me! My manners . . . I . . . I’m not myself this evening. Naturally, I would never consider your working without compensation Miss . . . er . . . a . . .

A: (removing her hood, revealing light brown hair braided and bunned in the manner of the period) Snitkin. Anya Grigoryevna.

(D helps A remove her coat under which she wears a plain dark cotton dress and black armband]

D: (placing A's coat carefully over the arm of a chair and noticing her armband) Oh, I see you are in mourning.

A: Yes, my father . . .

D: (putting on a worn velvet smoking jacket hanging over his desk chair) I'm sorry. (offering a cigarette from the box on the table) Cigarette?

A: (shaking her head politely) Thank you.

D: Please sit down.

(A gazes about for a place to sit and finally begins to sit at the table, as D rushes to seat her, too late.)

D: (shouting) Fedosya! Tea! And some sweets! (very agitated, pacing about as if not knowing where to begin) Well, and just how long have you been studying this a . . . this . . .

A: Stenography?

D: How do you pronounce it?

A: Stenography!

D: Narrow writing? What does that mean―narrow writing?

A: Narrow writing?

D: Yes. Steno in Greek means close or narrow, doesn't it? And graphy means "writing. Narrow writing.

A: (amused) No, not narrow writing. Shorthand!

D: Shorthand, eh? And you can take down in this shorthand anything anyone says to you?

A: Yes, sir, anything you dictate at normal conversational speed.

D: Saving time, eh?

A: A great deal. Yes.

D: Well, it's worth a try, by God! Anything's worth a try.

[ENTER FEDOSYA, carrying matches, two glasses of black tea and some sweets on a tray]

FEDOSYA: (annoyed) Your tea and sweets. (placing them on the table and sizing up A again suspiciously) (to D) I thought you said a man . . .

D: That's all, Fedosya! (taking the sugar bowl from her hands) I'll do it. (to A) Sugar?

A: No! Thank you.

D: (impatiently) That's all Fedosya. (spooning four great heaps of sugar into both cups)

[EXIT FEDOSYA scrutinizing A over her shoulder]

D: (carrying a glass of tea to A) Interruptions! Please forgive me if I seem impatient. I have to finish this novel by the first of November. And the truth is, I've barely worked out a plan for it. All I know is it has to be at least two hundred pages long and . . .

A: (placing the glass down beside her notebook) I beg your pardon, did you say the first of November? Next month?

D: Twenty-eight days from today.

A: You hope to write a two hundred page novel in twenty-eight days?

D: I must or lose the rights to all my works.

A: The rights to all your works? But how could you agree to such a thing?

D: Money, my dear! My creditors were threatening me with debtor's prison. And when the publisher Stellovsky offered me an advance of three thousand rubles . . . Well . . . it was a gamble, and I'm a gambler.

A: But a full-length novel in less than a month? You can't . . .

D: I must! Or lose the rights to all my works for the next nine years. (pounding the table) And that jackal Stellovsky's counting on that very eventuality! (making an heroic effort to calm down)  However, perhaps with the help of a stenographer, dictating this new novel in the afternoon and working on the other one only at night . . .

A: The other one?

D: Crime and Punishment. It's being serialized in The Russian Messenger.

A: You can't be serious. One novel in twenty-eight days is impossible enough?

D: You're probably right. I've never . . . a . . dictated? before. Perhaps it won't be possible.

A: (opening her notebook on her lap) Shall we try?

[D begins pacing in swift strides diagonally from the door to the porcelain stove across the room. Every time he reaches the stove he invariably knocks against it twice. On top of this, he smokes one cigarette after another.]

D: All right then. (thinking, his fingers pressed to his eyes) All right, are you ready? (shouting) The Gambler . . . Chapter One. (haltingly at first, as he peers over her shoulder) At last I was back . . . after my two weeks' absence . . . She had been in . . No! Polina had been in . . . a . . . Roulettenburg! Yes, that's good. Polina had been in Roulettenburg for three days already, (very rapidly) and when she saw me she asked why I had been away so long and then walked off without waiting for an answer. Obviously she did so deliberately. Nevertheless, I . . .

A: [without looking up) Please! No faster than the speed of normal conversation.

D: Ah, yes. Where was I?

A: [reading] Obviously she did so deliberately. Nevertheless, I .

D: (proceeding at a ridiculously slow speed) Nevertheless, . . . I feel we must . . . have it out . . . Too many things . . . have accumulated. You have that?

A: (amused, looking heavenward) Oh yes.

D: New paragraph. (dictating at normal conversational speed) In the evening, I managed to have a fifteen minute talk with Polina during a stroll in the park near the Casino. She sat down on a  bench facing the fountain, and I started questioning her about what happened when I was away. `That's not what matters most now,' she said. `Listen and remember well: take the money you got for pawning my jewels and go and play roulette. Win as much as you can for me; I must get the money now at all costs.' (to A) All right! Enough! Show me what you have.

[Without looking up, A begins immediately to transcribe her shorthand notes as D lights up another cigarette and paces, his hands behind his back, several times peering impatiently over A's shoulder to check her progress]

D: No, no! This will never do. It takes too long.

A: But I'll be transcribing your dictation at home, not here. So what difference does it make how long it takes?

D: (irritated) Well, then let me see what you have! (reading A's transcription.) But you've omitted a period, and . (reading on, his face lighting up) Why this is amazing! Absolutely amazing! (very excited) Please, please, over here, my dear. (placing A's notebook on his desk and holding the chair for her) It will be more comfortable for you to write.

A: At your desk?

D: Yes, yes! Amazing, absolutely amazing!

A: (in awe) But isn't this where you . . . where you write your novels?

D: Yes, yes. Please sit down. Where were we?

[A sits at the desk as though it were the sanctum sanctorum.]

A: Win as much as you can. I must have the money at all costs.

D: All right, new paragraph. Polina was furious when I handed her only seven hundred gulden, expecting me to get at least two thousand for pawning her jewels . . .

[From the vestibule, bell-ringing, knocking, commotion and shouting]

MAIKOV: (offstage) Hello, anybody home?

D: (excitedly) It's Maikov! It's Maikov!

[ENTER MAIKOV]

MAIKOV: Well, and what a democratic style of life you lead, Fyodor Mikhailovich. The door to the staircase is wide open; there's no servant in sight―I could carry off your whole house.

D: Welcome my friend. My house is yours to carry off if you please. (embracing warmly)

MAIKOV: (noticing A at D's desk) Oh ho! Another little protégé, I see. You old convict. You didn't tell me. I leave town for few days, and . . .

D: No, no! this marvelous young woman is my new . . . a . . . narrow writer!

MAIKOV: Narrow writer is it? Well, well, well! Not so shapely as Polina perhaps, but very lovely indeed. (slapping D on the back) You old convict you!

D: (flustered) No, no you don't understand . . . (to A) My dear, this is my famous friend Apollon Nikolayovich Maikov, companion of my youth and the finest poet in all of Russia.

MAIKOV: (kissing her hand) At your service, mademoiselle!

D: And this marvelous young woman is Anna Grigoryevna . . . er . . a . . . [looking to A for help]

A: Snitkin.

MAIKOV: Ah, a relative of the deceased writer?

A: No. I'm afraid not.

MAIKOV: But a writer in your own right. And what do you write, my dear, poems, stories? (to D) And I suppose our famous author is helping the budding young writer with her work as usual (winking to D)?

D: You don't understand. She's a . . . (snapping his fingers, to A) . . . narrow writer?

A: (amused) Stenographer?

D: (to MAIKOV) Stenographer!

MAIKOV: Stenographer?

D: Yes Olkhin's student, remember?

MAIKOV: Olkhin's student, of course. A female stenographer. Well, well, what a lucky chance, you old convict. (to A) So you're the stenographer we arranged for?

D: But what news from Moscow?

MAIKOV: (ignoring the question deliberately) Stenography is such a novelty; everyone is interested in it, it seems. All those . . . squiggles.

D: It was Maikov and some of my other friends who suggested I use a stenographer. I had reached a peak of desperation when they proposed to write the novel for me themselves.

MAIKOV: Yes, we all agreed to write part of it to finish before the deadline. But can you believe it? Our prima donna turned us down flat. (mimicking D's characteristic gestures) I would rather go to debtor's prison than sign the name of Dostoevsky to the work of other people! It was then that we began urging him to turn to a stenographer for help. And so here you are.

D: Yes, and now I'll show you just how wonderful she is. (handing Maikov A's notebook)

MAIKOV: (perusing A's notebook) Amazing! I can't make it out at all. Not at all. What a clever young woman. What an amazing skill. But I'm keeping you from your work. (to A) And when you're finished here, my dear, you can come to my flat and I'll dictate love poems to you.

A: Oh, I love your poetry, Apollon Nikolayovich. I . . .

D: [jealously] Never mind that! Never mind that! What about Katov?

MAIKOV: (uncomfortably) Well . . .

D: Out with it. The news is bad, I know! Otherwise you couldn't keep it from me this long. You'd have shouted it in the streets.

MAIKOV: You're working; I didn't know Miss Snitkin would be here.

D: Out with it. I have no secrets from my . . . stenographer.

MAIKOV: That's the point exactly. Now that Miss Snitkin is here, my news is irrelevant. You don't need Katov now. You have Anna Grigoryevna!

D: (to A) Katov is our editor at The Russian Messenger. He wants to publish Maikov's new poems and take an option on my next novel.

MAIKOV: The problem is money, convincing the publishers to do my book and advance Fyodor Mikhailovich enough to pay off Stellovsky. They refused even to talk about an advance on a new novel with Crime and Punsihment still uncompleted.

A: How unfortunate.

MAIKOV: Yes, Katov promised to keep trying, but offered little hope.

D: I told him it was useless. But he insisted on making the trip anyway, all the way to Moscow and back at his own expense just to try to talk them into giving me an advance they had already flatly refused.

MAIKOV: Nonsense! I went to present my poems.

D: (to A) Nonsense, he could have mailed them.

MAIKOV: Don't listen to him, Anna Grigoryevna. He's so inflated with his own importance, he imagines the rest of us have nothing better to do than make trips to Moscow on his behalf. Anyway, now that I've met his new collaborator, what's there to worry about? The advance is unnecessary now. And so I must go. I must not interfere with your work. You have found a gem here in this young woman my morose friend, a jewel. Don't let her out of your sight. (shaking hands all around and kissing D on the cheek) She will save your life, mark my word! (histrionically) She will save your worthless, good-for-nothing life!

[EXIT MAIKOV]

D: (to A) Excuse me a minute, my dear. (calling after MAIKOV) But what about your poems?

[EXIT D]

[ANYA stands looking at the portrait turned to the wall as ENTER PASHA, a young man of nineteen, in his bedroom slippers, his shirt open at the chest, his hair disheveled. He has a sallow, slovenly appearance, an almost yellow face, and teeth yellowed with tobacco stains, an unlighted cigarette in his fingers]

PASHA: Turned Mother's picture to the wall again, has he?―the old goat! (going to D's desk and stuffing his pocket with matches and lighting up) So you're the steno grapher, eh? (placing the accent on the first syllable as though it were two words; then to A, confidentially behind his hand) The old goat doesn't like me in here when he's . .  . (clearing his throat sarcastically) . . . working. Yes, indeed! (looking A up and down, suggestively) Paying a royal ruble for your services I'll wager―the old goat!

A: (dumbfounded) I beg your pardon?

[PASHA steals all the cigarettes and matches from D's desk drawer and hides them in his pocket as ENTER D smiling happily]

D: Is there a better man alive anywhere? Thank God, there's still hope for his poems if not my advance . . . (noticing PASHA, annoyed) What are you doing in here, Pasha? We're working!

PASHA: (leering) I'm curious about this stenography. (blowing smoke directly into A's face) Pays well, does it, Missy? Can't get a ruble out of the old go . . . er, gent, myself.

D: (flustered) Pasha! For God's sake . . . (reaching into his pocket and coming up with a ruble note.  Here! Here! Take it and get out. And don't trouble us again!

PASHA: One of these days I'm going to get myself a steno grapher to sit on my knee. (slapping his thigh, and guffawing) Yes sireee!

[EXIT PASHA]

D: My stepson, Pasha. Forgive me for not introducing you.

A: Forgive me, Fyodor Mikhailovich, if I confess I was sure he was no son of your own.

D: (laughing at her boldness) I like your spirit! Anyway, he costs me like a son. I made a solemn promise to look after him at his mother's deathbed. That's her portrait. (noticing that the portrait is turned to the wall) Oh excuse me. (turning it right side round, embarrassed) Another of Pasha's pranks, he . .

A: (saving him from compounding his lie) She's very beautiful.

D: Yes. And she was already hopelessly ill when it was done. When she finally passed away three years ago, she was . . . (a long pause as he gazes at the portrait) But never mind! More tea? (shouting into the vestibule. More tea, Fedosya, and a clean shirt! (to ANYA, seating her in a soft chair) Since we'll be working together, tell me something about yourself, my dear. . . your family, your schooling.

A: Well, my father, rest his soul, (crossing herself) died just last spring. He served in one of the departments of the civil service. And my mother? (proudly) My mother comes from a family of Bishops and scholars.

D: And did you inherit your interest in literature from her?

A: From her, and from Papa too; he loved to read. And when Professor Olkhin said it was Dostoevsky I was to work for . . .

D: Tell me . . . What do you think of my Sonia?

A: Sonia? (surprised) In Crime and Punishment! (with emotion) Oh, is it possible such a saint can exist in our time? When she gave Roskolnikov her cypress cross, I wept.

D: (very pleased with her answer) Yes, my Sonia is a saint, no question! No typical woman of the sixties, that's certain. Still (musing) . . . perhaps there are still one or two like her left.

[ENTER FEDOSYA with tea and a clean shirt]

FEDOSYA: Your shirt, sir.

D: Thank you, Fedosya. And what do you think of my new stenographer. Can you believe she offered to work without compensation? Certainly no typical woman of the sixties, eh?

FEDOSYA: Pray God, not. (crossing herself)

D: (to A) Excuse me my dear. I won't be a minute.

[EXIT D]

FEDOSYA: (serving A tea) Sugar, my dear?

A: No thank you.

FEDOSYA: (warming to A) Oh he's a marvelous man to work for. A bit difficult at times; it's his illness.

A: Illness?

FEDOSYA: But he's the kindest, most generous man in the world. My children love him.

A: I've seen you together at Sunday liturgy.

FEDOSYA: (serving A tea) Yes, my little Kashenka and Mitya. When my husband died, Fyodor Mikhailovich took us in out of the goodness of his heart, bless him. So you go to Liturgy at St. Michael's do you?

A: Yes, my mother and I.

FEDOSYA: I go every morning at dawn. And do you know, he looks in on my darlings at night so I can sleep. He goes to them when they cry and covers them and tells them stories to make them laugh and brings them a drink of water and . . .

[ENTER D in a clean shirt, his hair freshly pomaded, looking quite refreshed]

D: The truth is her little angels are a blessing to this house; they saved my life last night. [to FEDOSYA] I never would have made it through to morning if little Kashenka hadn't called. Poor darling; she was so frightened, I had to bring in my pillow and blanket and promise . . .

FEDOSYA: But your poor old bones! On the hard floor?

D: Never slept better. You know what your darling Kashenka said? If we move the divan in uncle, I'll never have a nightmare again. [laughing] Nor I a seizure perhaps, eh?

A: [frightened] Seizure?

FEDOSYA: If only you would speak to Pasha, sir? He's been tormenting the children again.

D: (angrily) Will the lout never grow up? (tenderly to FEDOSYA) I'll speak to him again of course, my dear.

FEDOSYA: (happily excited, as she empties some of the ash-trays into the stove and gathers up some tea glasses) You'll never guess who goes to Liturgy at St. Michael's. [confidentially to A] Sunday morning we'll all light votive candles for him.

D: Votive candles? For me? But why, I'm not dead am I?

FEDOSYA: But we worry about you. The children . . .

D: Worry about me? What on earth for?

FEDOSYA: Your illness, your smoking, your . . .

D: [laughing] Nonsense! I'll survive the lot of you. [to ANYA] On the other hand, a candle or two for the success of our collaboration now . . .

FEDOSYA: [all aflutter] Yes, indeed, time is growing short―only twenty-eight more days. [to ANYA] You'll be perfect for him, my dear―not like the others.

[EXIT FEDOSYA carrying empty tea glasses etc. smiling warmly at ANYA]

D:(scrutinizing ANYA as he offers her a cigarette) Cigarette?

A: I don't like to see women smoke.

D: Good! Good! (lighting up himself) Yes, Olkhin has made a good choice. So many young women these days lack seriousness and any real knowledge of correct behavior. These so-called women of the sixties. Nihilists, all of them!

A: All of them?

D: Yes! Just because they admired me as a victim of autocracy, they expect me to sympathize with their nihilistic nonsense. I'm therefore more than pleased to find in you Miss . er . Miss . .

A: Snitkin?

D: Yes. Thank God you're not one them. (hovering over the sweet tray)

A: But I am, Fyodor Mikhailovich!

D: (absorbed in lustfully surveying the sweet tray) What's that?

A: (proudly) I too am a woman of the sixties!

D: Nonsense. You? You're a sweet old-fashioned girl, if I ever saw one. Sweet and . . . (swooping a confection into his mouth)

A: (offended) I beg your pardon, Fyodor Mikhailovich. I'm . . . I'm . . .

D: (smacking his lips) . . . delicious.

A: (quietly but firmly) . . . I'm certainly no nihilist―God forbid! But neither am I sweet or old fashioned. I'm a woman of the sixties and agree with my nihilist sisters that your sentence to Siberia was out of all proportion to the seriousness of your crime.

D: (indifferently, still savoring the sweet and licking his fingers) Nonsense! Omsk was hell. But I deserved it. And when you consider the alternative . . .

A: Alternative?

D: Yes. It was better than being shot!

A: (frightened) Shot? (crossing herself)

[DRUM ROLL off stage, and ENTER EXECUTION PARTY from the wings to the dead-march beat of an offstage drum, accompanied by cold blue reverie lights. As D speaks, the scene is dramatized on the apron of the stage as it was in the first scene of the act, but another actor now plays D as a young man standing among his condemned comrades dressed like the others in a long white shroud, an eyeless hood covering his face. ANYA, of course, is oblivious of the presence of the EXECUTION PARTY, since they exist only in D's mind]

D: Yes, right here in Petersburg, in Semyonevsky square not far from St. Michael's. I'll never forget that morning, standing there among my condemned comrades. I was so young then. Death, Anya, to come in just one minute!

[DRUM ROLL. As the OFFICER reads, all save the reverie lights focused on the EXECUTION PARTY and a special on D and ANYA are extinguished)

OFFICER: Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich, for participation in criminal designs and for the promulgation of a letter filled