OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Anton Chekhov
Five Plays

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FIVE PLAYS

Anton Chekhov was born in i860 in south Russia, the son of a

poor grocer. At the age of 19 he followed his family to Moscow,
where he studied medicine and kept the household financially afloat
by writing comic sketches for popular magazines. By the end of the
1880s he was established as a writer of serious fiction, and had some
experience as a playwright while continuing to practise medicine on
the small estate he had bought near Moscow. It was there that he
wrote his innovatory drama The Seagull. Its disastrous opening
performance was the cruellest blow of Chekhov's professional life,
but its later successful production by the Moscow Art Theatre led
to his permanent association with that company, his marriage to its
leading actress, Olga Knipper, and his increasing preoccupation
with the theatre. Forced by ill health to move to Yalta in 1897 he
wrote there, despite increasing debility, his two greatest plays. Three
Sisters and The Cherry Orchard. The premiere of the latter took
place on his forty-fourth birthday. Chekhov died six months later,
on 2 July 1904.

Ronald Hingley, Emeritus Fellow of St Antony's College,

Oxford, edited and translated The Oxford Chekhov (9 volumes),
and is the author of A Life of Anton Chekhov (also published by
Oxford University Press).
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OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

ANTON CHEKHOV

Five Plays

Ivanov^ The Seagull,

Uncle Vanya^ Three Sisters^ and
The Cherry Orchard

Translated and with an Introduction by

RONALD HINGLEY

OXFORD
UNIVERSITY PRESS
 OXPORD
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Introduajon € Ronald Hingley, 1977
The five plays first published by Oxford University Press, London:
UhcU Vanya, Three Sisters, The Cherry Orchard (\9M); hanov. The Seagull {\967l
C Ronald Hingley, 1964, 1967
IvMu/v, The Seagull, Three Sisters first issued as an Oxford University Press paperback, 1968,
e Ronald Hmgley, 1968
Uncle Vanya and The Cherry Orchard first issued as an Oxford University Press paperback, 1%5,
e Ronald Hingley, 1965
Select Bibliography C Patrick .Miles, 1998

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Database right Oxford University Press (maker)

First published as a \\ orld's Classics paperback 1980

Reissued as an Oxford World's Classics paperback 1998

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 CONTENTS
Introduction by Ronald Hingley vii

IVANOV I

THE SEAGULL 65

UNCLE VAN YA 117

THREE SISTERS 169

THE CHERRY ORCHARD 239

I Select Bibliography 295

 INTRODUCTION
Few playwrights of the last two or three hundred years have had a

greater impact than Anton Chekhov, and this despite his relatively
small output. He left behind only five truly outstanding plays, all of
four acts, and which form the present collection.
it is these
Omitted from this volume are the ten one-acters, mainly farces,
though several are masterpieces in their own limited genre. Omitted
also are the two early four-acters, Platonov and The Wood Demon.
Neither is a major work, but they will receive more prominence in
this introduction than the one-acters, since both have a considerable
bearing on the author's evolution.
Important though the theatre was to Chekhov, he worked for it

only sporadically and neglected it for years on end; to a large extent

his playwriting was overshadowed until the end of his lifeby the
claims of narrative fiction. Chekhov the short-story writer was con-
stantly developing and perfecting his craft; his stories take up six or
seven times as much of his collected works as does his drama he fre-
;

quently referred to narrative as the 'wife' to whom he considered

himself respectably united for life, and to the theatre as his fickle and

temporary mistress. Yet to many of his admirers Chekhov still re-

mains the great dramatist whose stories are less significant than his plays.
Chekhov's preoccupation with the theatre ebbed and flowed
throughouthis life from adolescence onwards. It may be traced back

to his school days in the early 1870s, and it ended only with his death
in 1904. He loved the theatre and he hated the theatre. Now he would
plan to write a hundred one-act plays a year; then, claiming to be
disgusted with the stage, he would assert his intention of never penning
word of drama.
another
Chekhov was bom in 1 860 in Taganrog, a small and declining port
on the Sea of Azov, hundred miles south of Moscow. He was the
six
third of the six children of a struggling and eventually bankrupt
grocer. This pious martinet beat and bullied his offspring, but also
ensured that they obtained a good education. At the Taganrog classical
gimnaziya, or grammar school, Anton developed his early flair for the
dramatic, displaying a love of practical jokes, mimicry, play acting. A
skilled comic actor with a strong instinct for entertaining, he could
imitate his elders' speech, walk, and gestures. His targets ranged from
viii CHEKHOV Five Plays

eccentric grammar school teachers, aged professors, and fatuous minor

clerics to the Town Captain, in effect Taganrog's Governor. From
such antics was a short step to improvised charades and amateur
it

theatricals at which Anton would impersonate a dentist or an aged

village sacristan. More orthodox theatrical performances also took
place, often at the homes of school friends. Himself the main organizer
and producer, the boy is said to have written many plays of his own,
only to destroy them. He also acted in established plays, including
Gogol's famous comedy The Inspector General.
Comic acting figures little in Anton's mature years, for he gradually
lost theknack or the interest. But an allied childhood pursuit, theatre-
going, was to remain with him for life. Taganrog's theatre gave him
the opportunity to see the classics of the Russian stage, including
Ostrovsky's plays light opera such
; as Offenbach's La Belle Helene and ;

a stage adaptation of Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Though Chekhov's efforts as a schoolboy playwright have not sur-
vived, he did not leave this interest behind when — in 1879, as a
nineteen-year-old youth —he packed his bags and left Taganrog for
Moscow. Here he joined his impoverished family, precariously estab-
lished in the city for several years, and enrolled as a medical student.
The which he completed in 1884, was exacting.
five-year course,
Meanwhile he had also managed to establish himself as a writer of
sorts he had become the increasingly prolific author of comic short
:

stories and sketches published in a wide variety of periodicals. These

trifles earned him enough to relieve his family's extreme poverty.

The same cannot be said of his dramatic writings of the period.

Chekhov's earliest extant play was neither published nor performed
—
during his lifetime, but was found lacking any title among his —
papers after his death and brought out posthumously in 1923. It is now
known as Platonov, from the name of the principal character. Though
the manuscript bears no date, the play may be assigned to 1 880-1,
partly on the evidence of Chekhov's youngest brother, Michael. His
memoirs have the second-year student Anton offering Platonov to a
well-known actress, Mariya Yermolov, and hoping to have it staged
at the Moscow Maly Theatre. That the play was turned down is not

surprising, on grounds of length alone; at 160 pages it would take

about as long to perform as Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, and The Cherry
Orchard put together.
Platonov eschews Chekhov's usual hints, half-statements, and elo-
quent silences, being as exuberant and outspoken as the later plays are
 INTRODUCTION IX

evocative and reticent. Another contrast lies in the degree of emphasis

placed on action. For a writer in whose later works 'nothing happens',
the Chekhov of Platonov makes far too many things happen. One of
his heroines tries to throw herself under a passing train, on stage, and
is saved by a horse thief who is later lynched by enraged peasants the ;

same young woman also saves her husband from being knifed and
later tries to poison herself by eating sulphur matches. The play ends
with a murder, its hero being shot in a fit of passion by one of three
discarded or would-be mistresses. This concludes a sequence of inter-
meshed amatory and financial intrigues vaguely reminiscent of Dos-
toyevsky and revolving round a sexually irresistible village school-
master.
Absurd though Platonov must sound in this brief digest, and even
more absurd though it may appear to those who read it through, the
play has been successfully staged and contains many pointers to the
mature Chekhov whose later techniques were very different. Nor can
there be much doubt that the young man himself took his first extant

play seriously at a time when most of his stories were still in a lighter
vein. It would seem that his first interest as a would-be creative writer
was the stage, not narrative fiction. And it was probably disappoint-
ment over the rejection o£ Platonov that temporarily diverted him from
attempting any more serious plays for about six years. Periods of
neglect were also to follow the unsuccessful production of his Wood
Demon in 1889, and the disastrous flop of his Seagull in 1896.
Meanwhile the drama's loss was becoming more and more the
short story's gain. After graduating as a doctor in 1884, Chekhov
began practising his new was never to become
profession at once. This
his full-time occupation, however, and although he hesitated between

letters and medicine for a while, it soon became obvious that author-

ship was his chief vocation. Throughout the 1880s he was gradually
abandoning his early facetious narrative vein, and producing stories
more and more imbued with his own characteristic blend of poignancy,
astringency, detachment, and carefully controlled humour. Meanwhile
he continued to reside in Moscow, helping to provide for his parents,
and also for his youngest brother and sister until they were old enough
to fend for themselves.
When, in 1887, Chekhov reverted to serious dramatic writing he
did so by invitation. A well-known impresario — F. A. Korsh, pro-
prietor of a Moscow theatre specializing in farces —suddenly com-
missioned liim to write a four-act play, probably expecting the dramatic
X CHEKHOV Five Plays

equivalent of the early comic stories on which alone the young

man's reputation rested. The
was more than Korsh had bargained
result

for: Ivanov, the work with which the present volume begins. This in-
deed does provide light entertainment in quantity, but it is also a dis-
turbing and profound problem-drama.
The first draft of Ivanov was dashed off at high speed between 20
September and 5 October 1887, each act being rushed to Korsh so
that he could submit it to the dramatic censor and put it into rehearsal.
On 19 November, exactly two months after Chekhov had first set pen
to paper, Ivanov received its Moscow premiere at Korsh's theatre. This
first night developed into one of the scandals 'without precedent in
theatrical history' that figure so prominently in Russian stage annals.
One theatre critic spoke of a 'storm of applause, curtain-calls and
hissing', claiming that no author of recent times had made his bow
to such a medley of praise and protest. The hissings and protests were
partly due to the defects of the performance, for the play had been
grossly under-rehearsed by actors who barely knew their parts.
It was not so much the quirks of the performance as Chekhov's con-

troversial script that stimulated a response varying from extreme en-

thusiasm to extreme disapproval. Yet the general bewilderment did
not derive from any obscurity in what is basically a simple plot. The
play's main character, a landowner in his thirties called Nicholas
Ivanov, has a Jewish wife, Sarah, who is dying of tuberculosis. Ivanov
should have taken the sick woman to a warmer climate, thus giving
her some hope of recovery, but instead he is busy seducing the daughter
of a rich neighbour. For this caddish behaviour he is repeatedly casti-
gated by his wife's plain-speaking young
Eugene Lvov. Sarah
doctor,
dies, and Ivanov marries again, but is subjected by Dr. Lvov to an

especially severe final denunciation. This occurs on the very wedding

day, when the young doctor turns to Ivanov with a reprimand so
violent that, in the version of 1887, it causes the bridegroom to expire
from shock on stage. In the final version of this much-revised ending,
as translated in the present volume, he shoots himself.

Running an estate, coping with peasants, farming scientifically, fall-

ing into debt, marrying a doomed wife of alien faith it had all been —
too much for Ivanov, whom we observe collapsing under the strain
throughout the play's four acts. That his conduct is reprehensible must
be admitted. But what on earth was there about it to tax an audience's
comprehension? Or to provoke such violent reactions in the theatre?
Only this: that the author, in so far as his attitude seemed to emerge
 INTRODUCTION XI

from the dialogue of his came nowhere near outright con-

characters,
demnation of Ivanov. Indeed, from pillorying that spineless indi-
far

vidual as an arrant scoundrel, Chekhov seemed rather to sympathize

with him, while displaying marked hostility towards the well-meaning
young doctor who so persistently attempts to persuade Ivanov to do
his duty by the dying Sarah.

Could the wicked Ivanov conceivably be Chekhov's hero? And

could the priggish, self-righteous Dr. Lvov be his villain? Indeed
they could, as is clear beyond a doubt from lengthy explanations in
the author's correspondence. From these we also learn that the riddle

of Ivanov did not lie any obscurity of the script, but simply in
in
Chekhov's failure to adopt a conventional morahzing attitude. Yet
the play does have its own unconventional, paradoxical, characteristic-
ally Chekhovian moral: Do not moralize. Do not be too ready, that
is, to imitate the stuffy Dr. Lvov by condemning a man, that
all too complicated mechanism, on the basis of his behaviour. An
immoral scoundrel may be a better human being than a self-righteous
prig.
By comparison with Chekhov's later pioneering drama, Ivanov now
seems old-fashioned. One reason is the presence of a message, however
paradoxical; another is the concentration on a single hero around
whom all the action revolves; yet another lies in the emphasis placed
on carefully orchestrated dramatic crises. Chekhov gave the audience
*a punch on the nose' at the end of each act. So he himself pointed out

at the time, not reahzing that in his later dramatic career the cunningly
sprung dramatic cHmax would give way to something far more im-
pressive: the yet more cunningly sprung, anti-dramatic anticlimax.
From crises to letdowns: such, in brief, is Chekhov's evolution as a

playwright.
While remaining comparatively conventional in structure and tech-
nique, the thematically startling Ivanov is yet a triumph of craftsman-

ship. The scenes are well put together; the dialogue is subtle and lively;
the background is suitably light, introducing several comic minor
characters who might have stepped straight from the better passages
of Chekhov's early comic stories.
Ivanov, Chekhov's first dramatic work to appear on a public stage,
immediately established its author as a figure to be reckoned with in
the Russian theatre. This impact was reinforced when the play went
into production in St. Petersburg in January 1889 after extensive re-
vision. By contrast with the mixed reception given to Ivanov in
xii CHEKHOV Five Plays

Moscow in late 1887, the St. Petersburg production was a resounding

success. And Chekhov was by now very much a man of the theatre
who was often seen with aaors and aaresses, a famihar figure in stage
circles in both Moscow and St. Petersburg. He advised on the pro-

duction and casting of his own and others' plays and he wrote, be-
;

tween 1888 and 1 famous one-aa farces: The Bear, The

891, his five
Proposal, A Tragic Role, The Wedding, and The Anniversary. Yet he
was anything but stage-struck. The modem theatre was to him 'a skin
rash, a sort of urban venereal disease'. Narrative was his legal wife, he
was once again insisting, whereas the drama was merely his 'flam-
boyant, rowdy, impudent, exhausting mistress'.
At the end of the decade this disillusionment was increased by the
failure of the new four-act play with which Chekhov followed Ivanov:
The Wood Demon, written in 1889. Here is a comparatively Hght-
weight effort, but one of crucial importance since it was to become
the raw material for the^mature drama Uncle Vanya. That masterpiece
contains large chunks of dialogue quarried direaly from The Wood
Demon, and several charaaers with the same or similar names; yet it
differs so markedly in tone and content that one hesitates to call the

earher play a draft of the later. For the moment, though, we are con-
cerned with The Wood Demon alone. It underwent many tribulations
of its own long before Chekhov was thinking of it in terms of Uncle
Vanya.
Chekhov called The Wood Demon 'a long romantic comedy'; it

presented 'good, healthy people who are half likeable; there is a happy
ending; the general mood is one of sheer lyricism.' A happy ending!
That seemed a sinister augury. Could the play be shaping as one of
those exceptional life-affirming moral tales, written under the in-
fluence of Tolstoy, which figure disastrously in Chekhov's ficrion of a
few years earlier? Fortunately, no. The play was indeed to turn out
the romantic comedy that Chekhov had called it, yet with no httle
infusion of imphed moralizing. After contemplating the negative,
feckless, world-weary, demoralized Ivanov, we now meet more posi-
tive types; a very nest of Lvovs or potential Lvovs. In the character of
the 'Wood Demon' himself (Michael Khrushchov), Chekhov seems
to commend the virtues of charity, contrition, and commitment to a
good cause: nature conservation. Then again, a beautiful young wife
seems to be applauded for 'sacrificing herself to her elderly, gout-
ridden husband, while another charaaer describes himself as having
made ostentatious pubhc confession of his sins.
 INTRODUCTION XUl

That one should repent of one's sins, behave tolerantly, eschew mali-
cious gossip: these are no bad guides to conduct. Yet to preach a
worthy cause is not necessarily to compose a great work of art. With
Chekhov, such implied exhortations were often aesthetically counter-

productive. That he himself later found those of The Wood Demon un-
satisfactory we know because he threw out all this when
moralizing
he converted the play into Uncle Vanya, which lacks such affirmations
or certainties. Its characters move among shadows; the ground is no-
where firm beneath their feet virtue goes wholly unrewarded.
;

By October 1889 the completed Wood Demon had been passed by

the censor and was promised to two actor friends of Chekhov's for
benefit performances at the Moscow Maly Theatre and the St. Peters-
burg Alexandrine Theatre. But both these prestigious projects fell
through, and Chekhov resignedly sold the play to a Moscow house,
Abramov's, which was on the verge of bankruptcy. Here The Wood
Demon received an inadequate first performance on 27 December 1889,
and it was taken out of production shortly afterwards. Thereafter
Chekhov rejected all requests to stage or publish the play. Ten years
later he ren>drked that he hated it and was trying to forget it.

Uncle Vanya —so different from, yet so extensively based on, the
earher play — is a pioneering dramatic masterpiece; from which it by
no means follows that the relatively conventional Wood Demon is a
resounding failure. Chekhov, in his disillusioned later phase, was too
hard on the earlier play — still eminently stageable, as shown by the
fme production with which the British Actor's Company toured
At the time, though, the dis-
Britain and the United States in 1973-4.
appointment aroused by The Wood Demon was so acute that Chekhov
abandoned serious dramatic writing during the period between the
completion of that play in late 1889 and the writing of The Seagull in
1895. He abandoned it, that is, with the exception of any work on the
conversion of The Wood Demon into Uncle Vanya an operation, con- :

ducted in total secrecy, which may have fallen within this period.
Though we do not know precisely when the transformation took
place, we can be fairly certain that it was either in 1 890 or at least five
years later, not atany intermediate point. This seems clear from
Chekhov's statement, made in April 1895, that he had 'written nothing
for the theatre during the last five or six years'. That the new drama
had taken shape by November 1 896 we learn from a reference of that
date to the intended publication of Chekhov's collected plays. In this
book my own feeling that the undatable Uncle Vanya is Chekhov's
xiv CHEKHOV Five Plays
first fully mature play is expressed by the order in which the works
arc printed. This is chronology of
in principle chronological. Since the
The Seagull and Uncle Vanya .simply cannot be established, I have not
only been free to indulge my editorial taste in the matter, but have
actually been compelled to do so.
So much for when the metamorphosis of The Wood Demon into
Uncle Vanya took place. But what about the far more tantalizing prob-
lem of how it was brought about? To compare the earlier play with
the later is to study the transformation of a gifted but uncertain, hesi-
tant, and immature artist into a creative genius. In creating a new play

out of an old one, Chekhov reduced the length by about a third and
scrapped four major characters entirely. Yet he somehow retained sub-
stantial sections of the original dialogue while converting a play of

action into a play of mood, and turning a piece of light entertainment

into a work of genius. I know of no parallel for such a process there ;

is certainly none in Chekhov's other works. Everything that had been

too clear-cut and brightly lit in the earlier play has become enchant-
ingly indefinite, blurred, and atmospheric. For instance, the unfor-
tunate Uncle George Voynitsky, who had straightforwardly shot him-
self in Act Three of The Wood Demon, is replaced in the later play by

the more puzzling Uncle Vanya Voynitsky whose main achievement

or non-achievement is to fire a revolver at the hated Professor Sere-
—
bryakov and, of course, to miss. Then again, each play has its 'Sonya'.
But how different the two girls are. The Wood Demons had been an
elegant, rather silly, rich young woman who was cloyingly paired off
in the finale with Michael Khrushchov, the play's doctor-forester.
Uncle Vanya's Sonya is a less handsome, more sensitive girl. She too
loves the play's doctor-forester, Astrov —the counterpart to The Wood
Demons Khrushchov, but a more subtly drawn character. And this

later Sonya's love remains unrequited, since Astrov barely notices her,
having eyes only for the beautiful Helen Serebryakov.
The conclusion of Uncle Vanya leaves the frustrated Sonya and her
frustrated uncle facing a boring future together. This non-solution
of their counterparts in the earlier play:
contrasts vividly with the fates
Sonya evidently destined to live her life happily ever after, her uncle
dead by his own hand. Thus had The Wood Demon offered a tragic
Act Three followed by a happy ending in Act Four, and no nonsense
about either of them. With Uncle Vanya, though, we shall do better
to look neither for tragedy nor comedy, but to realize that we have
entered a strange anti-climactic, anti-romantic, anti-dramatic world
 INTRODUCTION XV
such as had never existed on the stage before Chekhov, a world with
its own laws, its own dimensions, its own brand of humour.
The period between the conception of The Wood Demon, in 1888,
and the publication of Uncle Vanya, in 1897, had seen major changes
in Chekhov's hfe. Weary of Moscow after residing there during the
whole of the i88os, he spent most of 1890 on a long and adventurous
journey to the Russian penal settlement on Sakhalin Island, which lies

to the north of Japan. In 1892 he embarked on another adventure by

buying a farm at MeHkhovo, a village about fifty miles south of Mos-
cow. Here he spent seven years as a country squire, rural doctor, and
author. It was his most prolific period as a short-story writer. But these
were fallow years for dramatic writing until, in October 1895, he
settled down on the grounds of
to create The Seagull in a small cottage
his estate. The first new drama
reference in his correspondence to the
occurs on 21 October 1895, when he speaks of enjoying the work; of
playing fast and loose with stage conventions ; of providing a land-
scape with a view of a lake, a lot of talk about Uterature, little action,
and a hundredweight and a half of love. One month later Chekhov
reports the play fmished and is still harping on his rejection of theatrical
conventions. 'I began it forte and fmished it pianissimo, contrary to all
the laws of the theatre'. As these comments indicate. The Seagull
abandoned the traditional concentration on a single star part and on
the strong, carefully prepared dramatic crises that had characterized
Ivanov. The Seagull stands, as it were, halfway between that earlier
four-acter and Chekhov's mature drama.
From all Chekhov's major plays, earher or later. The Seagull differs
in the sombre tone of its last act. It differs, too, in concentrating
so heavily on the experiences of creative and performing artists two —
actresses and two writers. And it differs yet again by a somewhat self-

conscious flaunting of 'modernistic' devices. There is the heavily ob-

truded symbol of the shot seagull, which represents the wanton ruining
of Nina's life by Trigorin. No other such ponderous symbol, Ibsenite
rather than Chekliovian, occurs anywhere else in the Russian master's
work. Another 'modernistic' feature of The Seagull is the interrupted
play-within-the-play of Act One. This rhetorical monologue by a
World Spirit is itself a fragment of non-realistic drama, such as his
Russian contemporaries called 'decadent'. 'We need new forms,' pro-
claims Chekhov's Treplev, the author of that encapsulated playlet;
this same sentiment was constantly on Chekhov's mind when he was
writing Tlie Seagull.
xvi CHEKHOV Five Plays

Though many dramatic novelties were to come from Chekhov's

pen in the future, such items as dead fowl and tirades however —
ironically intended —by a World Spirit were not to be among them.
His new, unfamiliar, and as it was later to prove, still transitional
dramatic technique contributed to the initial spectacular failure of The
Seagull. Indeed, its first performance at the Alexandrine Theatre in St.

Petersburg was perhaps the most traumatic episode of Chekhov's life.

It occurred on 17 October 1896, almost a year after the play had been
completed, the interval having been largely devoted to tiresome nego-
tiations with the dramatic censor.
The real cause of the play's failure lay less with Chekhov's un-
orthodox text than with the circumstances of the performance. For
some reason a popular comic actress, Elizabeth Levkeyev, had chosen
it for her benefit night, the twenty-fifth anniversary of her debut on
the stage. She was one of those *fme old character actresses' who has
only to emerge from the wings to provoke eruptions of mirth. Her
large following consisted of unintellectual fans who liked their bit of
fun, and who, if they knew Chekhov's work at all, would have been
familiar only with the comic writer of the 18 80s.
Miss Levkeyev's fans were bound to be disappointed at not seeing
her — as they naturally expected on her own benefit night — in the
That was quite out of the question, though, for the mere
actual play.
appearance on stage of so robust, so earthy, so grand a comic old
trouper would have torn the delicate fabric of Chekhov's eccentric
drama to ribbons. Thus was the failure of The Seagull doubly assured
in advance. The audience was in a mutinous mood even before the
curtain had gone up on the fateful night. Enraged by the absence of
their favourite actress from the cast, these lovers of broad farce were
not going to put up with any decadent highbrow rubbish. Knowing
littleor nothing of Chekhov, they cared still less about 'new forms',
whether in the theatre or anywhere else.
The Seagull would thus have been foredoomed even if it had not
been grossly under-rehearsed by a cast that barely knew its lines and
had little confidence in the text. The actors and producer took the
play seriously, but the decision to stage it at only nine days' notice was
absurd. Chekhov himself had arrived in St. Petersburg in time to
attend rehearsals. Visiting the theatre every day, he discussed inter-
pretation with the actors, stressing the need to avoid theatricality.
According to the producer, 'everything that could be done in this in-
credibly short space of time, with only eight rehearsals, for so subtly
 INTRODUCTION XVU
shaded a play as The Seagull was done.' But it was not enough,
. . .

and the author himself was left with no illusions about the prospects
for 17 October.
The events of the unhappy first night exceeded his most gloomy
forebodings, and have inevitably been described as 'a spectacle truly
unprecedented in the history of the theatre'. As the play proceeded,

spectators in the front rows demonstratively turned their backs on the

stage, hissed, whistled, laughed, and started rowdy private conver-
sations. The uproar increased until the play was inaudible. Chekhov

left the auditorium in Act Three and sat in a dressing-room. After the

performance he left the theatre and wandered the streets on his own;
not until 2 a.m. did he return to his lodgings, where he told his host
that he would never offer another play to be staged even if he lived
another seven hundred years. How profoundly distressed he was by
The Seagull's failure, inevitably shattering to so sensitive an artist, is
evident from the way in which he later harped on this 'fiasco beyond
my wildest imaginings'. It wasn't so much The Seagull's failure that
grated on him, he said, as the failure of his own personality.
In March 1897 Chekhov was found to be gravely ill with tuber-
culosis. Ordered by his doctors to winter in the south, he most un-

willingly moved his home from Melikhovo to the Crimean resort of

Yalta. But although he was henceforward a semi-invalid and had again
abandoned all thought of writing for the stage, he was once more to
be restored to the theatre by the theatre itself. In 1 898 a newly formed
company, the Moscow Art Theatre, persuaded him to permit the
staging of his disgraced Seagull. On 9 September, on his way through
Moscow to the Crimea, he attended an early rehearsal of this play; the
date is also memorable as that of his first meeting with Olga Knipper
—one of the new company's leading actresses, who was to become his
wife three years later. Thus did the ailing Chekhov acquire intimate
links with the theatre during his last seven years of life; this despite
being 'exiled', as he called it, in uncongenial Yalta during most of the
theatrical seasons.
The association between author and theatre first attracted attention
with the Art Theatre's first performance of The Seagull on 17 Decem-

ber 1898. This took place in the author's absence and in an atmosphere
of impending doom. What of his ill-starred play should flop again?
Might another such fiasco conceivably prove fatal to the ailing author?
Among those most closely concerned were Olga Knipper and the
—
Art Theatre's co-founders Constantine Stanislavsky, Russia's most
xviii CHEKHOV Five Plays

famous actor-manager, and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko. Him-

self a playwright, Nemirovich-Danchenko was particularly concerned

that The Seagull should succeed, since it was he who had taken the
initiative in overcoming Chekhov's objections to the resuscitation of

a work associated with so many painful memories.

When the curtain rose on The Seagull's first act, members of the
cast were very agitated. Everyone had taken valerian drops the tran- —
quillizer of the period —while Stanislavsky, as Trigorin, found it hard
to control a twitching of the leg. As Act One proceeded audience
reactions were hard to gauge, and when the curtain came down the
house seemed frozen into immobility. Standing on the stage, Olga
Knipper fought to control hysterical sobs amid the silence until, at last,
when it seemed that not a single clap would reward so carefully nur-
tured a production, 'like the bursting of a dam, like an exploding
bomb a sudden deafening eruption of applause broke out'. Members
of the audience rushed the stage amid tears ofjoy and kissing so general
as to recall the Orthodox custom of ritual osculation at Easter. People
were 'rolling round in hysterics', says Stanislavsky, who himself cele-
brated by dancing a jig. After the remaining three acts had been re-
ceived with comparable enthusiasm. Nemirovich-Danchenko sent an
ecstatic telegram to Chekhov in Yalta. It recorded a colossal success
with endless curtain and was signed 'mad with joy'. The shameful
calls

fiasco of the St. Petersburg first performance had been wiped out.
The links between Chekhov and the Art Theatre became stronger
still in the following year, when the company staged a showing

specially for the author in an empty theatre after the season had closed.
But a slightly jarring note now appears. Though too polite to say so
directly, Chekhov was downright disgusted by Stanislavsky's perform-
ance in the part of Trigorin. This serves to remind us that the Chekhov-
Stanislavsky axis never developed into an idyll of cooperation. And
famous though Stanislavsky's 'method' has rightly become for spon-
soring an ultra-naturalistic technique of acting, his procedures were
never naturalistic enough for the exacting Chekhov. Rather were they
too flamboyant and excessively 'theatrical' in the traditional sense. Too
tactful or too evasive, perhaps, Chekhov never succeeded in adequately
own conception of the plays to those who produced
putting across his
and performed them. He was loath to tackle those responsible directly,
preferring to express his dissatisfaction in scathing, sibylline asides to
his intimates.

Meanwhile the Art Theatre had enthusiastically put a second Chekhov

 INTRODUCTION XIX

play, Uncle Vanya, into production, and on 26 October 1899 it

received its first Moscow performance. Once again the author was ab-
sent,and once again he was bombarded with congratulatory telegrams
As soon became evident, Uncle Vanya had not quite
in his Yalta villa.
repeated The Seagull's success, but Chekhov was sufficiently encour-
aged to plan a new play to be called Three Sisters, the first of two great
dramas that he was to write especially for Stanislavsky's company in
the last years of his life. Chekhov was encouraged to press on with the
work when, in April 1900, the Moscow Art Theatre toured the
Crimea, making it possible for him to see productions of The Seagull
and Uncle Vanya before audiences on what was now his home
territory.
By mid-Octoberof the same year Chekhov had completed Three
and taken the manuscript to Moscow. But when he read the
Sisters

long-awaited text to the Art Theatre actors and producers it fell flat.
It was unplayable, they found; it contained no proper parts, only hints.
Why did Three Sisters so disappoint its first interpreters? Like all

Chekhov's serious drama it has the air of seeming to make, yet of

never quite making, some statement about human life. One main
theme is provincial frustration as it affects the three daughters and son
of the deceased General Prozorov. Andrew Prozorov would have liked
Moscow, but he works for the municipal council
to be a professor in
of which is chairman. The three girls are all dis-
his wife's lover
appointed in love: Olga regrets being an old maid, and Masha has
married the wrong man; Irina's fiance — unloved at that is killed in a —
duel in Act Four. Olga dislikes being a schoolmistress, Masha dislikes
being a schoolmaster's wife, Irina dislikes working in a post office. But
all problems would, they fervently believe, magically disappear
their
if they could only fulfil their burning ambition to return to Moscow,

their childhood home. These unhappy, ill-organized women are con-

trasted with their vulgar, insensitive, selfish sister-in-law Natasha. She
intrudes on the menage, marries the brother, fatuously dotes on her
children, and converts the Prozorov family house into the opposite of
a home.

But what do we learn from this? Is the play sad or funny? Does the
tragedy reside in the characters' failure to rise to the level of tragedy?
Or are they not tragic even in that restricted sense? Since these ques-
tions have never been fully resolved, we need not wonder that the
first cast of Three Sisters was so bafl?led.

In December, Chekhov left Moscow, where the Art Theatre was

XX CHEKHOV Five Plays

stillwrestling with rehearsals of Three Sisters, and went to Nice. He

was still revising and copying the text, and sent off improved versions
of Acts Three and Four within a few days of his arrival. From Nice he
also wrote polemical letters on the play, providing insights into his
view of the theatre. As usual, Stanislavsky as producer simply could
not>get anything right. 'Four responsible female parts, four educated
young women : I can't leave them to Stanislavsky with all my respect
for his talent and understanding.' Chekhov was anxious that the pre-
dicament of Masha, played by Olga Knipper, should not be falsified

by Olga might therefore play Masha with feeling, 'but

over-acting.
not desperately'. She must not look sad, because 'people who have
long been unhappy, and grown used to it, don't get beyond whistling
and are often wrapped up in their thoughts'. Nor should Masha be
seen leading her equally unhappy sister Irina around by the arm in
Act Three. That was inconsistent with the play's mood. 'Don't you
think Irina can get about on her own?' Then again, in Act Three,
Natasha should not, Chekhov told Stanislavsky, wander about the
stage putting out lights and looking for burglars under the furniture.
She should cross the stage in a straight line without looking at anybody
or anything, like Lady Macbeth with a candle. 'It's quicker and more
frightening that way.'
It was, as always, Stanislavsky's exuberance that Chekhov most
feared. How on earth could his drama of understatement be conveyed
by such a dedicated apostle of overstatement? Why must Stanislavsky
make such a cacophonous din with the off-stage noises in Act Three?
True, the town is supposed to be on fire at the time, the alarm is being
rung on church bells, and fire engines are clattering about. But that
was no reason to overdo things. 'The noise is only in the distance: off
stage, a vague, muffled sound.' Nor, after Tuzenbakh's death in the
off-stage duel of Act Four, need his body be solemnly borne across the
stage, as Stanislavsky at one time proposed. So subtle an internal drama
would be wrecked by these heavy-handed methods. Chekhov felt.
But at one point he did require an actor to pull out all the stops when :

denouncing the horrors of provincial life in Act Four Andrew

Prozorov should be 'very excited', and 'just about ready to square up
to the audience with his fists*. Very excited! Though a quiet tone

might often be appropriate with Chekhov, this instruction is a warn-

ing against any glib generalization about him or his work.
Primed with advice from Nice, the Moscow Art Theatre presented
its first performance of Three Sisters on 31 January 1901: the third
 INTRODUCTION XXI

Chekhov play to be launched by the same theatre in the author's

absence.Although the reception was somewhat disappointing, it was
by no means disastrous, and the play was soon firmly estabhshed in the
repertoire.
A few months after the first night of Three Sisters, Chekhov married
the actress Olga Knipper, who had by now appeared in all three Art
Theatre productions of his plays. Naturally the bridegroom was soon
under pressure from his leading lady and her colleagues to write a
second play especially for their company. Chekhov was maddeningly
slow to oblige, for he was increasingly suffering from ill health. But

although he had now virtually abandoned narrative fiaion, he was

sufficiently master of his creative faculties to be mulling over a fruitful
new dramatic theme. was to become the most famous of all his
It

works, and we meet the recorded version of its title, The Cherry
first

Orchard, in a letter of 24 December 1902. The new play had been

conceived as 'funny, very funny', and was to be a four-act farce. By
February 1903 it was 'already completed', but only in Chekhov's
head. Not until the summer did he settle down to serious work, and
by mid-October he was able to send the play to Moscow, where it
had long been eagerly awaited. A few weeks later the author arrived
in person, having decided —
with the approval of his most recent
—
medical adviser that he would for once break his habit of wintering
in the south.
The Cherry Orchard was now under intensive preparation at the Art
Theatre, and Chekhov attended rehearsals almost daily, yet without
reaching any accord with Stanislavsky.The play was not flourishing,
Stanislavsky complained. The main difficulty had arisen with earlier
productions and stemmed from a fundamental diflference of view be-
tween creator and interpreters. Were these plays, as Chekhov main-
tained, comedies? Did they even contain, as he said of The Cherry
Orchard, elements of farce? Or were they 'ponderous dramas of Russian
life'? It was this last interpretation which Stanislavsky, and not he
alone, insisted on imposing.
In firmly describing his plays, above all as comed-
The Cherry Orchard,
ies, Chekhov was perhaps confusing matters by dragging in a tra-
ditional theatrical term inapplicable to his new form of drama. What
he was really appealing for was a lightness of touch, a throwaway
casual style, an abandonment of the traditional over-theatricality of the
Russian (and not only the Russian) theatre. But here was Stanislavsky
serving up a suet pudding instead of a souffle, seeming hopelessly
 —

xxii CHEKHOV Five Plays

addicted to that heavy traditionalism of which he and his theatre
believed themselves to have sounded the death-knell. Meanwhile
Chekhov was too resigned, too ill, too modest to thrash things out on
first principles with his producer. Indeed, did he ever really probe into
his concept of comedy in his own mind to fmd out
exactly what he
meant by Whatever the reasons, The Cherry Orchard's first-night
it?

prospects seemed increasingly dim as rehearsal succeeded rehearsal.

This was perhaps inevitable with a work so fmcly balanced between
pathos and humour. Here is a plot hinging on the tragic loss, to an
upstart businessman, of a family estate that its feckless genteel owners
dearly love (in so far, that is, as they are capable of dearly loving any-
thing). Yet the upstart is no vulgar nouveau riche, but a sensitive and
compassionate man. And the tragic loss of the estate turns out neither
a tragedy nor even much of a loss, once the blow has fallen. Even so
grave a personal crisis as this can provoke no profound reaction in the
charmingly superficial evicted proprietors, whom Chekhov gently
ridicules, yet from whom he by no means withholds his sympathies.
Nothing is quite what it seems, nor yet quite the opposite of what it
seems, in a play that calls for rare delicacy of interpretation.
Even Chekhov's own works, which the mirages of climaxes so
in
deliciously melt into artistically contrived anticlimaxes, contain few
examples of irony as poignant as that furnished in real life by The
Cherry Orchard's premiere. Here was a great writer's finest hour, the
piimacle of his career, the moment when he was to receive full and
ecstatic recognition for a lifetime's achievement. But the great occasion

so developed as to cause him acute suffering.

The 17 January 1904 happened to be Chekhov's birthday:
ill-starred

his forty-fourth and —

as his thin, bowed, shrunken figure suggested

destined to be his last. What better occasion could there be for one of
those jubilee celebrations so popular in the Russian literary world?
Though his literary debut had occurred in 1880, making this at least

one year premature, the decision was nevertheless taken to mark his
twenty-fifth anniversary in the theatre, at the first night of his new play.
Chekhov himself utterly detested such jubilees', as was well known.
But the collective urge to dramatize the triumph of a dying genius
took precedence over all real concern for his needs and feelings, the

intermission between Acts Three and Four of The Cherry Orchard

having been earmarked for elaborate speeches and presentations from
the stage. Chekhov was not warned, for that would have been to
risk the whole enterprise. Nor was he even present in the theatre during
 INTRODUCTION XXlil

the first two acts; he was therefore deliberately missing the fourth
baptism of one of his plays at the Art Theatre on the first occasion
when his presence in Moscow would have made it possible for him to
attend.
When the second act was over and tumultuous ovations seemed to
assure the play's success, Nemirovich-Danchenko sent Chekhov a note
begging him to come to the theatre. Chekhov complied, still not
realizing what was afoot when he appeared on stage in the intermission
after Act Three and was greeted by fervent applause. He stood there,
coughing and obviously ill. Some members of the audience called out
that the sick Anton Pavlovich should at least face his ordeal seated.
The speeches and presentations seemed endless, and Chekhov stood
it as best he could. When addressed as 'dear and most honoured author',
he derived wry satisfaction from the coincidence with Gayev's line

'dearand most honoured book-case' in Act One of his play. And

though he did not enjoy himself, he at least endured his supreme
triumph with characteristic stoicism and courtesy.
Six months later he died at Badenweiler in southern Germany.

What constitutes Chekhov's originality as a dramatist? And what are

the special satisfactions that continue to attract audiences to perform-
ances of his plays in so many parts of the world? In an attempt to
answer these questions certain common to the mature dramas
features,
and not yet touched on, will be presented and drawn together with
themes already evoked in the above account of Chekhov's evolution
as a dramatist.

From Chekhov's own early plays and from the bulk of pre-Chekhov
drama in general the mature works differ, as already indicated, in the
relatively slight emphasis placed on hap-
action. True, the occasional
pening is to be observed, and there are even deeds of violence. Tuzen-
bakh of Three Sisters is killed in a duel; Uncle Vanya twice fires a

revolver at his ludicrous brother-in-law. Yet we note that the former

calamity takes place offstage, and that the briefly murderous Vanya
predictably misses his target. Even The Cherry Orchard, last and most
pacific of the plays, features a revolver : that carried by Yepikhodov
in case he should feel the urge to commit suicide. But it is never fired,
and if during the play's exquisite last scene the aged manservant, Firs,

may be thought a victim of homicide, it is homicide by culpable

xxiv CHEKHOV Five Plays

negligence, not by direct action. With all this may be contrasted

Chekhov's earliest play, Platonou, with its two attempted suicides, one
attempted murder, one successful murder, and one lynching.
After the spectacular suicide at the end of his second full-length play,
Ivanov, Chekhov abandoned the direct presentation of major catas-
trophes on stage; these were in any case becoming rarer, increasingly
muted, more and more ironical. Nina's harrowing adventures in The
Seagull, Tuzenbakh's death in Three Sisters, the seemingly fateful sale
of the cherry orchard none of these episodes
: is directly displayed to
the audience. But though Greek tragedy observed a similar convention,
and though Chekhov himself did reluctantly study the classics at

school, there is no evidence whatever of any direct classical influence

on his drama. That his avoidance of direct-action scenes differed radi-
callyfrom any Greek prototype is well emphasized by the complaint
once made to him by Tolstoy: 'Where does one get to with your
heroes? From the sofa to the privy and from the privy back to the
sofa.' One can hardly say that of Sophocles.
Sparsely equipped with deeds of violence —and, indeed, with effec-
tive or even ineffective actions of any sort —the mature plays are not,
as is sometimes suggested, entirely devoid of plot. But the plot is un-
obtrusive, being largely restricted to the bare minimum of suspense-
inducing development without which even the characteristic Chekh-
ovian letdown would be impossible; for even anticlimaxes, like cli-

maxes, need their buildup. Thus, before he can shoot and miss. Uncle
Vanya has to be set in motion by an expertly deployed family quarrel.
Before the youngest of the three sisters can lose her fiance in a duel,

she must be brought to the point of agreeing, however unenthusiastic-

ally, to marry him in the first place. Then again, before the owners of
the cherry orchard can be deprived of their beloved home, sympathy
for their plight —
must be evoked a necessary preliminary to the dis-
covery that is no plight at all for these feckless creatures.
this plight

Nor, it turns out in the end, had that beloved orchard been so beloved
that its annihilation could touch them in any profound sense. Once
again Chekhov's audience has been gently led 'down the garden path'.
But it has been led, not left standing in one spot.
If these are not plays of action, are they perhaps plays of ideas? Is
there some philosophical or instructional element such as many great
dramatists, from the Greeks onwards, have incorporated in their work?
That Ivanov contains such an element has already been noted: it is both
a play of action and a drama with a message. The hero's character is
 INTRODUCTION XXV
painstakingly analysed (largely in his own long soliloquies) while the
audience is instructed —without necessarily being fully aware of this

in the virtues of tolerance and the avoidance of facile censoriousness.

From its very different standpoint The Wood Demon advocates these
same virtues. But what of the mature drama? The characters are in-
deed subtly delineated in various ways, yet without the analysis in
depth to be found in Ivanov and in the portraits of Trigorin and Treplev
in The Seagull. As for messages, critics have attempted to interpret
Nina's painfully pursued stage career, in The Seagull, as a call to culti-

vate such admirable qualities as resilience, industry, and persistence.

Similar claims have even been made for the 'eternal student' Trofunov,
that loser of galoshes in The Cherry Orchard, whose pathetic harangues
about a 'new life' have been invoked as an appeal by Chekhov to the
audience to build a different and better society.
Though such interpretations can be both ludicrous and self-refuting,
it by no means follows that the element of social commentary should
I be dismissed out of hand. Does not The Cherry Orchard m^tt6. portray
a dying and effete class in a doomed society? May not these fruit trees

and Prozorov and Voynitsky households in

their owners, as also the
the two other mature dramas, be legitimately interpreted as symbols
of the old Russia, which, for good or ill, was about to make way for
the new? Of course. But it could be dangerous to overestimate this
aspect. Socially significant as the mature plays may be, valuable as
they indeed are as a commentary on their age, they were not written

with that purpose primarily in view. In the search for the plays' prime
function, social commentary is of only secondary importance.
Like most great writers for the theatre, Chekhov seems more in-
terested in illuminating the human condition in general than in pre-
senting the specific problems of his own society. May the plays then
claim the study of all mankind as their fundamental concern? A rudi-
mentary ethic can indeed be deduced from the sympathy which the
author lavishes by implication on certain characters while sternly with-
holding it from certain others. Serebryakov in Uncle Vanya, Yasha in
The Cherry Orchard, above all Natasha in Three Sisters : these are hate-
ful creatures, lacking any redeeming characteristic. Those who bask in
their creator's approval include the unmarried young women, but also
— as is known from the direct evidence of Chekhov's letters —Lopakhin
in The Cherry Orchard. Selfishness and insensitivity are pilloried, while
defcncclessness and sensitivity are held up for admiration: a distinction
undoubtedly reflecting Chekhov's personal taste. Yet it by no means
xxvi CHEKHOV Five Plays

follows that he wrote the plays chiefly to air these predilections, for

which he could in any case claim no special originality. The problem

of his sympathies and antipathies is significant, certainly, and would
repay more systematic attention than it has received. But it is not
absolutely crucial to the essence of his drama.
If Chekhov's plays are not dramas of action or of ideas, if they
purvey neither entertainment nor instruction in any conventional
sense, can they be helpfully defined as centred on the characters*
emotions?
In his book The Chekhov Play (London, 1973), Harvey Pitcher ably
argues that these are essentially plays of emotional content. It may
seem churlish to quarrel with this thesis, which underpins an admirably
original and sensitive evaluation of Chekhov's drama. Still, the plain
fact is —
and Pitcher himself shows full awareness of this that emo- —
tions in the usual sense of the word are at least as conspicuous by their
absence as by their presence. Love, hate, rage, jealousy passions of —
one kind or another these are in short supply, except in temporary or
:

muted form. Rather are the prevailing moods low-key, desultory, in-
consequential. One might call Chekhov's characters self-obsessed if
'obsessed' were not, again, too positive a term to apply to them. Never
embroiled in tempestuous passions, chiefly engaged in the desultory
monitoring of their lives, they tend to offer from time to time torpid
running commentaries on their own biographies. They regret mis-
spent opportunities in the past, they voice their aspirations for the
future. These hopes will never be 'dashed' —again far too positive a
term —but are sure to end whimper.
in the inevitable metaphorical
One such plaint isfound at the beginning of Andrew Prozo-
to be
rov's fme soliloquy in Act Four of Three Sisters. 'Where is my past life,
—
oh, what has become of it when I was young, happy and intelligent,
when I had such glorious thoughts and visions, and my present and
future seemed so bright and promising?' Here is the ultimate distil-
lation of Chekhovian hankering; the young man regretfully looks
—
back to the time when he had in vain, as he now knows hopefully —
looked forward. This same passage has already been mentioned as
emphasizing how difficult Chekhov can be to sum up for as the speech
;

develops, it acquires the momentum which led its author to describe

is as 'very excited'.

Time, as Andrew Prozorov's speech indicates, is a crucial ingredient

in the brewing of a Chekhovian mood, whether remembrance of
things past, fears for the present, or concern for the future is involved.
 INTRODUCTION XXVU
Time is invoked in any number of contexts. 'It's exactly a year ago
today since father time everyone
died.' 'In twenty-five or thirty years'

will work.' Such are characteristic phrases from Three Sisters. Then
there is the time-dominated Cherry Orchard, where the first page sets
the key. 'What time is it? . . . two o'clock . . . how late ... a couple
of hours . . . too late . . . living abroad for five years ... I was a lad
of fifteen ... in those days.'

The chief focuses for the futile regrets and aspirations of Chekhov's
I characters are those universal human preoccupations, work and love.
In The Seagull artistic work, creative and performing, is the chief
Yet only one of the four characters involved the egocentric
issue. —
—
Arkadin seems to derive satisfaction from her career: a
actress Irina
reminder that in Chekhov only the insensitive and callous find fulfil-
ment. Then again, one leading theme of Uncle Vanya is farm manage-
ment as so laboriously undertaken by Vanya himself and his niece

Sonya. This drudgery had once been rendered tolerable by being per-
formed for a good cause, the financial support of an academic luminary.
Professor Serebryakov. Then the Professor's pretensions are exposed,
he is discredited in Vanya's eyes, a protest is attempted but ; all in vain,
and Vanya is still faced at the end with the same life of toil, now
wholly unrewarding and stripped even of the comforting illusions
that had once sustained it. Work is also a theme of Three Sisters, in
which the concept is discussed at great length by Tuzenbakh on the
basis of no personal experience whatever. Those who do engage in

some form of toil in the same play Andrew, Olga, Irina are less — —
inclined to theorize about it, but say enough to make it clear that none
of them derives any satisfaction at all from his or her chosen employ-
ment.
Love, too, is inevitably frustrating — in the plays and in the stories.

The Seagull strikes an untypically gloom-ridden note with its long

chain of lugubrious love attachments. In Uncle Vanya, Sonya's hope-
less love for Astrov is inadequately paralleled by his frustrated feelings
for the beautiful Helen — ^feelings reciprocated only in being insuffi-
ciently passionate on both sides to lead even to any temporary and
semi-serious attachment. As for the Prozorov family in Three Sisters,
all the sisters and their brother present variations on the theme of

failure in love. Then again, the most The Cherry Orchard can offer in
the way of love is yet another low-key attachment, that between
Varya and Lopakhin. This is portrayed as strong enough to arouse a
feeling of pathos when their marriage, implied to be desirable from
 :

xxviii CHEKHOV Five Plays

time to time in the course of the play, is silently dropped from the
agenda.
To probe the nature of Chekhov's mature drama is to be forced
more and more into negative statements. It has been easier to say
what the plays are not than to say what they are: easier, also, to
analyse what does not happen to the characters than what does. And
we are now, alas, forced back to the supremely unoriginal and time-
worn conclusion that Chekhov's drama is essentially a study in moods
moods desultory, sporadically inter-reacting, half-hearted, casual, yet
somehow profoundly moving.
How depressing that familiar formula sounds: and how puzzling,
too, when one remembers that the plays have had an exhilarating
impact on successive generations of theatregoers. Through what
mystery of art can these spectacles so apathetic, sluggish and pallid,
these blurred and vaguely disturbing pictures of living and partly
living, have aroused such universal enthusiasm, affection, and concern?
A dramatist will always provide stimulus if he effectively illuminates
in anew way some aspect of the human condition neglected by his
And Chekhov did indeed have his own special view of
predecessors.
—
mankind. To him or so he appears to imply human affairs were —
flatter, duller, less eventful, less heroic than they were to earlier play-
wrights. His outlook as a man was by no means so pessimistic, we
know that. As and short-story writer, however, he cer-
a dramatist
tainly implies an acceptance of Henry Thoreau's thesis that 'the mass
of men lead lives of quiet desperation'. Hence the vivid contrast be-
tween Chekhov and the many tragedians, from the tempestuous Aes-
chylus onwards, who have tended to portray larger-than-life heroes
leading lives of noisy desperation. Other playwrights the writers of —
—
comedy, from Aristophanes onwards have tended to suggest, if only
in their denouements, that cheerful and serene non-desperation might
be the common human lot. In place of these familiar consolations pro-
vided by tragedy and comedy, in place of the delights purveyed by a

Plautus, a Racine, a Goethe, a Schiller, by not a few pre-Chekhovian

Russian dramatists and by many other playwrights great and small,
Chekhov supplies something entirely different: the spectacle of
characters palpably less vital, less heroic, less significant than the average
theatregoer, however inclined to self-disparagement, might reason-
ably suppose himself to be.
Far from implying any view of life grandiose in the tragic manner,
or ultimately harmonious in the spirit of comedy, Chekhov continu-
 INTRODUCTION XXIX

ally suggests the opposite: human existence is more pointless, more

frustrating, less heroic, less satisfying than members of his audience

may privately conceive. But this too may have its advantages. Harassed
lessby pestilence, famine, and foreign invaders than by the horrors of
commuting, of parking his car, of filHng in tax and other returns, of
—
pacifying computers and bureaucrats even harassed, perhaps, by the
appalling misfortune of actually being a bureaucrat — a modem man
may well find it more satisfyingly cathartic to be purged of Chekhovian
boredom, despair, and taedium vitae than of the traditional Aristotelian
pity and terror. Thus Chekhov admirably complements his great pre-
decessors by catering to a different area of human need.
Hence the very special delight which he offers his audiences. First,

they recognize Chekhov's world as 'real' in a new and special sense

(which does not necessarily invalidate the 'reahty' of other dramatists),
and they have the aesthetic satisfaction that is experienced when ob-
scurely discerned perceptions are exposed to view with supreme skill.

And then, even better, the theatregoer can recognize at a second stage
of perception that Chekhov's characters are even less decisive and effec-
tive than he probably considers liimself. He or she who feels out-
classed and overawed by an Oedipus or a Clytemnestra, by an Antony
or a Cleopatra, by a Faust or a Mephistopheles, can smile condescend-
ingly and affectionately at the manoeuvres of an Uncle Vanya, a Ver-
shinin, a Lyuba Ranevsky.
I In undergoing this new and blander form of dramatic purgation,
Chekhov's first audiences were incidentally taught to savour the first
major corpus of drama in Western literature that is the opposite of
purpose-built. No longer were they presented with chains of episodes
all designed to lead towards a predetermined goal. No longer were
they expected to follow plots more purposive than life acted out by
characters also purpose-directed beyond the common norm, a feature
of pre-Chekhovian drama even when failure to achieve a purpose is a
key theme. Shakespeare's Hamlet, like Chekhov's heroes, fails to take
decisive action. But is not the main drive of Hamlet concentrated on
eloquently demonstrating this very failure? Then again, just as Shake-
speare manipulates Hamlet, so too do the Greek tragic poets manipulate
their heroes —and also the very gods, whether to demonstrate their
awesome and inscrutable power (as did Aeschylus) or to cast discreet
doubt on some of their more outrageous proceedings (as did Euripides).
Chekhov, by contrast, seems content to meander inconsequentially.
He almost seems to allow his characters to take over, and rarely does
 ;

XXX CHEKHOV Five Plays

he appear to manipulate them. In Chekhov nothing at all —not plot

line, nor characters, nor even the very capacity to dither — ever
is

heroic, wholehearted, and concentrated. George Calderon, his early

translator into English, was therefore right to call the plays 'centri-
fugal', by contrast with other 'centripetal' dramas. This discursive
tendency was reinforced by Chekhov's abandonment, after Ivanov, of
concentration on a single star part in favour of the more 'democratic'
approach whereby up to half a dozen of the main personages in a given
play seem to have roughly equal importance.
all

This muting of the characters harmonizes superbly with the con-

comitant muting of the emotions. Though the plays abound in suicidal
moods, pessimistic utterances, unhappy love affairs, and frustrated
careers, no producer should forget that most of this material is, in a
very special sense, half-playful, and is balanced by other material all —
the teasing, the badinage, the inconsequential backchat. Even if love
always proves a failure, ordinary affection does not, and it is there in
plenty. Moreover, virtually all the long complaints and self-disparaging
soliloquies have a self-mocking, ironical seasoning even those of the :

immature play Ivanov. The actor who declaims this material like a King
Lear or newly blinded Oedipus will do Chekhov a gross and em-
barrassing disservice. The light touch, the throwaway manner these —
will rarely come amiss, provided that the essential seriousness of the
plays is never marred by flippancy. It is desirable, too, to stress the
underlying harmony —of mood rather than of emotions— that usually
unites the characterseven when they manifest on the surface a total
inability to communicate with each other over practicalities. In The
Cherry Orchard, Gayev and Lyuba may drive Lopakhin nearly out of
his mind with their hopelessness and refusal to listen to sensible advice
yet all the time the three remain firm friends, and are smiling or almost
smiling at each other even as they seem to be quarrelling or half-
quarrelling.
What of the many other satisfactions purveyed by Chekhov's
drama? There is the exquisite evocation of atmosphere. Two settings
in particular —the lake in The Seagull and the orchard in Chekhov's
last play — cast an enchanted spell over all the proceedings. There is

the subtle use of musical and other 'noises off', not forgetting the shot
that kills Tuzenbakh in Three Sisters and the 'sound of a breaking string'

in The Cherry Orchard. There is the humour. This takes in the broad
farcical antics of a Telegin, a Ferapont, and a Simeonov-Pishchik. But
it also runs to high subtlety: for example, in Uncle Vanya's superb
 INTRODUCTION XXXI

accusation flung at his detested brother-in-law: 'You have ruined my

life. Imight have been a Schopenhauer, a Dostoyevsky.' And there is
the deadly economy, also humorous in a sense, whereby that mon-
strous intruder, Natasha of Three Sisters, so ironically and uninten-
tionally censures herself when she says of an aged servant that 'there's
no room for misfits in this house'.
These are topics on which I have written elsewhere. And, beUeving
in any case that art is essentially a mystery, I prefer now to leave that
art to speak for itself. If these observations satisfactorily explain even
a small part of the mystery I shall be content. But if they render it

more creatively mysterious still, I shall be delighted indeed.

I take this opportunity to thank Ena Sheen, my friend and colleague

of the last eighteen years, for the patience, insight and professional
skill with which she has edited all nine volumes of The Oxford
Chekhov (source of the plays in this volume) and my biographical
study A New Life of Anton Chekhov.

RONALD HINGLEY
Frilford, igSo
 IVANOV
[HeaHoe]

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS

(1887-1889)
 CHARACTERS
NICHOLAS IVANOV, a local government official concerned
with peasant affairs

ANNA, his wife, n^e Sarah Abramson

COUNT MATTHEW s H A B E L s K Y, his uncle on his mothcf's
side

PAUL LEBEDEV, chairman of the rural district council

ZINAIDA, his wife

SASH A, their daughter, aged 20

EUGENE LVOV, a young doctor on the council's panel

MARTHA BABAKiN, a young widow, estate-owner and

daughter of a rich businessman
DMITRY KOSYKH, excise officer

MICHAEL BORKiN, a distant relative of Ivanov and

manager of his estate

AVDOTYA, an old woman with no definite means of

support

YEGORUSHKA, a dependant of the Lebedevs

FIRST GUEST
SECOND GUEST
THIRD GUEST
FOURTH GUEST
PETER, Ivanov*s manservant
GABRIEL, a servant of the Lebedevs
Guests of both sexes, servants

The action takes place in the central Russian countryside

i
 ACT ONE
The garden on ivanov's estate. Left, the front of the house, with
One window is open. In front of the terrace is a broad
terrace.

semicircular area, with paths leading into the garden directly in

front of the house and to its right. Garden seats, right, also tables,

with a lighted lamp on one of them. Evening is drawing in. As the

curtain rises there is the sound of a duet for piano and *
cello being
practised indoors.

SCENE I

[ivANOV and borkin. ivanov sits at a table reading a book.

BORKIN 15 seen at the back ofthe garden carrying a shot-gun and wearing
high boots. He is rather drunk. Seeing ivanov, he tip-toes up to him
and aims the gun at his face from close quarters.]

IVANOV [seeing borkin, starts andjumps up] Michael, what on earth ? . —

You gave me a start. iVe enough trouble already without your silly
games. [Sits down.] Great fun, isn't it, frightening people?

borkin [guffaws]. All right, all right, I'm sorry. [Sits beside him.] All
right, I won't do it again. [Takes off his peaked cap.] It's hot. You
know, old boy, I've done over ten miles in about three hours and
I'm dead beat. You feel my heart.
ivanov [reading]. Very well, in a minute.

borkin. No, do it now. [Takes ivanov's hand and puts it to his chest.]
—
Well? Tick tock tick tock tick tock something wrong with the old
ticker, I might drop dead any moment. I say, would you care if I

did?

IVANOV. I'm reading. Won't it keep?

borkin. But seriously, will you care if I drop dead? Nicholas, do you
care if I die?

IVANOV. Leave me alone.

borkin. Just tell me if you'd mind, old boy.

IVANOV. What I mind is that smell of vodka. It's disgusting, Michael.

BORKIN [/fiM^/ii]. Smell? That's funny. Actually, though, it isn't —

ran into the magistrate at Plesniki, and we did put away quite a few
4 IVANOV Ad One
glasses. Drinking's really very bad for you. Bad for you, I say. Eh?
Isn't it?

IVANOV. Look, this is altogether too much. You're behaving out-

rageously, my dear man.

BORKIN. All right, I'm sorry. Never mind, you take it easy. [Gets up
and moves off.] Some people you can't even talk to them.
are funny,
[Comes back.] Oh yes, it —
nearly sHpped my mind I want eighty-
two roubles from you.
IVANOV. Eighty-two roubles? What for?-

BORKIN. To pay the men tomorrow.

IVANOV. I haven't got it.

BORKIN. Much obHged, I'm sure. [Mimicking him.] 'Haven't got it.*

But the men have got to be paid. Or don't you think so ?

IVANOV. I don't know. I've no money today. Wait till the first of the
month when I get my salary.
BORKIN. What good is it bandying words with people like you?
The men come for their wages tomorrow morning not on the first —
of the month.
IVANOV. Well, what can I do now? Oh, go on, pester me—make my
life a misery. But why you have to plague me so abominably just
when I'm reading or writing or

BORKIN. Do the men get paid or not? Yes or no. Oh, what's the good
of talking to you? [Makes a gesture of despair.] Call yourself a farmer,
a goddam landed You and your scientific farming!
proprietor?
Three thousand and not a penny in his pocket Owns a wine-
acres, !

cellar, but no corkscrew I've a good mind to sell your carriage and
!

horses tomorrow. Oh yes I will. I sold the oats before we cut them
and tomorrow I'll damn well sell the rye. [Strides about the stage.] I'll
make no bones about it either. What do you take me for?

SCENE II

[The above, shabelsky — off-stage —dm/ anna.]

SHABELSKY [off-stage, his voice heard through the window]. It's no use us
playing together. You've no more ear for music than a stuffed
trout and you have an appalling touch.
 IVANOV Act One 5

ANNA [seen through the open window]. Who's talking out here? You,
Michael? Why all the marching about?

BORKIN. Friend Nicholas is enough to make anyone's boots itch.

ANNA. I say, will you have some hay put on the croquet lawn?
BORKIN [ii/ith a gesture of despair]. Leave me alone, please.

ANNA. Really, what a way to talk, it doesn't suit you a bit. If you want
women to Hke you, never let them see you being annoyed or stuffy.
[To her husband.] Shall we have a romp in the hay, Nicholas?

IVANOV. Standing by an open window, Anna? It's bad for you,

please move away. [5/iom^5.] Shut the window, Uncle.
[The window is shut.]

BORKIN. Lebedev's interest falls due in two days, don't forget.

IVANOV. I haven't. I'm going over this evening, I'll ask him to wait.
[Looks at his watch.]

BORKIN. When are you leaving?

IVANOV. At once.

BORKIN [eagerly]. Hang on a minute, I do beheve today's Sasha's

birthday, eh? Tut, tut, tut. And Imemory! [Jumps
forgot. What a
up and down.] I'm coming with you. [5i«^5.] Coming, coming. I'll
have a bathe, chew some paper, and with three drops of ammonia
I'll be a new man. Nicholas, old man, you're a bundle of nerves,
dear boy, besides snivelling and being so depressed all the time. Look,
we two — hell knows what we couldn't pull off together! I'd do
anything for you. Shall I marry Martha Babakin? And spHt the
dowry with you? But no —you can have it all, take the lot.

IVANOV. Don't talk such rot.

BORKIN. No, seriously. Shall I marry Martha and give you half her
dowry? But what am I saying? As if you could understand. [Imitates
him.] 'Don't talk such rot.' You're a nice, clever fellow, but you lack
flair, you know —
a certain flamboyancy You should let yourself go .

and to hell with the consequences. Why, you whining neurotic if —

you were a normal man you could be a miUionaire in a year. For
instance, if I had twenty-three hundred roubles now, I could be twenty
thousand in pocket inside a couple of weeks. You don't beheve me?
Think I'm still 'talking rot' ? Not a bit. Give me twenty-three hundred
roubles, and I'll get you twenty thousand in a week. Ovsyanov's
asking two thousand three hundred for a strip of land just across the
6 IVANOV Act One
river from us. If we buy it, own both banks. Now, with both
we'll
banks in our hands, we're entitled to dam the river, aren't we ? We'll
start building a mill, and 2S soon as we let it be known that we mean
to make a dam, everyone down-stream will raise hell. We'll tell
—
them straight if they don't want a dam, let them come along here
and cough up. See what I mean? The Zarevsky factory will pay five
thousand, Korolkov three thousand, and the monastery will give
five.

IVANOV. This is all very shady, Michael. Keep such things to yourself
if you don't want us to quarrel.

BORKiN [sits down at the table]. Of course, I knew it! Won't lift a
finger himself, and won't let me either.

SCENE III

[The above, shabelsky and Lvov.]

SHABELSKY [coming out of the house with Lvov]. Doctors are like
lawyers, only lawyers just rob you, while doctors rob you and
murder you as well. I'm not talking about present company. [Sits
down on the garden seat.] They're so bogus, just out for what they can
get. There may be some Utopia where there are exceptions to the

rule, but —
well, I've paid out twenty thousand odd in doctors' bills
in my time and never met a doctor yet who didn't strike me as a
Hcensed swindler.
BORKIN [to iVANOv]. Yes, won*t lift a finger yourself, and won't let

me either, which is why we've no money

SHABELSKY. Asl Say, I'm not talking about present company. There
may be exceptions, though actually — . [yiuu^n^.]

IVANOV [closing his book]. Well, Doaor?

LVOV [looking round at the ivindow]. As I said tliis morning, she must
go to the Crimea straight away. [Walks up and down the stage.]

SHABELSKY [gives a snort of laughter]. The Crimea! Why don't you and
I set up as doctors, Michael ? It's so easy. If Mrs. So-and-so, or Miss
Whatever-it-is, has a tickle in her throat and starts coughing out of
boredom, up a form and make out a proper medical
just pick
prescription.Take one young doctor. Follow up with one trip to
the Crimea, where some picturesque local lad may
 IVANOV Act Otic 7

IVANOV [to the count]. Oh, don't be such a bore. [To lv ov.] Trips

to theCrimea cost money. All right, I might lay my hands on some,

but you do know she's turned the idea down flat, don't you?

LVOV. Yes, I know. [PflM5f.]

BORKIN. Look, Doctor, can Anna really be so ill that she has to go to
the Crimea?

LVOV [looks round at the window]. Yes, it's tuberculosis.

BORKIN. Phew! That's bad. She certainly looks as if she wouldn't

last long, I've thought that for some time.

LVOV. But —keep your voice down. You can be heard indoors.
[Pause.]

BORKIN [sighing]. Our life — . Man's life is Hke a bright flower bloom-
ing in a meadow. A goat comes along and eats it up. No more flower.
SHABELSKY. Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. [Yaii^/ii.] Stuff" and non-
sense. [Pfl«5e.]

BORKIN. I say, everyone, I've been trying to show Nicholas how to

make money. I gave him a gem of an idea, but the seed fell on stony
ground as usual. You can't make him see sense. Look at the man
all that gloom, bad temper, wretchedness, moodiness, general
misery

SHABELSKY [stands up atid stretches]. You're a great one for ingenious

brain-waves and you're always giving advice. You might spare me
a bit. Give me a lesson, if you're so clever. Show me some way out.
BORKIN [stands up]. I'm going for a swim. Good-bye, all. [To the
COUNT.] There are at least twenty things you could do. If I were
you I'd have twenty thousand in a week. [Moves off.]
SHABELSKY [follows him]. How? Come on, tell me.
BORKIN. There's nothing to tell, it's dead easy. [Comes back.] Lend me
a rouble, Nicholas.

[iVANOV ^iVe5 him the money without speaking.]

BORKIN. Thanks. [To the count.] You've still a lot of cards up your
sleeve.

SHABELSKY [going after him]. But what?

BORKIN. If I were you I'd have thirty thousand in a week. If not more.
[Goes out with the count.]
 I.

8 IVANOV Ad One
IVANOV [after a pause]. Futile people, futile words and silly questions to
answer. Doctor, I'm so fed up with it all. I'm quite ill. I'm irritable,

bad-tempered and rude these days, and so touchy, I hardly know

myself. I have headaches for days on end, I can't sleep, and my ears
buzz. But what can I do ? Not a thing.

LVOV. I've a bone to pick with you, Ivanov.

IVANOV. Then pick it.

LVOV. It's your wife. [Sits down.] She refuses to go to the Crimea, but
she'd go if you went.
IVANOV [after some thought]. The trip would cost quite a bit for two.
Besides, I can't get much time off, I've already had one hoHday
this year.

LVOV. All right, won't argue. Now then, the main cure for tuber-
I

culosis is rest. But your wife never has a moment's peace,

absolute
she's always worried about how you treat her. I'm rather excited,
sorry, but I shan't mince my words. What you're doing is killing her.
[PaM5e.] Let me think better of you, Ivanov.

IVANOV. It's only too true. I suppose I'm very much to blame, but

I'm so mixed up, I feel paralysed, half dead or something. I don't

know what I'm doing. I can't understand others, or myself either.
[Looks up at the window.] We
might be overheard, let's go for a
stroll. [They stand beginning and tell you the
up.] I'd start at the

whole story, my dear fellow, but it's so long and involved, it would
take all night. [ They move off.] Anna's a splendid, wonderful woman.
—
She gave up her reUgion for me ^left her mother, father and wealthy
home. If I'd asked her to give up a hundred more things, she'd have
done it without thinking. Now I'm not in the least wonderful, and
I've given up nothing. Anyway, it's a long story, but what it boils
down to, my dear Doaor [squirms] is that —to put it briefly—
married because was so much in love. I swore to love her for ever,
I

—
but well, that was five years ago, and she still loves me, while I —
[Throws up his hands.] Now you tell me she'll soon die, and I don't
feel love or pity, just a sort of emptiness and exhaustion. I suppose

anyone would think I'm behaving terribly, but I don't know myself
what's going on inside me.

[ They go out down the garden path.]

 IVANOV Act One 9

SCENE IV
[SHABELSKY and, later, anna.]

SHABELSKY [comes in, laughing heartily]. He*s more than a petty crook,
honestly — he*s a virtuoso, a genius. We should put up a statue to him.
He's every kind of modern rottenness mixed up together —lawyer,
doctor, banker, gangster. [Sits down on the bottom step of the terrace.]
And, you know, I don't think he's ever studied anywhere, that's
what's so fantastic. What
a master criminal he'd have made if he'd
gone and culture. 'You can have twenty thousand in
in for education
a week,' says he. 'And you also hold the ace of trumps being a —
count.' [Laughs loudly.] 'Any girl with a dowry would marry
you.*

[anna opens the window and looks down.]

SHABELSKY. 'Shall I marry you to Martha?' he asks. 'Who's Martha?'

*Oh, the Balabalkin woman. Martha Balabalkin, the one like a
washerwoman.'
ANNA. That you. Count?
SHABELSKY. What is it?

[anna laughs.]

SHABELSKY [with a Jewish accent]. Vy you are laughing, eh?

ANNA. I thought of something you said. Remember what you said at

dinner? 'Pardon a thief—.' Something about a horse

SHABELSKY. 'Convert a Jew to Christian ways.

Pardon a thief his life of crime,
Or take a lame horse to the vet
— these things are all a waste of time.'

ANNA [/dM^/15]. You can't make an ordinary joke without being nasty.
You're a bad man. Joking apart, Count, you're very
[Seriously.]

spiteful. It's dull and rather unnerving hving in the same house as
you. You're always moaning and groaning, and to listen to you
everyone's a frightful cad. Tell me frankly, have you ever said
something nice about anyone?

SHABELSKY. Why the cross-examination?

ANNA. We've lived under one roof for five years and never once have
I heard you talk about people calmly, without sneering and being
10 IVANOV Act One
spiteful. What harm have they done you ? And do you really think
you're better than everyone else?

SHABELSKY. I don't think so at all. I'm just as much a rotten swine on

two legs as the next man. I'm in rotten bad taste, fit only for the
rubbish dump. I'm always running myself down. Who am I?
What am I? I was rich, fi-ee, quite happy but now I'm a parasite, a —
scrounger, a degraded buffoon. If I express indignation or contempt,
I only get laughed at. And when I laugh they shake their heads
sadly and say the old man's a bit cracked. More often than not they
don't hear or notice me.

ANNA [calmly]. He's hooting again.

SHABELSKY. Who is?

ANNA. The owl. It hoots every evening.

SHABELSKY. Then let it hoot. Things couldn't be worse. [Stretches

himself.] Ah, my dear Sarah, if I won a few hundred thousand
roubles, I'd show you a thing or two. I'd be out of here in no time,
I'd leave this dump and my free meals — wouldn't set foot here again
till the crack of doom.
ANNA. What would you do if you won that money?
SHABELSKY [afier some thought]. First thing, I'd go to Moscow to hear
the g\-psies. And then —then I'd be oflf to Paris. I'd take lodgings there
and go to the Russian church.

ANNA. What else?

SHABELSKY. I'd sit by my wife's grave and think for days on end. I'd
just sit there till I died. She's buried in Paris. [P^wjf.]

ANNA. It's terribly boring. Shall we play another duet?

SHABELSKY. All right, get the music ouL

SCENE V
[sHABELSKY, IVANOV Ottd LVOV.]

IVANOV [appears on a path with Lvov]. You only left college last year,
my dear Lvov, and you're still young and full of life, but I'm thirty-
five, I have the right to advise you. Don't you go marrying Jewesses,
neurotics or blue-stockings, but choose something nice and drab and
ordinary. Don't go in for bright colours or unnecessary fuss and
 IVANOV Act One ii

bother. In fact run your life on conventional lines. The greyer and
more monotonous your background the better. Don't take on
thousands of people single-handed, boy, don't fight windmills or
batter your head against brick walls. And may God save you from
things like scientific farming, cranky schools and wild speeches.
Crawl into your httle shell, get on with what little job God gave you
to do. It's cosier, healthier and more decent that way. But the life
I've hved —
what a trying business, oh, how exhausting. So many
mistakes, so much unfairness and silliness. [Spottiug the count,
irritatedly.] Uncle, you're always popping up, one can never talk in
peace.

SHABELSKY [tearfully]. Damnation, you can't relax anywhere.

[Jumps up and goes indoors.]

IVANOV [shouts after him]. All right, I'm sorry. [To Lvov.] Why
was I rude to him? Oh, I really must be a bit unhinged, I must do
something about myself, I must
LVOV [agitated]. I've heard you out, Ivanov, and —I'm sorry, but I'm
going to be blunt and call a spade a spade. Your voice and tone, let
alone your actual words, are so insensitive, selfish, cold and heart-
less that — . Someone who loves you is dying just because she does
love you. She hasn't long to Uve, while you you can be so callous —
and walk about giving advice and striking attitudes. I can't put it
properly, I'm not much of a speaker, but but I do most thoroughly—
dislike you.
IVANOV. You may well be right, you can judge so much better, not
being involved. Very likely your idea of me is quite right, and I

daresay I'm very very much to blame. [Listens.] I think they've

brought the carriage round, I'll go and change. [Moves towards the
house and stops.] You dislike me, Doctor, and you don't mind saying
so. That does credit to your feelings. [Goes indoors.]

LVOV [a/o«e]. Damn my feebleness! Again I missed a chance to give

him a piece of my mind. I can't speak to him calmly. Hardly have I
opened my mouth and uttered one word when I start choking
[points to his chest] and heaving and I'm tongue-tied. I do most
heartily loathe that hypocrite, that pretentious fraud! Now he's
going out. His wretched wife's only happy when he's around, she
dotes on him, begs him to spend one evening with her, but he he —
can't do it, because home cramps his style, don't you see? If he
spent an evening at home he'd get so bored he'd blow his brains out.
12 IVANOV Act One
Poor man —he needs to branch out in some new line of skulduggery.
Oh, I know why you go to those Lebedevs every evening, Tm under
no illusions.

SCENE VI
[LVOV, IVANOV, wearing hat and overcoat, SHABELSKYam/ANNA.]

SHABELSKY [coming out ofthe house with i v A n o v and anna]. Nicholas,

you are a monster, I must say. Every night you go out and leave us
on our own, and we get so bored we go to bed at eight. You can't
call this Hving, it's monstrous. If you can go, why can't we, eh?

ANNA. Leave him alone. Let him go, let him

IVANOV [to his wife]. But how could you go when you*re not well?
You're and you're not allowed out after dark ask the doaor
ill —
here. You're not a child, Anna, you must be sensible. [To the CO v NT.]
And why do you want to go ?
SHABELSKY. I'd rather fry in hell or be eaten by crocodiles than stay
here. I'm bored, bored stiff. Everyone^s sick of me. You leave me
here to keep her company, but she's sick and tired of me and my
nagging.

ANNA. Leave him alone, Count, let him go if he enjoys it.

IVANOV. Don't be like that about it, You know I'm not going
Anna.
there to enjoy myself, I have to talk about the money I owe them.

ANNA. I can't see why you make excuses. Just go, no one's keeping
you.

IVANOV. Can't we all stop annoying each other? There's surely no

need.

SHABELSKY [tearfully]. Nicholas, my boy —

take me with you. Please.
Itmight be rather amusing just to have a look at that lot of frauds
and nit-wits. I haven't been anywhere since Easter.
IVANOV [irritatedly]. All right, come then. I'm fed up with the lot

of you.
SHABELSKY. Ycs? Oh, many, many thanks. [Grasps him gaily by the
arm and takes him on one side.] Can I wear your straw hat?
IVANOV. Yes, but do hurry.

[The COUNT runs indoors.]

 IVANOV Act One 13

IVANOV. I'm fed up with you all. But God, what am — I saying?
I've no right to talk to you like this, Anna. I never used to be this
way. Ah well, good-bye, I'll be back by one.
ANNA. Nicholas, do stay at home, dear.

IVANOV [agitated]. My poor, precious darling, don't try and stop me

going out at night, please. I'm cruel and unfair, but me be unfair.
let

It's such agony to stay in. At sunset things start to get me down, it's
sheer hell. Don't ask me why,
I don't know myself. I don't know, I

tell you.You get fed up here, then you go on to the Lebedevs' where
it's even worse. You come back, which means getting even more
fed up and it goes on all night. I'm absolutely desperate.

AN?! A. Then why home, dear? We'll talk as we used to.

not stay at

We'll have supper together and read. The old boy and I've learnt a
lot of duets for you. [Puts her arms round him.] Do stay. [PdMse.] I

simply don't understand you, this has been going on a whole year.
Why have you changed?
IVANOV. I don't know, I don't know.
ANNA. Why don't you want me to go out with you at night?

IVANOV. If you must know, I'd better tell you. It's rather a cruel thing
to say, but it's better said. When I'm so depressed, I — I begin not to
love you. I try to get away, even from you, at these times. In fact I
just have to get out of the house.

ANNA. You're depressed, you say. That I understand. Look, Nicholas,

why not try singing, laughing and losing your temper, as in the old
days. You stay in. We'll laugh, drink home-made wine and cheer
you up in no time. Shall I sing ? Or shall we go and sit in your study in
the dark as we used to, and you can tell me all about how depressed
you are. Your eyes are so full of suffering. I'll look into them and

cry, and we'll both feel better. [Laughs and cries.] What is it, Nicholas ?
Flowers come round every spring, but happiness doesn't is that it? —
All right, go then.

IVANOV. Pray for me, Anna. [Moves off, stops and thinks.] No, it's too
much! [Goes out.]
ANNA. Be off with you. [Sits down near the table.]

LVOV [paces up and down the stage]. Mrs. Ivanov, you must always come
indoors on the stroke of six and stay in till morning. These damp
nights are bad for you.
14 IVANOV Act One
ANNA. Yes sir.

LVOV. *Ycs sir'? Tm perfectly serious.

ANNA. But I don't want to be perfectly serious. [Coughs.]

LVOV. There, you see, you're coughing already.

SCENE VII
[LVOV, ANNA W SHABELSKY.]
SHABELSKY [comes out of the house wearing hat and overcoat]. Where's
Nicholas? Is the carriage there? [Quickly comes and kisses anna's
hand.] Good night, precious. [Pulls a funny face.] Vot can I do?
Excuse, pUs. [Goes out quickly.]

LVOV. Very funny.

[Pause. The sound of an accordion far away.]

anna. How boring. The coachmen and cooks are holding a dance and
I —^I feel forsaken. Doctor, why are you striding about there? Come
and sit down here.
LVOV. I can't sit still. [Pause.]

anna. They're playing Greenfinch in the kitchen. [5i>i^s.]

^Greenfinch, greenfinch, where have you been?

Drinking vodka on the green.*
[P<iM5e.] Are your mother and father alive. Doctor?
LVOV. My father's dead, but my mother's still alive.

anna. Do you miss her?

LVOV. I'm too busy to miss anyone.

ANNA [laughs]. Flowers come round every spring, but happiness

doesn't. Who told me that? Now let me see, I think Nicholas him-
self said it. [Pricks up her ears.] The owl's hooting again.

LVOV. Let it.

ANNA. I'm begimiing to think I've been unlucky. Doctor. There are
lots of people, no better than me perhaps, who are happy and whose
happiness costs them nothing. But I've paid for everything, every
single thing. And so dearly. Why charge me such a shocking rate of
interest? My dear, you're all so careful with me, so very tactful,
you're afraid to me the truth, but do you think I
tell don't know
what's the matter with me ? I know all right. Anyway, it's a boring
 IVANOV Act One 15

subject. [With a Jewish accent.] Excuse, plis, can you tell funny
chokes ?

LVOV. No.
ANNA. Nicholas wondering why people are so
can. I've also started
unfair. Why can't they love those love them? Why do they
who
have to lie when they're told the truth? Tell me, when will my
mother and father stop hating me? They Hve nearly forty miles
away, but I feel their hatred all day and night, even in my sleep. And
what am I to make of Nicholas being so depressed? He says it's only
when he's bored stiff in the evenings that he doesn't love me. I
understand that, I can accept it. But what if he stops loving me
altogether? Of course that can't happen, but what if it does? No, I —
mustn't even think of it. [5m^5.] 'Greenfinch, greenfinch, where
have you been?' [Shudders.] What horrible thoughts I have. You're
not married, Doctor, so there's a lot you can't understand.

LVOV. You're surprised — . [Sits by her.] No, it's I —I'm surprised at

you. All right, tell me—make me see how you, a decent, intelligent
woman, with a nature almost angehc, have let yourself be taken in so
blatantly and hauled off to this haunt of owls? Why are you here?
What have you in common with that callous, insensitive but leave —
your husband out of it. Where do you fit into this whole futile,
second-rate set-up? Ye gods! That fossilized maniac count with his
non-stop grousing, and that twister Borkin —that fidghtful crook
with his loathsome snout. Go on, tell me why you're here? How did
you get here?

ANNA [laughs]. That's just how he used to speak, just like that. But
his eyes are bigger and when he got excited about something they
just blazed! Go on talking.

LVOV [stands up and makes a gesture of despair]. What can I say? Please
go indoors.
ANNA. You say Nicholas is this and that and the other. What do you
know about him? Can you get to know someone in six months?
He's a wonderful man. Doctor, and I'm only sorry you didn't know
him a year or two ago. Now he's rather under the weather and
doesn't speak or do anything. But in the old days —oh, he was so
charming, I fell in love at first sight. [Laughs.] I took one look and
snap went the mousetrap! He said we should go away. I cut off
everything, you know, like snipping off dead leaves with some
i6 iVANov Act One

scissors, and followed him. [Pawie.] But now things are different.
He visits the Lebedevs to enjoy other women's company now,
while I —sit in the garden and listen to the owl hooting.

[A watchman is heard tapping.]

ANNA. Have you any brothers, Doctor?

LVOV. No.
[anna sobs,]

LVOV. What now? What*s the matter?

ANNA [stands up]. I can't bear it, Doaor, I'm going over there.

LVOV. Where?
ANNA. Where he is. I'm going, tell them to harness the horses. [Runs
indoors.]

LVOV. I flatly refuse to treat a patient in these conditions. It's bad

enough not paying me, but they play hell with my feelings as well.
Yes, I refuse, I've had enough. [Goes indoors.]

CURTAIN
 ACT TWO
The ballroom in the lebedevs' house. Access to the garden,

centre. Doors, right and left. Expensive antique furniture. A

chandelier, candelahras and pictures, all under dust-covers.

SCENE I

[ZINAIDA, KOSYKH, AVDOTYA, YEGORUSHKA, GABRIEL, a

MAID, elderly women guests, young ladies and mrs. babakin.

ZINAIDA is sitting on the sofa, with old ladies in armchairs on each

side. The young people are sitting on upright chairs. At the hack oj
the stage near the door into the garden a game of cards is in progress,

the players including kosykh, avdotya and yegorushka.

GABRIEL stands by the door, right. The maid is handing round snacks
on a tray. Throughout the act guests circulate from the garden through the
door, right, and back. MRS. babakin comes in through the door, right,
and goes towards zinaida.]

ZINAIDA [gaily]. Martha, darling!

MRS. babakin. Good evening, Zinaida. Best wishes for Sasha's birth-
day. [They kiss.] May God grant

ZINAIDA. Thank you, darling, I'm so glad. Now how are you?
MRS. babakin. Well, thanks. [Sits beside her on the sofa.] Good
evening, young people.

[The guests stand up and bow.]

FIRST GUEST [laughs]. *Young people'! You don't call yourself old,
do you?
MRS. BABAKIN [sighing]. I Can't pretend to be all that young.
FIRST GUEST [laughing respectfully]. Oh, come, come. You don't look
hke a widow —you put all the young girls in the shade.
[GABRIEL brings MRS. BABAKIN tea.]

ZINAIDA [to gabriel]. Hey, don't serve it like that. Get some jam,
gooseberry or something.

MRS. BABAKIN. Don't bother, thanks. [P<jM5e.]

i8 ivANOV Act Two
FIRST GUEST. Did you come through Mushkino, Mrs. Babakin?

MRS. BABAKIN. No, on the Zaymishche road — it*s a better one.

FIRST GUEST. Just SO.

KOSYKH. Two spades.

YEGORUSHKA. PaSS.

AVDOTYA. Pass.

SECOND GUEST. PaSS.

MRS. BABAKIN. Lottery tickets are simply soaring again, darling.

It's fantastic—they're up to two hundred and seventy roubles for the
first draw and they're practically at two-fifty for the second. It's

unheard of.

ZINAIDA [51^/15]. Very nice for those who have lots of them.

MRS. BABAKIN. I'm not suTc, darling. They may be worth a bit, but it

doesn't pay to put money in them. They cost the earth to insure.

ZINAIDA. That's as may be, but one hves in hope, dear. [5i^/w.] God is
merciful.

THIRD GUEST. It's no use having capital these days, ladies, if you ask

me. That's my view. Investments bring such small dividends, and

lending money's a pretty risky business. The way I see it, ladies, a
man with capital is in a worse fix these days than one who
MRS. BABAKIN [ii^As]. That's true.

[first guest y(ju;«5.]

MRS. BABAKIN. One doesn't yawn in front of ladies, surely.

FIRST GUEST. Sorry, ladies, I didn't mean to.

[ziNAiDA ^e/5 up and goes out of the door^ right. A long silence.]

YEGORUSHKA. Two diamonds.

AVDOTYA. Pass.

SECOND GUEST. PaSS.

KOSYKH. Pass.

MRS. BABAKIN [aside]. Lord, I'm bored stiff.

 IVANOV Act Two 19

SCENE II

[The above, zinaida Wlebedev.]

ziNAiDA [coming through door, right, with lebedev, quietly]. Why were
you skulking in there? Who do you think you are? You sit with
your guests. [Sits in her former seat.]

LEBEDEV [yf2tf/«5]. Oh dear. [Seeing MRS. babakin.] Heavens, there's

sugar and spice and all things nice. [Shakes hands.] How are we
feeUng ?

MRS. babakin. Very well, thanks.

LEBEDEV. Thank God for that. [Sits in an armchair.] Ah well. Gabriel!

[GABRIEL brings him a glass of vodka and a tumbler of water. He

drinks the vodka and chases it down tvith water.]

FIRST GUEST. Your health.

LEBEDEV. My health, indeed! I'm only lucky I'm not pushing up the
daisies. [To his wife.] Where's our birthday girl, Zizi?

KOSYKH [tearfully]. Hey, why didn't we win anything? [Jumps up.]

Why did we lose, damn and blast it?

AVDOTYA [jumps up, angrily]. Why? If you don*t know the game,
don't play, man. What do you mean by leading one of their suits ?
Can you wonder you were left with the ace?
[Both run forward from the table.]

KOSYKH [tearfully]. Look here, everyone. I held a run the ace, king, —
queen and seven small diamonds, the ace of spades and one small
heart, see? And she couldn't declare a httle slam, damn it! I bid no
trumps.

AVDOTYA [interrupting]. It was I started bidding no trumps, you went

two no trumps
KOSYKH. This is infuriating. Look here —^you had— .I had
—
you had —
[To LEBEDEV.] Judge for yourself, Lebedev. I had the ace, king,
queen and seven more diamonds
LEBEDEV [plugs his ears]. Leave me alone, can't you?
AVDOTYA [5/20Mf5]. It was I bid no trumps.
KOSYKH [furiously]. Damn and blast me if I ever play cards with that
old trout again!
 —

20 IVANOV Act Two

[Hurries out into the garden. The second guest follows him out,

leaving YEGOtLVSHK A at the table.]

AVDOTYA, Phew, he's made me hot all over. Old trout! Trout
yourself!

MRS. BABAKiN. But you lost your temper too, old thing.

AVDOTYA [seeing mrs. babakin, throws up her hands]. My lovely

darling. She's here and I don't even notice her, I must be half blind.
Darling! [Kisses her shoulder and sits by her.] How delightful. Let me
look at you, you beautiful creature. But I mustn't say too many nice
things or it'll bring bad luck.

LEBEDEV. why all the gush? Better fmd her a husband.

AVDOTYA. I will, I will. I won't lay my sinful old bones to rest before

I'vefound a husband for her and Sasha, that I won't. [5i^/i5.] Only
where do you find husbands these days ? Look at all our young men
—there they sit preening their feathers like a lot of wet hens.

THIRD guest, a most unhappy comparison. What I say, ladies, is

if young men would rather stay single these days, that's society's

fatdt.

LEBEDEV. oh, spare us the generalizations, I don't like them.

SCENE III

[The above and sasha.]

SASHA [comes in and goes to her father]. It's such glorious weather and
you all sit stewing indoors.

ZINAIDA. Sasha, can't you see Mrs. Babakin's here?

sasha. Oh, sorry. [Goes up to mrs. babakin and shakes hands.]

MRS. BABAKIN. You're getting much too high and mighty, Sasha.
You might come and see me once in a while. [They kiss.] Happy
returns, darling.

SASHA. Thank you. [Sits down by her father.]

LEBEDEV. Yes, Avdotya, husbands are hard to find these days. You
can't lay your hands on a decent best man, let alone an eligible
groom. No offence meant, but young men are a pretty spineless,
wishy-washy crew nowadays, God help them. Can't dance, can't
talk, can't drink properly.
 ivANOV Act Two 21

AVDOTYA. Can't drink? Oh yes they can, given the chance

LEBEDEV. Drinking? There's nothing to it, even a horse can drink.

No, the thing is to drink properly. Now, in our time you'd sweat
away at your lectures all day long, then you'd make for the bright
Hghts in the evening and buzz around till crack of dawn. You'd
dance and amuse the girls and there'd be a bit of this business. [Pretends
to drink.] Sometimes you'd jabber away nineteen to the dozen.

But young men these days —

[Makes a gesture of dismissal] I can't
.

make them out, they're no use to man or beast. There's only one
decent young fellow in the whole county, and he's married. [5(^/i5.]
And I think he's going a bit off his head.

MRS. BABAKIN. Who's that?

LEBEDEV. Nicholas Ivanov.
MRS. BABAKIN. Yes, he's a nice man [pulb a face], only he's so un-
happy.
ZINAIDA. Can you wonder, darling? [5i^/j5.] The poor man made a
ghastly mistake —marrying that wretched Jewess and thinking her
parents would cough up a whacking great dowry. It didn't come off.
When she changed her reUgion they cut her off and cursed her, so not
a penny did he get. He's sorry now it's too late.

SASHA. That's not true. Mother.

MRS. BABAKIN [heatedly]. Not true, Sasha? But it's an open secret.
Why marry a Jewess if there wasn't anything in it for him? Aren't
there enough Russian girls to go round? He made a big mistake,
darling. [Eagerly.] And now he gives her a terrible time, God knows
— it's enough to make a cat laugh. The moment he gets home, he's
on at her.'Your father and mother cheated me. Get out of my
house!' But where can she go? Her parents won't take her back.
She might get a job as a maid, but she's not trained. So he keeps on
nagging till the count sticks up for her. If it wasn't for the count, he'd
have been the end of her ages ago.

AVDOTYA. Or he locks her in the cellar. 'Eat garUc,you so-and-so,' he

says. Eat and eat she does, till the stuff starts coming out of her ears.
[Laughter.]

SASHA. That's a lie, Father.

LEBEDEV. Well, what of it? Let them jabber away. [Shouts.] Gabriel!

[gabriel^iVw him vodka and ti'ater.]

22 IVANOV Act Two
ziNAiDA. That's why the poor man's ruined. He's in a bad way,
darling. If Borkin didn't run the farm, he and his Jewess would have
nothing to eat. [5j^/i5.] And what a fearful nuisance he's been,
dear. God alone knows what we've had to put up with. My dear,
do you know, he's owed us nine thousand roubles for the last three
years?

MRS. BABAKIN [horrified]. Nine thousand!

ZINAIDA. Yes, my precious husband arranged to lend it him —he
doesn't know who to lend money to and who not. I'm not talking
about the loan itself—never mind that —but he might at least pay the
interest on time.

SASHA [heatedly]. You've said all this thousands of times. Mother.

ZINAIDA. Why should you care? Why do you take his side?
SASHA [stands up]. How dare you talk like this about someone who

never did you any harm? What harm did he ever do you?

THIRD GUEST. May I say a word, Miss Lebedev? I've a high opinion of
Ivanov and have always been honoured to — . But between you and
me I think the man's a rogue.

SASHA. Then I can only congratulate you on your insight.

THIRD GUEST. May I quote in evidence a communication made to me

by his aide or general guide and philosopher, Borkin? During the
cattle epidemic two years ago he bought a lot of cows, insured
them
ZINAIDA. Yes, yes, yes, I remember that business, I heard about it too.

THIRD GUEST. Insured them, mark my words then infected them —

with cattle-disease and pocketed the insurance.
SASHA. Oh, that's all nonsense. Nonsense! No one bought cows or
infected them, it was all Borkin's idea that he went round boasting
about. When Ivanov heard of it he had Borkin going round for a
couple of weeks apologizing. Ivanov's only fault is being weak and

not having enough go in him to chuck out friend Borkin, and he's
wrong to trust people too much. He's been robbed and fleeced left,
right and centre —anyone who Hked has made a packet out of
Ivanov's idealistic plans.

LEBEDEV. shut Up, you littlc spitfire.

SASHA. why must they talk such nonsense? Oh, how boring, boring,
boring. Ivanov, Ivanov, Ivanov — is there nothing else to talk about?
 IVANOV Act Two 23

[Goes towards the door and returns.] I'm surprised. [To the young men.]
Vm really surprised how long-suffering you Don't you ever
all are.

get tired of sitting round like this? The very air's stiff with boredom.
Can't you say something, amuse the girls or move around a bit? All
right, if you've nothing to talk about but Ivanov, then laugh or sing
or dance or something.

LEBEDEV [laughs]. Yes, you jolly well pitch into them.

SASH A. Would you mind listening for a moment? If you don't want
to dance or laugh or sing, if you're bored with that, then please,
please, just for once in your lives, if only for the novelty or surprise
or fun of the thing—join forces and think up something briUiantly
witty between you. Let it be rude or vulgar if you like, but funny
and original. Or else do some small thing together which may not
add up to all that much, but does at least look vaguely enterprising
and might make the girls sit up and take notice for once in their hves.
Look, you all want to be liked, don't you? Then why not try to be
likeable? There's something wrong with you all, and no mistake.
The sight of you's enough to kill the flies or start the lamps smoking.
—
Yes, there's something wrong I've told you thousands of times and
go on telling you
I'll —something wnrong with you all, wrong, wrong,
wrong!

SCENE IV
[The above, ivanov and shabelsky.]

SHABELSKY [coming in with ivanov through the door, right]. Who's

making the speechesround here? You, Sasha? [Laughs loudly and
shakes hands with her.] Happy returns, dear. May you Hve to a ripe
old age and not be born a second time.

ziNAiDA [^^I'/y]. Mr. Ivanov, Count Shabelsky.

LEBEDEV. Hey, who's this I see? The count. [Goes to meet them.]

SHABELSKY [spotting ZINAIDA and MRS. BABAKiN, stretches out his

arms towards them]. Two money-boxes on one sofa. What a lovely
sight. [Shakes hands. To zinaida.] Hallo there, Zizi. [To MRS.
BABAKIN.] Hallo, my httle bit of fluff.

ZINAIDA. I'm so glad. You're such a rare visitor, Count. [Shouts.]

Tea, Gabriel! Won't you sit down?
 —

24 IVANOV Act Two

[Stands up^ goes out of door, right, and returns immediately, looking
extremely worried, sash a sits in her former seat, ivanov greets
everyone without speaking.]
LEBEDEV [to shabelsky]. Where did you spring from? What
brought you here? This is a surprise. [Kisses him.] What a way to
b^ave, you old pirate. [Leads him by the hand towards the footlights.]
Why do you never come and see us, are you angry or something?
SHABELSKY. How am I to get here? Ride on my walking-stick? I've
—
no horses and Nicholas won't bring me tells me to stay with Sarah
and keep her company. Send me your horses and then I'll come.
LEBEDEV [makes a gesture of resignation]. That's a point —Zizi'd burst
rather than send the horses. Dear old boy, you are my best friend,
you know. You and I are the only two left over from the old days.
*In you I love my former sufferings,
In you I love my wasted youth.'
Joking apart, I'm nearly crying. [Kisses the count.]
SHABELSKY. Let me go, please, you smell like a distillery.

LEBEDEV. My dear man, you can't imagine how I miss my friends

I get bored to death. [Quietly.] Zizi's driven off all the nicer people
by setting up as a moneylender, and as you see there arc only monsters
left —
these Dudkins and Budkins. Anyway, have some tea.

[GABRIEL brings the count tea.]

zinaida[/o GABRIEL, worried]. Hey, what a way to serve! Fetch some

jam, gooseberry or something.
SHABELSKY [laughs loudly, to iVANOv]. There, what did I say?

[To LEBEDEV.] We had a bet on the way over that Zizi would
treat us to gooseberry jam the moment we got here.

ZINAIDA. You still like your Httle joke. [Sits down.]

LEBEDEV. Twenty barrels they've made and she doesn't know what to
do with it.
SHABELSKY [sitting near the table]. Still hoarding money, Zizi? Run
up your first million yet?

ZINAIDA [with a sigh]. Oh, we may look as if we're rolling in money,

but where do you think it comes from? It's nothing but talk.

SHABELSKY. Quite, quite, we know all about that, wc know what a

poor hand you are at that game. [To lebedev.] Tell me honestly,
—
Paul ^have you saved a milHon yet ?
 IVANOV Act Two 25

LEBEDEV. I don't kjiow, better ask Zizi about that.

SHABELSKY [to MRS. babakin]. And our plump little bit of fluff will

soon have her milHon too. She gets prettier and plumper every hour
—
of the day that's what it means to be well-heeled.
MRS. BABAKIN. I'm most grateful, my Lord, but I don't particularly
like being sneered at.

SHABELSKY. Call that sneering, my Httle pot of gold? It's just a cry
—
from the heart the fullness of my heart hath unsealed my Hps. I
just adore you and Zizi. [Gfli/)'.] You're two visions of deUght, I
can't look at you unmoved.

ziNAiDA. You haven't changed a bit. [To yegorushka.] Put out the
candles, Yegorushka. Why waste them if you're not playing?
[yegorushka starts, puts out the candles and sits down. To ivanov.]
How's the wife, Nicholas?

IVANOV. Bad. The doaor told us today quite definitely that it's

tuberculosis.

ZINAIDA. Oh, no! How awful. [5i^/i5.] And we're all so fond of her.

SHABELSKY. Stuff and nonsense. She hasn't got tuberculosis, that's just
so much quackery and hocus-pocus. Our medical genius wants an
excuse to hang about — ^so he makes out it's tuberculosis. It's lucky the
husband's not jealous, [ivanov makes an impatient gesture.] As for
Sarah herself, I don't beUeve a thing she says or does. I've never
trusted doctors, lawyers or women in my life, it's all stuflf and
nonsense, quackery and jiggery-pokery.

LEBEDEV [^0 SHABELSKY]. You're a pretty queer fish, Matthew, with

this misanthropic pose you make such a parade of You're no different
from anyone else, but when you talk, you sound as if you were fed
up to the back teeth.
SHABELSKY. You don't expect me to hobnob with all these rotten
swine, do you?

LEBEDEV. What rotten swine? Where are they?

SHABELSKY. Not present company of course. But

LEBEDEV. But me no buts, this is just a pose.

SHABELSKY. Oh, is it? It's a good job you've no principles.

LEBEDEV. what principles can I have? I sit here waiting to peg out,
that's my principle. You and I've no time to think about our
principles, old boy. No, indeed. [Shouts.] Gabriel!
26 IVANOV Act Two
SHABELSKY. TlicFc's bccn a sight too much of this 'Gabriel' stuff,

your nose is Uke a ruddy great beetroot.

LEBEDEV [(/rm/w]. Never mind, old boy, it's not my wedding day.
ziNAiDA. It's ages since Dr. Lvov was here, he's quite forsaken us.

SASH A. My pet aversion. Oh, he's virtue incarnate, can't ask for a glass
of water or light a cigarette without displaying his remarkable
integrity. Walking or talking, he has 'Honest Joe' written all over
him. What a bore.

SHABELSKY. That narrow-minded medico. [As if imitating

shallow,
him.] 'Make way hard-working man!' Can't move an
for an honest,
inch without squawking parrot-cries. Puts himself on a high moral
pedestal and abuses everyone who doesn't squawk like him. His
views are remarkably profound. Any peasant who's well-off and
Hves decently must be a scoundrel on the make. I wear a velvet coat
and have a valet, so I'm a scoundrel and slave-driver. Oh, he's very
honest, in fact he's bursting with it. And he can never relax. I'm
actually afraid of him, I really am. You feel he'll punch you on the
jaw any moment or call you a filthy swine all firom a sense of duty. —
IVANOV. I find him terribly trying, but I do quite like him — ^he's so
sincere.

SHABELSKY. A nice kind of sincerity. Last night he comes up to me

completely out of the blue and says: 'I thoroughly dislike you.
Count.' Thank you very much, I must say. And none of this is

straightforward, there's always some twist to it. His voice shakes, his
eyes flash, he's all of a dither. To hell with his phoney sincerity.

Oh, he loathed me, finds me nauseating. It's only natural, I can see
that, but why tell me so to my face ? I may be no good, but my hair
is going white, after all. It's a pretty cheap and uncharitable kind of
honesty, his is.

LEBEDEV. Oh come, you've been young yourself, I imagine, and you

can make allowances.

SHABELSKY. Yes, I've been young and foolish. I've been quite out-
spoken in my day and shown up all sorts of blackguards and bounders.
But never in my hfe have I called anyone a thief to his face, nor have
I ever plumbed the depths of sheer blatant tacdessness. I was properly
brought up. But this dull quack would be tickled pink he'd — feel

he'd attained his life's —

ambition if he got the chance to bash my
 IVANOV Act Two 27

face in in public or hit mc below the belt in the name of principles

and humane ideals.

LEBEDEV. Young men always do have some bee in their bonnet. My

uncle was a follower of Hegel. Used to collect a houseful of guests,
have a drink and stand on a chair like this and start off. *You're
ignorant! You're the forces of darkness! The dawn of a new life!'
Blah blah blah blah. Yes, he let them have it all right.
SASH A. And what about his guests?

LEBEDEV. oh, they didn't mind, they listened and carried on drinking.
Actually, I once challenged him to a duel was —my own uncle. It

about Bacon. Now let me think, I remember

where sitting just

Matthew is now, and Uncle and poor old Gerasim Nilovich were
standing here, about where dear old Nicholas is. Then Gerasim
Nilovich asks a question, old boy

[borkin comes in.]

SCENE V
[The above and borkin who comes in through door, right, in his
best clothes, carrying a parcel, bobbing up and down and humming. A
buzz of approval]

GIRLS. Michael!

LEBEDEV. Dear old Mike! Or do my ears deceive me?

SHABELSKY. The life and soul of the party.
BORKIN. Here I am. [Runs up to s ask A.] Noble signorina, I make bold
to congratulate the universe on the birth of such a wondrous
blossom. As a tribute to my joy, I venture to offer [hands over the
some fireworks and bengal Hghts of my own manufacture.
parcel]

May they hght up the night just as you make bright the shades in our
realm of darkness. [Gives a theatrical bow.]

SASHA. Thank you.

LEBEDEV [laughs loudly, to iVANOv]. why don't you get rid of that
swine?
BORKIN [to LEBEDEv]. My dear Lebedev. [To ivanov.] Respected
patron. [Sings.] Nicholas voila, ho-hi-ho! [Goes round to all of them.]
Most revered Zinaida. Divine Martha. Most venerable Avdotya.
Your Lordship.
28 IVANOV Act Two
SHABELSKY [lauglis loudly]. The life and soul of the party. The moment
he came in the tension hfted, did you notice ?
BORKIN. I say, I am tired. I think I've said hallo to everyone. Well,
what's the news, all of you? Is there some special item to shake us up
a bit? [To ziNAiDA, eagerly.] Listen to this, old thing. On my way
here just now— . [To gabriel.] Tea, please, Gabriel, but no goose-
berry jam. [To ZINAIDA.] On my way here just now I saw some
villagers stripping bark off the willows by your river. Why don't
you let a dealer handle that?

LEBEDEV [to ivANOv]. Why don't you get rid of the swine?
ZINAIDA [terrified]. Do you know, I never even thought of it?
BORKIN [does some arm exercises]. I can't keep still. I say, couldn't we
do something different, old thing? I'm on top of my form, Martha, I
*
feel exalted. [5m^5.] 'Once more before you
ZINAIDA. Yes, do something, because we're all bored.
BORKIN. Really, why so downhearted anyway, all of you, sitting there

Uke a lot of stuffed dummies? Let's play a game or something.

What would you like? Forfeits, skipping, tag, dancing, fireworks?

GIRLS [clapping their hands]. Fireworks, fireworks. [They run into the

garden.]

SASH A [^0 iVANOv]. Why so depressed tonight?

IVANOV. My head aches, Sasha, and I'm bored.
SASH A. Come in the drawing-room. [They go through the door^ right.

Everyone goes into the garden except zinaida and lebedev.]

ZINAIDA. Now, that's a bit more like it, that young fellow —wasn't
in here a minute before he'd cheered us all up. [Turns down the large
lamp.] No point in wasting candles when everyone's in the garden.
[Puts out the candles.]

LEBEDEV [following her]. We ought to give the guests some food,

Zizi.

ZINAIDA. Lord, what a lot of candles —no wonder people think we're
rich. [Puts them out.]

LEBEDEV [following her]. You might give them some food, Zizi.
They're young folk, they must be starved, poor things. Zizi
ZINAIDA. The count hasn't finished his tea. What a waste of sugar.
[Goes through door, left.]

LEBEDEV. Ugh! [Goes into the garden.]

 IVANOV Act Two 29

SCENE VI
[iVANOV and SASHA.]

SASH A [coming in mth ivanov through doofy Tighi\. They've all gone
in the garden.

IVANOV. That's how things are, Sasha. I used to work hard and think
hard, I never got tired. Now I do nothing and think of nothing, but
I'm tired, body and soul. I feel so conscience-stricken all the time. I

feel terribly guilty, but just where I went wrong I can't see. Now
there's niy wife's illness, my money troubles, this non-stop back-
biting, gossip —
and idle chit-chat and that ass Borkin. I'm sick and
tired of my home, and hving there's sheer hell. Frankly, Sasha, I

can't even stand having my loving wife about. You're an old friend
and won't be annoyed I if speak my mind. I came here to enjoy
myself, but I'm bored here too, and feel like going back. Excuse me,
I'll just shp away.

SASHA. I understand you, Nicholas. You're unhappy because you're

lonely. You need someone near you that you love and who'll
appreciate you. Only love can make a new man of you.
IVANOV. Now really, Sasha. For a bedraggled old wreck like me to
start a new love affair, that would be the last straw. God save me
from any such disaster. No, it's not love affairs I need, dear girl.

God knows, I can stand all this —depression, neurosis, ruin, the loss
of my wife, premature old age, being lonely. But despising myself—
that's what I can't put up with. That a strong, healthy man like me

should have turned into a sort of Hamlet, Manfred, odd-man-out or

hell knows what — I could die of shame. Some wretched people are
flattered to be called Hamlets or outsiders, but to me that's con-
temptible, it offends my pride, I'm overwhelmed with shame and I

suffer agonies.

SASHA [joking, through tears]. Let's run away to America, Nicholas.

IVANOV. I'm too lazy to go as far as that door and you want to go to
America. [They go towards the exit to the garden.] It's not much of a life
for you here, Sasha, I must say. When I look at the people round you,
it frightens me. Who can you marry here ? The only hope is, some
young subaltern or student may pass this way and run off with you.
 —

30 IVANOV Act Two

SCENE VII

[ziNAiDA comes through door, left, with ajar ofjam.]

IVANOV. Excuse me, Sasha, I'll catch you up.

[sASHA^oei into the garden.]

IVANOV. Mrs. Lebedev, may I ask you a favour?

ZINAIDA. What is it, Mr. Ivanov?

IVANOV [hesitates]. Well, the thing is, you see, the interest on your
loan falls due in two days' time. I'd be most obhgcd if you'd give me
a bit longer or let me add the interest to the loan. At the moment
I'm out of money.
ZINAIDA Mr. Ivanov, what a shocking suggestion! Put
[horrorstruck].
it of your mind. And for God's sake don't bother me, I've
right out
troubles enough.

IVANOV. Sorry, sorry. [Goes into the garden.]

ZINAIDA. Heavens, how he upset me, I'm all of a tremble. [Goes out of
the door, right.]

SCENE VIII

KOSYKH [comes through door, left, and crosses the stage]. I had the ace,
king, queen and seven small diamonds, the ace of spades and one
one tiny heart, but she couldn't declare a httle slam, damn her!
[Goes out of door, right.]

SCENE IX
[aVDOTYA fl«J FIRST GUEST.]

AVDOTYA [coming out of the garden with the first guest]. Oh, I
could tear her in pieces, the old skinflint —that
no joke. I could. It's

I've been here since five, and not one stale herring have we had to eat.
What a house, and what a way to run it.
FIRST GUEST. This is all such a crashing bore, I feel like taking a run-
ning dive into a brick wall. God, what people! You get so bored and
ravenous, like a howling, man-eating tiger.

AVDOTYA. I could tear her in pieces, God help me.

 IVANOV Act Two 31

FIRST GUEST. I'll have a drink, old girl, and be off home. And I'm
not interested in any of your marriageable young women. How the
hell can a man think of love when he doesn't get a drink after
dinner?

AVDOTYA. Let's go and fmd some, eh?

FIRST GUEST. Shush! There's some schnapps in the dining-room, I

think, in the sideboard. We'll get hold of Yegorushka. Shush!

[They go out by door, left.]

SCENE X
[anna and Lvov come through the door, right.]

ANNA. It's all right, they'll be pleased to see us. There's no one here,
they must be in the garden.

LVOV. Why bring me to this vampires' lair, I wonder. This is no place

for you and me, honest men shouldn't breathe this air.

ANNA. Listen to me, my honest friend. When you take a lady out, it's
not very nice to keep on and on about how honest you are. Honest
you may be, but you're also, to put it mildly, a bore. Never talk to a
woman about your good points, let her see those for herself. At your
age Nicholas only sang and told stories in ladies' company, but
everyone could see what he was really like.

LVOV. Don't talk about friend Nicholas, I know his sort!

ANNA. You're a good man, but you don't understand anything. Let's
go in the garden. He never said things like: 'I'm honest, this air

chokes me, vampires, owl's nest, crocodiles.' He left out the zoology,
and all I heard from him when he got annoyed was : *I was so unfair
today,' or 'I'm sorry for that man, Anna'. That's how he was, but
you — . [They go out.]

SCENE XI
[avdotya atid first guest.]

FIRST GUEST [cottting through door, left]. It's not in the dining-room, so
itmust be in the larder somewhere. We must try Yegorushka. Let's
go through the drawing-room.
avdotya. I could tear her in pieces. [They go out through door, right.]
32 IVANOV Act Two

SCENE XII

[mrs. babakin, borkin and shabelsky. mrs. babakin and

BORKIN shabelsky comes tripping
run in from the garden, laughing,
after them^ laughing and rubbing his hands.]

MRS. BABAKIN. What a bore. [Laughs loudly.] Oh, what a bore, every-
one walking about or sitting around Uke a lot of stuffed dummies.
I'm so bored, I feel quite ossified. [Jumps about.] Must stretch my legs.
[borkin puts his arm round her waist and kisses her cheek.]

SHABELSKY [laughs loudly and snaps his fingers]. Dash it all! [Clears his
throat.] To some extent

MRS. BABAKIN. Let me go, let go of my arms, you naughty man —or
goodness knows what the count will think. Let me alone.
BORKIN. My angel, my heart's own little carbuncle. [Kisses her.] Lend
me twenty-three hundred roubles.

MRS. BABAKIN. No, no. I'm sorry, but where money's concerned,
the answer's no thank you — . No, no, no. Do let go of my arms.
SHABELSKY [prances around]. My little bit of fluff, delightful
creature

BORKIN [seriously]. Stop it. Let's come to the point, get down to brass
tacks like businessmen. Tell me straight without beating about the
bush —yes or no? Listen. [Points to the count.] He needs money,
three thousand a year at least. You need a husband. Want to be a
countess?

SHABELSKY [laughs loudly]. How remarkably cynical.

BORKIN. Want to be a countess? Yes or no?
MRS. BABAKIN [«;?5e^]. Do think what you're saying, Michael. These
things aren't managed in that slapdash way. The count can speak for
himself if he wants, and — this is all so sudden, I don't know
BORKIN. Cut out the funny stuff, it's a business deal. Yes or no?
SHABELSKY [laughing and rubbing his hands]. Well, I don't know. How
about it? A damn shabby trick—but why not play it? My little bit
of fluff. [Kisses mrs. babakin on the cheek.] Tasty morsel!

MRS. BABAKIN. One moment, you've quite upset me. Go away,

please. No, come back.

BORKIN. Hurry up. Yes or no? There's no time to waste.

 IVANOV Act Two 33

MRS. BABAKIN. Itell you what, Count. Come and stay with me for a

—
few days you'll find it rather fun, not like this place. Come to-
morrow. [To BORKIN.] You're joking, aren't you?
BORKIN [angrily]. What—joke about something so serious?
MRS. BABAKIN. One moment, please. I do feel awful, I feel faint.

—
A countess I'm fainting, I shall fall.
[borkin and the count laughingly take her by the arms and, kissing
her cheeks, lead her off through the door, right.]

SCENE XIII

[ivANOV and SKSuh, followed by anna, ivanov and sasha run

in from the garden.]

IVANOV [clutching his head, in despair]. That's impossible. Stop it,

Sasha, you must stop.

SASHA [carried —
away]. I'm crazy about you ^life has no meaning, no
happiness, no joy without you. You're everything to me.
IVANOV. Oh, what's the use? God, nothing makes sense. Stop it,

Sasha.

SASHA. When I was a Httle girl you were my only joy. I loved you
and everything about you as I love myself, and now I love you, —
Nicholas. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, I'll go wherever
you like, I'll die if need be, only for God's sake let it be soon, or I
shall choke.

IVANOV [with a peal of happy laughter]. What does this all mean? Can
I start a new life then, Sasha? My happiness! [Draws her to him.] My
youth, my innocence!
[anna comes in from the garden, sees her husband and sasha, and
stands rooted to the spot.]

IVANOV. So I'm to Uve, then, am I? And start work again?

[They kiss. After the kiss ivanov and sasha look round and see
ANNA.]
IVANOV [in horror]. Sarah!

CURTAIN
 ACT THREE
iVANOV*5 Study. A desk on which papers, hooks, official packages,

knick-knacks and revolvers are strewn around untidily. By the

papers are a lamp, a decanter of vodka, a plate of herring, hunks of
bread and cucumbers. On the walls hang maps, pictures, guns, pistols,
sickles, whips and so on.
Noon.

SCENE I

[SHABELSKY, LEBEDEV, BORKIN and PETER. SHABELSKY and

LEBEDEV sit, one on each side of the desk, borkin 15 astride a chair in

the centre of the stage, peter stands by the door.]

LEBEDEV. France has a clear-cut, definite policy the French know —

what they want. They only want to make mincemeat of Brother
Fritz, but Germany's another cup of tea, old boy. Germany has other
fish to fry besides France.

SHABELSKY. Nonsense. The Germans are cowards, if you ask me, and
the French are no better. They're only bluffing each other, and that's
as far as it'll go, beUeve you me. They won't fight.

BORKIN. Why should they, say I? Why all the armaments, congresses
and expenses? Know what I'd do? I'd collect dogs
from all over the
country, give them a good dose of rabies and let them loose on
enemy territory. I'd have the enemy all foaming at the mouth within
a month.

LEBEDEV [laughs]. His head's quite small, isn't it, but it's fairly swarm-
ing with brain-waves, shoals of them.

SHABELSKY. The man's a genius.

LEBEDEV. God knows, you do entertain us, old man. [Stops laughing.]
I we've fought quite a few armchair battles, but no one's
say,
mentioned vodka. Another dose. [Pours out three glasses.] Our very
good health! [They drink and eat.] There's nothing to touch a spot of
herring, old boy.

SHABELSKY.I don't kno w, cucumber's better. Wise men have cogitated

since the dawn of history without hitting on anything smarter than
salted cucumber. [To peter.] Peter, go and get more cucumber.
 iVANOV Act Three 35

and tell them to cook four onion pasties in the kitchen. Make sure
they're hot.
[PBTEB. goes out.]

LBBEDEV. Caviare isn't bad with vodka, but the thing is to serve it

properly. You
need a quarter of a pound of pressed caviare, two
spring onions and some olive oil. Mix the lot together, and then, you
—
know add the odd drop of lemon. Hell's bells, the mere smell will
make you swoon!
B ORKIN. Fried gudgeon also helps the vodka down —but fried properly.
First clean. Then dip in toasted bread-crumbs and fry them so
crisp, they crunch in your teeth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
SHABELSKY. There was something good at Martha Babakin's yester-
day —mushrooms.
LEBEDEV. Not half they were.
SHABELSKY. Cooked in some special way —with onion, you know,
bay-leaves and spices. When they took the saucepan Hd off and that
steamy whiff came out —sheer ecstasy, it was.
LEBEDEV. what do you say? Another dose, everyone. [They drink.]
Our good health! [Looks at his watch.] It looks as if I'll be gone
before Nicholas gets back. Time I was off. You had mushrooms at
Martha Babakin's, you say, but we haven't so much as smelt a
mushroom round here yet. Will you please tell me why the
blazes you're always popping over to Martha's place?

SHABELSKY [nods rt/ borkin]. It's him—he wants to get me married.

LEBEDEV. Married? How old are you?
SHABELSKY. Sixty-tWO.
LEBEDEV. Just the age to marry. And Martha's just the wife for you.
B ORKIN. Not Martha, Martha's money.
LEBEDEV. Martha's money — ^you're not asking for much! How about
crying for the moon?
B ORKIN. You wait till he's married and has his pockets nicely lined.
You'll be all over him.
SHABELSKY. He's in earnest, you know. Our brainy friend's sure I'll

do what he says and marry her.

BORKiN. Of course! Aren't you sure yourself?

SHABELSKY. What do you mean ? When have I been sure of any thing ?
Really!
36 IVANOV Act Three

BORKIN. Thank you, thank you very much. Let me down, would you?
—
Now ril marry, now I won't what the hell does that mean? And
after I gave my word of honour. You won't marry then?

SHABELSKY [shrugs his shoulders]. He*s in real earnest. Extraordinary

man.
BORKIN [injiiriated]. In that case why upset a respectable woman?
She's crazy to be a countess, can't sleep or eat — it's beyond a joke!
Is this what you call honourable?
SHABELSKY [snaps his fingers]. It is a pretty foul trick, but how about it,
eh? Just for the hell of it. I'll go ahead, honestly I will. What a lark.
[LVOV comes in.]

SCENE II

LEBEDEV. Our respects to the medical genius. [Shakes hands with Lvov
and sings.]

'Doctor, save me, save me, save me,

'
I'm scared to death of being dead
LVOV. Ivanov not here yet?
LEBEDEV. No, he isn't, I've been waiting for over an hour.
[lvov paces impatiently up and doum the stage.]

LEBEDEV. How is Anna, old man?

LVOV. In a bad way.
LEBEDEV [5(^/15]. May one pay one's respects?
LVOV. Please don't, I think she's asleep. [P<j«5e.]

LEBEDEV. Such a nice, charming woman. [5i]^/i5.] When she fainted in

our house on Sasha's birthday, I saw from her face that she hadn't
long to Hve, poor thing. I don't know what gave her that turn. When
I ran in and looked at her she was lying on the floor as white as a

sheet with Nicholas kneeling by her, as white as she was, and Sasha
in tears. Sasha and I felt quite shaken for a week after.

SHABELSKY [^oLVOv]. Tell me, reverend high priest of science, what

sage first discovered that ladies' chest complaints yield to frequent
visits from a young doaor? A great discovery, great! Would you
put it under the heading of homoeopathy or allopathy ?
[lvov makes to answer, hut gives a contemptuous gesture and goes
out.]
 IVANOV Act Three 37

SHABELSKY. If looks could kill!

LEBEDEV. Why the blazes did you say that? Why insult him?
SHABELSKY [irritably] . Why must he talk such nonsense ? 'Tuberculosis,
no hope, going to die.' That's a lot of hot air, I hate that stuff.

LEBEDEV. what makes you think he doesn't mean it?

SHABELSKY [statids up and walks about]. I can't concede that a Hving

person may suddenly drop dead for no reason. Let's change the
subjea.

SCENE III

KOSYKH [nms in out of breath]. Ivanov in? Good morning. [Quickly

shakes hands with everybody.] Is he in?
BORKIN. No.
KOSYKH [sits down and jumps up again]. In that case good-bye. [Drinks
a glass of vodka and takes a quick bite offood.] I must go on. So much to
do. Worn out. Can hardly stand.

LEBEDEV. Where did you blow in from?

KOSYKH. From Barabanov's. We played bridge all night and we've
only just finished. I've been cleaned out. That Barabanov's no good
at cards. [Tearfully.] Listen, I was playing hearts all the time. [Turns
to BORKIN, who jumps away from him.] He leads a diamond, I play
another heart, he plays a diamond. I didn't make a trick. [To
LEBEDEV.] We were trying to make four clubs. I held the ace,
queen and five more clubs and the ace, ten and two more spades
LEBEDEV [shuts his eoTs]. Spare us, for Christ's sake.

KOSYKH [to the covnt]. See? The ace, queen and five more clubs and
the ace, ten and two more spades.
SHABELSKY [pushes him off]. Go away, I won't listen.

KOSYKH. Then disaster struck. The ace of spades was the first to get it

in the neck

SHABELSKY [picks up a revolver from the table]. Go away or I shoot.

KOSYKH [with a sweep of the arm]. Can't one talk to anyone, dash it all?
It's like Australia —no common interests or soUdarity, each going his
own way. Time I was off, though —high time. [Picks up his peaked
cap.] Time's money. [Shakes hand with lebedev.] I pass.

[Laughter, kosykh goes out and bumps into avdotya in the door-
way.]
38 IVANOV Act Three

SCENE IV
AVDOTYA [shrieks]. You nearly knocked me over, damn you.

ALL. Aha! She's everywhere at once.

AVDOTYA. So this is where they are, and me searching all over the
house. Good morning, boys, and the best of jolly good appetites.
[Shakes hands.]

LEBEDEV. what arc you doing here?

AVDOTYA. Business, sir. [To the count.] It concerns your Lordship.
[Bou^5.] I was told you warmest regards and ask how you
to give
were. And the little darling says, if you don't come and see her this
afternoon she'll cry her eyes out. 'Take him aside, dear,* says she,
'and whisper it in his ear secretly.* But why the mystery? We*re all
friends here, we're not planning to rob the hen-roost, it's all above
board, a matter of love and mutual consent. I never touch a drop,
God knows, but I'll have a glass to celebrate this.

LEBEDEV. So will I. [Pours out.] You look none the worse for wear,
you old windbag. I remember you as an old woman thirty years ago.
AVDOTYA. I've lost count of the years. I've buried two husbands and
I'd marry a third, but no one'll take me without a dowry. Eight
children I've had. [Takes a glass.] Now we've made a good start,

please God, and God grant we finish the job. They'll have their bit
of fun and we'll enjoy watching them. May they live happily ever
after. [Drmfes.] A vodka to be reckoned with!

SHABELSKY [laughing loudly, to lebedev]. The funny thing is, they

seriously think I — . Fantastic! [Stands up.] It's a pretty shabby thing
to do, but how about it, Paul? Just for the hell of it —the old dog up
to his tricks again, eh?

LEBEDEV. You're raving, Count. Wc should both think of pushing up

the daisies, old boy. Martha and her money aren't for us, our day's
over.

SHABELSKY. Ycs, I'll do it, honestly I will.

[ivANOV and Lvov come in.]

 IVANOV Act Three 39

SCENE V
LVOV. Can you spare me just five minutes?

LEBEDEV. Nicholas! [Goes up to ivanov and kisses him.] Good

morning, old boy, I've been waiting a whole hour for you.
AVDOTYA [tou/5]. Good moming, sir.

IVANOV [saJ/y]. Oh, you've made a complete mess of my study again.

I've asked you all not to thousands of times. [Goes up to the desk.]

Look, you've spilt vodka on my papers, there are crumbs and cucum-
bers. It's disgusting.

LEBEDEV. I'm sorry, Nicholas, do forgive us. I've something important

to discuss with you, old boy.

BORKIN. And so have I.

LVOV. I want a word with you, Ivanov.

IVANOV [points to LEBEDEv]. He wants a word as well. Please wait,

I'll speak to you later. [To lebedev.] What is it?
LEBEDEV. Gentlemen, I want this to be private. Please
[The COUNT goes out tvith aydoty a, followed by borkin and
then by Lvov.]
IVANOV. You drink as much as you like since you're that way

afflicted, Paul, but please don't make my uncle drink. He never used
to, and it's bad for him.
LEBEDEV [alarmed]. I didn't know, my dear chap, never even noticed.

IVANOV. If the old boy dies, which God forbid, it'll be me that suffers,
not you. What do you want? [Pa«5e.]

LEBEDEV. Look, old man, I don't know how to start I don't want it —
to sound too outrageous. I'm so ashamed, Nicholas, I'm tongue-
tied, I blush to speak, but put yourself in my shoes, old boy. I'm
not firee, you must see that, I'm more like a slave or something the
cat brought in. I'm sorry
IVANOV. What is this?

LEBEDEV. My wife sent me. Be a good chap and pay her that interest,
please. She's nagged and pestered the life out of me, so for God's
sake get out of her clutches.

IVANOV. You know I've no money just now, Paul.

40 ivANOV Act Three

LEBEDEV. I know, I know, but what can I do? She won't wait. If she
takes you to court, how can Sasha and I ever face you again?

IVANOV. I'm sorry too, I could kick myself—but where am I to get it?
Tell me, where? I can only wait till I sell the crops this autumn.

LEBEDEV [5^0M^5]. She won*t wait. [PdM5e.]

IVANOV. You're in a nasty, awkward spot — ^but I'm even worse off.

[ Walks up and down, thinking.] I'm clean out of ideas. There's nothing
to sell

LEBEDEV. Go and ask Milbakh — ^he does owe you sixteen thousand,
you know.
[ivANOV makes a hopeless gesture of despair.]

LEBEDEV. I tell you what, Nicholas. I know you'll object, but —

do
the old soak a favour, between friends. Look on me as your friend.
We've both been students, hberals — ^had the same ideals and interests,
both went to Moscow University, the dear old alma mater. [ Takes out
his pocket-book.] This is my secret hoard, no one knows anything about
it home. Let me lend you it. [ Takes out money and puts it on the
at

desk.]Forget your pride, look on this as between friends. I'd take it

from you, on my honour. [PaM5e.] Here it is on the table, eleven
hundred roubles. Drive over today and hand it to her yourself.
'There you are, Zinaida', say 'and I hope it chokes you.' But for
God's sake don't let on you got it from me, or I'll be in hot water
with old Gooseberry Jam. [Stares at iWANOw'sface.] All right, never
mind. [Quickly takes the money from the desk and puts it in his pocket.]

Never mind, I was joking. Forgive me, for God's sake. [PflM5e.] Are
you awfully fed up ?
[ivANOV makes a gesture of despair.]

LEBEDEV. what a business. [5i]^/i5.] Your trials and tribulations are

just beginning. A man's like a samovar, old boy. He doesn't always
stand on a cold shelf, there are when he gets stoked up and
times
starts fairly seething. The comparison's no damn good, but I can't
think of anything better. [5(^A5.] Troubles fortify the spirit. I'm not
sorry for you, Nicholas, you'll get out of this mess, it'll come
all But I'm fed up, old man irritated with people. I'd
right. —
Hke to know what started all the gossip. So many rumours are
—
going round the county about you you'll have the police in any
moment. They call you murderer, vampire, robber.
 IVANOV Act Three 41

IVANOV. That doesn't matter. I've a headache.

LEBEDEV. It comes from thinking too much.

IVANOV. I don't think at all.

LEBEDEV. Let it all go to hell, Nicholas, and move over to our place.
Sasha likes you —she appreciates and values you. She's an honest,
decent girl, I can't think who she takes —not her father or after

mother. Sometimes I look at her, and I can't beHeve a bulbous-nosed

old soak like me has such a treasure. Go and have some inteUigent
conversation with her, it'll make a change for you. She's a devoted,
sincere girl. [PdM5e.]

IVANOV. Leave me alone, Paul, please.

LEBEDEV. All right, I understand. [Quickly looks at his watch.] I under-

stand. [Kisses IVANOV.] Good-bye. I have to attend the opening of a
new school. [Moves towards the door and stops.] Sasha's a bright girl.
We were talking about gossip yesterday. [Laughs.] She came out wdth
quite a saying. 'Father,' she says, 'glow-worms shine at night to make
it easier for night birds to see them and eat them. And good people
are here to give slander and gossip something to bite on.' What
price that? A genius, eh? Regular George Sand.
IVANOV. Paul. [Stops him.] What's the matter with me?
LEBEDEV. I wanted to ask that myself, but I frankly didn't like to.

I don'tknow, old man. It did look to me as though your various

troubles had got you down, but then I know you're not one to
it's not like you to knuckle under. It's something else, but just what

I've no idea.

IVANOV. I don't know either. I think, or rather —never mind. [PdM5e.]

Look, this is what I meant. I had a man working here called Simon,
remember? When we
were threshing once, he wanted to show the
girls how two sacks of rye on his back
strong he was, so he heaved
—
and broke under the strain he died soon after. I feel as if I'd broken
my spine too. There was school and university, and then farming,
village education, other plans —
I beUeved in different things from
.

other people, married a different sort of wife, got excited, took risks,

squandered money and centre, as you know, and was

left right
happier and unhappier than anyone else in the county. Those things
were my sacks, I heaved a load on my back and it cracked. At
twenty we're all heroes, tackle anything, nothing's too much for us,
but by thirty we're tired and useless. How, how can you explain this
42 IVANOV Ad Three

fatigue? Anyway, that's probably not the point, not at all the point.
Now off you go, Paul, and good luck to you. Tm boring you.
LEBEDEV [eagerly]. You know what? Your environment's got you
down.
IVANOV. That's siUy, and it's been said before. Off with you.
LEBEDEV. Yes, it really was silly, now I see how silly it was. I'm off,

I'm off [Goes.]

SCENE VI
IVANOV [a/one]. I'm just a nasty, miserable nobody. Only another
pathetic, bedraggled wreck like Paul could go on liking and respect-
ing me. God, how I despise myself. How I loathe my own voice,
footsteps, hands — these clothes, my thoughts. Pretty ridiculous, isn't
it? And I was strong and
pretty mortifying. Less than a year ago
well, I was cheerful, tireless worked with my hands.
and dynamic. I

My eloquence moved even ignorant louts to tears, I could weep when

I saw unhappiness and protest when I met evil. I knew what inspira-
tion meant, I knew the charm and magic of quiet nights when you
sit at your desk from dusk to dawn or indulge in flights of fancy. I

had faith, I looked at the future as a child looks into its mother's
eyes. But now, oh God! I'm worn no faith, I spend days
out, I've
and nights doing nothing. My brain doesn't obey me, nor do my
arms and legs. The estate's going to rack and ruin, the woods fall
before the axe. [Weeps.] My land seems to look at me like a lost

child. There's nothing I hope or care about, and my spirit quails in

fear of the morrow. Then there's Sarah. I swore to love her for ever,
told her how happy we'd be, offered her a future beyond her
wildest dreams. She beheved me. These five years I've watched her
giving way own sacrifices and wilting in
beneath the weight of her
the struggle with her conscience, butGod knows she's never looked
askance at me or uttered one reproach. What then? I stopped loving
her. How? Why? What for? I can't understand. Now she's un-
happy and her days are numbered. And I'm low and cowardly
enough to run away from her pale face, sunken chest and pleading
eyes. How shameful. [PdM5e.] Litde Sasha's touched by my mis-
fortunes and tells me, at my age, that she loves me. It goes to my
head, so I can't think I'm spellbound, it's music in
of anything else.

my ears. So I start shouting about being bom again and being happy.
But next day I beUeve in this new life and happiness about as much
 IVANOV Act Three 43

as I do in fairies. What's the matter with me? What depths have I

sunk to? Where does my weakness come from? What's happened
to my nerves ? If my sick wife touches me on the raw, or a servant
does something wrong, or my gun misfires —then I'm rude, bad-
tempered and quite beside myself [PtiMse.] I just don't understand.
Imight as well shoot myself and be done with it.
LVOV [comes in]. I want a word with you, Ivanov.
IVANOV. If you and I are to have words every day, Doctor, it'll be
more than flesh and blood can stand.
LVOV. Do you mind if I have my say?

IVANOV. You have your say every day, but I still don't know what
you're driving at.

LVOV. I speak clearly and precisely. Only a very callous person could
miss the point.

IVANOV. That my v^e's dying, I know. That I'm hopelessly to blame

in my deaHngs with her, I also know. And that you're a blunt, honest
man I am also aware. What more do you want ?
LVOV. People are so cruel, that's what maddens me. A woman's
dying. She has a father and mother that she loves and wants to see
before her death. They know full well that she hasn't long to live,
that she still —damn them for being so cruel Are
loves them, but !

they trying show people how

to pious they or what?
frightfully are,

They curse
stillYou, for whom she gave
her. up — home, it all ^her

her peace of mind—you drive off to those Lebedevs every day see
quite blatantly and with your reasons for going there written all over
you.

IVANOV. Look, I haven't been there for two weeks

LVOV [not listening]. With your
sort one has to go straight to the point
and not mess around. you don't choose to Usten, don't. I call a
If
spade a spade. You need her to die so you can move on to new
escapades. All right, but couldn't you wait a bit? If you'd let her die
naturally, and hadn't kept bullying her with such barefaced cynicism,
would you really have lost the Lebedev girl and her dowry ? You'd
have had time to turn the girl's head a year or two later, you

monstrous hypocrite, and pocket the dowry then. Why does it have
to be now ? Where's the great hurry ? Why must your wife die now,
and not in a month or a year ?
 —

44 IVANOV Act Three

IVANOV. This is agony. You're not much of a doctor if you think a

man can hold himself in for ever. It*s quite a strain to me to leave
your insults imanswered.

LVOV. Really, who do you think you're fooling? Come off it.

IVANOV. Think a Httle, my clever friend. You think I'm an open book,
don't you ? I married Anna for her fortune. I didn't get it, and having
sUpped up then, I'm now gttting rid of her so I can marry someone
else and get her money. Right? How simple and straightforward.
Man's such a simple, uncompheated mechanism. No, Doctor,
we all have too many wheels, screws and valves to judge each other
on first impressions or one or two pointers. I don't understand you,
you don't understand me and we don't understand ourselves. A man
can be a very good doctor without having any idea what people are
really like. So don't be too cocksure, but try and see what I mean.

LVOV. You can't really think you're so hard to see through, or that
I'm too feeble-minded to tell good firom evil.

IVANOV. You and I'll never agree, that's very clear. For the last time,
I ask you —
and please answer without a lot of mumbo jumbo
exactly what do you want from me? What are you driving at?
[Irritably.] And to whom am I privileged to speak a pohceman or —
my wife's doctor?

LVOV. I'm a doaor. And as a doctor I insist you mend your ways
you're killing your wife.

IVANOV. But what can I do about it? What? If you know me better
than I do myself, tell me exacdy what to do.
LVOV. You might at least keep up appearances.
IVANOV. God, do you know what you're saying? [Drinks some water.]
Leave me alone. I'm to blame a thousand times over, and I'll answer
to God for it. But no one gave you the right to torment me every
day.

LVOV. And who gave you the right to insult my sense of fair play?
You've tortured me, poisoned me Before I came to this part of the
!

world I knew there were stupid, crazy people about, but I never
beUeved there were people so criminal that they dehberately,
consciously, wilfully chose evil. I respected and loved people, but
when I saw you
IVANOV. I've heard all this before.
 IVANOV Act Three 45

LVOV. Oh, have you? [Sees sash A come She in. wears a riding habit.]
Anyway, I hope we understand each other now. [Shrugs his shoulders

and goes out.]

SCENE VII

IVANOV [frightened]. Is it you, Sasha?

SASH A. Yes. Hallo. Surprised? Why haven't you been to see us for so
long?
IVANOV. For God's sake, Sasha — this is most indiscreet. Your visit

may have a very bad effect on my wife.

SASHA. She won't see me, I came round the back. I'm just going. I'm
worried about how you are. Why haven't you been over for so
long?
IVANOV. My wife's distressed as it is, she's almost dying —and you
come here. It's a stupid, cruel thing to do, Sasha.
SASHA. I couldn't help it. You haven't been over for two wxeks, or
answered any letters. I was worried to death. imagined you might
I

be in a terrible way here — ill or dying. I haven't had one proper

night's sleep. I'm just going. At least tell me if you're well.

IVANOV. Really, I've worn myself out and people never stop bothering
me. I'm at the end of my tether. And now you turn up. What a
morbid, neurotic thing to do I'm so much to blame, Sasha, so very
!

much.
SASHA. How you love these awful, tragic speeches. You're to blame,
you say, very much to blame? Then tell me what you've done.
IVANOV. I don't know, really.

SASHA. That's no answer. If you've done wrong you must know what
you've done. Not forging bank-notes, I suppose?
IVANOV. That's not funny.

SASHA. Is it your fault you fell out of love with your wife? Perhaps,
but one can't help one's feelings, and you didn't want your feelings
to change. Is it your fault she saw me telling you I loved you ? No,
you didn't want her to.

IVANOV [interrupting]. And so on and so forth. In love, out of love,

can't help one's feelings — that talk's so cheap and vulgar, it's no

help.
46 IVANOV Act Three

SASH A. You arc tiring to talk to. [Looks at a picture.] Isn't that dog
drawn well? Was it done from life?
IVANOV. Yes. And this whole love affair of ours is cheap and vulgar.
He loses heart, feels he has nothing to Hve for. Along comes She,
strong and confident, and holds out a helping hand. All very romantic
and convincing in a magazine story, but in real life

SASH A. Life's no different.

IVANOV. You're a fine judge of life, I can see. My whining fills you
with awe and you think you've found a second Hamlet, but to me
my whole neurosis with all its trimmings is just plain farcical, and
that's that. You should laugh yourself silly at my antics, not sound
the alarm-bell! All this rescuing and crusading zeal! Oh, I'm so
angry with myself today, I'm so tense, I feel something's bound to
snap. I'll either smash something or
SASH A. That's right —
what you need. Break something, smash
it's just
things or start shouting. You're angry with me and it was silly of
me to come here. All right, let off steam then, shout at me, stamp
your feet. Come on, work up a rage. [Pawse.] Come on then.
IVANOV. You're fimny.
SASH A. Very well. We appear to be smiling. Kindly condescend to
smile again.

IVANOV [laughs]. I've noticed that when you start rescuing me and
giving me good advice, a look of sheer innocence comes over you,
and your eyes grow huge, as if you were looking at a comet. Just a
moment, there's dust on your shoulder. [Brushes the dust off her
shoulder.] A naive man's a fool, but you women have the art of being
naive and carrying it good sense and warm-
off with such charm,
heartedness — so it isn't But why must you all
as silly as it seems.

ignore a man so long as he's strong and well and happy while the —
moment he starts sUding downhill and being sorry for himself,
you throw yourselves round his neck ? Is it really worse to be wife to a
strong, brave man than nursemaid to a whining failure?

SASHA. Yes.
IVANOV. Why? [Laughs loudly.] It's a good job Darwin doesn't know,
or he'd give you what for. You're ruining the race. All new babies
will be snivelling neurotics, thanks to you.

SASHA. There's a great deal men don't understand. Any girl prefers a
 IVANOV Act Three 47
failure to a success because we're all fascinated by the idea of love in
action. Active love, don't you see ? Men are busy w^ith their work, and
love's very much in the background for them. You talk to your
wife, stroll round the garden with her, pass the time of day nicely
—
and have a little cry on her grave and that's that. But love is our
whole existence! I love you, and that means I long to cure your
unhappiness and go with you to the ends of the earth. If you go up in
the world, I'll be vdth you, and if you fall by the wayside, I'll fall too.
For instance, I'd love to spend all night copying your papers or
watching to see that no one woke you up. Or I'd walk a hundred
miles with you. I remember once about three years ago, at threshing
time. You came to see us covered with dust, sunburnt, tired out
and asked for a drink. By the time I brought you a glass, you were
lyingon the sofa, dead to the world. You slept about twelve hours in
our house and I stood guard at the door all the time to stop anyone
going in. And I felt so marvellous. The more effort you put into
love, the better it is — I mean the more strongly it's felt, do you see?

IVANOV. Active love. I see. Is that a perversion of some kind? Or just

a young girl's idea of things ? Or is it perhaps the way things ought
to be? [Shrugs his shoulders.] Who the hell knows? [G<ii7y.] Honestly,
I'm not such a bad man, Sasha. Judge for yourself^I always liked
generahzing, but I've never gone round saying things about our
women being demoralized or *on the wrong track*. I've just been
grateful, that's all, no more to it. Dear child, how amusing
there's
—
you are. And I what a silly ass I am, spreading general despondency
and feeling sorry for myself for days on end. [LMUghs and quickly
moves off.] But you'd better go, Sasha, we're forgetting ourselves.

SASHA. Yes, it's time I went. Good-bye. I'm afraid our honest doctor
might feel in duty bound to report my presence to Anna. Now hsten.
Go straight to your wife and stay with her, just stay put. If you have
to stay a year, stay a year. Ifit has to be ten years, make it ten.
Do your duty. Grieve for her, beg her forgiveness, weep all — as it
should be. And above all, don't neglect your affairs.

IVANOV. I seem to have that horrible taste in my mouth again. Again!

SASHA. Well, may God preserve you. You can forget me com-
pletely. Just drop me a line every couple of weeks, and I'll think I'm
lucky to get that. And I'll be writing to you.

[b OR KIN looks through the door.]

48 IVANOV Act Three

SCENE VIII

BORKiN. Can I come in, Nicholas? [5eei>i^ sasha.] Sorry, I didn't see.
[Comes in.] Bong jour. [Bows.]
SASH A [embarrassed]. Good morning.
BORKIN. You look plumper and prettier.

SASH A [^0 iVANOv]. Well, I'm leaving, Nicholas. I'm off. [Gow.]
BORKIN. What a vision of delight! I come looking for prose and walk
slap into poetry. [SiVi^j.] *Thou camest like a bird towards the
light;

[ivANOV walks up and down the stage, greatly upset.]

BORKIN [sits down]. There's something about her, Nicholas, she has got
something, eh? Something special, quite out of this world. [5(^/z5.]

She's the richest marriageable girl in the county, actually, but her
mother's such an old cow, no one '11 go near her. It'll all come to
Sasha when the old girl dies, but before that she'll give her a miserable
ten thousand, a flat-iron and some curling-tongs or something, and
expect one to get down on one's knees for that. [Rummages in his
pockets.] Cigars. Like one? [Holds out his cigar-case.] Quite smokable.
IVANOV [goes «p ro BORKIN, choking with rage]. Out of my house this

instant and don't set foot in it again! Do you hear?

[borkin raises himself slightly and drops his cigar.]

IVANOV. Get out this instant.

borkin. What does this mean, Nicholas? Why so angry?

IVANOV. Why? Where did Think I don't know
you get those cigars?
where you take the old man every day, and what you're after ?
BORKIN [shrugs his shoulders]. What has that to do with you?
IVANOV. You low hound! The swindles you plot all over the county,
they've made my name mud. We've nothing in common and I
must ask you to leave my house this instant. [ Walks quickly up and
down.]

BORKIN. You say that because you're annoyed, I know, so I'm not
angry. Insult away. [Picks up his cigar.] But it's time to snap out of
these depressions, you're not a schoolboy.

IVANOV. What did I say? [Trembling.] Trifle with me, would you?
[anna comes in.]
 IVANOV Act Three 49

SCENE IX
BORKIN. Look, Anna's here. I'll go.

[Goes. IVANOV stops near the table attd stands with bowed head.]

ANNA [after a pause]. Why did she come here? [PflMi^.] I ask you
why did she come?
IVANOV. Don't ask me, Anna. [PiJM5e.] I'm very much to blame. I'll
suffer —
any punishment you like, but don't question me, I don't
feel up to speaking.
ANNA [a«^n7y]. What was she doing here? [P^wse.] So this is what
you're hke! Now I understand—at last I see the kind of man you are,
you rotten cad. Remember coming and telling me hes, saying how
you loved me ? I beUeved you, gave up my parents and my religion
and married you. You Hed about truth and goodness and your noble
plans, and I beheved every word.
IVANOV. I've never hed to you, Anna.
ANNA. I've lived with you five years, I've been depressed and ill, but I
loved you and never left your side. I idoHzed you. And then what?

All that time you were blatantly deceiving me.

IVANOV. Anna, don't tell untruths. I've made mistakes, it's true, but I

never told a he in my life. How dare you call me a har ?

ANNA. Now it all makes sense. You married me, thinking my parents
would forgive me and give me money. That's what you thought.
IVANOV. God, to try one's patience like this, Anna — . [Weeps.]

ANNA, shut up! Seeing was no money in the offmg, you started
there
another little game. Now it all comes back, now I see. [ Weeps.] You
never loved me, were never faithful to me. Never

IVANOV. Sarah, that's a He. Say what you like, but don't insult me by
lying.

ANNA. You rotten, contemptible creature. You're in debt to Lebedev,

and now you try to wriggle out of paying by turning his daughter's
head and deceiving her as you did me. Well, aren't you ?

IVANOV [choking]. Hold your tongue, for God's sake, I won't answer

for myself I'm choking with rage and I — I might say something
awful.

ANNA. You've always been a barefaced swindler, I'm not the only
50 ivANOV Act Three

victim. You pretended all these frauds were Borkin's doing, but I

know now who was behind them.

IVANOV. Sarah, stop this and go away or I'll say something I shouldn't.
I feel driven to say something horribly insulting. [5/iom^5.] Shut up,
you Jewish bitch!

ANNA. I will not shut up, you've made a fool of me too long, I won't
be quiet any more.
IVANOV. Oh, won't you? [Struggles with himself.] For God's sake
ANNA. Now go and make a fool of Sasha Lebedev.
IVANOV. Then you may as well know it
—you'll soon be dead. The
doctor told me you can't last long.

ANNA [sits down, in a sinking voice]. When did he say that? [P(ZM5e.]

IVANOV [clutching his head]. What a thing to do! God, I am a brute.

[Sobs.]

CURTAIN

About a year passes between Act Three and Act Four

 ACT FOUR

SCENE I

A drawing-room in lebedev's house. In the foreground an arch

separating the drawing-room from the ballroom. Doors, right and
left. Bronze antiques, family portraits, festive decorations. An
upright piano with a violin on it, and a 'cello standing near by.
Throughout the act guests in evening dress move about the
ballroom.

LVOV [comes in, looks at his watch]. Gone four. They must be going to
bless the bride, and after that they'll take her to church. Thus virtue
and justice triumph! He didn't get Sarah's money, so he worried
her into her grave. Now he has another victim, he'll play the same
httle game for her benefit till he gets his hands on the cash, when
he'll dispatch her as he did poor Sarah. It's an old story —some
people will do anything for money. [PaM5e.] He's in the seventh
heaven now, he'll hve happily to a ripe old age and die with a clear
conscience. No, I'll show you up. I'll tear that damned mask off you
so everyone sees what kind of customer you are, and then I'll pitch
you out of your seventh heaven into a hell so deep, the devil himself
won't get you out of it. As an honest man I'm bound to interfere
and open people's eyes. I'll do my duty and leave this blasted
neighbourhood tomorrow. [Meditates.] But what can I do? It's no
use talking to the Lebedevs. Challenge him to a duel? Make a scene?
God, I'm nervous as a kitten, I can't think any more. What can I do?
A duel?

SCENE II

KOSYKH [comesin, gaily to Lvov]. Yesterday I declared a httle slam

in clubs and got a grand slam. But once again firiend Barabanov
cooked my We sit down to play and I bid one no trump.
goose.
He passes. two clubs. He passes. I go on to two diamonds, three
I bid
—
clubs and it's beyond the bounds of credence I declare a slam and !

he doesn't show his ace. If the swine had shown his ace I'd have
declared a grand slam in no trumps.
52 IVANOV Act Four

LVOV. I'm sorry, I don't play cards and can't share your triumph. Will
they bless the bride soon?^
KOSYKH. I think so. They're trying to get some sense into Zizi. She's
yelling her head off —can't bear to part with the dowry.
LVOV. What about parting with her daughter?
KOSYKH. The dowry, I said. And it is bad luck. Once married, he

won't pay what he owes her, and you can't very well take your
own son-in-law to court.

SCENE III

[mrs. BAB akin, dressed to kill, struts across the stage past Lvov and
KOSYKH. The latter guffaws into his hand. She looks round.]
MRS. BABAKIN. Don't be silly.

[kosykh touches her waist with his finger and gives a loud laugh.]

MRS. BABAKIN. Clumsy lout! [Goes out.]

KOSYKH [laughs loudly]. The woman's off her rocker. Before she set
her sights on a title she wasn't a bad sort of female, but now you
can't get near her. [Imitates her.] 'Clumsy lout!'

LVOV [Mp5e^]. Look here, tell me frankly —what's your view of

Ivanov?
KOSYKH. No good. Plays a rotten game of bridge. Take what hap-
pened just before last Easter. We sit down to play —me, the count,
Borkin and Ivanov. I'm deaUng
LVOV [interrupting]. Is he a good man?
KOSYKH. Ivanov? Quite a snake in the grass, pretty shppery customer.
He's been around a bit! He and the count are a precious pair, they've
a pretty good eye for the main chance. He shpped up over his
Jewess and found himself in queer street, so now he's after Zizi's
moneybags. I bet you anything —and I'm damn sure I'm right— ^he'll

turn Zizi out of house and home within the year. He'll handle
and the count will deal with Martha Babakin. They'll pocket the
Zizi
Why so pale today. Doctor?
takings and live off the fat of the land.
You look ghastly.
LVOV. It's all right, I drank a bit too much yesterday.
 IVANOV Act Four 53

SCENE IV

LEBEDEV [coming in with sash a]. We can talk in here. [To Lvov
^«</kosykh.] Clear out, monsters, and join the girls in the ballroom.
We want a private talk.
KOSYKH [passing sash A, snaps his fingers triumphantly]. Pretty as a
picture, the queen of trumps.

LEBEDEV. Move along, caveman, move along.

[LVOV and YiOSYYilL go out.\

LEBEDEV. Sit down, Sasha, that's right. [Sits down and looks round.]
Listen carefully and with due reverence. The fact is, your mother told

me to give you a message. Do you see? It's not my idea, it's what
your mother told me to say.

sasha. Do cut it short. Father.

LEBEDEV. Your dowTy's to be fifteen thousand roubles. Now look,

we don't want arguments afterwards. No, don't speak, this is only
the half of it, there are more treats in store. Your dowry's to be
fifteen thousand, but as Nicholas owes your mother nine thousand,
that's being deducted from the dowry. Now besides that

SASHA. Why tell me this?

LEBEDEV. Your mother told me to.

SASHA. Can't you leave me alone? If you had any respect for either of
us, you wouldn't let yourself talk like this. I don't want your dowry,
I never asked for one and I'm not asking now.

LEBEDEV. why pitch into me? Gogol's two rats had a sniff at each
other and then left each other alone, but you're so much the eman-
cipated woman, you lash out without even a sniff.

SASHA. Leave me alone, and don't insult my ears with your cheap
calculations.

LEBEDEV [flaring up]. Really, you'll all have me stabbing myself or

cutting someone's throat. One of you's for ever yelling blue
murder, nagging, fussing and counting pennies, while this one's so
inteUigent, humane and goddam emancipated, she can't understand
her own father. I insult her ears. Why—before coming here and
insulting your ears I was being torn hmb from limb out there. [Points
to the door.] She can't understand! Oh, I don't know whether I'm
 —

54 IVANOV Act Four

on my head or my heels. Confound you all. [Moves towards the door

and stops.] I don't like you, I don't like anything about any of you.

SASH A. What is it you dishke?

LEBEDEV. Everything, everything.
SASH A. Meaning what?
LEBEDEV. Well, I'm not going to sit back and spout about it. I hate
the whole thing, I can't stand the idea of your wedding. [Goes up
to SASHA and speaks kindly.] I'm sorry, Sasha, your marriage may be
all very clever, noble, starry-eyed and high-principled, but there's
something wrong with it, there reaUy is. It's not like other marriages.
You're young, pure, fresh as a spring morning, you're beautiful
and he's a shabby, frowsty widower. And I can't make sense of him,
confound him. [Kisses her.] Sasha, I'm sorry, there's something not
quite nice about it. There's a lot of talk about the way Sarah died
and the way he was suddenly all set on marrying you because of this
that and the other. [Briskly.] I'm an old woman, anyway, I really am,
a regular old grandmother. Don't listen to me, don't listen to any-
—
one ^Usten only to yourself
SASHA. I don't feel it's right myself, Father. It's wrong, all wrong. If
you only knew how depressed I feel. I can't stand it. I feel awkward
and admit it. Do cheer me up
afraid to for God's sake. Father dear,
and me what to do.
tell

LEBEDEV. What do you mean, *what'?

SASHA. I was never so scared in my hfe. [Looks round.] I feel I don't
understand him and never will. Not once has he smiled or looked me
in the eye since we got engaged. What with his never-ending
complaints, vague remorse, hints at some wrong he's done, his
shudderings —I'm worn out. Sometimes I even fancy I, er, don't
love him as I should. And when he comes here or talks to me it gets
so boring. What does it all mean, Father? I'm scared.

LEBEDEV. My darling, my only child, be guided by your old father

and call the thing off.
SASHA [frightened]. No, no, don't say that.

LEBEDEV. Yes, There will be an awful scene and it'll

really, Sasha.

be the talk of the county, but better face a scandal than ruin your
Hfe.

SASHA. Don't say that. Father, I won't listen to you. I mustn't give
 IVANOV Act Four 55

way to such gloomy thoughts. He's a good, unhappy, misunder-

stood man. I shall love and appreciate him and put him on his feet.

I'll do my job. That's settled.

LEBEDEV. It's no job, it's just plain hysteria.

SASH A. That'll do. I've told you things I wouldn't even admit to
myself. Don't tell anyone. Let's forget it.

LEBEDEV. I make sense of it. Either I'm old and dotty, or else
can't
you've all grown far too clever. Anyway, I'm hanged if I can make
it out.

SCENE V
SHABELSKY [comiiig ill]. To hell with everyone, myself included. It's

infuriating.

LEBEDEV. what's Up?

SHABELSKY. No, serlously, whatever happens, I must do something
rotten and foul enough to make everyone else feel as sick as I do. And
I will too, honestly. I've told Borkin to announce my engagement

today. [Laughs.] They're all swine, so let me be one too.

LEBEDEV. I'm fed Up with you. Look here, Matthew, if you go on
hke this you'll be carted off to the madhouse, if you don't mind my
saying so.

SHABELSKY. madhouse worse than any other house? Carry on,

Is the
take me there now
if you want, I don't care. Rotten, trivial, worth-

less second-rate people! I'm disgusted with myself too, and I don't
beheve one word I say.

LEBEDEV. I tell you what, old man you put some old rags in your —
mouth, light them and blow fire on people. Or better still, get your
hat and go home. This is a wedding, everyone's enjoying themselves,
but you go on like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I must say

[sHABELSKY betids ovcT the piauo and sobs.]

LEBEDEV. Good Lord above! Matthew! Count! What's up? Matthew,

my dear good friend, have I offended you ? Forgive a silly old man,
forgive an old soak. Have some water.

SHABELSKY. I don't waut it. [Raises his head.]

LEBEDEV. why are you crying?

SHABELSKY. It's nothing really.
56 IVANOV Act Four

LEBEDEV. Come on, old man, don't tell lies. What's the reason?
SHABELSKY. I happened to look at that 'cello and —and I remembered
poor httle Sarah.

LEBEDEV. Hey, what a time for reminiscences! May she rest in peace,
poor woman, but this is hardly the time to talk about her.

SHABELSKY. We used to play duets together. She was a wonderful,

marvellous woman.
[sash A sobs.]

LEBEDEV. What do you think you're doing? Give over. Good grief,
they're both howling and I, er, I —
At least go somewhere else, the .

guests will see you.

SHABELSKY. Paul, you can be happy in a graveyard if the sun shines,

and even old age right if you have hope. But I've no hope at all.
is all

LEBEDEV. Yes, you really are in a rather bad way no children, no —

money, nothing to do. Well, it can't be helped. [To sash A.]
What set you off?
SHABELSKY. Lend me some money, Paul. We'll settle up in the next
world. I'll go to Paris and visit my wife's grave. I've given a lot
away in my time — ^I gave away half my property, so I've the right
to ask. What's more I ask as a friend.

LEBEDEV [at a loss]. I haven't a penny, old boy. All right then. I can't
promise, that is, but you know—very well then. [AsiWe.] They worry
me to death.

SCENE VI

MRS. BABAKIN [cotftes !«]. Where's my gentleman friend? How dare

you leave me on my own, Count ? Oh, you horrid man. [Hits the
COUNT on the arm with her fan.]
SHABELSKY [with loathing]. Can't you leave me alone? I hate you.

MRS. BABAKIN [taken aback]. What? What was that?

SHABELSKY. Go away.
MRS. BABAKIN [falls into an armchair]. Oh dear. [Cn>5.]

ZINAIDA [comes in crying]. Someone's just come —the best man, I

think. Time to bless the bride. [Sot^.]

SASH A [imploringly]. Mother!

 IVANOV Act Four 57

LEBEDEV. Now they're all howling—quite a quartet. Do turn off the

waterworks. Matthew, Martha, this way you'll have me—me
crying too. [Criw.] Oh, Lord!

ziNAiDA. If you've no use for your mother and won't obey her —oh
weU, I'll do as you wish and give you my blessing.
[iVANOV comes in, wearing a tail-coat and gloves.]

SCENE VII

LEBEDEV. This is the utter Hmit! What's going on?

SASH A. What are you doing here?
IVANOV. I'm sorry, but please can I talk to Sasha in private?

LEBEDEV. You shouldn't visit the bride before the wedding, you should
be on your way to church.
IVANOV. Please, Paul.

[lebedev shrugs his shoulders. He, zinaida, the count and

MRS. BABAKIN^O out.]

SCENE VIII

SASHA [5^ern/y]. What do you want?

IVANOV. I'm bad temper, but I can speak calmly. Listen. I
in a rotten
was dressing for the wedding just now. I looked in the glass and saw
grey hairs on my temples. It's all wrong, Sasha. We must end this
senseless farce before it's too late. You're young and unspoilt, with

your whole life before you, while I

SASHA. That's not news, I've heard it thousands of times before and
I'm sick of it. Go to church and don't keep people waiting.
IVANOV. I'm going straight home. Tell your family the wedding's off,
give them some explanation. It's time we came to our senses. I've
been acting like Hamlet, you've been the starry-eyed young heroine
—and it's gone far enough.
SASHA [Jlaring up]. What a way to speak! I won't listen.

IVANOV. Well, I'm speaking and I shall go on speaking.

SASHA. Why did you come here? Your complaints sound more and
more like sneers.
58 IVANOV Act Four

IVANOV. No, I'm not complaining this time. Sneers, you say? Oh yes,
I'm sneering. If I could sneer at myself a thousand times harder and
set whole world laughing, then sneer I would. I looked at myself
the
in the glassand something seemed to snap inside me. I laughed at
myself and nearly went out of my mind with shame. [Laughs.] What
price melanchoha, noble grief, mysterious misery! The only thing
left is for me Moaning and groaning, whining,
to write poetry.
making people's Uves a misery and knowing that my vitality's gone
beyond recall, that I've gone to seed, had my day, become weak-
minded and am up to the neck in these sickening depressions to feel —
all this when even an ant carries its load and is
in bright sunshine,
content! No, thank you very much! To see that some people think
you're a fraud, others feel sorry for you, yet others hold out a help-
ing hand, while a fourth lot —worst of —Hsten to your
all sighs with
reverence, looking on you as a great prophet and expecting you to
preach a new reHgion! No, I still have some pride and conscience,
thank God. I laughed at myself on my way here, and I felt as though
the very birds were laughing at me, and the trees.

SASHA. This isn't anger, it's madness.

IVANOV. Think so? No, I'm not mad. I see things in their true light
now, and my thoughts are as innocent as your own. We love each
other, but our marriage is not to be. I can rant and fret to my heart's
content, but I've no right to destroy anyone else. I poisoned the last

year of my wife's life with my snivelling. Since we've been engaged

you've forgotten how to laugh, and you look five years older. And
your father, who once had a pretty sane outlook, can't make sense of
people any more, thanks to me. When I attend meetings, go visiting
—
or shooting I carry boredom, gloom and despondency everywhere.
No, don't interrupt. I'm being brutally frank, but I'm in a rotten
temper, sorry, and this is the only way I can speak. I never used to
lie or talk about how awful life is, but once I'd taken to grousing I

started finding fault with things without meaning to or knowing what

I was doing — started complaining and cursing fate, so that everyone
who hears me gets infected with the same disgust for life and fault-
finding. And what a way —
to speak as if I was doing Nature a favour
by being alive. To hell with me!

SASHA. Stop. What you've just said makes it clear that you're sick of
complaining and it's time you started a new life. A good thing too.

IVANOV. I see nothing good about it. What is this 'new Hfe'? I'm
 IVANOV Act Foiir 59

absolutely done for — it's time we were botli clear about that. New life
indeed!

—
SASH A. Come off it, Nicholas who says you're done for? Why all the
cynicism? No, I won't talk or listen to you. Go to church.

IVANOV. I'm done for!

SASH A. Don't shout like that or the guests will hear.

IVANOV. Once an intelligent, educated, healthy man begins feeling

sorry for himself for no obvious reason and starts rolling down the
slippery slope, he rolls on and on without stopping and nothing can
save him. Well, where is there hope for me? What could it be? I
can't drink, spirits make my head ache. I can't write bad verse,
nor can I worship my own mental laziness and put it on a pedestal.
Laziness is laziness, weakness is weakness I can't fmd other names —
for them. I'm done for, I tell you, there's no more to be said. [Looks
round.] We might be interrupted. Listen. If you love me, help me.
You must break off the marriage without delay — this very instant.
Hurry up

SASHA. Nicholas, you did but know how you've tired me out
if

me down. You're a kind, inteUigent man, so judge

you've really got
for yourself—how can you tell people to do things like that? Every
day you set some new task, each one harder than the last. I wanted
active love, but our love's sheer martyrdom.

IVANOV. As my wife you'd fmd these tasks still more involved. So

break it off. And get this clear — ^it's not love that makes you talk hke
this, it's a stubbornness that comes from your own integrity. You
set yourself to rescue me at all costs and make a new man of me, and
you liked to think you were being heroic. Now you're ready to back
out, but sentimentaHty stands in your way, don't you see?

SASHA. What strange, mad logic! How can I break it off, how can I?
You've no mother, sister or friends. You're ruined, your property's
been ransacked, everyone says awful things about you

IVANOV. I was a fool to come here, I should have done as I intended.

[lebedev comes in.]

 —

6o IVANOV Act Four

SCENE IX
SASH A [runs to herfather]. For God*s sake, Father —he rushed in here Uke
a lunatic and he's been torturing me —insists I call it off, doesn't
want to spoil my life. Tell him I don't need his generosity, I know
"\yhat I'm doing.
LEBEDEV. This makes no sense to me. What generosity?

IVANOV. There won't be any wedding.

SASH A. There will be! Father, tell him the Wedding's on.

LEBEDEV. Hey, just a moment —why won't you marry her?

IVANOV. I've told her why, but she refuses to see.

LEBEDEV. Don't tell her, tell me. And make it make sense. Nicholas,
you've wrought such havoc in our hves, God forgive you I feel —
I'm Hving in a chamber of horrors. I look round, but I can make
nothing of it. It's more than flesh and blood can stand. What do you
—
want an old man to do challenge you to a duel, I suppose ?
IVANOV. We don't need duels, we just need to keep our heads and
understand plain language.
SASHA [walks up and down the stage in agitation]. This is awful, awful,
he's just like a child.

LEBEDEV. One can only throw up one's hands in amastement. Listen,

Nicholas. To you this is all very clever and subtle and follows the laws
of psychology, but to me it's a fiasco, a disaster. Listen to an old man
for the last time. —
What I want to say is relax Take the simple view
!

of things like everyone else. Everything in the world's simple. The

ceiling's white, boots are black, sugar's sweet. You love Sasha, she
loves you. If you love her, stay with her. If you don't love her, go
away and we won't hold it What could be simpler?
against you.
You're both healthy, inteUigent, decent people. You have enough to
eat, thank God, and you've clothes on your back. What more do

you want? You may be hard up, but what matter? Money doesn't
bring happiness. Of course, I know your estate's mortgaged and
you can't afford to pay the interest, but I'm a father, I understand.
Her mother can do what she likes, confound her. If she won't give
you any money, never mind. Sasha says she doesn't need a dowry
something about principles, Schopenhauer and all that. Now that's a
lot of nonsense. thousand roubles stowed away in the bank.
I've ten
[Looks around.] Not a soul knows about it at home ^it was your —
 IVANOV Act Four 6i

grandmother's. It's for the two of you. Take it, only you must

promise to let Matthew have a couple of thousand.

[Guests gather in the ballroom.]

IVANOV. There's nothing to be said, Paul. I'm doing as my conscience

tells me.
SASHA. So am I doing as my conscience tells me. Say what you like,

I won't let you go. I'm going to call Mother. [Goes out.]

SCENE X
LEBEDEV. I can't make sense of anything.
IVANOV. Listen, my I won't try and explain myself
poor man.
whether I'm decent or rotten, sane or mad. You wouldn't under-
stand. I used to be young, eager, sincere, inteUigent. I loved, hated and
beheved differently from other people, I worked hard enough —
had hope enough —for ten men. I tilted at windmills and banged my
head against brick walls. Without measuring my own strength,
taking thought or knowing anything about life, I heaved a load on
my back which promptly tore the muscles and cracked my spine.
I was in a hurry to expend aU my youthful energy, drank too much,
got over-excited, worked, never did things by halves. But tell me,
what else could you expect ? We're so few, after aU, and there's such
a lot to be done, God knows. And now look how cruelly life, the
Hfe I challenged, is taking its revenge. I broke under the strain. I

woke up to myself at the age of thirty, I'm like an old man in his
dressing-gown and sUppers. Heavy-headed, dull-witted, worn out,
broken, shattered, without faith or love, with no aim in life, I moon
around, more dead than aHve, and don't know who I am, what I'm
hving for or what I want. Love's a think, and any show
firaud, or so I

of affection's just sloppy sentimentaHty, no point in working,

there's
songs and fiery speeches are cheap and stale. Wherever I go I carry
misery, indifference, boredom, discontent and disgust with life.
I'm absolutely done for. You see a man exhausted at the age of thirty-
five, disillusioned, crushed by his own pathetic efforts, bitterly

ashamed of himself, sneering at his own feebleness. How my pride

rebels, I'm choking with fury. [Staggering.] God, I'm on my last

legs —
I'm so weak I can hardly stand. Where's Matthew? I want him
to take me home.

VOICES IN THE BALLROOM. The best man's here.

62 IVANOV Act Four

SCENE XI
SHABELSKY [comtng in]. I borrowed these shabby tails, and haven*t any
gloves, so of course I get all these sneering looks, silly jokes and
vulgar grins. Loathsome creatures.

BORKIN [comes in quickly with a bunch offlowers, wearing taib and the
best mans buttonhole]. Phew! Where is he? [To ivanov.] TheyVe
been waiting for you at church for ages, and here you are making
speeches. You are a scream, honestly. Look, you mustn't go with
your bride, but separately with me and I'll come back from church
and fetch the bride. Can't you even get that into your head? You
really are funny.

LVOV [comes in. To ivanov]. So you're here, are you? [Loudly.]

Nicholas Ivanov, I want everyone to hear this. You are the most un-

mitigated swine!

IVANOV [coldly]. I'm very much obliged to you.

[General confusion.]

BORKIN [to Lvov]. That was a foul thing to say, sir. I challenge you to
a duel.

LVOV. Mr. Borkin, I consider it degrading even to exchange words with

you, let alone fight a duel. As for Mr. Ivanov, he may receive satisfac-
tion when he wishes.

SHABELSKY. I shall fight you, sir.

SASHA [to Lvov]. What is this? Why did you insult him? Just a
moment, everyone, let him tell me—why ?
LVOV. I didn't insult him without good reason, Miss Lebedev. I came
here as an honest man to open your eyes. Please listen to me.
SASHA. What can you say? That you're an honest man? That's hardly
a secret You'd better tell me frankly whether you know what you're
!

doing or not. You come in here wath honest man written all over
you, terribly insult him and nearly kill me. Before that you've dogged
his footsteps and made his life a miser)% quite convinced you were
doing your duty as an honest man. You've meddled in his private

life, made name dirt and set yourself up to judge him. You took
his
every chance to bombard me and all his friends with anonymous
letters —thinking all the time what a very honest man you were.
In the name of honesty you, a doctor, didn't spare even his sick wife,
 iVANOv Act Four 63

)oii pestered her with your suspicions. There's no outrageous,

rotten, cruel trick you couldn't play while still thinking yourself
an unusually honest and progressive man.
IVANOV [laughing]. This isn't a wedding, it's a public debate. Loud
cheers

SASH A [to Lvov]. Now think for a moment. Do you know what
you're doing or don't you? Stupid, callous people. [Takes ivanov
by the hand.] Come away, Nicholas. Come on, Father!

ivanov. What do you mean, come on? I'll put an end to all this here
and now. I feel like a young man again, it's my old self that's
speaking. [Takes out his revolver.]

SASHA [shrieks]. I know what he wants to do. Nicholas, for God's

sake!

IVANOV. I've rolled downhill long enough, it's time to call a halt. I've
outstayed my welcome. Go away. Thank you, Sasha.
SASHA [s/joM^5]. Nicholas, for God's sake! Stop him!

IVANOV. Leave me alone! [Runs to one side and shoots himself.]

CURTAIN
I
 THE SEAGULL
[VauKo]

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS

(1896)
 CHARACTERS
IRINA ARKADiN (mrs. treplev), an actress

CONSTANTINE TREPLEV, her soii, a young man

PETER SORIN, hci brother
NiNAZARECHNY, a youHg girl, (laughter of a rich land-
owner
ILYA SHAMRAYEV, a retired army lieutenant, Sorin's
manager
POLINA, his wife

MAS HA, his daughter

BORIS TRiGORiN, a writer

EUGENE DORN, a doctor

SIMON MEDVEDENKO, a schoolmaster

JACOB, a labourer
A chef
A housemaid
The action takes place in Sarins house and garden

There is an interval of two years between Acts Three and Four

 ACT ONE
The park on sorin*5 estate. A wide path, leading away from the
audience to a lake in the background, is blocked by a rough stage,
put up for an amateur dramatic performance. It hides the lake from

view. To left and right of this stage, bushes. Afew chairs and a small
table.

The sun has just set. jacob and other workmen can be heard
hammering and coughing on the stage behind the drawn curtain.

MASHA and MEDVEDENKO come in, left, on their way back

from a ivalk.

MEDVEDENKO. Why do you wear black all the tune?

MASHA. I'm in mourning for my life, I'm unhappy.

MEDVEDENKO. Why? [Reflects.] I don't understand. You're healthy
and your father's quite well off, even if he's not rich. I'm much
—
worse off than you I'm only paid twenty-three roubles a month,
and what with pension deductions I don't even get that. But I don't
go round like someone at a funeral. [They sit down.]

MASHA. Money doesn't matter, even a poor man can be happy.

MEDVEDENKO. Yes —in theory. But look how

works out. There's it

me, my mother, my two sisters and my young brother. But I

only earn twenty-three roubles and we need food and drink, don't
we? Tea and sugar? And tobacco? We can hardly make ends meet.
MASHA [looking back at the stage]. The play will be on soon.
MEDVEDENKO. Yes. Nina Zarechny will act in it and Constantine
Treplev wrote it. They're in love and this evening they'll be
spiritually united in the effort to present a unified work of art. But
you and I aren't soul-mates at all. I love you. I'm too wretched to
stay at home and I walk over here every day, four miles each way,
and it just doesn't mean a thing to you. And that's understandable.
I've no money, there are a lot of us at home, and anyway why marry
a man who doesn't get enough to eat?

MASHA. What rubbish. [Takes snuff.] Your loving me is all very touch-
ing, but I can't love you back and that's that. [Offers him her snuff-
box.] Have some.
68 THE SEAGULL Act One
MEDVEDENKO. I don't feel like it. [Patwe.]

MAS HA. It's so close, it's sure to thunder tonight. You're always
holding forth about something or talking about money. You think
there's nothing worse than being poor, but if you ask me it's a
thousand times better to be a beggar and wear rags than — . Oh, you
can*t understand.

[Enter sorin Wtreplev, right.]

SORIN [leaning on a stick]. Country life doesn't really suit me, boy, and
I shall never get used to this place, you can see for yourself. I went to
bed at ten o'clock last night and woke at nine this morning, feehng
as if all that sleep had glued my brain to my skull or something.
[Laughs.] Then I happened to drop off again this afternoon, and now
I feel more dead than alive. It's a nightmare, that's what it comes to.
treplev. Yes, you should really Hve in town. [Seeing mas ha and
MEDVEDENKO.] Look here, you'll be told when the show begins,
so don't hang round now. Go away, please.

SORIN [to masha]. Masha, would you mind asking your father to
have that dog let ofFits chain? It's always howling. My sister couldn't
sleep again last night.

MASHA. Speak to my father yourself, I shan't. Kindly leave me out of

this. [To MEDVEDENKO.] Come on.

MEDVEDENKO [to TREPLEv]. Let US loiow when it starts, will you?

[Both go out.]

SORIN. So that dog will howl again all night. Isn't it typical? I've
never done what I liked in the country. At one time I'd take a month
off and come down here for a break and so on, but there'd be so
much fuss and bother when you got here you felt Uke pushing off —
the moment you arrived. [Laughs.] was always glad to get away.
I

Anyway, now I'm retired I've nowhere else to go, that's what it
comes to. I have to hve here, like it or not.

JACOB [/o treplev]. We're going for a swim, Mr. Treplev.

TREPLEV. All right, but mind you're in your places in ten minutes.
[Looks at his luatch.] It won't be long now.

JACOB. Very good, sir. [Goes out.]

TREPLEV [looking round the stage]. Well, this is our theatre. Just a
curtain with the two wings and an empty space beyond. No scenery.
 THE SEAGULL Act One 69
There's an open view of the lake and horizon. We shall put up the
curtain at exactly half past eight when the moon rises.

SORIN. Splendid.
TREPLEV. of course the whole thing will fall flat if Nina Zarechny's
late. It's time she was here. Her father and stepmother keep a sharp
eye on her and she can't easily get away, she's pretty well a prisoner.
[Puts his uncle s tie straight.] Your hair and beard are a mess. Shouldn't
you get a trim?

SORIN [combing his beard]. It's the bane of my life. As a young man I

always looked had a hangover and so on. Women never liked

as if I

me. [Sitting down.] Why is your mother in a bad mood?

TREPLEV. Well may you ask. She's bored. [Sitting down beside sorin.]
And jealous. She has it in for me—and for this performance and the
play —because Nina's in it and she isn't. She knows nothing about
the play, but she already loathes it.

SORIN [laughs] . What an idea

TREPLEV. She's put out because Nina will be applauded on this httle
stage and she won't. [Looks at his watch.] She's a psychological freak,
is Mother. Oh, she's briUiant enough. And clever. She can cry her

eyes out over a book, reel off all Nekrasov's poems by heart, and
when it comes to nursing the sick she's quite the ministering angel.
But you try putting in a word for another actress Duse, say. I —
wouldn't advise it, not while she's around. No one else must have a
word of praise. The idea is that we write about her, make a great
to-do and rave about her marvellous acting in The Lady with the
Camellias or It*s a Mad Life. But out here in the country that drug
isn't to be had, which is why she's so fed up and bad-tempered.

That's why she thinks we're against her and that we're all to blame.
What's more, she's superstitious, she thinks thirteen's an unlucky
number and that sort of thing. She's stingy too. She has seventy
thousand roubles in the bank in Odessa, I know that for a fact. But
you ask her to lend you some and you'll have her in tears.
SORIN. You've got it in your head that your mother doesn't like your
play and now you're upset and so on. Don't worry, your mother
adores you.
TREPLEV [pulling the petals offaftou'er]. She loves me, she loves me not.
She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not.
[Laughs.] You see, Mother doesn't love me —to put it rather mildly.
 —

70 THE SEAGULL Act Ohc

She likes excitement, romantic affairs, gay clothes —but Tm twenty-
five years old and a constant reminder that she's not so young as

she was. She's only thirty-two when I'm not around, but when I'm
with her she's forty-three, and that's what she can't stand about me.
Besides, she knows I've no use for the theatre. She adores the stage.
Serving humanity in the sacred cause of art, that's how she thinks of
it. But the theatre's in a rut nowadays, if you ask me—it's so one-
sided. The curtain goes room with three walls. It's
up and you see a
evening, so the lights are on. And
room you have these
in the
geniuses, these high priests of art, to show you how people cat,
drink, love, walk about and wear their jackets. Out of mediocre
scenes and Unes they try to drag a moral, some conamonplace that
doesn't tax the brain and might come in useful about the house.
When I'm offered a thousand different variations on the same old
theme, I have to escape —run for it, as Maupassant ran firom the
Eiffel Tower because it was so vulgar he felt it was driving him
crazy.

SORIN. But we must have a theatre.

TREPLEV. What we need's a new kind of theatre. New forms are

what we need, and if we haven't got them we'd be a sight better off
with nothing at all. [Looks at his watch.] I'm terribly fond of Mother.
But she does lead such an idiotic life, for ever taken up with this
author of hers, and her name's always being bandied about in the
press —
which is all very trying. Then sometimes I can't help being a
bit selfish, as anyone would in my position, and I'm sorry to have a
—
famous actress for my mother feel I'd be better off if she was just
an ordinary woman. Can you imagine anything more outrageous
and idiotic, Uncle? Sometimes she'll have guests in the house
celebrities, every one of them, actors and writers. Only one non-

entity in the whole bunch. Me. They only put up with me because
I'm her son. Who am I ? What am I ? I left the university in my third
year, 'for reasons outside our control', as editors sometimes say. I'm
no good at anything, I haven't a penny to my name and my pass-
port description is 'provincial shopkeeper, resident of Kiev'. That,
you see, was my father's official status, though he was well known
on the stage himself. So when all these musicians, actors and writers
deigned to notice me in her drawing-room, they looked as if they
were wondering how anyone could be quite such a worm. I could
tell what they thought —
I suffered agonies of humiliation.
 THE SEAGULL Act One 71

SORIN. By the way, tell inc about this writer — this friend of your
mother's. What's he like? He's a bit of a puzzle, he hardly speaks.

T REP LEV. He's inteUigent and unassuming —a bit on the melancholy

side, you know. Very decent sort. He's nowhere near forty yet,
but he's already famous and thoroughly spoilt. As for his works, well,
what shall I say? It's charming, clever stuff, but after Tolstoy or Zola
you'd hardly care for Trigorin.
SORIN. You know, I'm rather fond of writers, my boy. I once wanted
to get married and write books, those were my two great ambitions,
but neither of them came off. Ah yes. Even being an obscure writer
must be quite nice, come to think of it.

TREPLEV [/likens]. I hear someone coming. [Embraces his uncle.] I can't

Hve without her. The very sound of her footsteps is so beautiful.

I'm wildly happy. [Hurries towards nina zarechny, who now
comes in.] Entrancing creature, my vision of dehght

NINA [wpser]. I'm not late am I? I can't be.

TREPLEV [kissing her hands]. No, no, of course not.

NINA. I've been worried my wits. I was afraid

all day, scared out of
Father wouldn't let gone out with my step-
me come, but he's just
mother. The sky was red, the moon was already rising and I rode over
as fast as I could. [Laughs.] Oh, I'm so pleased. [Shakes sorin

Jirmly by the hand.]

SORIN [/aM^/z5]. You look as though you've been crying. Now that
won't do, it really won't.

NINA. It's all right. I'm so out of breath, can't you see? I have to leave
in half an hour, so we must be quick. No, no, don't try and keep me,
for God's sake. My father doesn't know I'm here.
TREPLEV. It's time we started, anyway. We must go and call the others.
SORIN. I'll see to it and so on. At your service. [Moves towards the right,

singing.] 'There were once two French Grenadiers.' [Looks round.]

I once burst into song like that and a fellow in our legal department
spoke up. 'You've a mighty powerful voice, sir.' Then he thought a
bit and added, 'And a pretty nasty one too.' [Laughs and goes out.]

NINA. My father and stepmother won't let me come here. This place
is wildly Bohemian according to them, and they're afraid of me
going on the stage. But something seems to lure me to this lake like
a seagull. My heart's full of my feelings for you. [Looks round.]
72 THE SEAGULL Act One
TREPLEV. We*re alone.

NINA. I think there's someone over there.

TREPLEV. No, there isn't. [They kiss.]

NINA. What sort of tree is that?

TREPLEV. An elm.

NINA, why is it so dark?

TREPLEV. Night's falling and everything's getting dark. Don't go home

too early. Please.
NINA. I must.
TREPLEV. Then how about me coming over to your place, Nina?
I'll stand in the garden all night gazing at your window.
NINA. You can't, the watchman would see you. Our dog doesn't
know you yet and he'd bark.
TREPLEV. I love you.
NINA, shush!
TREPLEV [hearing footsteps]. Who's there? Is it you, Jacob?

JACOB [behind the stage]. Yes sir.

TREPLEV. Get into position, it's time to start. Is the moon coming up?
JACOB. Yes sir.

TREPLEV. Have you the methylated spirits? And the sulphur? There
must be a smell of sulphur when the red eyes appear. [To nin a.] Run
—
along then you'll find everything ready. Nervous?

NINA. Yes, terribly. I don't mind your mother, I'm not afiraid of her,
but Trigorin's here. To have him in the audience I'm just — a bundle
of nerves. A famous writer! Is he young?
TREPLEV. Yes.
NINA. His stories are marvellous, aren't they?
TREPLEV [coldly]. I don't know, I've never read them.
NINA. Your play's hard to act, there are no Uving people in it.

TREPLEV. Living people! We should show Ufe neither as it is nor as it

ought to be, but as we see it in our dreams.

NINA. There's not much action, it's just a lot of speeches. I think a
play really needs a love interest.

[Both go behind the stage. Enter polina and dorn.]

 THE SEAGULL Act One 73

POLINA. It's getting damp. Go and put your galoshes on.

DORN. I'm hot.

POLINA. You don't take care of yourself, it's sheer pigheadedness.

As a doctor you know very well that damp air's bad for you, but
you want to make me suffer. And you spent the whole of yesterday
evening out on the terrace to spite me.

DORN [sings quietly]. 'Oh, tell me not your young Hfe's ruined.'
POLINA. You were so busy talking to Irina, you didn't notice the
cold. You think she's attractive, don't you ?
DORN. I'm fifty-five years old.

POLINA. Don't be silly, that's not old for a man. You're young for
your age and still attractive to women.
DORN. Well, what do you want me to do about it?

POLINA. You men are all the same. When you see an actress you're
ready to fall down and worship her.

DORN [sings quietly]. 'Once more in thy presence .' That society —
makes a fuss of artists and doesn't treat them like tradesmen, say
it's only natural. It's a form of ideahsm.
POLINA. Women have always fallen in love with you and thrown
themselves at you. That's ideahsm too, I suppose?
DORN [shrugs his shoulders]. What's wrong with it? There's a lot to be
said for the way women have treated me. I'm a first-rate doctor,
that's what they really liked about me. Ten or fifteen years ago,
you remember, I was the only decent obstetrician in the county.
And then I've always treated people fairly.

POLINA [clutches his hand]. My darling!

DORN. Take it easy, someone^s coming.
[Enter irina on sorin*5 arm, trigorin, shamrayev, med-
VEDENKO and masha.]

SHAMRAYEV. I remember her Trade

acting superbly at the Poltava
Fair in 'seventy-three. Terrific, was
wonderful stuff! Then there
Paul Chadin, the comedian. You don't happen to know what became
of him, I suppose? No one could touch his Rasplyuyev, it was better
than Sadovsky's, beUeve me, dearest lady. Where is he now?

IRINA. You always want to hear about these old fossils. How on earth
should I know? [Sits down.]
74 THE SEAGULL Act One
SHAMRAYEV [with a si^h]. Paul Chadin —you don't find his sort any
more. The stage has gone downhill, Irina. Once wc had giants,

now we've only dwarfs.

DORN. There aren't many real stars these days, I grant you, but the
average actor's come on a lot.
SHAMRAYEV. I Can't agree, it's a matter of taste anyway. Degustibus aut
beney aut nihil.

[treplev appears from behind the stage.]

IRINA [to her son]. When does the thing start, dear boy?
treplev. Ina minute, please be patient.
IRINA [declaims from Hamlet].
'O Hamlet, speak no more:
Thou tum'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.'

TREPLEV [from Hamlet].

'Nay, but to Hve
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
'

Over the nasty sty

[A horn is sounded behind the stage.]

TREPLEV. Ladies and gentlemen, we're starting. Attention, please.

[Pa«5e.] I'm starting now. [Bangs his stick on the ground and speaks
loudly.] O ye ancient, hallowed shades that float above this lake at

night, lull us to sleep, and may we dream of life in two hundred

thousand years.
SORIN. In two hundred thousand years there won't be anything left.

TREPLEV. All right then, let them show us that.

IRINA. Let them, we're fast asleep anyway.

[The curtain rises, opening on to the lake. The moon has risen above
the horizon and is reflected in the water, ninazarechny, dressed in
white, is sitting on a boulder.]

NINA. Men, Uons, eagles and partridges, homed deer, geese, spiders
and silent fishes, denizens of the deep, starfishes and creatures in-
visible —that is, all life, all life, all life —has completed its melancholy
cycle and died. For thousands of centuries Earth has not borne one
 THE SEAGULL Act One 75

living creature, and in vain docs that poor moon light her lamp. No
longer do cranes awake and call in the meadows and no may-beetles
can be heard in the lime-groves. It is cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty,
empty. Terrible, terrible, terrible. [Pause.] The bodies of living
creatures have turned to dust, and eternal matter has converted them
into stones, water, clouds. But their souls have all been fused into a
single whole. That World Spirit am I. I. Within me is the soul of
Alexander the Great, of Caesar, Shakespeare and Napoleon and of —
the most miserable leech. In me the thoughts of men are mingled with
the instincts of animals. I remember all, all, all, and I rehve anew in
my own being every other life.

[Will-o'-the-wisps are seen.\

IRINA [quietly]. This is something terribly modem.

T R E p L E V [imp loringly and reproachfu Uy] . Mother
NINA. Iam lonely. Once in a hundred years I open my Hps to speak and
in this void with none to hear me my voice echoes mournfully. You
too, pale hghts, you hear me not. The foul marsh brings you forth
before sunrise and you drift till daybreak, without thought, wdthout
will, wdthout any quiver of Hfe. The Devil, Father of Eternal Matter,
fearing that you might bring forth new Hfe, causes your atoms, and
those of the stones and water, to change every second, and you are
in a state of continual flux. Alone in the whole universe the Spirit
remains one and the same. [P^wse.] Like a prisoner flung into a deep,
empty well, I know not where I am or what awaits me. All is hidden
from me except that in the cruel, unrelenting struggle with the
Devil, the principle of Material Force, I am destined to triumph.
Then and Matter unite in wondrous harmony, then shall
shall Spirit

the reign of Cosmic Will commence. But that will only come about
after a long, long succession of millennia, when Moon, bright
Sirius and Earth shall gradually have turned to dust. Until then there
shall be horror upon horror.
[Pause. Two red spots appear over the lake.]

NINA. But see —my mighty antagonist the Devil approaches. I see his
awful blood-red eyes

IRINA. There's a smell of sulphur. Was that really necessary?

TREPLEV. Yes.
IRINA [laughs]. Oh, a stage effect.
 —
76 THE SEAGULL Act One
TREPLEV. Mother!
NINA. He is miserable without human beings-

POLINA [/a dorn]. YouVc taken your hat off. Put it on before you
catch cold.

IRINA. The doctor took his hat off to the Devil, Father of Eternal
Matter.

TREPLEV [losing his temper y in a loud voice]. The play's over. Enough!
Curtain!

IRINA. But why so annoyed?

TREPLEV. Enough! Curtain! Bring down that curtain! [Stamping.]
Curtain! [The curtain falb.] I'm extremely sorry, I forgot that writing
plays and acting are only for the chosen few, I'm poaching on other
people's preserves, I ——I . [Tries to add something, but makes a gesture

of resignation and goes off, left.]

IRINA. What's up with him?

SORIN. My dear Irina, that's hardly how to treat a touchy young man.
IRINA. Why, what did I do?
SORIN. You hurt his feelings.

IRINA. But he told us his play was a joke, and that's just how I treated it.
SORIN. All the same
IRINA. Now he turns out to have written a masterpiece. Oh, for
heaven's sake! I suppose he put on this performance, and choked us

with sulphur, not as a joke, He wanted to show

but to prove a point.
us how to write and had about enough of this These
act. I've really !

—
constant outbursts and digs against me well, say what you like, but
they'd try anyone's patience. He's a selfish, spoilt Httle boy.

SORIN. He only wanted to give you pleasure.

IRINA. Oh, did he? But of course he couldn't choose an ordinary

play, we have to sit through this experimental rubbish. Now, I don't
mind Hstening to rubbish for a laugh, but doesn't this stuff claim to
be a new art form, something epoch-making? Well, I don't see
any new art form here, just a display of bad manners.

TRIGORIN. Everyone writes what he likes as best he can.

IRINA. Then let him write what he likes as best he can, but leave me
out of it.
 THE SEAGULL Act Otie 77
DORN. Jupiter, thou art angry

IRINA. I'm not Jupiter, I'm a woman. [Lights a cigarette.] I'm not
annoyed, I'm only sorry to see a young man spend his time so
tediously. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings.

MEDVEDENKO. No One has the right to separate Spirit from Matter,

since Spirit itself may well be a combination of material atoms. [To
TRIGORIN, eagerly.] But you know, how about writing and staging
a play based on the life of us schoolmasters ? We have a pretty thin
time.

IRINA. Quite right, but no more talk about plays or atoms. It's such
a heavenly evening. I say, can you hear someone singing? [Lw^enj.]
Now isn't that nice?
POLINA. It's on the other side of the lake. [P(iM5e.]

IRINA [/o trigorin]. Sit by me. Ten or fifteen years ago there was
music and singing by this lake almost every night. There are six
estates on the shore. There was so much laughter, fun and shooting,
I remember, and so many, many love affairs. But who was the
darling and idol of all six estates? I present [nods towards dorn] our
doctor, Eugene Dorn. He's still charming, but in those days he was
irresistible. Still, I'm beginning to feel rather guilty. Why did I hurt

my poor boy's feelings? I'm worried. [Loudly.] Constantine, my

dear! Constantine!

MASH A. I'll go and look for him.

IRINA. Please do, darling.

MASH A [moving off, left]. Hallo there! Constantine! Hallo there!
[Goes out.]

NINA [coming out from behind the stage]. We obviously aren't going on,
so I can come out. Good evening. [Kisses irina and polina.]

SORIN. Bravo, bravo!

irina. Bravo, bravo! We were quite fascinated. With those looks and
you mustn't bury yourself in the country,
that perfectly lovely voice
itwould be such a shame. I'm sure you have a real gift, do you hear
me? Your duty is to go on the stage.
NINA. Oh, that's what I always dream of [With a sigh.] But it can
never be.

IRINA. Who knows? Now let me introduce—Boris Trigorin.

78 THE SEAGULL Act One
NINA, oh, pleased to meet you — .
[ With embarrassment.] I always read
what you
IRINA [giving NINA d seat next to her]. Now don't be shy, darling.
He*s a famous man, but he's not at all stuffy. And he's a bit shy
himself, you see.

DORN. I think we might raise the curtain now, it's a bit spooky like

this.

SHAMRAYEV [/oM J/y] . Jacob, be a good fellow and pull up the curtain.

[The curtain goes up.]

NINA [to trigorin]. It's an odd play, isn't it?

TRIGORIN. I couldn't make sense of it. I enjoyed it, though. Your

acting was so genuine, and the scenery was superb. [Pawie.] There
must be a lot offish in that lake.
NINA. Yes.
TRIGORIN. I love angling. There's nothing I enjoy more than sitting on
the water's edge in the late afternoon, watching my float.
NINA. After the joy of creative work I should have thought no other
enjoyment would mean anything.
IRINA [laughing]. Oh, don't say that. Compliments always floor him
completely.

SHAMRAYEV. I remember one evening at the Moscow Opera Theatre

hearing the great Silva take a lower C. There was a bass from our
parish choir sitting in the gallery, as it happened. Suddenly—we were
quite flabbergasted, as you can imagine —we hear a voice from the
gallery. 'Bravo, Silva!' A whole octave lower. Like this. [In a deep
bass.] 'Bravo Silva!' You could have heard a pin drop in that theatre.
[Pause.]

DORN. No one seems to have anything to say.

NINA. Well, I must be going. Good-bye.

IRINA. What! Where are you off to at this hour? We won't let you.
NINA. Father's expecting me.
IRINA. Well, I must say, he is a — . [They kiss.] Ah well, that's that,
but I do so wish you could stay.

NINA. How I hate leaving, if you only knew.

IRINA. Someone ought to see you home, my pet.
 THE SEAGULL Act One 79
NINA [terrified]. Oh, no, no!
SORIN [^0 NINA, mtploringly]. Do stay.

NINA. I can't, Mr. Sorin.

SORIN. Just one hour and so on. Surely you can

NINA [after some thought, through tears]. I can't. [Shakes hands and hurries
out.]

IRINA. It really is bad luck on the girl. They say her mother left all

her enormous fortune to her father when she died —every last bit

of it —and now the child has nothing because the father's going to
leave everything to his second wife. It's outrageous.

DORN. Yes, that dear father of hers is a pretty thoroughgoing swine,

give him his due.

SORIN [rubbing his cold hands]. I think we might go in too, it's getting
damp out here. My legs ache.

IRINA. They're so stiff, you can hardly walk. Well, come on, poor
old thing. [Takes his arm.]

SHAMRAYEV [offering his arm to his wife]. Madam?

SORIN. I can hear that dog howling again. [To shamrayev.] Be a
good fellow, Shamrayev, and have it let off its chain.

SHAMRAYEV. I Can't, my dear sir. Thieves might get in the barn

I've millet in there. [To medvedenko, who is walking beside him.]
Yes, a whole octave lower, 'Bravo, Silva!' And no concert artist,
mind you, just someone from the church choir.

MEDVEDENKO. What do they pay you in a church choir? [All go out

except DORN.]
DORN [^/o«e]. Well, I don't know. Perhaps it's all rather beyond me,
perhaps I've gone mad, but I liked the play. It has something. When
that child spoke about loneliness, and then afterwards when the
Devil's red eyes appeared, my hands shook with excitement. It was
all so fresh and innocent. Look, I think he's coming. I want to be as

nice about it as I can.

T REP LEV [coming in]. They've all gone.

DORN. I'm here.

TREPLEV. Masha's looking for me all over the park. What a ghastly
creature.
8o THE SEAGULL Act One

DORN. I liked your play enormously, Constantine. It's a bit odd in a

way, and I haven't heard the end. Still, it made a great impression.
You have a real bent that way and you mustn't give up.
[t REP LEV shakes him firmly by the hand and embraces him im-
pulsively.]

DORN. Hey —a bit excitable, aren't you? Tears in your eyes — . Now,
my point is this. You took your plot from the realm of abstract
ideas, and quite right too, because a work of art simply must express
some great idea. Nothing can be beautiful unless it's also serious. I

say, you are pale.

TREPLEV. So you don't think I should give up?

DORN. No. But you must describe only the significant and the eternal.
As you know, I've Hved a varied hfe and enjoyed myself, I'm
satisfied. But if I'd ever experienced the uplift that an artist feels when

he's creating, I think I'd have scorned my material environment and

all that goes with it, and I'd have taken wing and soared away into
the sky.

TREPLEV. I'm sorry, where's Nina?

DORN. And then work of art must express a clear, precise idea. You
a
—
must know why you write, or else ^if you take this picturesque path
without knowing where you're going you'll lose your way and
your gifts will destroy you.

TREPLEV [impatiently]. Where's Nina?

DORN. She's gone home.
TREPLEV [in despair]. What can I do? I want to see her, I must see her.
I'm going over there.

[mash A comes in.]

DORN [to TREPLEv]. Take it easy, my boy.

TREPLEV. But I'm going all the same. I must go.
MASH A. Come indoors, Constantine. Your mother wants you, she's
worried.
TREPLEV. Tell her I've gone. And look here, can't you all leave me
alone? Leave me alone, don't follow me around.

DORN. Come, come, dear boy, you can't go on like this. It's not right.

TREPLEV [through tears]. Good-bye, Doctor. Many thanks. [Goes out.]

DORN [with a sigh]. Ah, to be young!

 THE SEAGULL Act One 8l

MASHA. When people can't think what to say they always hold forth
about the young. [Takes some snuff.]

DORN [takes the snuff-box off her and hurls it into the bushes]. That's
disgusting. [Pawie.] I think someone's playing the piano indoors. I

must go in.

MASHA. Just a moment.

DORN. What is it?

MASHA. I must tell you again, I must speak. [Excitedly.] I don't care for
my father, but I have a soft spot for you. Somehow we have so much
in common, I feel it with all my heart. So help me. Help me, or else
I'll do something silly and make a mess of my life, ruin I can't go it.

on.

DORN. Meaning what? How can I help you?

MASHA. I'm so unhappy. No one, no one knows how I suffer. [Lays her
head on his breast^ softly.] I love Constantine.

DORN. What a state they're all in. And what a lot of loving. Oh, magic
lake! [Tenderly.] But what can I do, my child? What can I do?

CURTAIN
 ACT TWO
The croquet lawn. In the background, right, the house, with a large
terrace. To the left, a view of the lake with sunlight sparkling on it.
Flower beds. It is midday and hot. irina, dorn and masha are
sitting on a bench near the lawn in the shade of an old lime-tree.
DORN has an open book on his lap.

IRINA [^0 MAS ha]. Lct's Stand up. [Both stand up.\ Side by side. You're
twenty-two and Tm nearly twice as old. Now, Dr. Dorn, which of
us looks younger?

DORN. You, of course.

IRINA. Exactly. And why ? Because I work, I feel, Tm always on the go,
while you just stay put —
you're only half aHve. And I make it a rule
not to look into the future, I never think of growing old or dying.
What is to be will be.

MAS HA. I feel about a thousand years old. My life seems to drag on
and on endlessly, and I often think I'd rather be dead. [Sits down.\
That's silly, of course. I must pull myself together and snap out of it.
DORN [singing quietly]. *Oh, speak to her, you flowers '

IRINA. Then again I'm most particular, dear, like an Enghshman.

I keep myself in trim and my clothes and hair are always just right.
Do I ever go out, even in the garden, with my housecoat on, without
doing my hair? No, I don't. That's why I've lasted so well, because
I've never been slovenly and let myself go like some I could mention.
[Strolls up and down the lawn, arms akimbo.] See what I mean? Just

like a dear little robin. I could play a girl of fifteen.

DORN. Well, I'll carry on reading anyway. [Picks up his book.] We
stopped at the corn-dealer and the rats.

IRINA. 'And the rats.' You read. [Sits down.] Or rather let me have it,

I'll read, it's my turn. [Takes the book and looks for the place.] 'And
the Here we are. [J^ed^5.] *For society people to encourage
rats.'

novelists and make a fuss of them is as obviously dangerous as for

a corn-dealer to let rats breed in his storerooms. But you see, writers
are very popular. So when a woman's marked one down for capture,
she keeps on at him, flattering him, being nice to him and spoiling
 THE SEAGULL Act TtUO 83

him.* Well, the French may be like that, but we're different, we
don't have things so cut and dried. Before a Russian woman tries to
ensnare a writer she's usually head over heels in love with him,
believe me. No need to look far —take me and Trigorin.
[Enter sorin leaning on a sticky with nina at his side. Behind them
MEDYEDENKO pushes an empty hath-chair.]

SORIN [kindly, as if to a child]. Oh yes?

Something nice has happened,
has it? We're happy today, what it comes to? [To his sister.]
is that
Something nice has happened. Our father and stepmother have gone
off to Tver, so we're free for three whole days.

NINA [sits down beside irina and embraces her]. I'm so happy, I belong
to you now.
sorin [sits down in his bath-chair]. And doesn't she look pretty this
morning?
irina. Yes, and so nicely dressed and attractive —what a good little

girl. [Kisses nina.] But we mustn't be too nice, we'll bring her bad
luck. Where's Boris Trigorin?
NINA. Down at the bathing place, fishing.

IRINA. I wonder he doesn't get bored. [Is about to go on reading.]

NINA. What's that?

IRINA. Maupassant's On the Water, darling. [Reads a few lines to her-

self] Oh well, the and unconvincing. [Shuts

rest's dull the book.] I'm
rather worried. Tell me, what's wrong with my son? Why is he so
terribly bored and depressed ? He spends whole days out by the lake
and I hardly ever see him.

MASHA. He's in rather a bad mood. [To nina, timidly.] Please recite
something from his play.

NINA [shrugging her shoulders]. Do you mean it? It's so boring.

MASHA [restraining her enthusiasm]. When he recites, his eyes blaze
and he turns pale. He has a beautiful, sad voice, and he looks like
a poet.
[soRiN 15 heard snoring.]

D o R N. Happy dreams.
irina. Peter.
SORIN. Eh?
irina. Are you asleep*'
84 THE SEAGULL Act TwO
SORIN. Not at all. [PdMie.]

IRINA. You won't consult a doctor, dear, and that's very naughty of
you.
SORIN. I wouldn't mind — it's the doctor here doesn't want me to.

DORN. What, dose yourself at the age of sixty!

SORIN. One wants to live, even at sixty.

DORN [annoyed]. Eh? Then take valerian drops.

IRINA. It would be good for him to go to a spa, I think.

DORN. Why not? Let him go. Or let him stay.

IRINA. What's that supposed to mean?

DORN, Nothing special. It's quite clear. [Pdwse.]

MEDVEDENKO. Mr. Sorin should give up smoking.

SORIN. Oh, rubbish.

DORN. No, it isn't. Drinking and smoking ruin your personahty.
After a cigar or glass of vodka you're not Peter Sorin any more,
you're Peter Sorin plus something. Your ego dissolves and you sta.rt

thinking of yourself as 'him', in the third person.

SORIN [laughs\. It's all right for you to talk, you've enjoyed yourself.

But what about me ? Twenty-eight years I've worked for the Depart-
ment of Justice, but I haven't lived yet, haven't experienced any-
—
thing that's what it comes to. So I want a bit of fun, it stands to
reason. You've always had your own way and you don't care, which
is why you're so given to idle chatter. But I want a bit of life, so I

drink sherry at dinner and smoke cigars and so on. That's all there
is to it.

DORN. One should take life seriously, but to go to your doctor when
you're sixty and complain that you didn't enjoy yourself as a
young man —well, I'm sorry, but that's just silly.

MASH A [stands up]. It must be lunch time. [Walks in a lazy, drooping

fashion.} My foot's gone to sleep. [Goes out.\
DORN. She's off for a couple of quick ones before lunch.

SORIN. The poor child's unhappy.

DORN. Nonsense, sir.

SORIN. You've always had all you want, that's why you talk Uke this.

IRINA. Oh, could anything be duller than this charming country

 THE SEAGULL Act TwO 85

boredom —so hot and still, with you all lolling round airing your
views ? You're good company, my dears, and I like Hstening to you,
but —rd much rather sit in my hotel room learning a part.
NINA [delightedly]. Well said, I know what you mean.
SORIN. It's better in town, of course. You sit in your study, with a
servant to stop anyone coming in unannounced, and there's a
telephone. Then there are cabs in the street and so on.
'
DORN [sings softly]. *Oh, speak to her, you flowers

[sHAMRAYEV comes in, followed by polina.]

SHAMRAYEV. Here they are. Good morning. [Kisses irina'5 hand, then
nina'5.] Nice to see you looking so well. [To irina.] My wife
says you propose going to town together this afternoon. Is that so ?
irina. Yes, that is the idea.

SHAMRAYEV. Splendid. And how do you propose travelling,

I See.

We're carting rye this afternoon and the men are all
dearest lady ?
busy. So which horses are you taking? If you don't mind my
asking.

irina. Horses? How on earth should I know?

SORIN. We do have some carriage horses.
SHAMRAYEV [agitatedly]. Carriage horses? And where am I to get
collars? Yes, where am I to get collars? This baffles me, it passes the
bounds of credence! Look, dear lady, I worship your genius and I'd
give you ten years of my life, but horses I cannot provide.
IRINA. And what if I have to leave? This is most odd.
SHAMRAYEV. You've no idea what running a farm means, dear lady-

IRINA [losing her temper]. This is what we're always being told! Well,
in that case I leave for Moscow this very afternoon. Hire me horses
in the village, or I shall walk to. the station.

SHAMRAYEV [losing hls temper]. Then I resign, you can get yourself
another manager. [Goes out.]

IRINA. This happens every summer. Every summer I come here to be

insulted, I shan't set foot in this place again. [Goes out, left, in the

supposed direction of the bathing place off-stage. A minute later she can be
seen going indoors, followed by trigorin with fishing-lines and a pail.]

SORIN [flaring up]. What insolence. What the hell is all this? I'm
fed up, that's what it comes to. Bring all the horses here this instant.
86 THE SEAGULL Act TwO
NINA [to polina]. Fancy saying no to a famous actress like Miss
Arkadin. Her slightest wish, her merest whim—surely they're more
important than your entire farm. This is beyond behef.

polina [in despair]. What can I do? Put yourself in my place. What
can I do?
SORIN [fo nina]. Let's go and fmd my sister. We'll all beg her to suy,
how about it? [Looking in the direction in which shamrayev dis-

appeared.] What an awful man. Tyrant!

NINA [prevents him rising]. Don't move, stay where you are. We'll
wheel you. [She and medvedenko push the hath-chair.] Oh, isn't

this awful!
SORIN. Yes, it certainly is. But he won't resign, I'll speak to him at

once.

[They go out. Only dorn and polina remain on stage.]

dorn. Aren't people a bore? Your husband really deserves to be

kicked out, but it'll end with that old woman Sorin and his sister

apologizing to him, you'll see.

polina. He on farm work. We have these

sent the carriage horses out
mix-ups every day. If you only knew how it upsets me, it makes mc
—
ill see how I'm shaking? I can't stand his rudeness. [Imploringly.]
Eugene dear, let me come and live with you, darling. Our time's
passing, we're not so young as we were. Can't we give up all the
lying and pretence now we're getting on in life? [PdWie.]

DORN. I'm fifty-five, it's too late for me to change my life.

POLINA. You say no because there arc other women in your life

besides me, I know that. You can't give them all a home, I see that.
Sorry, I've been a nuisance.

[nina appears near the house^ picking jiowers.]

DORN. It's all right.

POLINA. It's agony to me, being jealous. Of course, being a doctor you
can't avoid women, I see that.

DORN [^(j NINA, who comes up to them]. What's happening?

NINA. Miss Arkadin's crying and Mr. Sorin has a touch of his asthma.
DORN [stands up]. I'd better go and give them both valerian drops.

NINA [gives him some flowers]. Please take these.

DORN. Thank you so much. [Goes towards the house.]

 THE SEAGULL Act Two 87

POLINA [i^oing with ///'/«]. Arcn*t they nice? [In a low voice, near the

house.] Give me those flowers, just you give me those flowers!

[Tears them up and throws them away. Both go indoors.]

NINA [a/one]. Isn't it funny to and for such

see a famous actress cry,

a silly reason? Another funny thing well-known writer, a —a

celebrity with his name in all the papers, his picture on sale and
translations coming out in foreign languages, but he spends all day
fishing and is overjoyed when he catches a couple of chub. I thought
famous people were proud and standoffish, I thought they despised the
common herd, I thought they sort of used their glamour and brilliance
to take revenge on people for making so much fuss over birth and
wealth. But here they are crying, fishing, playing cards, laughing and
losing their tempers like anyone else.

T REP LEV [comes in without his hat on, carrying a sporting gun and a dead

seagull]. Are you alone?

NINA. Yes.
[treplev lays the seagull at her feet.]

NINA, what does that signify?

TREPLEV. I meanly killed that seagull this morning. I lay it at your

feet.

NINA. What's wrong with you? [Picks up the seagull and looks at it.]

TREPLEV [after a pause]. I shall soon kill myself in the same way.
NINA. You've changed so much.
TREPLEV. Yes, but who changed first? You did. You're so different to
me now, you look at me coldly and you find me in the way.
NINA. You're touchy lately and you always talk so mysteriously, in
symbols or something. This seagull's a symbol too, I suppose, but it
makes no sense to me, sorry. [Lays the seagull on the bench.] I'm too
simple to understand you.

TREPLEV. It all started that evening when my play was such a stupid
flop. Women can't forgive failure. I've burnt the thing, every scrap
of it. If you only knew how wretched I am. Your coldness terrifies
me, I can't beheve it, it's as if I'd woken up and found this lake had

suddenly dried up or soaked into the ground. You say you're too
simple to understand me, but what is there to understand? My play
failed, and you despise my inspiration and think me a dreary non-
entity like so many others. [Stamping.] All this is only too clear.
88 THE SEAGULL Act TwO
It's as if someone had banged a nail into my brain, damn it —and
damn the selfishness that seems to suck my blood like a vampire.
[Spotting TRiGORiN, who walks in reading a book.] There's genius for
you. Struts about like Hamlet. Carries a book too. [Sarcastically.]

'Words, words, words.* The great luminary hasn't come near you
yet, but you're smiling already, your whole expression has melted in
his rays. I won't stand in your way. [Goes out quickly.]

TRIGORIN [makinganote in his hook]. Takes snuff. Drinks vodka. Always

wears black. Loved by schoolmaster.
NINA. Good morning, Mr. Trigorin.
TRIGORIN. Good morning. Things took an unexpected turn and I
think we're leaving today. I don't suppose we'll meet again. I'm
sorry, I don't often run across young, attractive girls, and I've
forgotten how one feels at eighteen or nineteen—can't picture it.
That's why the girls in my stories don't usually come off. I'd love to
be in your shoes for an hour to find out how you think and what
you're like.

NINA. And I'd like to be in your shoes.

TRIGORIN. Why?
NINA. To see how it feels to be a famous, gifted writer. How does it feel ?

What's the sensation, being a celebrity?

TRIGORIN. Eh? I don't think there is a sensation, I never thought of
that. [After reflection.] Which means one of two things —
either I'm
not so famous as you think, or else being famous produces no
sensation at all.

NINA. What about seeing your name in the papers?

TRIGORIN. That's all right when they're nice about you. When they're
not nice you go about in a bad temper for a day or two.

NINA. What a wonderful world. If you knew how I envy you. People's
Hves work out so differently. Some barely drag out their days in drab
obscurity. They're all alike and all miserable. But others, you for
instance —^you're one in a miUion—have fascinating, briUiant Uves
full of meaning. You're lucky.
TRIGORIN. what, me? [Shrugging his shoulders.] Well — . You speak of
fame and happiness, and my fascinating, briUiant Hfe. Sorry, but
this nice talk only reminds me of boiled sweets —something I never
eat. You're very young and kind.
 THE SEAGULL Act Til'O 89

NINA. Your life's marvellous.

TRiGORiN. What's so nice about it? [Looks at his watch.] I must go and
write now. Sorry, I'm busy. [Laughs.] You've done what's called
treading on my favourite corn and now I'm getting excited and a bit
annoyed. Anyway, let me have my say. Let's talk about my wonder-
ful, briUiant Hfe. Right, where can we start? [After a little thought.]

Some people have obsessions and can't help thinking day and night
about something like the moon. Well, I'm a bit moonstruck too,
haunted day and night by this writing obsession. I must write, I
must — Hardly have I ended one story when I somehow have to
.

tackle another, then a third and fourth on top of that. I'm always
writing, never stop, can't help it. What's wonderful and brilliant
about that, eh ? It's such a barbarous life. Here am I talking to you and
getting quite excited, yet can't forget for a second that I've an
unfmished novel waiting for me. Or I see a cloud over there like a
grand piano. So I think it must go in a story. *A cloud like a grand
piano sailed past.' Or I smell heHotrope, and make a quick mental
note. 'Sickly scent. Flower. Sombre hue. Mention in description
of summer evening.' I try to catch every sentence, every word you
and I say and quickly lock all these sentences and words away in my
hterary storehouse because they might come in handy. When I

finish work, I rush off to the theatre or go fishing. That would be the
time to relax and forget, but not a bit of it. I already have another
great weight on my mind: a new plot. I feel I must go to my desk
hurry up and start writing, writing, writing all over again. This sort
of thing goes on all the time, I can never relax, and I feel I'm wasting
my life. I feel I'm taking pollen from my best flowers, tearing them
up and stamping on the roots — all to make honey that goes to some
vague, distant destination. I'm mad, I must be. Well, my friends and
acquaintances don't exaaly treat me as sane, do they? 'What are
you writing now ? What have you got in store for us ?' They keep on
and on and on, and to me it's all so bogus my friends' attention, —
praise and admiration. They deceive me, the way one does an
invahd, and I'm sometimes afraid they're just waiting to creep up,
grab me and cart me off to an asylum like the lunatic in Gogol.
And in my young days, in my best years, when I was just beginning,
this writing business was sheer agony. An obscure author feels

—
clumsy, awkward, out of place especially when things aren't
going well. He's all on edge with nervous strain. He can't help
hanging round hterary and artistic people, unrecognized, unnoticed,
90 THE SEAGULL Act TwO
afraid to look anyone in the face. Hc*s like a gambling addict who has
no money. I never saw any of my readers, but I somehow thought
of them as hostile and sceptical. I was afraid of the public, scared
stiff. When I put on a new play, I always felt the dark-haired people
in the audience were against me, while the fair-haired ones didn't
care either way. Isn't it awful ? What agony it was.
—
NINA. Yes, but look there is inspiration, the creative process. Doesn't
that give you moments of ecstasy?

TRIGORIN. Yes. Writing's pleasant enough. I like reading proofs too,

but as soon I now see it was all
as the stuff's in print I can't stand it —
wrong, all a mistake, and shouldn't have been written at all, and I
feel annoyed and fed up. [Laughing.] The pubUc reads it and says:

*Yes. Oh, how nice. Oh, how clever. Very nice, but not a patch on
Tolstoy.' Or: 'Marvellous stuff, but Turgenev's Fathers and Children is

better.' This way my work will go on being nice and clever, nice and
clever till my dying day, that's all, and when I'm dead my friends
will pass my grave and say: 'Here lies Trigorin, a fine writer. But not
as good as Turgenev.'
NINA. Sorry, I don't understand. You're simply spoilt by success.

TRIGORIN. what success? I've never satisfied myself. I dislike my own

work. I drift round in a trance and often can't make sense of what I

write, that's what's so awful. I love this lake here, the trees and the
sky, I've a feeling for nature —
it inspires me, gives me a violent urge

to write. But then I'm more than an artist, aren't I? I'm a citizen too.
I love my country and its people. As a writer, I feel I must discuss
ordinary people, their sufferings, their future — science, human rights,
all So I do discuss it, all in great haste, with everyone
that stuff.
furiously hounding me in all directions, while I scurry about like a
fox with the pack snapping at his heels. I seem to see life and learning
vanishing into the distance, while I lag more and more behind,
feeling like the village boy who missed the train, and end up beUev-
ing that I can only do nature descriptions and that everything else I
write is bogus through and through.
NINA. You've been overworking. You're too busy —and too unwilling
— to see how important you are. You're not satisfied with your-
Very well, but to others you're a great man, you're wonderful.
self.

If I was a great writer like you, I'd give my whole life to the people,
knowing that their only happiness was to rise to my level, and they'd
harness themselves to my chariot.
 THE SEAGULL Act TwO 9I

TRiGORiN. A chariot, eh? Who do you take me for —Agamemnon?

[Both smile.]

NINA. If I was lucky enough to be a writer or actress, I wouldn't mind

my family and friends disliking me, or being poor and disappointed.
I'd live in a garret on black bread. I'd suffer, being dissatisfied with
myself and knowing how imperfect I was. But I should insist on
being a real celebrity, with all the tumult and the shouting that go
with it. [Covers her face with her hands.] My head's swimming. Oh
dear!

IRINA [off-stage, speaking from inside the house]. Boris!

TRIGORIN. I'm wanted. This means I have to pack. But I don't feel
like leaving. [Looks round at the lake.] I say, isn't it superb Wonderful
!

NINA. You see the house and garden on the other side?
TRIGORIN. Yes.
NINA. That was poor Mother's place. I was born there, I've spent my
whole Hfe near this lake and I know every little island on it.
TRIGORIN. It's a wonderful spot. [Looking at the seagiilL] What's that?
NINA. A seagull. Constantine shot it.

TRIGORIN. A beautiful bird. I really don't feel like leaving. Can't you
persuade Irina to stay? [Makes a note in his hook.]

NINA. What are you writing?

TRIGORIN. Nothing, just a note. An idea for a plot. [Putting his book
away.] A plot for a short story. A young girl like you has lived all

her Hfe by a lake. Like a seagull, she loves the lake, and she's happy
and free Uke a seagull. But a man happens to come along and wrecks
her life for want of anything better to do. As happened to this
seagull.

[Pause. IRINA appears at a window.]

IRINA. Boris, where are you?

TRIGORIN. Coming. [Moves off and looks back at nin A. Near the window y

to IRINA.] What is it?

IRINA. We're staying.

[t R I G o R I N goes indoors.]

NINA [comes to the front of the stage, after some refection]. It's all a dream.

CURTAIN
 ACT THREE
The dining-room in sorin's house. Doors, right and left. A side-
board and medicine cupboard. A table in the middle
of the room. A
suitcase, cardboard boxes and other signs of an impending departure.
TRiGORiN 15 having lunch and mas ha stands by the table.

MASHA. I'm telling you all this because you're a writer and can use it.

Quite honestly, if he'd wounded himself seriously I couldn't have

gone on living one minute. I'm quite brave, though, so I simply
decided to wrench this love out of my heart and uproot it.

TRIGORIN. But how?

MASHA. By getting married. To Medvedenko.
TRIGORIN. That schoolmaster?
MASHA. Yes.

TRIGORIN. I don't see the need.

MASHA. To be hopelessly in love, just waiting, waiting for years on

end — But when I'm married I shan't bother about love, new worries
.

will drive out old, and anyway it'll make a change, won't it?
Shall we have another?

TRIGORIN. Aren't you overdoing it a bit?

MASHA. Oh, come on. [Fills two glasses.] Don't look at me like that,
women drink a lot more than you think. A few do it openly Hke
me, but most keep quiet about it. Oh yes they do. And it's always
vodka or brandy. [Clinks glasses.] All the best. You're a decent sort,
I'm sorry we shan't see each other again. [They drink.]

TRIGORIN. I don't want to go, actually.

MASHA. Then ask her to stay.

TRIGORIN. No, she won't stay now. Her son's being very tactless.
First he tries to shoot himself, and now they say he means to challenge
me to a duel. Why? He frets, fusses, crusades about new artistic

forms —but there's plenty of room for both new and old, isn't there?
Must we get in each other's way?
MASHA. He's just jealous. No business of mine, anyway.
 THE SEAGULL Act Three 93

[Pause. JACOB crosses the stage from left to right, carrying a suitcase.

NINA comes in and stands by the window.]

MASH A. My schoolmaster's not all that bright, but he is kind. He's

poor and very much in love with me. I'm sorry for him, and for his
old mother too. Ah well, let me wish you all the best. Remember me
kindly. [Shakes him firmly by the hand.] Thanks for being so nice. Send
me your books, and mind you write something in them, not 'with
respects'. Just put: *To Masha, who doesn't know where she comes
from or what she's doing on this earth'. Good-bye. [Goes out.]
NINA [stretching one arm towards trigorin with the fist clenched].
Odd or even?

TRIGORIN. Even.
NINA [with a sigh]. Wrong, it's odd. I was trying to decide whether to
go on the stage or not, I wish someone would advise me.
TRIGORIN. You can't give advice about that sort of thing. [P^jMse.]

NINA. We're parting, perhaps we'll never meet again. Please accept
this httle medallion to remember me by. I had your initials engraved

on it, and there's the title of your book Days and Nights on the other
side.

TRIGORIN. How charming. [Kisses the medallion.] A dehghtful present.

NINA. Think of me sometimes.
TRIGORIN. I shall indeed, I'll think of you as you were on that sunny
— —
day remember? a week ago, when you wore your Hght dress.
We were talking and there was that white bird lying on the bench.
NINA [thoughtfully]. Yes, the seagull. [P^M^e.] We can't talk any more,
someone's coming. Give me two minutes before you go — please.
[Goes out, left. At the same time irina comes in, right, with sorin, who
wears a tail-coat with the star ofsome decoration. He isfollowed by ]AC0B,
who attends to the luggage.]

irina. Stay at home, old boy. You shouldn't go gadding about, not
with your rheumatism. [To trigorin.] Who went out just then?
Nina?
TRIGORIN. Yes.
irina. I'm sorry, we're intruding. [Sits down.] I think I've packed
everything. I'm worn out.

TRIGORIN [reads the inscription on the medallion]. 'Days and Nights^

page 121, lines 11 and 12.'
 — .

94 THE SEAGULL Act Three

JACOB [clearing the table]. Shall I pack your fishing-rods too, sir?

TRIGORIN. Yes, ril be needing them, but you can give away the books.

JACOB. Yes sir.

TRIGORIN [to himself], 'Page 121, lines 11 and 12.' I wonder what
those lines are. [To irina.] Are there any of my books in the house?
IRINA. Yes, in the comer bookcase in my brother's study.

TRIGORIN. 'Page 121.* [Goes out.]

irina. You really should stay indoors, Peter.

SORIN. You're leaving and Til be miserable here without you.

IRINA. But what can you do in town?

SORIN. Nothing much, but still —

[Laughs.] They're laying the founda-
.

tion stone of the new council building and so on. I just want to get
out of this backwater for a couple of hours, I feel as stale as someone's
old cigarette-holder. I've ordered my carriage for one o'clock, so
we can leave together.

IRINA [after a pause]. Well, enjoy yourself here, don't get bored or
catch cold. And do look after Constantine —take care of him and
keep him in order. [P^Mie.] When I leave I still shan't know why
Constantine tried to shoot himself. Jealousy was the main reason,
I fancy, and the sooner I get Trigorin out of here the better.

SORIN. How can I put it? There was more to it than that. A clever
young man, buried in the country, with no money, position or
future, with nothing to do either —weD, it stands to reason.
He's afraid and ashamed to be so idle. I'm very fond of him,
and he's devoted to me.Still, he feels he doesn't really belong here,

that's what —
comes to feels like a hanger-on or poor relation. It's
it

just a matter of pride, stands to reason.

IRINA. Oh, isn't he a nuisance! [Thoughtfully.] Why can't he get a

job or something?
SORIN [whistles, then speaks hesitantly]. I think it would be best if
you —well, let him have a bit of cash. He ought to dress decently for
a start and so on. Well, look, he's been going round in that wretched
jacket for the last three years and he has no overcoat. [Laughs.] It

wouldn't hurt the boy to have a bit of fun, go abroad or something

it doesn't cost all that much, you know.
IRINA. Yes, but still — . I might run to a suit, but as for going abroad —
 THE SEAGULL Act Three 95

No, the way things are I can't afford even a suit. [Decisively.] I

haven't any money.

[SORIN laughs.]

IRINA. I haven't!

SORIN [whistles]. Very well then. I'm sorr\% dear, don't be angr\-. I

believe you. You're a fine, generous woman.

IRINA [through tears]. I haven*t any money.

SORIN. If I had some I'd give it him myself, stands to reason. But I

haven't, I'm broke. [Laughs.] My manager takes all my pension and

spends iton raising crops, cattle and bees, and my money's all
wasted. The bees die, the cows die, and they won't let me use the
horses.

IRINA. Well, I do have some money, but I am an actress, you know.

My dresses alone have ruined me.
SORIN. You're a nice, kind woman. I think highly of you, indeed I do.
But there's something wrong with me again. [Staggers.] I feel di2z\'.

[Grips the table.] I feel unwell and so on.

IRINA [terrified]. Peter! [Trying to support him.] Peter, darling! [5/iom/5.]
Help me! Help!
[Enter t r p l e v, with a bandage round his head, and mEDveD e NKo .

IRINA. He feels faint.

SORIN. Never mind, it's all right. [Smiles and drinks some water.] It's
over now and so on.
TREPLEV [^0 his mother]. Don't be firightened. Mother, it's nothing
serious. Uncle's been taken like this quite often lately. [To his uncle.]

You should he down. Uncle.

SORIN. For a bit, all right. But I'm still going to to-vsTi. I'll he down a
bit and then go, stands to reason. [Moves off, leaning on a stick.]

MEDVEDENKO [tokes his arm]. Do you know thisriddle? 'What

walks on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon and on three
legs in the evening?'

SORIN [laughs]. Yes, I know. 'And spends the night on its back.' I
can manage by myself, thanks very much.

MEDVEDENKO. Come, don't stand on ceremony. [He and sorin

go out.]

IRINA. How he did scare mc.

96 THE SEAGULL Act Three

TREPLEV. Country life's bad for him, it gets him down. Now, Mother,
if you suddenly felt generous and lent him a thousand or two, he
could spend a whole year in town.

IRINA. I haven't any money. I'm an actress, not a banker. [PflMse.]

TREPLEV. Will you change my bandage, Mother? You do it so well.

IRINA [gets some iodine and a box of bandages out of the medicine cupboard].
The doctor's late.

TREPLEV. He said he'd be here by ten, and it's midday already.

IRINA. Sitdown. [Takes the bandage off his head.] It looks like a turban.
Yesterday there was some visitor in the kitchen asking what
nationahty you were. Well, it's almost healed up, there's not much
wrong now. [Kisses his head.] You won't do anything naughty again
after I've left, will you?

TREPLEV. No, Mother. That was an instant of wild despair when I

couldn't control myself, it won't happen again. [Kisses her hand.] You
have such wonderful hands. I remember long ago when you were
still appearing in the State Theatres. and I was a Httle boy there —
was a fight in our yard and one of the tenants, a washerwoman, got
hurt badly. She was picked up unconscious, remember? You used to
visit her, take her medicine and bath her children in a tub. Don't you

remember?
IRINA. No. [Puts on afresh bandage.]

TREPLEV. There were two girls, ballet-dancers, living in the same

house. They used to come and have coffee with you.

IRINA. That I do remember.

TREPLEV. They were frightfully pious. [PaMse.] Just lately, these last
few days, I find I love you as tenderly and devotedly as when
I was a Uttlc boy. I've no one left but you now. But why, why do

you give in to that man?

IRINA. You don't understand him, Constantine. He's a fine character.

TREPLEV. Still, when he heard I meant to challenge him to a duel, his

fme character didn't save him from an attack of cold feet. He's leav-
ing, running away with his tail between his legs.

IRINA. Don't be silly, I asked him to leave myself

TREPLEV. A fme character! You and I nearly quarrel over him, while
 THE SEAGULL Act Three 97
he's in the drawing-room or garden or somewhere, laughing at us,
and —drawing Nina out, tr^'ing to make her see what a genius he is.

IRINA. You do so enjoy being disagreeable to me. I respect Trigorin,

so please don't be nasty about him when I'm around.
TREPLEV. Well, I don't respect him. You want me to think he's a
genius too, but I'm no good at lying, sorry, and his books just make
me sick.

IRINA. You're envious. Pretentious nobodies always run do\\'n really

brilliant people, that's all they're good for. I only hope it makes you
feel better.

TREPLEV [ironically]. Really briUiant people! [^w^n/y.] I'm more

talented than all you lot put together, if it comes to that. [Tears the
bandage off his head.] You hacks have a stranglehold on the arts.
You don't recognize or put up with anything except what you do
yourselves, everything else you sit on and crush. But I don't accept
you! I don't accept either you or him.
IRINA. Miserable decadent!

TREPLEV. Run along to your precious theatre and act in your rotten
feeble plays

IRINA. I've never aaed in such plays. Leave me alone! You couldn't
even write a tenth-rate farce. Provincial shopkeeper! Scrounger!

TREPLEV. Miser!
IRINA. Tramp!

[treplev sits down and quietly cries.]

IRINA. You nobody! [Walking up and down excitedly.] Don't cry.

Stop crying. [Cnci.] Do stop. [Kisses his forehead, cheeks and head.]
My darhng boy, I'm sorry. Forgive your wicked mother. Forgive
me, I'm so unhappy.

TREPLEV [puts his arms round her]. Oh, if you did but know! I've
nothing left. She doesn't love me and I can't write any more. My
hopes have all come to nothing.

IRINA. Don't give up, it'll all come right. He's going away now
and she'U love you again. [ Wipes away his tears.] Don't cry. We're
friends again.

TREPLEV [kisses her hands]. Yes, Mother.

98 THE SEAGULL Act Three

IRINA [tenderly]. And you make it up with him too. We can't have a
duel, can we ?
TREPLEV. All right. But I don't want to meet him, Mother, do you
mind? This business depresses me, I can't cope.

[trigorin comes in.]

TREPLEV. oh—I'll go. [Quickly clears the first-aid material into the cup-
board.] The doctor can put my bandage on later.

TRIGORIN [looking in a hook]. Page 121, Hues 11 and 12. Ah. [l^eaij.]

*If you should ever need my life, then come and take it.'

[tre? LEW picks the bandage off the floor and goes out.]

IRINA [glancing at her watch]. The carriage wiU be here soon.

TRIGORIN [to himself]. *If you should ever need my Hfe, then come and
take it.'

IRINA. I hope all your things are packed?

TRIGORIN [impatiently]. Yes, yes. [Thoughtfiilly.] This appeal from a
pure, innocent girl —why does it sound so sad ? Why does it wring
my heart so painfully ? 'If you should ever need my life, then come
and take it.' [To irina.] Let's stay another day.

[iRiNA shakes her head.]

TRIGORIN. Let's stay.

IRINA. I know why you want to stay, dear, but you must pull yourself
together. You're a Httle intoxicated, so sober down.
TRIGORIN. Then you sober down as well be reasonable and sensible,—
please. You must look on all this as a true friend. [Presses her hand.]
You're capable,of sacrifice. So be a friend and set me free.
IRINA [greatly upset]. Are you so infatuated?

TRIGORIN. she attracts me. Perhaps this is just what I need.

IRINA. The love of a Httle provincial miss? How little you know
yourself.

TRIGORIN. You know how people sometimes sleep-walk? Talking

to you now, I feel as if I was asleep, dreaming of her. I'm possessed
by visions of dehght. Do set me free.
IRINA [trembling]. No, no, no. You can't talk to me like that, I'm only
an ordinary woman. Don't torture me, Boris. I'm terrified.

TRIGORIN. You can be extraordinary if you want. Young love,

enchanting and magical love that sweeps you off your feet into a
 THE SEAGULL Act Three 99
make-believe world —can anything else on this earth give one
happiness? I've never known such love before —never had time for
it young man because I was for ever hanging round editors'
as a

and trying to make ends meet. But now, you see, this love
offices

has come at last, it calls me on. Why should I run away from it?

IRINA [dtt^n'/)']. You must be mad.

TRiGORiN. Perhaps I am.
IRINA. You're all conspiring to torment me today. [Cn>5.]

TRIGORIN [clutches his head]. She doesn't understand, she won't

understand.

IRINA. Am I really so old and ugly that you don't mind talking to me
about other women? [Embraces and kisses him.] Oh, you're mad.
My marvellous, splendid man. You're the last page in my life.

[Kneels down.] My dehght, my pride, my joy! [Embraces his knees.]

If you leave me for one hour I shan't survive, I shall go mad, my
wonderful, splendid one. My master.
TRIGORIN. Someone might come in. [Helps her to her feet.]

IRINA. Let them, I'm not ashamed of loving you. [Kisses his hands.]

My dear, reckless boy, you want to do something crazy, but I won't

have it, I won't let you. [Laughs.] You're mine, mine. This fore-
head's mine, these eyes are mine, this lovely silky hair's mine too.
You're mine, of you. You're so briUiant, so clever, you're the
all

best writer of our day —

Russia's only hope, so sincere and natural,
with your spontaneity and healthy humour. You can put over the
essence of a person or landscape with one stroke of the pen. Your
characters are so alive, one can't read you without being moved. Too
much hero-worship, you think ? Think I'm flattering you ? Then look
in my eyes, come on. Do I look like a Uar? There, you see, I'm the
only one who appreciates you, I'm the only one who tells you the
truth, my wonderful darling. You will come, won't you? You won't
desert me, will you ?
TRIGORIN. I've no will of my own, never have had. I'm a flabby,
spineless creature that always does what it's told —surely that's not
what women like. Take me then, carry me off, but don't ever let

me move one step from your side.

IRINA [to herself]. Now he's mine. [Off-handedly and casually.] Actually,
you can stay on if you want. I'll leave on my own and you can
come later, in a week's time. What's the hurry, after all?
 ! —

icx) THE SEAGULL Act Three

TRIGORIN. No, we may as well go together.

IRINA. As you like. We'll go together if you say so.

[Pause. TRIGORIN makes a note in his book.]

IRINA. What's that?

TRIGORIN. I heard a good phrase this morning

— *a virgin pine- wood*.
It might come in. [Stretches.] So we're going, are we? More railway
carriages, stations, refreshment-rooms, mutton-chops and talk.

SHAMRAYEV [comes in]. I have the honour to announce with great

regret that your carriage is ready. It's time to leave for the station,
dearest lady, the train's due in at five past two. Now, would you do
me a favour —remember to ask where the actor Suzdaltsev is these
days ? Is he and kicking ? We're old drinking companions. He
alive
used to steal the show in The Mail-Coach Robbery. In those days, I
—
remember, Izmaylov another remarkable personahty who played
in tragedies —
belonged to the same company in Yelizavetgrad.
There's no hurry, dearest lady, you've another five minutes. They
were playing the villains in a melodrama once, when they were
suddenly caught and Izmaylov was supposed to say: 'We're caught in
a trap'. But he said: 'We're trapped in a court*. [Laughs loudly.]
Trapped in a court
[While he is speaking, Jacob is busy with the suitcases. The maid

brings irina her hat, cloak, umbrella and gloves. All help irina into
her clothes. The chef looks in through the door, left, and comes in
after some hesitation, polina comes in, followed by sorin and

MEDVEDENKO.]
POLINA [with a basket]. Here are some plums for the journey —very
sweet, you might feel like a bite.

IRINA. You're most kind, Polina.

POLINA. Good-bye, my dear. I'm sorry if there's been anything
amiss. [Cries.]

IRINA [embraces her]. Everything's been wonderful, just wonderful

there's no need to cry.

POLINA. Our time is nearly over.

IRINA. That can't be helped.

•SORIN [comes in through the door, left, wearing a hooded coat and a hat, and
carrying a stick. Passes through the room]. It's time we left, Irina, or
 THE SEAGULL Act Three loi

we may miss the train, that's what it comes to. I'll get in the carriage.
[Goes out.]

MED VEDENKO. I'll walk to the station and see them off. It won't take
long. [Goes out.]

IRINA. Good-bye, darlings. We'll meet again next summer if we're

alive and well. [The maid, jacob and the chef kiss her hand.]
Now, don't forget me. [Gives the chef a rouble.] Here's a rouble for
you three.

CHEF. Thank you kindly, madam. Have a good journey. Thank you
for your kindness.
JACOB. God speed.

SHAMRAYEV. Do drop US a line. Good-bye, Trigorin.

IRINA. Where's Constantine ? Will you tell him I'm leaving ? I must say
good-bye. Ah well, don't think too badly of me. [To jacob.]
I gave the cook a rouble. That's for the three of you.
[All go out, right. The stage is empty. The sound of leave-taking off-
stage. The MAID comes back to fetch the basket of plums from the

table and goes out again.]

TRIGORIN [coming back]. I forgot my stick, I think it's on the terrace
there. [Moves off and meets nin A as she comes in through the door, left.]

Ah, it's you. We're just off.

NINA. I was sure we'd meet again. [Excitedly.] Mr. Trigorin, I've made
up my mind once and for all, I've burnt my boats and I'm going on
the stage. I shan't be here tomorrow, I'm leaving Father and throwing
everything up to start a new life. I'm going away, same as you to —
Moscow. We'll meet there.

TRIGORIN [looking round]. Put up at the Slav Fair. Let me know at

once, I'll be in Molchanov Street —Grokholsky House. I must

hurry. [P^iMse.]

NINA. Just a moment

TRIGORIN [m an undertone]. You're so lovely. What happiness to think
we'll soon meet again! [She leans her head on his chest.] Once more
I'll see your wonderful eyes, your tender smile, lovely beyond
description. Your soft features, your look of angeUc purity. My
darhng — . [A lengthy kiss.]

CURTAIN
There is an interval of two years between Acts Three and Four.
 ACT FOUR
A drawing-room in sorin*5 house, which treplev has turned
into a study. Doors, right and left, leading into inner rooms. Facing
the audience, a french window opening on a terrace. Besides the
usual drawing-room furniture there is a desk in the comer, right.
Near the door, left, an ottoman. A bookcase. Books on window-
ledges and chairs.

Evening. One shaded lamp is alight. It is rather dark. Sound of

trees rustling and ofxvind howling in the chimneys. A watchman is

banging, medvedenko and masha come in.

MASH A [calling out]. Constantine, Constantine! [Looking round.] No

one about. The old man keeps asking for Constantine every minute
of the day. He must have him around.
MEDVEDENKO. He's afraid of being lonely. [Listening.] What horrible
weather, this is the second day of it.

MASHA [turning up the lamp]. The lake's very rough, there are huge
waves.
MEDVEDENKO. dark in the garden. That stage out there they
It's —
should have had knocked down. There it stands, bare and ugly as a
it

skeleton, with the curtain banging in the wind. Going past last night
I thought I heard someone crying there.

MASHA. Ah well. [PaM5e.]

MEDVEDENKO. Come home, Masha.

MASHA [shakes her head]. I'm staying here tonight.

MEDVEDENKO [imploringly]. Come on, Masha, baby must be hungry.

MASHA. I don't care, let Matryona feed it. [PiiMse.]

MEDVEDENKO. I'm sony for him, this'U be three nights without his
mother.
MASHA. You arc a bore these days. You did have a little general con-
versation once, but now it's all baby, baby, baby, home, home, home.
That's all you ever say.

MEDVEDENKO. Come on, Masha.

 THE SEAGULL Act FOUT IO3

MASH A. You can go by yourself.

MEDVEDENKO. Youf father won't give me a horse.

MASH A. Oh yes he will if you ask him.
MEDVEDENKO. Perhaps I will then. So you'll come tomorrow?
MASH A [takes snuff]. All right, tomorrow. Can't you leave me alone?
[treplev and polina come in. treplev carries pillows and a
blanket, Wpolina has some hed-linen. They put them on the ottoman,

after which treplev sits at his desk.\

MAS HA. Who's that for, Mother?

POLINA, Mr. Sorin asked to have a bed made up in Constantine's
room.
MASHA. Let me do it. [Makes the bed.]

POLINA [with a sigh]. Old men are such children. [Goes up to the
desk, leans her elbows on it and looks at a manuscript. Pause.]

MEDVEDENKO. I'll go then. Good night, Masha. [Kisses his wife's hand.]
Good night, Mother. [Tries to kiss his mother-in-law's hand.]
POLINA [annoyed]. Well, go if you're going.

MEDVEDENKO. Good night, Constantine.

[treplev silently shakes hands, medvedenko^ow out.]

POLINA [looking at the manuscript]. No one ever dreamt you'd be a real
author, Constantine, but now the magazines have started paying
you, thank goodness. [Strokes his hair.] You've become good-looking
too. Please be a bit nicer to my poor Masha, dear.
MASHA [making up the bed]. Leave him alone, Mother.
POLINA [fo treplev]. Shc's such a nice girl. [PrtH5e.] A woman needs
nothing, Constantine, just a few kind looks. I've learnt that.

[treplev gets up from the desk and goes out without speaking.]

MASHA. Now you've annoyed him. Why go on at him?

POLINA. I'm sorry for you, Masha.
MASHA. A lot of use that is!

POLINA. My heart aches for you. I see everything, you know, I

understand.

MASHA. Don't be so silly. Unhappy love affairs are only found in novels.
What nonsense! The thing is, don't give way to it, and don't moon
104 THE SEAGULL Act FOUT
around waiting for the tide to turn. If love enters your heart, get rid
of it. My husband's been promised a job in another part of the
country. I'm going to forget all this when we move. I'll tear it from
my heart.

[A melancholy waltz is played in the next room but one.]

POLINA. That's Constantine playing, he must be depressed.

MASHA [silently does two or three waltz steps]. The thing is not to keep
seeing him, Mother. If only Simon gets that new job, I'll be over this

in a month, take it from me. It's all so silly.

[The door, left, opens, dorn and medvedenko push sorin

through in his bath-chair.]

MEDVEDENKO. I've six mouths to feed now, and with flour at two
copecks a pound.

DORN. He can hardly make ends meet.

MEDVEDENKO. All right, laugh —you're rolling in money.
DORN. Oh, am I? My friend, in thirty years of practice a busy practice —
with hardly a moment to call my own, day or night I managed to —
save only two thousand roubles and I just got through those on my
trip abroad. I'm broke.
MASHA [to her husband]. Still here?
MEDVEDENKO [guiltily]. Can I help it if they won't give me a horse?

MASHA [bitterly annoyed, in a low voice]. Out of my sight!

[The bath-chair comes to rest on stage left, polina, mas ha and
DORN sit down near lY. medvedenko, saddened, moves to one side.]

DORN. You've made a lot of changes, though. You've turned the

drawing-room into a study.

MASHA. It's better for Constantine's work, he can go in the garden and
think when he wants to.

[The watchman bangs.]

SORIN. Where's my sister?

DORN. Gone to the station to meet Trigorin, she'll be back any

moment.
SORIN. If you felt my sister had to be sent for, I really must be ill.
[After a short pause.] It's a —
frmny thing I'm seriously ill, but I don't
get any medicine.
 — I

THE SEAGULL Act FoUT IO5

DORN. What would you like? Valerian drops? Soda? Quinine?

SORIN. Oh, the speeches have started. This is the limit. [Nods towards
the sofa.] Is that bed for me?
POLINA. Yes.
SORIN. Thank you.
DORN [singing softly]. 'See the moon floating by in the evening sky.'

SORIN. I'd like to give Constantine a plot for a novel. It ought to be

called The Man who Wanted—L'homme qui a vouhi. In youth I
wanted to become a writer — I didn't. I wanted to speak well —
spoke atrociously. [Mocks himself] 'And all that sort, er, of thing, er,

don't yer know.' I'd be doing a summing-up sometimes, and find

myself jawing on and on till I broke out in a sweat. I wanted to
—
marry I didn't. I wanted to live in town all the time and here I —
am ending my days in the country and so on.
DORN, You wanted to become a senior civil servant—and did.

SORIN [laughs]. That's one thing I wasn't keen on, it just happened.
DORN. To talk about being fed up with life at the age of sixty-two
that's a bit cheap, wouldn't you say?
SORIN. Don't keep on about it, can't you see I want a bit of Hfe?
DORN. That's just silly. All life must end, it's in the nature of things.

SORIN. You're spoilt, that's why you You've always had

talk like this.
what you wanted, so life doesn't matter to you, you just don't bother.
But even you'll be afraid of dying.
DORN. Fear of death's an animal thing, you must get over it. It only
makes sense to fear death if you believe in immortality and are scared
because you've sinned. But you aren't a Christian for a start, and
—
then what sins have you committed? You've worked for the
Department of Justice for rsventy-five years, that's all.
SORIN [laughs]. Twenty-eight.
[treplev comes in and sits down on a stool at sORiN'5/eer. masha
stares at him throughout.]
DORN. We're stopping Constantine working.
TREPLEV. No, it's all right. [PflH5e.]

MEDVEDENKO. Doctor, which town did you like best abroad, may
one ask ?
DORN. Genoa.
I06 THE SEAGULL Act FoUT

TREPLEV. Why Genoa?

D o R N. The street Ufe is so wonderful. Leaving your hotel in the evening,
you find the whole street jammed with people, and you drift round
in the crowd, going any old where in any old direction. You share
its life, enter into and begin to think there really could be
its spirit

such a thing as a World one Nina Zarechny once acted

Spirit, like the

in your play. By the way, where is Miss Zarechny these days ? Where
is she and how is she?

TREPLEV. She's well, I presume.

I
DORN. I heard she was leading a rather odd life. What's it all about?
TREPLEV. That's a long story. Doctor.
DORN. Then make it short. [PdM5e.]

TREPLEV. she ran away from home and had an affair with Trigorin.
You knew that?

DORN. Yes.

TREPLEV. she had a baby. It died. Trigorin tired of her and returned
to his former attachments, as could only be expected. He never
really gave them up in point of fact, but somehow contrived in his
feeble way to keep a foot in both camps. Nina's private life has been
a disaster so far as I can see.

DORN. And her stage career?

TREPLEV. Even worse, I think. She started off in a theatre at a resort

near Moscow somewhere, then went to the provinces. I kept her
under observation at the time, followed her about for a while. She
always took leading roles, but her acting was crude and inept, with
lots of ranting and hamming. She had her moments when she
screamed superbly and died superbly. But moments they remained.
DORN. Then she must be some good after all?

TREPLEV. It was hard to tell. I suppose so. I saw her, but she wouldn't
see me and the hotel servants wouldn't let me in her room. I knew
how she felt and didn't insist on a meeting. [P<2H5e.] What else can I
say? Back home afterwards I had some letters from her—^bright,
affectionate, interesting letters. She didn't complain, but I sensed
that she was deeply unhappy. Every line seemed sick, like a frayed
nerve, and her mind was shghtly unhinged. She used to sign herself
'Seagull'. Like the miller who calls himself a raven in Pushkin's Mer-
maid, she kept calling herself a seagull in her letters. Now she's here.
 !

THE SEAGULL Act FoUT IO7

DORN. Here? What do you mean?

TREPLEV. Staying at an inn in town, she's been there four or five days.
I was going to visit her and Masha here went over, but she won't

see anyone. Simon Medvedenko claims he saw her yesterday after-

noon somewhere in the fields a couple of miles away.
MEDVEDENKO. Yes I did, she was walking away firom here towards

town. I bowed, asked why she didn't come over. She said she would.
TREPLEV. She won't. [Paw^e.] Her father and stepmother will have
nothing to do with her, they've posted look-outs everywhere to stop
her even going near the place. [Moves towards the desk with the
DOCTOR.] It's easy enough to be a philosopher on paper, Doctor, but
how hard to act like one
SORIN. She was a delightful girl.

DORN. What?
SORIN. she was a deHghtfiil girl, I say. Mr. Senior Civil Servant Sorin
was even in love with her for a bit.

DORN. Ah, you old dog.

[sHAMRAYEv'5 laugh is heard fiom off-stage.]

POLINA. I think the others have just got back firom the station.
TREPLEV. Yes, I hear Mother.

[Enter irina and TTt.iG orin, followed by shamrayev.]

SHAMRAYEV [coming in]. We don't get any younger, we're all a bit
weather-beaten through exposure to the elements —but you're still

as young as ever, dearest lady, in that gay blouse, so Hvely and

graceful.

IRINA. You'll bring me bad luck again, you tiresome man.

TRiGORiN [to sorin].Good evening, Peter. Why are you always
unwell? It's very wrong of you. [Seeing masha, delightedly.]

Masha!
MASHA. So you do recognize me? [Shakes hands.]
TRIGORIN. Married?
MASHA. Ages ago.
TRIGORIN. Happy? [Exchanges bows with dorn and medvedenko,
then hesitantly approaches T rep lev.] Irina says you've forgotten the
past and aren't angry any more.

[treplev holds out his hand.]

I08 THE SEAGULL Act FoUf

IRINA [to her son]. Look, Boris brought the magazine with your new
story.

TREPLEV [taking the volume^ ^o trigorin]. Thank you, most kind of

you. [They sit down.]
TRiGORiN. Your admirers send their best wishes. There's great interest
in you in St. Petersburg and Moscow, and I'm always being asked
—
about you what's he Uke, how old is he, is he dark or fair? Some-
how everyone thinks you're not all that young. And you publish
under a pseudonym, so no one knows your real name. You're an
enigma hke the Man in the Iron Mask.
TREPLEV. Are you staying long?
TRIGORIN. No, I Moscow tomorrow, I have to.
intend to go back to
There's a novel must finish soon, and then I promised to do some-
I

thing for a collection of stories. Business as usual, in other words.

[While they are speaking, irina and polina put a card-table in the

middle of the room and open it. shamrayev lights candles and places
chairs round it. They take a game of lotto out of the cupboard.]

TRIGORIN. The weather's not being very kind, there's a nasty wind. If
it drops by tomorrow morning, I'm going fishing by the lake. And

I must look at the garden while I'm about it, and the place where your

—
play was put on remember? I've a subject for a story and I only need
to refresh my memory of the scene.

MASH A [to her father]. Father, can Simon have a horse? He must get
home.
SHAMRAYEV [detisively]. Horse? Must get home? [Sternly.] They've
only just been to the station, you can see for yourself. We can hardly
have them out again.
MASH A. There are other horses. [As her father does not speak, makes a
gesture of despair.] Oh, you're impossible.

MEDVEDENKO. I Can walk, Masha, really

POLINA [with a sigh]. Walk in weather Hke this! [Sits down at the card-

Come on, all of you.

table.]

MEDVEDENKO. Well, it's only four miles. Good night. [Kisses his wife's

hand.] Good night. Mother. [His mother-in-law reluctantly holds out

her hand for him to kiss.] If it weren't for the baby I wouldn't have
bothered anyone. [Bows to everyone.] Good night. [Goes out, walking
in an apologetic way.]
 THE SEAGULL Act FoUT IO9

SHAMRAYEV. He Can walk, can't he? He's not all that high and mighty.
POLINA [hangs the table]. Come on, everyone. Let's not waste time,
they'll be calUng us for supper soon.

[sHAMRAYEV, MASHA and DORN sit at the table.]

IRINA [fo trigorin]. In the long autumn evenings one plays lotto in
these parts —
look, the same old lotto that my mother played with us
as children. Won't you have a game before supper? [Sits at the table

with TRIGORIN.] It's boring, but not bad when you get used to it.

[Deals everyone three cards.]

TREPLEV [turning the pages of the magazine]. He read his own story, but
didn't even cut the pages of mine. [Puts the magazine on the desk,
then moves towards the door, left. Passing his mother, he kisses her on the
head.]

IRINA. How about you, Constantine?

TREPLEV. Sorry, I don't feel much like it, I'm going for a stroll.

[Goes out.]

IRINA. The stake's ten copecks. Will you put up ten copecks for me,
Doctor?
DORN. All right.

MASHA. Have you all staked? I'll begin. Twenty-two.

IRINA. Yes.

MASHA. Three.
DORN. Right.

MASHA. Have you put down three? Eight. Eighty-one. Ten.

SHAMRAYEV. Don't go so fast.

IRINA. I had such a reception in Kharkov, dears, I'm still dizzy.

MASHA. Thirty-four.

[A sad waltz is played off-stage.]

IRINA. The students almost brought the house down. I had three baskets
of flowers, two bouquets and this. [Takes a brooch from her breast and
throws it on the table.]

SHAMRAYEV. Ycs, that's quite something.

MASHA. Fifty.

DORN. You mean five-oh?

no THE SEAGULL Act Four

IRINA. I was superbly turned out — that's something I do know, how

to dress.

POLINA. Constantine*s playing the piano — ^he*s depressed, poor boy.

SHAMRAYEV. They're so nasty about him in the newspapers.

MAS HA. Seventy-seven.

IRINA. He's a fool to let that bother him.

TRIGORIN. Things aren't going too well, he still can't find his real
level. There's something vaguely odd about his stuff, and some of it
even seems rather wild. None of his characters is ever really alive.

MASH A. Eleven.

IRINA [looking round at sorin]. Bored, Peter? [Pams^.] He's asleep.

DORN. Our senior civil servant's asleep.

mas HA. Seven. Ninety.

TRIGORIN. You wouldn't catch me writing if I Uved in a house by a

lake like this. I'd get over the urge and do nothing but fish.

MAS HA. Twenty-eight.

TRIGORIN. To catch a perch or a ruff—what bUss!

DORN. Well, I beUeve in Constantine. He's got something, I tell you.

He thinks in images, his stories are bright and vivid and I find them
very moving. I'm only sorry he has no defmite aims. He produces an
and mere effects don't get you
effect, that's all, all that far, do they?
Are you glad your son's an author, Irina?
IRINA. You know, I've never yet read his stuff, never have time.

MASH A. Twenty-six.

[t REP LEV comes in quietly and goes to his desk.]

SHAMRAYEV [^otrigorin]. We Still have that thing of yours, Boris.

TRIGORIN. what thing?

SHAMRAYEV. Constantine shot a seagull that time and you asked me to
have it stuffed.

TRIGORIN. I can't remember. [Reflecting.] I can't remember.

MAS HA. Sixty-six. One.

TREPLEV [throws open the window and listens]. Isn't it dark! Tm terribly
worried, I don't know why.
 THE SEAGULL Act FoUT III

IRINA. Do close the window, Constantine, there's a draught.

[treplev closes the window.]

MASH A. Eighty-eight.

TRiGORiN. I've won, everybody.

IRINA [^fli/y]. Well done, well done
SHAMRAYEV. Well done.

IRINA. The man's always lucky. [Stands up.] Now let's go and have a
bite of something. The great man missed his lunch today. We'll
go on again after supper. [To her son.] Leave your manuscripts,
Constantine, and let's have supper.
TREPLEV. I won't. Mother, I'm not hungry.

IRINA. As you wish. [Wakes sorin.] Peter, supper time. [Takes

SHAMRAYEV '5 arm.] I'll tell you about my reception at Kharkov.
[poLiNA puts out the candles on the table. Then she and do ^n wheel
out the bath-chair. All go out by the door, left, treplev, ii'ho is sitting

at the desk, is left alone on the stage.]

TREPLEV [15 intending to unite and looks through what he has already
written]. I've talked so much about new techniques, but now I feel

I'm gradually getting in the old rut. [Reads.] 'The notice on the fence
stated.' 'A pale face, framed in dark hair.' 'Stated', 'framed'. Very
second-rate. [Crosses it out.] I'll start when my hero's woken up by
the rain and cut out all the rest. The description of the moonlit
evening is long and forced. Trigorin's worked out his methods, it's

easy enough for him. He gives you the neck of a broken botde
gUttering against a weir and the black shadow of a mill-wheel and —
your moonlit night all cut and dried. But I have a quivering
there's
hght and the silent twinkling of the stars and the distant sound of a
piano dying on the calm, scented air. This is agony. [P^wie.] Yes, I'm
more and more convinced that old or new techniques are neither
here nor there. The thing is to write without thinking about
—
technique write from the heart, because it all comes pouring out.
[Someone knocks on the window nearest to the table.] What's thitr'
[Looks through the window.] Can't see anything. [Opens the fren:ii
window and looks into the garden.] Someone ran down the steps.
[C<3//i.] Who's there? [Goes out and can be heard walking quickly along
the terrace. Haifa minute later he comes back with nina.] Nina, Niiul

[nina lays her head on his breast and sobs quietly.]

112 THE SEAGULL Act FoUT

TREPLEV [very moved]. Nina, Nina! It*s you you. I thought you'd —
come somehow, I've been terribly overwrought all day. [Takes off
her hat and cape.] Oh, my dear, my darling. She's come! There now,
don't cry.

NINA. There's someone here.

TREPLEV. No.
NINA. Lock the doors or someone may come in.

TREPLEV. No one will come in.

NINA- 1 know Irina Arkadin's here. Lock the doors.

TREPLEV [locks the door, right, and goes over to the door, left]. This one
doesn't lock, I'll put a chair against it. [Puts an armchair against the
door.] Don't worry, no one will come in.

NINA [stares into his face]. Let me look at you. [Looks round the room.]
It's nice and warm. This used to be the drawing-room. Am I very
changed?
TREPLEV. Yes. You're thinner and your eyes are bigger. It's somehow
strange to be seeing you, Nina. Why wouldn't you let me visit you,
why didn't you come and see us before? You've been here nearly a
week, I know. I've been over every day several times and stood by
your window like a beggar.

NINA. I was afraid you hated me. Every night I dream you look at me
and don't recognize me. Oh, if only you knew! Ever since I arrived
I've been going for walks —
by the lake. I've been near your house
lots of times, but couldn't bring myself to go in. Shall we sit down?
[They sit down.] Let's sit down and talk and talk. It's nice and warm
here, very cosy. Do you hear the wind? There's a passage in Tur-
genev: 'Lucky the man with a roof over his head and somewhere
to be warm on a night like this'. I'm a seagull. No, that's wrong.
[Wipes her forehead.] What was I saying? Oh yes, Turgenev, 'And
may the Lord help all homeless wanderers.* Never mind. [5ot5.]
TREPLEV. Nina, you're crying again. Nina!

NINA. It's all right, it does me good. I hadn't cried for two years. I

w^ent in the garden late last night to see if our stage was still standing.
And there it still is. I cried for the first time in rv^-o years, and it was
such a rehef, it did me a lot of good. See, I'm not crying any more.
[Takes him by the hand.] So you're a writer now, you're a writer and
I'm an actress, we've got caught up in this hectic whirl. I used to be
 THE SEAGULL Act FoHT II3

as happy as a child and woke up singing in the morning, I loved you

and dreamed of being famous. But now I have to go to Yelets— .

early tomorrow morning, third class, along with the peasants. And
when I get there I shall be pestered with the attentions of the more
educated local businessmen. It's a rough life.

TREPLEV. Why Yelets?

NINA. I've taken an engagement for the winter. It*s time I went.

TREPLEV. Nina, I cursed you, hated you, tore up your letters and
photographs, but all along I've known that my whole being is bound

up with you for ever. I can't help loving you, Nina. Since I lost you
and began having my work published, hfe's been unbearable, sheer
agony. It's as if I'd suddenly stopped being young, I feel as if I was
ninety. I call upon you, kiss the ground you have trodden on. Wher-
—
ever I look I see your face the gentle smile that brightened the best
years of my Hfe.

NINA [taken aback]. Why does he say this—^why, why?

TREPLEV. Tm lonely, I haven't the warmth of anyone's devotion. I

feel cold, as in a vault, and all I write is so dry, stale, dismal. Stay
here, Nina, I beg you, or let me go with you.

[nina quickly puts on her hat and cape.]

TREPLEV. But why, Nina? For God's sake, Nina. [Watches her put on
her clothes. Pause.]

NINA. My carriage is at the gate. Don't see me off, I'll manage on my

own. [Through tears.] Give me some water.

TREPLEV [gives her some]. Where are you going now?

NINA. To town. [Pm<5e.] Is Irina Arkadin here?
TREPLEV. Yes. Uncle was taken worse on Thursday and we telegraphed
for her.

NINA. Why do you say you kissed the ground I trod on? I'm not fit to

live. [Bends over the Oh, I'm so tired, I need a rest, a rest. [Lifts
table.]

up her head.] I'm a seaguU. No, that's wrong. I'm an actress. Ah, well.
[Hearing irina and trigorin laughing, she listens, then runs to the
door, left, and looks through the keyhole.] He's here too. [Going back to

TREPLEV.] Ah, well. It doesn't matter. Yes. He didn't believe in the

stage, he always laughed at my dreams and I gradually stopped

beUeving too and lost heart. Then there were all the cares of love,
 —

114 THE SEAGULL Act FoUT

jealousy and constant fca^s for the baby. I became petty and small-

minded and my acting made no sense. I didn't know what to do with

my hands or know how to stand on the stage, and I couldn't control
my voice. You've no idea what it feels like to know you're acting
abominably. I'm a seagull. No, that's wrong. Remember you shot a
seagull? A man happened to come along, saw it and killed it, just to
pass the time. A plot for a short story. No, that's wrong. [ Wipes her
forehead.^ What was I saying? I was talking about the stage. Oh, I'm
different now, I'm a real actress. I enjoy acting, I adore it. I get
madly excited on stage, I feel I'm beautiful. And since I've been here,
I've kept going for walks, walking round and thinking thinking —
and feeling my morale improving every day. Constantine, I know
—
now, I've come to see, that in our work no matter whether we're
actors or writers —
the great thing isn't fame or glory, it isn't what
I used to dream of, but simply stamina. You must know how to bear

your cross and have faith. I have faith and things don't hurt me so
much now. And when I think of my vocation I'm not afraid of Hfe.

T REP LEV [ifl^/y]. You've found your road and you know where you're
going, while I still driftabout in a maze of dreams and images, not
knowing who needs my stuff or why. I've no faith and I don't know
what my vocation is.

NINA [pricking up her ears]. Shush! I must go. Good-bye. Come and see
me when I'm a great actress. Promise? But now— . [Presses his hand.]

It's late. I can hardly stand —I'm so exhausted and hungry.

TREPLEV. Stay, I'll get you some supper.

NINA. No, no. Don't see me off, I'll go on my own. My carriage is

quite near. So she brought him with her, did she ? Oh well, what of
it? When you see Trigorin,
don't say anything to him. I love him
love him even more than before. A plot for a short story. I love
him, love him passionately, desperately. Wasn't it nice in the old
days, Constantine? Do you remember? What a life it was so —
serene and warm, so happy and innocent. What emotions we felt
like exquisite, delicate blossoms. Do you remember? [Recites.]

*Men, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders and
silent fishes, denizens of the deep, starfishes and creatures invisible

that is, all life, all life, all life —

has completed its melancholy cycle and
died. For thousands of centuries Earth has not borne one living
creature, and in vain does that poor moon light her lamp. No
longer do cranes awake and call in the meadows and no may-beetles
 \

THE SEAGULL Act FoUT II5

can be heard in the Hme-groves.' [Embraces treplev impubively and

runs out through thefrench window.

TREPLEV [after a pause]. It'll be a pity if anyone sees her in the garden
and tells Mother. It might upset her. [Spends two minutes silently
tearing up all his manuscripts and throwing them under the desk, then
unlocks the door, right, and goes out.\

DORN [trying to open the door, left]. That's strange, the door seems to be
locked. [Comes in and puts the armchair hack in its place.] An obstacle
race.

[ima A and ?o LIN A come in, followed 5^ j acob, carryingsome bottles,

andMASHA, and finally by shamrayev and trigorin.]

IRINA. Put the claret and Mr. Trigorin's beer on the table here, we can
have a drink with our game. Come on, everyone, sit down.
POLINA [ro J acob]. And please bring in the tea right away. [Lights the
candles and sits down at the card-table.]

SHAMRAYEV [takes TRIGORIN over to the cupboard]. Here's the thing

I was talking about just now. [Takes the stuffed seagull from the cup-
board.] Your order, sir.

TRIGORIN [looking at the seagull].\c2^\ieniem}oez. [After some thought.]

I can't remember.
[A shot is heard from off-stage, right. Everyone gives a start.]

IRINA [terrifed]. What's that?

DORN. Don't worry. A bottle must have gone off inside my medical
bag, don't worry. [Goes out through door, and comes back half a
right,

minute later.] As I said. A bottle of ether's exploded. [Sings softly.]

'Once more enchanted I appear before thee.'

IRINA [sitting down at the table]. Oh dear, I was frightened. It reminded

me of when — . [Covers her face with her hands.] It made me feel quite

iU.

DORN [turning the pages of a magazine, to trigorin]. There was an

article in this thing about two months ago, a letter from America, and
I wanted to ask you, amongst other things — . [Takes trigorin by
the waist and leads him to the front of the stage.] Being extremely
interested in this matter — . [Dropping his voice, in an undertone.] Get
Irina out of here somehow. The fact is, Constantino has shot himself.

CURTAIN
 UNCLE VANYA
l^Jidn Bauji]

SCENES FROM COUNTRY LIFE

IN FOUR ACTS

(1897)
 CHARACTERS
ALEXANDER SEREBRYAKOV, a retired professor

HELEN, his wife, aged 27

SONY A, his daughter by his first wife

MRS. VOYNITSKY, the widow of a high official and

mother of the professor's first wife

VANYA VOYNITSKY, her son

MICHAEL ASTROV, a doCtOf

ILYA TELEGiN, an impoverished landowner

MARINA, an old nurse
A labourer
The action takes place on Serebryakov* s estate
 ACT ONE
The garden. Part of the house and terrace can he seen. A table, laid

for tea, stands on a path under an old poplar. Benches and chairs.

There is a guitar on one of the benches. Near the table is a swing.

It is between two and three o'clock in the afternoon. The sky is

overcast.

MARINA, a stout, elderly woman, slow in her movements, sits

by the samovar knitting a stocking, astrov walks up and down

near her.

marina [pours out a glass of tea]. Do have some tea, Doctor.

ASTROV [reluctantly accepts the glass]. I don't really feel like it.

MARINA. A little vodka then?

ASTROV. No, it^s not every day I drink vodka. Besides it's so stuffy-
today. [P<2«5e.] Nanny, how long have we known each other ?

MARINA [considering]. How long? Lord, let me think. You first came
to these parts —^when was was when Sonya's mother was still
it? It

aUve. You used to come and see us in her day. Now that went on
for two winters, so it must have been about eleven years ago. [After
a moment's thought.] Maybe more.
ASTROV. Have I changed much since then?

MARINA. Yes, you have. You were young and good-looking then,
but you're beginning to show your age now and your looks aren't
what they were either. Another thing, you like your drop of vodka.
ASTROV. Yes. In ten years I've become a different man. And I'll tell
you why. It's overwork, Nanny. On my feet from morning to
night with never a moment's peace, and then lying under the bed-
clothes at night afraid of being dragged out to a patient. All the time
we've known each other I haven't had one day off". It's enough to

nuke anyone look old. And then life here is so dreary and stupid
and sordid. It gets you down, You're surrounded by
this life does.

the oddest people, because that's what they all are odd. Spend —
a couple of years among them, and you gradually turn into a freak
yourself and don't even notice it. That's bound to happen. [Twists
his long moustache.] Look at this, I've grown a huge moustache.
 ? —

120 UNCLE VANYA Act One

An idiotic moustache. I've become a freak, Namiy. Not that I've

grown stupid yet, thank God, I still have my wits about me. But
somehow I don't feel things keenly any more. I don't want anything,
I don't seem to need anything and there's no one I'm fond of.
Except just you perhaps. [Kisses her head.] I had a nanny like you
when I was a Httle boy.

MARINA. Would you care for something to eat?

ASTRO v. No thank you. A few weeks before Easter I went to Mahts-

koye. They had an epidemic there. Typhus. There were village
people lying around all over the place in their huts. Filth, stench,

smoke everywhere and calves on the floor mixed up with patients

Httle pigs as well. I was on the go all day —
didn't so much as sit down
—
or have a bite to eat and even when I got home there was no rest
for me. They brought someone in from the railway, a switchman.
I got him on the table to operate, and damned if he didn't have to

die on me under chloroform. Then just at the worst possible moment

my feelings did come to Hfe and I felt as guilty as if I'd murdered the
man. I sat down and closed my eyes like this. And I thought of the
men and women who will be aHve a hundred or a couple of hundred
years after we've gone, those we're preparing the way for. Will
they have a good word to say for us? You know, Nanny, they
won t even remember us.
MARINA. Men may forget, but God will remember.

ASTRO v. Thank you for saying that. You put it very well.

[Enter voynitsky.]

VOYNITSKY [coming out of the house. He has been taking a nap after
lunch and looks dishevelled. He sits on a bench and straightens his smart
tie]. Yes. [Pause.] Yes.

ASTROV. Had a good sleep

VOYNITSKY. Yes. Very. [yiju;«5.] Since the professor and his wife
came to Hve here everything's been turned upside down. I sleep
at the wrong times, eat all sorts of fancy things for lunch and dinner,
drink wine. It's all very bad for me. Before they came I never had
a minute to myself. Sonya and I were pretty busy, I can tell you that.
But now only Sonya works and I just sleep, eat and drink. It's all

wrong.
 UNCLE VANYA Act One 121

MARINA [shaking her head]. Disgraceful, I call it. The professor doesn't
get up midday, but the samovar's kept on the boil all morning
till

waiting his pleasure. Before they came we always had dinner about
half past twelve like everyone else, but now they're here we don't
have it till nearly seven. The professor sits up at night reading and
writing. Then all of a sudden, past one in the morning, the bell goes.

Goodness gracious, whatever can it be ? Wants some tea, if you please.

So you have to wake up the servants and put the samovar on. Dis-
graceful, I call it,

ASTRO v. Are they staying here much longer?

VOYNITSKY [whistles]. A hundred years. The professor's decided to

make his home here.
MARINA. And now look what they've done. Two hours that samo-
var's been on the table, and they've gone for a walk.

VOYNITSKY. They're coming, they're coming. Don't get excited.

[Voices are heard, serebryakov, Helen, sonya and telegin

come in from the far end of the garden on the way back from their walk.]

serebryakov. Wonderful, wonderful. What scenery!

telegin. Magnificent indeed, sir.

sonya. We're going to the forest reservation tomorrow, Father.

Like to come ?
VOYNITSKY. Let's have tea, everybody.

serebryakov. Would you good people send some tea into the study
for me, please ? I have some more work to do today.

SONYA. I'm sure you'll like it out at the reservation.

[HELEN, serebryakov and SONYA go into the house, telegin

goes towards the table and sits down by marina.]
VOYNITSKY. It's hot and stuffy today, but the great sage is complete
with overcoat, galoshes, umbrella and gloves.

astrov. Obviously takes good care of himself.

VOYNITSKY. But isn't she lovely? Lovely! She's the most beautiful
woman I've ever seen.

TELEGIN. when I go for a country drive, Nanny, or stroll in the

shade of the garden or just gaze at this table here, I experience bliss
beyond compare. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing
122 UNCLE VANYA Act One

and we all live in peace and harmony. What more could we ask for?
[Auepting a glass of tea.] Vm. uncommonly obHged to you.

VOYNITSKY [dreamily]. What eyes! A marvellous woman.

ASTROV. Come on, Voynitsky. Talk to us.

VOYNITSKY [listlessly]. What do you want me to say?

ASTROV. Have you nothing new to tell us?

VOYNITSKY. No, I haven't. It's the same old story. I'm no different
—worse, I daresay, because I've grown lazy and don't do anything
apart from grousing away like an old fogy. And my dear mother,
the old chatterbox, still keeps burbling on about the emancipation
of women. She's got one foot in the grave, but she still reads all

those solemn pamphlets and thinks they'll lead her to a new life.

ASTROV. And the professor?

VOYNITSKY. And the professor still sits in his study writing from
morning till last thing at night.

*With harassed brain and furrowed brow

We pen heroic lays.
But neither we nor they till now
Have had one word of praise.'

I pity the paper he writes on. He'd do better to work on his auto-
biography. What a superb subject! A retired professor —an old fossil,

if you see what I mean, a sort of academic stuffed trout. He suffers

from gout, rheumatism, migraine and Hver trouble, and he's al-
most bursting with envy and jealousy. The old fossil Hves on his
first wife's estate. Not that he wants to Hve here, but he can't afford

to Hve in town. He's forever moaning about his misfortunes, though

as amatter of fact he's been pretty lucky. [Agitatedly.] Just think
what luck he's had. The son of an ordinary parish clerk and educated
at a church school, he's collected academic degrees and a univenity
chair, become of consequence, married a senator's daughter
a person
and so on and so None of that matters, though. But you note
forth.
my next point. For precisely twenty-five years the man's been lec-
turing and writing about art. And what does he understand about
art? Nothing. For twenty-five years he's been chewing over other
people's ideas on realism, naturalism and every other kind of torn-
 —

UNCLE VANYA Act One 123

foolery. For twenty-five years he'sbeen lecturing and writing about

thingswhich every inteUigent person has known all along, and which
don't interest fools anyway. In other words he's spent twenty-five
years chasing his own shadow. And all the time what ghastly conceit!
What presumption! Now he's retired and not a H\dng soul knows
who he is. He's totally obscure. In other words, for twenty-five
years he's been in the wrong job. But you just watch him strut about
as if he was God Almighty.

ASTRO v. I think you're really a bit envious.

VOYNITSKY. I most Certainly am. And what success with women!

Casanova himself couldn't have done better. His first wife, my own
sister —a beautiful, gentle creature as pure as the blue sky above us,
a fine, generous girl who had more admirers than he had pupils
she loved him as only angels in heaven can love beings as pure and
lovely as themselves. My own mother, his mother-in-law, still

idoHzes him, awe of him. His second wife she just

still goes in —
—
came through here is a beautiful, inteUigent woman, and she
married him when he was already an old man and gave him her
youth, her beauty, her freedom, her radiance. Whatever for?
Why?
ASTROV. Is she faithful to him?
VOYNITSKY. Yes, I'm sorry to say.

ASTROV. Why sorry?

VOYNITSKY. Because she's faithful in a way that's so thoroughly
bogus. Oh, it sounds impressive enough, but it just doesn't make
sense. To be unfaithful to an elderly husband you can't stand, that's

immoral. But if you make these pathetic efforts to stifle your own
youth and the spark of life inside you, that isn't immoral at all.

TELEGIN [in a tearful voice]. Vanya, I hate it when you talk like that.
Well, really. Anyone who betrays a wife or husband could easily
be unreliable enough to betray his country as welL
VOYNITSKY [with annoyance]. Turn the tap off, Waffles.

TELEGIN. No, let me go on, Vanya. The day after we were married
my wife ran away with another man because of my unprepossessing
appearance. Since then I've always done my duty. I still love her,
I'm still faithful to her, I help her as much as I can and I've spent
all I had on educating her children by this other man. I've lost my
124 UNCLE VANYA Act One

happiness, but I've kept my pride. What about her, though? She's
no longer young, she's' lost her looks — as was bound to happen
sooner or later —and her lover is dead. So what has she got left?
[soNYA and Helen come in. A little later mrs. voynitsky comes
in with a book. She sits down and reads. She is given some tea and
drinks it without looking up.'\

SONYA [rapidly, to the nurse]. Nanny dear, some people have turned
up from the village. Go and see what they want, please, and I'll
pour the tea. [Pours the tea.]

[The NURSE goes out. helen takes her cup and drinks, sitting on

the swing.]

ASTRO V [to Helen]. I really came to see your husband, you know.
You did write to say he was very ill with rheumatism and something
else. But it seems he's as fit as a fiddle.

HELEN. He was in a bad way last night and complained of pains in his
legs, but today he's all right.

ASTRO v. And I've driven twenty miles at top speed to get here.
Oh well, never mind, not the first time. Anyway, I'll stay till
it's

tomorrow now I am here and at least have a good night's rest.

Justwhat the doctor ordered.
SONYA. And a very good idea too. You stay here so seldom. I don't
suppose you've eaten.

ASTRO v. No, I haven't as a matter of faa.

SONYA. Good, you can eat with us then. We dine about half past
six these days. [Drinks.] The tea's cold.

TELE GIN. The temperature in the samovar has indeed considerably

diminished.

HELEN. Never mind, Mr. Galetin, we'll drink it cold.

TELE GIN. Pardon me, madam. My name is not Galetin, madam, it's
Telegin. Ilya Telegin or, as some people call me because of my pock-
marked face. Waffles. I happen to be Sonya's godfather and Pro-
fessor Serebryakov, your husband, knows me very well. I'm now
Hving here on your estate, madam. And as you may possibly have
noticed, I have dinner with you every day.

SONYA. Mr. Telegin is a great help and support to us. [Affectionately.]

Would you like some more tea, Godfather dear ?

 UNCLE VANYA Act One 125

MRS. VOYNITSKY. Oh!

SONY A. What's the matter, Grandmother?

MRS. VOYNITSKY. I forgot to tell Alexander, it slipped my mind.

I had a letter today from Kharkov, from Paul Alekseyevich. He

sent his new pamphlet.

ASTROV. Is it interesting?

MRS. VOYNITSKY. Interesting, but rather odd. He attacks the very

position he was defending seven years ago. That's dreadful.

VOYNITSKY. There's nothing dreadful about it. Drink your tea,

Mother.

MRS. VOYNITSKY. But I Want to talk.

VOYNITSKY. For fifty years we've talked and talked and read pam-
phlets. And it's about time we stopped.

MRS. VOYNITSKY. For some reason you dislike the sound of my

voice. I'm sorry, my boy, but this last year you've changed out of
all recognition. You used to be a man of such firm principles, a
shining example

VOYNITSKY. oh yes, I've been an example of something all right,

but I haven't exactly shone. [P<j«5e.] A shining example. That's a

pretty poisonous sort of joke. I'm forty-seven. Until last year I was
like you, I dehberately tried to befuddle myself with your brand
of pedantic humbug so as not to see life as it really is. I thought
I —
was doing the right thing, but now if you only knew! I can't
sleep at night for frustration and anger at the stupid way I've wasted
time when I might have had everything I can't have now because
I'm too old.

SONY A. Uncle Vanya, this is boring.

MRS. VOYNITSKY \to her son]. You seem to be blaming your former
principles for something, but they're not to blame. You are. You're
forgetting that principles on their own don't mean anything, they're
just so much dead wood. You should have done something.

VOYNITSKY. 'Done something'? We can't all be non-stop writing

machines like the learned professor.

MRS. VOYNITSKY. What exactly do you mean by that?

SONY A [beseechingly]. Grandmother! Uncle Vanya! Please!
 ?

126 UNCLE VANYA Act One

VOYNITSKY. I am silent. Silent and repentant

[Pause.]

HELEN. It's a perfect day. Not too hot.

[Pause.]

VOYNITSKY. It's a perfect day. For a man to hang himself.

[telegin tunes the guitar, marina walks about near the house
calling the hens.]

MARINA. Chuck, chuck, chuck.

SONY A. Nanny, what did those village people want?

MARINA. Same thing as before, they're still on about that bit of waste
land. Chuck, chuck, chuck.
SONYA. Which one are you calling?

MARINA. Old Speckles has gone off somewhere with her chicks.
The crows might get them. [Walks away.]
[telegin plays a polka. All listen in silence. The labourer comes
tn.

labourer. Is the doctor here? [To astro v.] Will you come please,
Dr. Astrov? You're wanted.
ASTROV. Who by?
LABOURER. The factory.

ASTROV [irritated]. Much obhged, I'm sure. Oh very well then, I'll

have to go. [Looks round for his cap.] This is a damn nuisance.
SONYA. It really is too bad. But do come back to dinner when you're
finished at the factory.

ASTROV. No, it'll be too late. Where could I ? Where on earth — —

[To the LABOURER.] Look, be a good fellow, do, and fetch me a
glass of vodka. [The labovrbk goes out.] Where could I — ? Where
on earth — ? one of Ostrovsky's plays there's a
[Finds his cap.] In
character with more whisken than sense. That's me. Well, I must
bid you all good day. [To helen.] If you ever care to look me up,
you and Miss Serebryakov here, I'll be deHghted to see you. I've
a small estate of eighty acres or so, but if you're interested there's
an orchard that's something of a show-piece and a nunery such as

you won't find for hundreds of miles around. Next to my place

there's the government forest reservation. The forester is getting
 UNCLE VANYA Act One 127

on and his health's none too good, so I pretty well nin the whole
thing.

HELEN. I've already heard how fond you are of forestry work. You
can do a lot of good that way of course, but doesn't it interfere with
your real business in life? You are a doaor after all.
ASTROV. God alone knows what our real business in life is.

HELEN. And is it interesting?

ASTROV. It's interesting work, yes.

VOYNITSKY [ironically]. Oh, very!

HELEN [to ASTROv]. You're Still young, you don't look more than
—well, thirty-six or seven—and you can't really find it as interesting

as all that. Nothing but trees and more trees. It must be a bit mono-
tonous, I should think.

SONYA. No, it's extremely interesting. Dr. Astrov plants new woods
every year and he's already been given a bronze medal and a certi-
ficate. He's doing his best to save the old forests fi-om destruction.

If you'll listen to what he has to say you'll agree with him completely.
He says that forests are the glory of our earth, that they teach man
to appreciate beauty and give him a sense of grandeur. Forests
alleviate a harsh climate. In countries with a mild climate less effort

is spent on the struggle for existence, so that men and women are

gentler and more affectionate. In such places people are handsome,

adaptable and sensitive, their speech is elegant and their movements
are graceful. Art and learning flourish among them, their philosophy
is cheerful and they treat their womenfolk with great courtesy and

chivalry.

VOYNITSKY [laughing]. Loud cheers! This is all very charming, but

not in the least convincing, so [fo astro v] allow me, my fiiend,
to carry on burning logs in my stoves and building my bams of
wood.
ASTROV. You can bum peat in your stoves and make your bams of
stone. All right, I grant your point —cut the timber if you need it.
But why The forests of Russia are crashing down
ruin the forests?
before the axe, millions upon millions of trees perish, the homes of
birds and beasts are devastated, rivers grow shallow and dry up,
wonderful scenery disappears without trace, and all because man's
so lazy —
hasn't the sense to bend down and take his fuel firom the
128 UNCLE VANYA Act One

ground. [To helen.] Don't you agree, madam? Only an unreason-

ing brute could bum beauty like this in his stove, destroying what
we cannot create. Man has been endowed with reason, with the
power add to what he's been given. But up
to create, so that he can
to now
he hasn't been a creator, only a destroyer. Forests keep dis-
appearing, rivers dry up, wild life's become extinct, the climate's
ruined and the land grows poorer and ugher every day. [To voy-
NiTSKY.] You look at me ironically. You don't take any of this
seriously, —
and and perhaps I really have got a bee in my bonnet.
But when I walk past our village woodlands which I've saved from

the axe or hear the rustle of my own saplings, planted with my own
hands, I feel that I too have some sHght control over the climate
and that if man is happy a thousand years from now I'll have done
a bit towards it myself. When I plant a young birch and later see
it covered with green and swaying in the breeze, my heart fills with

pride and I —
[Seeing the labourer, who has brought a glass of
.

vodka on a tray.] However, [drinks] I must go. Anyway, this is all

a bee in my bonnet, I daresay. I bid you good day. [Makes for the
house.]

SONYA [takes his arm and goes with him]. But when are you coming to
see us again?

ASTRO v. I don't know.

SONYA. Not for another month again?
[astrov and sonya go into the house, mrs. voynitsky and
TELEGIN remain near the table, helen and voynitsky go towards
the terrace.]

HELEN. Once again you've behaved abominably, Vanya. Did you

have to annoy your mother with that stuff about non-stop writing
machines? And you had another quarrel with Alexander at lunch
today. That's a pretty poor way to behave.

voynitsky. But what if I hate him?

HELEN. There's no reason to hate Alexander, he's just the same as

anyone else. No worse than you are, anyway.

voynitsky. If you could only see your face and the way you move.
It's as if life was too much for you, altogether too much.
HELEN. Dear me, it is, and I'm so bored too. They all run down my

husband and look at me as if they're sorry for me. 'Poor girl, she's
 UNCLE VANYA Act One 129

married to an old man.' This sympathy for me, oh how well I

understand it. what Astrov was saying a moment ago you

It's just —
all wantonly destroy the forests, and soon there won't be anything

left on earth. You destroy men and women too every bit as wan-

tonly, and soon, thanks to you, there will be no loyalty, integrity

or unselfishness left on earth. Why does it upset you so much to see
a woman who doesn't belong to you? Because and the doctor's —
right — there's a demon of destruction in every one of you. You
don't spare anything, whether it's the trees, the birds —or women
or one another.

VOYNITSKY. I hate this sort of pretentious talk. [P^jw^e.]

HELEN. The doctor looks and highly-strung. It's an attractive

tired
face. Sonya's obviously taken with him —
she's in love with him,
and I can understand that. He's been here three times since I arrived,
but I'm rather shy, so we've never had a proper talk and I've never
been really fiiendly to him. He doesn't think I'm very nice. Do you
know why you and I are such good fiiends, Vanya? It must be
because we're both such abysmal bores. Yes, bores! Don't look at me
in that way, I don't like it.

VOYNITSKY. How else can I look at you when I love you? You are
my happiness, my life, my youth. I know there's Httle or no chance
of your loving me, but I don't want anything from you. Only let

me look at you, listen to your voice

HELEN. Sh! Someone might hear you. [They move towards the house.]

VOYNITSKY [following her]. Let me speak of my love. So long as you

don't drive me away, that's all I need to be the happiest man on
earth.

HELEN. This is really too much. [Both go into the house.]

[tele GIN plucks the strings and plays a polka. MRS. voynitsky
makes a note in the margin of her pamphlet.]

CURTAIN
 ACT TWO
The dining-room of serebryakov*^ house. Night time. The
watchman can be heard tapping his stick in the garden, sere-
BRYAKOV sits dozing in an armchair by an open window while
HELEN, also dozingy sits by his side,

SEREBRYAKOV [opening his eyes]. Who's there? Sonya, is it you?

HELEN. It's me.
SEREBRYAKOV. Oh, it's you, Helen. I'm in agony.
HELEN. Your rug's fallen on the floor. [Wraps it round his legs.] I'd
better shut the window.
SEREBRYAKOV. No, it's too stuflEy. Just now I dozed oflTand dreamed
that my left leg didn't belong to me. I woke up with an excruciating
pain. It can't be gout, it's more like rheumatism. What time is it?

HELEN. Twenty past twelve. [Ptaw^e.]

SEREBRYAKOV. You might look out Batyushkov's poems for me

in the Ubrary tomorrow. I think we have them.
HELEN. What's that?
SEREBRYAKOV. Find me a Batyushkov in the morning. I seem to
remember we had one. But why do I find it so hard to breathe?
HELEN. You're tired. This is the second night you've had no sleep.

SEREBRYAKOV. That's how Turgenev is supposed to have got angina,

from having gout. I'm might happen to me. Old age, what
afiraid it

a damnable, repulsive thing confound it. Since I've aged so much

it is,

I've even begun to disgust myself. And obviously none of you can
stand the sight of me.

HELEN. The way you go on about your age, anyone would think
it was all our fault.

SEREBRYAKOV. You're the one who really can't stand me.

[HELEN ^e^i up and sits down farther away.]
SEREBRYAKOV. You'rc right of course. I'm not such a fool I can't
see it. You're a good-looking, healthy young woman
and you want
a bit of hfe. And I'm an old man more dead than aHve. Well?
 —

UNCLE VANYA Act Two I3I

Do you really think I don't understand? Stupid of me of course to

go on living at all. But just wait a bit, I'll soon set you all free.

I shan't last much longer.

HELEN. I feel quite faint. For God's sake stop talking.

SEREBRYAKOV. What it comes to is that you're all faint and weary

and you're all wasting the best years of your Hves on my account.
While I'm the only person who's happy and enjoys life. Obvious,
isn't it?

HELEN. Do stop it. You've completely worn me out.

SEREBRYAKOV. But then I've worn everybody out, haven't I?

Obviously.

HELEN [through tears], 1 can't stand any more. Look here —what do
you want from me?
SEREBRYAKOV. Nothing.
HELEN. Well, in that case stop talking. Please.

SEREBRYAKOV. It's a cuHous thing, but if Vanya Voynitsky or that

imbecile old mother of his ever say anything, that's perfectly in
order and everyone listens. But I've only to open my mouth and
everyone starts feeling miserable. Even my voice disgusts you. All
right, I'm disgusting, I'm selfish, I'm a tyrant. But haven't I the right
to a Httle selfishness in my old age? Haven't I earned it? I'm asking
you, have I really no right to a peaceful old age and a Httle considera-
tion from others?
HELEN. Nobody's disputing your rights. [The window bangs in the
wind.] There's a wind getting up, I'd better shut that window.
[Shuts it.] It's going to rain. Nobody's disputing your rights.

[Pause, The watchman in the garden is heard tapping his stick and
singing a song.]

SEREBRYAKOV. You give your whole life to scholarship, you get

used to your study, your lecture-room and your distinguished
colleagues.Then suddenly, God knows why, you turn up in this
dead and alive hole where you can't get away from fools and their
inane chatter. I want some life, I like success, I like to be well-
known and make a bit of a stir. But here — I might just as well
be exiled to the depths of Siberia. To spend every moment regretting
one's past, watching others succeed and going in fear of death
132 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO
I can't stand it. It*s too much! And now they won't even forgive me
for growing old.

HELEN. Just wait and be patient. In five or six years I'll be old too.

[soNYA comes in.]

sONrYA. Father, was you who told us to send for Dr. Astro v, but
it

now he's here you won't see him. It's not very poHte. We've
troubled him for nothing.

SEREBRYAKOV. What do I Want with this Astrov of yours? He knows

as much about medicine as I do about astronomy.
SONYA. We can hardly bring an entire medical faculty out here to
attend to your gout.

SEREBRYAKOV. I wou't evcn talk to him, he's a complete crack-

pot.

SONYA. Have it your own way. [Sits down.] I don't care.

SEREBRYAKOV. What time is it?

HELEN. Past midnight.

SEREBRYAKOV. It's stufiy in here. Sonya, will you get me that
medicine firom the table ?

SONYA. Here you are. [Hands him the medicine.]

SEREBRYAKOV [irritably]. Oh really, not that one! It's no use asking

for anything.

SONYA. Please stop behaving like a child. It may appeal to some

people, but don't treat me
way, thank you very much. I dis-
that
like that sort of thing. Besides I'm too busy, I must be up early
tomorrow. There's haymaking to see to.
[Enter voynitsky wearing a dressing-gown and carrying a candle.]

VOYNITSKY. There's going to be a storm. [A flash of lightning.] Did

you see that! Helen and Sonya, you go to bed. I've come to reUeve
you.

SEREBRYAKOV [terrified]. No, no! Don't leave me alone with him.

No! He'll talk my head off.
VOYNITSKY. But you must let them have some rest, they were up all

last night.

SEREBRYAKOV. Let them go to bed, but you go away too, thank

 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO 133

you very much. I implore you in the name of our past friendship,
don't argue. We'll talk some other time.

VOYNITSKY [with an ironical grin]. Our past friendship — . Our past

friendship .

SONY A. Please be quiet, Uncle Vanya.

SEREBRYAKOV [to his wife]. My dear, don't leave me alone with him.
He'll talk my head off.
VOYNITSKY. This is becoming quite ridiculous.

[marina comes in carrying a candle.]

SONYA. Why don't you go to bed, Nanny? It's late.

MARINA. I haven't cleared away the tea things. Much hope I have
of getting to bed.
SEREBRYAKOV. Noue of you can sleep, you're all in a state of collapse.
The only person who's enjoying himself is me.
MARINA [approaching serebryakov, affectionately]. What is it, my
dear? Have you got a pain? My own legs ache, they ache something
terrible. [Arranges his rug.] It's your old trouble. Sonya's poor mother
used to miss her sleep of a night worryiug about it. Ever so fond

of you she was. [P^Mje.] Old folks are like children, they want a bit of
affeaion, but who feels sorry for old folks? [Kisses serebryakov
on the shoulder.] Come along to bed, my dear. Come on, my lamb,
I'll give you some hme-flower tea and warm your poor feet. I'll

say a prayer for you.

SEREBRYAKOV [very touched]. Come on then, Marina.

MARINA. My own legs ache and ache something terrible. [Leading

him with sonya'5 help.] Sonya's mother used to take on so, crying
all the time. You were just a httle child then, Sonya, didn't imder-
stand. Come on, come on, my dear.

[serebryakov, sonya W marina ^0 out.]

HELEN. He's completely worn me out, I can hardly stand.

VOYNITSKY. He wears you out and I wear myself out. This is the
third night I've had no sleep.

HELEN. We are in a bad way in this house. Your mother hates every-
thing except her pamphlets and the professor. The professor's over-
wrought, he doesn't trustme and he's afraid of you. Sonya's annoyed
with her father and with me too. She hasn't spoken to me for a
 —

134 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO

fortnight.You loathe my husband and openly sneer at your mother,
and I'm so much on edge I've been on the verge of tears a dozen
times today. We are in a bad way, aren't we?

VOYNITSKY. We can do without the moralizing, thank you.

HELEN. You're an intelligent and civilized man, Vanya. I should have

thought you could see why the world's heading for disaster. It's
not fire and sword we have to blame, it's hatred, malice and all
these sordid Httle squabbles. You ought to stop grousing and try
to make peace here.

VOYNITSKY. First help me make peace with my own self. My dar-

ling — . [Bends down and kisses her hand.]

HELEN. Leave me alone. [Removes her hand.] Go away.

VOYNITSKY. Soon the rain will be over. All Hving things will revive
and breathe more freely. Except me. The storm won't revive me.
Day and night my thoughts choke me, haunt me with the spectre
of a Hfe hopelessly wasted. I've never Hved. My past life has been
thrown away on stupid trivialities and the present is so futile, it
—
appals me. My Hfe and my love well, there you have it. What
can I do with them? What can I make of them? My feelings are
wasted like a ray of sunhght falling in a well, and Tm running to
waste too.

HELEN, when you talk about love I somehow can't think or feel
words fail me. I'm sorry, but I've nothing to say to you. [Makes to

leave.] Good night.

VOYNITSKY [barring her way]. And if you only knew how it hurts
me to think tfiat in this very house another life is wasting away
besides my own. I mean What are you waiting for? What's
yours.
stopping you, dammit? Some wretched theory or other? Do, do
get it into your head that
HELEN [stares at him]. Vanya, you're drunk.

VOYNITSKY. Possibly, very possibly.

HELEN. Where's the doctor?

VOYNITSKY. In there. He's sleeping in my room tonight. Possibly,
very possibly. Anything 's possible.

HELEN. So you've been drinking again today, have you? What do

you do it for?

iLJ
 !

UNCLE VANYA Act TwO I35

VOYNITSKY. It at least gives one the illusion of being alive. Don't

try and stop me, Helen.
HELEN. You never used to drink. You never used to talk so much
either. Go to bed. You bore me.

VOYNITSKY [bending down to kiss her hand]. My darling. Wonderful

woman
HELEN [with annoyance]. Leave me alone. This is becoming quite dis-

gusting. [Goes out.]

VOYNITSKY [tj/one]. She's gone. [Pawse.] To think that ten years ago
I used to meet her at my sister's when
was only seventeen and she
I was thirty-seven. Why didn't I fall in love then and ask her to
marry me? It would have been the most natural thing in the world.
And she'd be my wife now. Yes. And tonight the storm would
have woken us both. She'd be scared of the thunder and I'd hold
her in my arms and whisper, 'Don't be afraid. I'm here.' Oh, what
wonderful thoughts, I could laugh for sheer joy. But oh God, my
head's in such a whirl. Why am I so old? Why can't she understand
me? The affected way she talks, her languid moralizing, those
trivial, tired ideas about the world heading for disaster —how
utterly I loathe it all. [P(2«5e.] Oh, I've made such a fool of myself.
I used to idolize that miserable, gout-ridden professor —worked
my fingers to thebone for him. Sonya and I've squeezed every
drop we could out of this estate and we've haggled over our linseed
oil and peas and cream cheese like a couple of miserly peasants.

We've gone short ourselves so we could scrape odd savings to-

gether and send him thousands of roubles. I was proud of him and
his great learning. He was the very breath of Hfe to me. Everything

he wrote or uttered seemed to me inspired. But ye gods, what does

it look like now? Now he's retired you can see exactly what his

life is worth. Not a page of his work will survive him. He's totally

obscure, a nonentity. A soap bubble! And I've made a fool of myself,

I see it now, a complete fool.

[astrov comes in. He wears a frock-coat, hut no waistcoat or tie.

He is a hit tipsy, telegin follows him carrying a guitar.]

ASTROV. Play something.

TELEGIN. But everyone's asleep.

ASTROV. Play.
[telegin strums softly.]
136 UNCLE VANYA Act Two
ASTROV [to voynitsky]. Here on your own? None of the ladies
about? [Puts his hands dn his hips and sings softly.]

'Come dance, my stove, come dance, my shed.

The master has nowhere to lay his head.'
The storm woke me up. Quite a shower. What time is it?

VOYNITSKY. How the hell should I know?

ASTROV. I thought I heard Mrs. Serebryakov speaking.
VOYNITSKY. she was in here a moment ago.

ASTROV. Gorgeous creature. [Looks at the medicine bottles on the table.]

Medicine, eh? Prescriptions from everywhere under the sun. From
Moscow, Kharkov, Tula. Every town in Russia has been plagued
with his gout. Is he really ill or just putting it on?
VOYNITSKY. He's ill. [PdM5e.]

ASTROV. why so mournful tonight? Feeling sorry for the professor

or something?

VOYNITSKY. Leave me alone.

ASTROV. Or could it be that you're in love with Mrs. Professor?

VOYNITSKY. she's a friend of mine.

ASTROV. Already?
VOYNITSKY. What do you mean, 'already' ?

ASTROV. A woman can become a man's friend only in the following

stages — first an acquaintance, next a mistress, and only then a friend.

VOYNITSKY. That's a pretty cheap line of talk.

ASTROV. Eh? Oh, yes. But then I'm becoming a pretty cheap kind
of person. Drunk too, you see. As a rule I only drink this much
once a month. When I'm in this state I get terribly bumptious and
impudent. I feel equal to anything. I on the most difficult
take
operations and do them perfectly. Draw up the most sweeping plans
for the future. At such times I no longer think of myself as a freak
and I beHeve I'm bringing humanity enormous benefits. Enormous.
And at such times I have my own philosophical system and all of
. you, my lads,
no more than a lot of insects so
are far as I'm con-
cerned. Microbes. [To tele gin.] Waffles, play on.

TELEGIN. Only too pleased to obHge, old man, but people are trying
to sleep, you know.
 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO I37

ASTROV. Play.
[telegin strums softly.]

ASTROV. We need a drink. Come on, I think we still have some

brandy left in the other room. And assoon as it's Hght we'll
drive over to my place. Wodger say? I have an assistant who can't
say 'what do you', always says 'wodger'. A frightful rogue. So
wodger say? [Seeing SONY A, who is coming in.] Excuse me, I haven't
got a tie on. [Goes out quickly, telegin follows him.]

SONYA. So you've been drinking with the doctor again, Uncle Vanya,
The boys have been getting together, haven't they? All right then,
he's always that way inclined, but what's got into you? It doesn't
suit you at your time of life.

VOYNITSKY. My time of life is neither here nor there. When people

aren't really ahve they hve on illusions. It's better than nothing
anyvv^ay.

SONYA. The hay's all cut, there's rain every day, and it's all rotting.
And you spend your time on illusions. You've completely aban-
doned the farm. I do all the work myself and I'm about at the end
of my tether. [Alarmed.] Uncle, you have tears in your eyes.
VOYNITSKY. What do you mean, tears ? Nothing of the sort. Rubbish.
The way you looked at me just now, your poor dear mother used
to look like that.My darling— [Eagerly kisses her hands and face.]
.

My sister, my darling sister— Where she now? If she only knew!

. is

Oh, if she only knew!

SONYA. Knew what? What do you mean. Uncle?
VOYNITSKY. It's SO painful, such a -vvTetched business. Never mind,
rU tell you later. It doesn't matter — I'll go. [Goe5.]

SONYA [knocks at the door]. Dr. Astrov! You aren't asleep, are you?
May I see you a moment ?
ASTROV [through the door]. Coming. [Comes in after a short delay. He
now has his waistcoat and tie on.] Can I help you?
SONYA. You drink as much as you like if you don't find it disgusting,
but for goodness' sake don't let my uncle drink. It's bad for him.
ASTROV. All right. We won't drink any more. [Pause] I'll be off home
now, so that's all well and truly settled. By the time the horses
are harnessed it will be Hght.

SONYA. It's still raining. Why not wait till morning?

138 UNCLE VANYA Act Two
ASTRO V. The storm's passing over, we shall pretty well miss it. I'll

be off. And please don't ask me to attend your father again. I tell

him it's gout, he says it's rheumatism, and if I ask him to lie down
he sits up. And today he wouldn't talk to me at all.

SONY A. He's spoilt. [Looks in the sideboard.] Do you want something

to eat?

ASTROV. Well, yes perhaps.

SONYA. I like eating in the middle of the night. We have some food
in the sideboard, I think. Father's said to have been a great ladies*

man in his day. Women have spoilt him. Here, have some cheese.
[Both stand by the sideboard and eat.]

ASTROV. I haven't eaten all day, done nothing but drink. Your
father's a man. [Takes a bottle from the sideboard.] May I ?
very difficult

[Drinks a glassful] There's no one else here, so I can speak freely.

You know, I don't think I should survive a single month in your
house, this air would choke me. Your father, so obsessed vdth his
gout and his books, Uncle Vanya with his depressions, your grand-
mother, and then your step-mother
SONYA. What about my step-mother?
ASTROV. People should be beautiful in every way —in their faces, in
the way they dress, in their thoughts and in their innermost selves.

She is no question about that, but let's face it,

beautiful, there's —
she does nothing but eat, sleep, go for walks and enchant us with
her beauty. That's all. She has no responsibilities, and other people
work for her. That's so, isn't it? But there's something wrong about
a life of idleness. [P<JM5e.] Well, perhaps I'm a bit harsh. I'm dis-
appointed with Hfe like your Uncle Vanya. He and I are turning
into a couple of old grousers.
SONYA. Aren't you satisfied with Hfe then?
ASTROV. I do like life in general, but the kind of provincial, parochial
Hfe we get in Russia —that I simply can't stand, in fact I heartily
despise it. As for my owoi private life, well, heaven knows there's
absolutely nothing good about that. You know, sometimes when
you walk in a wood on a dark night there's a glimmer of light
shining in the distance, isn't there ? Then you don't notice how tired
you how dark it is or how the thorns and twigs hit you in the
are or
face.As you well know, I work harder than anyone else round here,
the most awful things are always happening to me and there arc
 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO I39

times whenthe whole business really gets me down. But for me

there 's no Hght shining in the distance. I don't expect anything for
myself any more and I don't care for other people either. It's ages
since I was really fond of anyone.

SONY A. You're not fond of anyone at all then?

ASTRO V. No, I'm not, though I do have a soft spot for your nanny
just for old time's sake. The peasants are all the same. They're un-
civilized and they Hve in filth. And it's hard to get on with educated
people. They make me so tired. These good fiiends of ours all think
their shallow httle thoughts and have their shallow Httle feelings, but
not one of them can see farther than the end of his own nose. In
fact they're just plain stupid. And the brighter ones who have
a bit more to them, well, they're hysterical and go in for all this

brooding and morbid introspection, all this whining, hating and

slandering. They come crawling up to you, look at you sideways
on and then proclaim, 'Oh, he's a psychopath,' or, *He talks a lot
of hot air.' And when they don't know how to label me they say,
'He's an odd fellow, odd.' ISo that's odd. I don't eat
like forests.
meat, so that's odd too. They don't have straightforward, decent,
free relationships any more either with nature or with other people.
That's gone entirely. [Is about to have a drink.]

SONYA [stops him]. Please, I implore you, don't drink any more.
ASTROV. And why not?
SONYA. Because you're not that kind of person. You're so distin-
guished, you have such a gentle voice. And then again, you're so
different firom everyone else I know. You're a really fine man. So
why ever should you want to be like ordinary people, the sort who
drink and play cards? Oh don't be like that. Please! You're always
saying that man doesn't create anything, that he only destroys what
God has given him. Then why, oh why, destroy your own self?
Don't do it, don't do it, I beg you, I implore you.

ASTROV [holds out his hand to her]. I'll stop drinking then.

SONYA. Give me your word.

ASTROV. My word of honour.
SONYA [clasps his hand firmly]. Thank you.

ASTROV. Right, that's settled. Now I'm sober. Yes, as you see, I'm
now quite sober, and sober I shall remain till the end of my days.
140 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO
[Looks at his watch.] Right, let's go on. The fact is, my time's run
out and I'm rather past it all. I feel so old, I've worked myself to
a standstill and become thoroughly second-rate. I don't feel things
keenly any more and I don't think I could grow fond of anyone
any more. There's no one I love, or ever shall love now. One

thing still thrills me—beauty. That does affect me very much. I think
if Helen Serebryakov wanted to for instance, she could turn my
head in a day. But then that wouldn't be love or affection. [Covers
his eyes with his hand and shudders.]

SONYA. What's the matter?

AS TROY. Nothing. Just before Easter one of my patients died imder

chloroform.
SONYA. It's time you forgot about that. [P<iM5e.] Tell me, Dr. Astrov,
suppose I had a friend or a younger sister and you found out that
she — ^well, let's say she loved you. What would be your attitude?
ASTROV [shrugging his shoulders], I don't know. I don't suppose I'd
have an attitude. I should make it clear to her I couldn't love her.
After all I do have other things to think about. Anyway, if I'm to
go it's time I went. I'll say good-bye, my dear, or else we shan't be
finished till the sun's up. [Shakes hands with her.] I'll go out through

the drawing-room if I may, otherwise your uncle might keep me

back. [Goes out.]

SONYA [a/one]. He didn't say anything to know what me. I still don't
his real feelings are, but why, why do
happy? [Laughs I feel so

happily.] I told him, 'You're so distinguished, such a fine man, you

have such a gentle voice.* Surely that didn't sound out of place. His
voice vibrates so tenderly, I can still hear it ringing in the air. But
when I spoke about a younger sister he didn't understand. [Wringing
her hands.] Oh, how dreadful not to be beautiful. It's dreadful. And
I know I'm not beautiful, I know, I know, I know. Coming out of

church last Sunday I heard some people talking about me and one
woman said, 'She's such a nice, kind girl. What a pity she's so plain.*
So plain.
[helen comes in.]

HELEN [opens the windows]. The storm's over. What wonderfiil air.

[PaM5e.] Where's the doctor?

SONYA. Gone home. [P<iM5e.]

HELEN. Sonya.
 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO 141

SONY A. What?
HELEN. When are you going to stop sulking? We've done each other
no harm, so why should we be enemies ? Can't we call it off?
SONY A. I've wanted to myself. [Embraces her.] Let's not be angry any
more.
HELEN. That's splendid. [Both are very moved.]

SONYA. Has Father gone to bed?

HELEN. No, he's in the drawing-room. We don't speak to each other
for weeks on end and heaven knows why. [Noticing that the sideboard
is open.] What's this?

SONYA. Dr. Astrov has been having some supper.

HELEN. There's wine too. Let's drink to our friendship.

SONYA. Yes, let's.

HELEN. From the same glass. [Fills it.] That's better. So we're friends
now, Sonya?
SONYA. Friends, Helen. [They drink and kiss each other.] I've wanted
to make it up for ages, but I felt too embarrassed somehow. [CnV5.]

HELEN. But why are you crying?

SONYA. Never mind, it's nothing.

HELEN. There, there, that'U do. [Cr/e5.] You silly girl, now I'm crying
too. [PdM5e.] You're angry with me
because you think I married
your father for selfish reasons. I give you my word of honour, if
that means anything to you, that I married him for love. He attracted
me as a scholar and public figure. It wasn't real love, it was quite
artificial, but seemed real enough at the time. It wasn't my fault.
it

But since the day we were married you've been tormenting me by

looking as if you knew what I was up to and didn't much like it.

SONYA. Please, please, remember we're fiiends now. Let's forget all

that.

HELEN. You shouldn't look at people like that, it doesn't suit you.
One must trust people or Hfe becomes impossible. [P^iM^e.]
SONYA. Tell me honestly as a friend. Are you happy?
HELEN. No.
SONYA. I knew it. Another question. Tell me frankly, do you wish
you were married to somebody younger ?
142 UNCLE VANYA Act Two
HELEN. What a child you are. Of course I do. [Laughs.] All right,
ask me something else, go on.
SONY A. Do you like the doctor?

HELEN. Yes I do, very much.

SONYA [laughs], I have a fooHsh expression on my face, haven't I?

He's just left, but I can still hear his voice and footsteps. And if I
look into a dark window I seem to see his face in it. Let me finish
what I have to But I can't say it out loud like this, I feel too
say.
embarrassed. Let go to my room and talk there. Do you think
's

I'm silly? You do, don't you? Tell me something about him.
HELEN. All right.

SONYA. He's so intelligent. He can do anything, he's so clever. He

practises medicine, plants trees

HELEN. There's a bit more to it than medicine and trees. Don't you
see, my dear? He's a brilHant man. And you know what that means?
It means he has courage, flair, tremendous vision. When he plants
a tree he's already working out what the result will be in a thousand
years' time, already gHmpsing man's future happiness. People like
that are rare and should be cherished. He drinks and is sometimes
a bit rude, but never mind that. In Russia a brilHant man can't
exactly be a saint. Just think what the doctor's life is like. Roads
deep in mud, enormous distances, coarse,
fireezing cold, blizzards,
brutal peasants, poverty and sickness on all sides. If a man does his
job and battles on day in day out in conditions like these, you can't
expect that at the age of forty he'll still be a good Httle boy who
doesn't drink. [Kisses her.] I wish you happiness with all my heart.
You deserve it. [Stands up.] As for me, I'm just a tiresome character
and not a very important one. In my music, in my husband's house,
in all my romantic affairs—in everything, that is—I've always played
a minor role. Come to think of it, Sonya, I'm really very, very un-
happy. [Walks agitatedly up and down the stage.] There's no happiness
for me in this world. None at all. What are you laughing at?

SONYA [laughing and hiding her face]. I'm so happy. So happy.

HELEN. I feel like playing the piano. I'd like to play something now.
SONYA. Yes, do. [Embraces her.] I can't sleep. Do play something.

HELEN. Just a minute, your father's still awake. Music annoys him
 UNCLE VANYA Act TwO I43

when he's unwell. Go and ask him and I'll play something if he
doesn't mind. Go on.

SONY A. All right. [Goes out]

[The watchman is heard tapping his stick in the garden]

HELEN. It's ages since I played anything. I'll play and cry, cry my
eyes out like a silly girl. [Through the window] Is that you knocking,
Yefim?
WATCHMAN [off Stage]. Ycs madam.
HELEN. Stop it then. The master's unwell.

WATCHMAN [off Stage]. I'm just going. [Whistles under his breath] Hey
there, good dogs. Come, boy! Good dog! [Pawie.]

SONYA [returning]. He says no.

CURTAIN
 —

ACT THREE
The drawing-room o/serebryakov*5 house. Three doors, right,

left and centre. It is early afternoon.

VOYNITSKY and SONYA are seated, helen walks up and

down, deep in thought.

VOYNITSKY. The learned professor has graciously desired us all to

assemble in the drawing-room here at one o'clock today. [Looks at

his watch.] It's a quarter to. He has some message for the world.

HELEN. It's more likely a business matter.

VOYNITSKY. He never deals in such things. All he ever does is write

nonsense, grumble and feel jealous.

SONYA [reproachfully]. Uncle!

VOYNITSKY. All right, aU right. I'm sorry. [Points to helen.] Look
at the way she goes around, nearly falling over firom sheer laziness.
A charming sight, I must say.
HELEN. Really, you do keep on and on so the whole day. Don't you
ever get ^ed? [Miserably.] I'm bored to death, I don't know what

to do.

SONYA [shrugging her shoulders]. There's plenty to do if you wanted to.

HELEN. Well, what for example?

SONYA. You could help to run the farm. You could do some teaching
or nursing, there's plenty to do. For instance, before you and Father
Uved here Uncle Vanya and I used to go to market and sell our own
flour.

HELEN. I'm no good at that sort of thing, and besides I'm not inter-
ested. It's only in a certain kind of earnest novel that people go in for
teaching and dosing peasants. And do you really see me suddenly
dropping everything to run round nursing and teaching ?

SONYA. What I don't understand is how you can help wanting to go

and teach. You'd get used to it after a bit. [Embraces her.] Don't be
bored, dear. [Laughing.] You're bored, you don't know what to do
with yourself and boredom and idleness are infectious. Look
Uncle Vanya does nothing but trail round after you like a shadow.
 .

UNCLE VANYA Act Three 145

I've left my work and rushed along here to talk to you. And I've
grown so impossibly lazy. Then Dr. Astrov used to come here very
seldom, once a month — it was hard to get him here at all but now —
he visits us every day and he's quite abandoned his trees and his

patients. You must be a witch.

VOYNITSKY. Why so downhearted? [Vigorously.] No really, my dear,
splendid creature, do be sensible. There's mermaid's blood flowing
in your veins. So go on, be a mermaid. Let yourself go for once in
your life and fall madly in love with a river-god, dive head first into
deep water and leave the learned professor and the rest of us gasping
on the shore.

HELEN [angrily]. Leave me alone. How can you be so cruel? [Makes

to leave.]

VOYNITSKY [preventing her]. Very well, my dear, forgive me. I'm

sorry. [Kisses her hand.] Let 's be friends.

HELEN. You'd try the patience of a saint, you know.

VOYNITSKY. I'll fetch you a bunch of roses as a peace offering. I got
them for you this morning. Autumn roses, beautiful and sad —
[Goes out.]

SONY A. Autumn roses, beautiful and sad — . [Both look out of the
window.]

HELEN. September already. How ever shall we get through the winter
here? [P^Mse.] Where's the doctor?

SONY A. In Uncle Vanya's room, writing. I'm glad Uncle went out,
I must talk to you.

HELEN, what about?

SONYA. what about? [Puts her head on helen'5 breast.]

HELEN. There there, that'll do. [Strokes her hair.] There now.
SONYA. I'm not beautiful.

HELEN. You have lovely hair.

SONYA. No. [Turns round and looks in the mirror.] No. When a woman
isn't beautiful, people always say, *You have lovely eyes, you have
lovely hair.' I've loved him for six years. I love him more than I

loved my own mother. Every moment I seem to hear his voice or

feel his hand in mine. I keep looking at the door, expecting him,
thinking he's just going to come in and now, as you see, I'm always
146 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

coming to you He visits us every day now, but

to talk about him.
he doesn't look me, doesn't even see me. It 's breaking my heart.
at

There *s no hope for me, no hope at all. [Desperately.] God, give me

strength. I spent the whole night praying. I often go up to him, start
talking to him, look into his eyes. I've no pride left, no self-control.
Yesterday I couldn't help telling Uncle Vanya I was in love, and all
the servants know. Everyone knows.
HELEN. Does he know?
SONY A. No. He doesn't even notice me.

HELEN [thoughtfully]. He's a strange man. I tell you what, let me

talk to him. I'U be most discreet, I'll only drop a hint or two. [P<i«5e.]

Really, how much longer is this uncertainty to go on? Do let

me.
[soNYA nods.]

HELEN. Well, that's settled. It won't be hard to fmd out whether he

loves you or not. Now don't be embarrassed, my dear, don't worry,
I'll question him so carefully he won't even notice. We only need

to find out whether it's yes or no. [Pawie.] If it's no he'd better stop
coming here, don't you think?
[sONYA nods.]

HELEN. It'll be you don't see him. Now we won't

easier for you if

keep putting it off, him straight away. He was going

we'll question
to show me some maps. You go and tell him I want to see him.
SONYA [very agitated]. You will tell me the whole truth, won't you?
HELEN, of course I will. It's always better to know the truth, however
bad, or that's what I think. Better than not knowing, anyway.
Depend on me, dear.

SONYA. Yes, yes, say you want to see his maps. [Starts to leave, then
I'll

stops by the door.] No, not knowing is better. At least there 's still hope.
HELEN, what did you say?
SONYA. It doesn't matter. [Goes out.]

HELEN [d/one]. There's nothing worse than knowing someone else's

secret and not being able to help. [Meditatively.] He's not in love
with her, that's obvious, but why shouldn't he marry her? She isn't
beautiful, but for a country doctor at his time of life she'd make an
excellent wife. She's such a clever girl, so kind and unspoilt. But no,
 —
UNCLE VANYA Act Three 147

that's not really the point at all. [P^M5e.] I understand the poor child
so well. In the middle of aU this ghastly boredom, where there are
no real people, but just dim, grey shapes drifting round, where you
hear nothing but vulgar triviaHties, where no one does anything
but eat, drink and sleep he appears from time to time, so different
from the others, so handsome, charming and fascinating, like a bright
moon rising in the darkness. To fall under the spell of such a man, to
forget everything —
I do beHeve I'm a Httle attracted myself. Yes,
.

I'm bored when he's not about and here I am smiling as I think of
him. And Uncle Vanya says I've mermaid's blood in my veins.
'Let yourself go for once in your Hfe.' Well, and why not? Perhaps
that would be the thing. Oh to fly away, free as a bird, away from
you all, away from your sleepy faces and your talk, to forget that
you so much as exist! But I'm such a coward, I'm so shy. My con-
science would torment me. He comes here every day now. I can
guess why, and I already feel guilty. I want to kneel dov^rn and cry
and ask Sonya to forgive me.
AS TROY [entering with map]. Good afternoon. [Shakes hands.] You
wanted to see these works of art?
HELEN. You did promise yesterday to show me some of your work.
Can you spare the time?
AS TROY. Why, of course. [Spreads the map on a card table and fixes it

with drawing-pins.] Where were you bom?

HELEN [helping him]. In St. Petersburg.

AS TROY. And where were you educated?

HELEN. At the College of Music.

AS TROY. Then I don't suppose this will interest you.

HELEN, why not? It's true I know nothing about country life, but
I've read a great deal.

AS TROY. I have my own table in this house, in Voynitsky's room.

When I'm worn out, absolutely dead beat, I drop everything, run
along here and spend an hour or two amusing myself with this stuff.
Voynitsky and Miss Serebryakov cHck away on their counting frame
while I sit near by at my table messing about with my paints. It's
warm and peaceful and the cricket chirps. But I don't allow myself
this pleasure very often, only once a month. [Pointing to the map.]
Now look at this. This gives a picture of our district as it was fifty
148 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

years ago. Dark green and light green stand for woodlands, and half
the entire area was wooded. Where I have this red cross-hatching
over the green, that was the home of elk and wild goat. I show both
flora and fauna. This lake here was the home of swans, geese and
v^dld duck, and they made *a powerful lot of birds', as the old

peasants say, no end of them — whole clouds swarming overhead.

Besides the villages and larger settlements there were, as you see,

isolated hamlets all over the place, odd farmsteads, hermitages and
watermills. There were lots of cattle and horses. Those are shown
in blue. Do you see this area where there's such a lot of blue? There
were any number of horses here, an average of three per house-
hold. [PflM^e.] Now let 's look lower down and see what things were
like twenty-five years ago. Here only a third of the area's under
timber. There are no more wild goats, but there are still some elk.
The green and blue colouring is less in evidence. And so it goes on,
so it goes on. Now let 's move on to part three, a picture of the dis-
trict as it is today. There are odd bits of green here and there in

patches, but no continuous stretches. The elk, swans and wood-

grouse are no more. The old hamlets, farmsteads, hermitages and
mills have vanished without trace. The general picture is one of
a gradual and unmistakable decline, and it obviously needs only
another ten or fifteen years to become complete. You'll tell me it's
the influence of civilization, that the old life obviously had to make
way new. All right, I see what you mean. If roads and rail-
for the
ways had been built in place of the ravaged woodlands, if we had
factories, workshops and schools, the peasants would have become

healthier, better off and more intelligent. But you see, nothing of
the sort has happened. Our district still has the same old swamps
and mosquitoes, the same terrible roads, the same poverty, typhus,
diphtheria, the same fires breaking out all over the place. The point
is, everything 's gone downhill because people have found the strug-

gle for existence too much for them, because they're backward
and ignorant, because they haven't the faintest idea what they're
doing. Shivering with cold, hungry and ill, man wants to hang on
to what's left of his life, wants to protect his children, and so he
clutches instinctively and blindly at anything that might fill his
belly and keep him warm. He destroys everything with no thought
for the morrow. And now pretty well everything has been destroyed,
but so far nothing new has been put in its place. [Coldly.] I can see
this bores you.
 —

UNCLE VANYA Act Three 149

HELEN. But I understand so little about these things.

ASTROV. It's not a question of understanding, you're just not inter-

ested.

HELEN. To be perfectly honest, I was thinking about something else.

Tm sorry, I have to put you through a sort of cross-examination and

I feel a bit embarrassed. I don't know how to begin.

ASTROV. A cross-examination?

HELEN. Yes, but —a fairly harmless one. Let's sit down. [They sit
down.] It concerns a certain young person. Let's be honest with each
other like good friends and come straight to the point. We'll talk
it over and then forget about it. All right?

ASTROV. All right then.

HELEN. It's about my step-daughter Sonya. Do you like her?

ASTROV. Yes I do, I think very highly of her.

HELEN. Does she attract you as a woman?

ASTROV [after a short pause]. No.
HELEN. I've very nearly finished. Haven't you noticed anything?
ASTROV. No.
HELEN [taking him by the arm]. You don't love her, I can see it in your
eyes. She's so unhappy. Do understand that and—stop coming here.
ASTROV [standing up]. I'm a bit past all that. I have too much to
do anyway. [Shrugs his shoulders.] You know how busy I am.
[Is embarrassed.]

HELEN. Really, what a disagreeable conversation. I'm so upset, I feel

as if I 'd been dragging a ton weight about. Anyway, thank heavens

it's over. Let's forget it, let's pretend nothing's been said, and
you —you go away. You're a sensible man, you can understand.
[PdMse.] It's even made me blush.

ASTROV. If you'd told me a month or two ago I might perhaps have

considered it, but now— . [Shrugs his shoulders.] But if she's unhappy,
then of course—. There is one thing I don't understand, though
why did you bring this business up at all? [Looks into her eyes and
wags a finger at her.] You're quite a httle box of tricks, aren't you?
HELEN. What do you mean?
 —

150 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

ASTROV [laughing]. You've got it all worked out, havcnt you? All
right, Sonya may be uniiappy. Til grant —
you that but why interro-
gate me? [Vigorously, preventing her from speaking.] Now don't try
and look so You know perfecdy well why I come here
surprised.
every day. Why I come and who I come to see, that you know per-
fecdy well. Don't look at me like that, you Utde vampire, I'm not
exacdy new to this game.
HELEN [bewildered]. Vampire? I don't understand at all.

ASTROV. You beautiful furry httle weasel. You must have your prey.
For a whole month I do nothing at all, let everything sHde because
I simply have to see you. And you like that, don't you, oh yes

you like that very much indeed. Well now, what am I to say? I'm
conquered, as you very well knew without cross-examining me at
all. [Folding his arms and bowing his head.] I surrender. Come on,
eat me.
HELEN. You must be out of your mind.
ASTROV [laughing through clenched teeth]. Quite standoffish, aren't you?

HELEN. Oh, I'm not quite so bad or so despicable as you think, I can
tell you. [Makes to leave.]

ASTROV [barring her way], I'll go away today, I won't come here any
more, but — . [Takes her by the hand and looks around.] Where can
I see you? Tell me quickly, where? Someone may come in, tell me
quickly. [Passionately.] You splendid, glorious creature. One kiss

just let me kiss your hair, your fragrant hair.

HELEN. I do assure you that

ASTROV [preventing her from speaking]. You assure me, do you? No

need for that. No need to say anything either. Oh, how beautiful
you are. What lovely hands [Kisses her
! hands.]

HELEN. That's quite enough. Really! Go away. [Withdraws her hands.]

You're forgetting yourself.

ASTROV. But tell me, tell me, where can we meet tomorrow? [Puts
his arm round her waist.] You see, Helen, there's no getting away from
it, we must meet. [Kisses her just j^voynitsky comes in with a bunch
of roses and stops near the door.]

HELEN [not seeing voynitsky]. Please let me go. Leave me alone.

[Lays her head on astroy's chest.] No! [Tries to get away.]
 UNCLE VANYA Act Three 151

ASTROV [holding her by the waist]. Come to the forest reservation to-
morrow. Be there by two o'clock. You will come, won't you? For
God's sake say you'll come.
HELEN [seeing voynitsky]. Let me go. [Goes towards the window in
great agitation.] This is dreadful.

VOYNITSKY [puts the roses on a chair, then agitatedly wipes his face and
neck with a handkerchief]. Never mind, that is — . It doesn't matter.

ASTROV [inwardly fuming]. Today's weather, my dear Voynitsky,

isn't bad at all. It was dull and looked like rain this morning, but
now the sun's come out. It certainly has been a splendid autumn, and
the winter com isn't doing too badly. [Rolls up the map.] The trouble
is, though, the days are drawing in. [Goes out.]

HELEN [going quickly up to voynitsky]. You must do everything

you can, everything in your power, to get my husband and me
away from this place. And it must be today. Do you hear? Today!
voynitsky [wiping his face]. What? Oh, yes —of course. Helen, I saw
what happened, I

HELEN [excitedly]. Do you hear what I say? I must get away from this
place today.

[£n/er SEREBRYAKOV, SONYA, TELEGIN and MARINA.]

TELEGIN. I'm a bitout of sorts myself. Professor, been poorly these
last two days. Something the matter with my head, er
SEREBRYAKOV. But where are the others? I hate this house. It's such
a labyrinth, twenty-six enormous rooms with people wandering off
in all directions so you can never find anyone. [i^tn^5.] Ask my
mother-in-law and my wife to come here.
HELEN. I am here.

SEREBRYAKOV. Ladies and gendemen, pray be seated.

SONYA [going up to HELEN, impatiently]. What did he say?

HELEN. I'll tell you later.

SONYA. You're trembling, aren't you? You're quite upset. [Looks

inquiringly into her face.] I see. He said he wouldn't be coming here
again. Is that it? [P<jM5e.] Tell me, is it that?

[helen nods.]

SEREBRYAKOV [to telegin]. One can put up with ill health. What
does it matter anyway? But what I can't stand is the whole pattern
152 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

of country life. I feel as if Td left the earth entirely and got stuck on

some strange planet. Do sit down, everyone, please. Sonya!

[sONYA does not hear him, but stands sadly hanging her head.] Sonya!
[PaM5e.] She doesn't hear. [To marina.] And you sit down too,
Nanny, [marina sits down and knits a stocking.] Now! Friends,
ladies, gentlemen, lend me your ears, as the saying goes. [Z^m^/w.]
VOYNITSKY [agitated]. You don't need me, do you? Do you mind
if I go?
SEREBRYAKOV. Yes, I need you more than anyone else.

VOYNITSKY. What exactly do you require of me?

SEREBRYAKOV. 'Require of you*? But what are you so annoyed
about? [PdMse.] If I've offended you somehow, please forgive me.

VOYNITSKY. oh, don't be so pompous and let's get down to business.

What do you want?
[mrs. VOYNITSKY comes in.]

SEREBRYAKOV. Ah, here is Mother. Ladies and gentlemen, 1*11 begin.

[P<jM5e.] Ladies and gentlemen, I have invited you here to announce
that a government inspector is on his way. Actually, joking apart,
I do have something serious to say. I have gathered you all here to
ask for your help and advice. And, aware as I am of your unfailing
kindness, I trust I shall receive the same. I'm an academic person,
a man of books, and I've always been out of my depth in practical
affairs. I cannot manage without the guidance of competent persons,

so I appeal to you, Vanya, to you, Mr. Telegin, and to you. Mother.

The thing is that manet omnes una nox. In other words none of us is
going to Hve for ever. I'm old and ill, so it seems to me high time
to put my property and affairs in order in so far as they affect my
family. My own life is over and I'm not thinking of myself, but I
do have a young wife, and an unmarried daughter. [Paw^e.] I simply
cannot go on Hving in the country. We are not cut out for country
life. But we can't Hve in town either on the income from this estate.

—
Let's say we sell some of the timber well, that's an abnormal
measure which can't be repeated every year. We must find some
procedure that guarantees us a constant, more or less stable income.
Such a procedure has occurred to me and I have the honour to sub-
mit it for your consideration. I'll leave out the details and explain
it in general terms. Our estate gives an average return of no more

than two per cent on its capital value. I propose we sell it. If we
 —

UNCLE VANYA Act Three 153

invest the proceeds in securities we should get from four to five per
cent on them and there may even be a few thousand roubles to
spare, so that we can buy a cottage near St. Petersburg.

VOYNITSKY. Just a moment. My ears must be deceiving me. Say

that again.

SEREBRYAKOv. Invcst the money in securities and buy a cottage near

St. Petersburg with what's left over.

VOYNITSKY. No, it wasn*t the bit about St. Petersburg. It was some-
thing else you said.

SEREBRYAKOV. I ptopose selling the estate.

VOYNITSKY. Ah, that was it. You're going to seU the estate. Wonder-
ful. A And what do you suggest my old mother
very bright idea.
and I should do with ourselves? And what about Sonya here?
SEREBRYAKOV. We'll discuss that all in good time. One can't do
everything at once.
VOYNITSKY. Just a moment. It looks as if I've never had a scrap of
ordinary common sense. Till now I've
been stupid enough to think
this estate belonged to Sonya. This estate was bought by my father
as a dowry for my sister. So far I've been simple-minded enough to
imagine that our laws weren't made in Turkey and I thought the
estate had passed from my sister to Sonya.

SEREBRYAKOV. Yes, the estate does belong to Sonya. Nobody denies

that. Without Sonya's consent I shouldn't venture to sell it. Besides,
it's in the girl's own best interests that I propose to do so.

VOYNITSKY. But this is fantastic, utterly fantastic. Either I've gone

stark, staring mad or — . Or else

MRS, VOYNITSKY. Vanya dear, don't contradict Alexander. He knows

better than we do what's right and what's wrong, beHeve me.
VOYNITSKY. Oh, give me some water. [Drinks water.] Say what you
like then, I give up.

SEREBRYAKOV. I don't know why you're so worked up. I'm not

claiming my scheme is ideal. If you all decide it's no good I shan't
insist on it. [Pawie.]

TELEGIN [embarrassed]. I revere scholarship, Professor, and even have

a kind of family feeling for it. My brother Gregory's wife's brother,
a Mr. Konstantin Lakedemonov —you may possibly know him
was a Master of Arts.
 !

154 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

VOYNITSKY. One moment, Waffles, this is serious. Wait a bit, you

can tell us later. [To serebryakov.] Here, ask him. This estate
was bought from his uncle.
SEREBRYAKOV. Oh indeed, and why should I ask him? Where would
that lead us ?

VOYNITSKY. This estate was bought for ninety-five thousand roubles

as prices went in those days. My father paid only seventy thousand

down and left twenty-five thousand on mortgage. Now listen to

me. The estate would never have been bought at all if I hadn't given
up my own share of the inheritance to my sister, whom I loved
dearly. What's more, I slaved away for ten years and paid off the
whole mortgage.
SEREBRYAKOV. I'm sorry I ever started this conversation.

VOYNITSKY. This estate is free from debt and in good order solely
through my own personal efforts. And now I've grown old I'm to
be pitched out of it neck and crop
SEREBRYAKOV. I don't know what you're getting at.

VOYNITSKY. For twenty-five years I've run this estate. I've worked
and sent the money to you. The best manager in the world couldn't
have done more. And all this time you haven't thanked me once.
All this time, when I was yoimg and just the same today, I've been
getting a salary of five hundred roubles a year firom you a miserable —
pittance! And not once has it occurred to you to give me a single
extra rouble.

SEREBRYAKOV. But how was I to know, my dear man? I'm not

a practical person, I don't understand these things. You could have
helped yourself to as much as you liked, couldn't you?
VOYNITSKY. why didn't you mean? Why don't you all de-
I steal,

spise me for not stealing? would have been only fair if I had and
It

I shouldn't be a pauper now.

MRS. VOYNITSKY [stcmly], Vanya!
TELEGIN [agitatedly]. Vanya, my dear chap, don't talk like this, for
heaven's sake. I'm trembling all over. Why spoil good relations?
[Kisses him.] Please don't.

VOYNITSKY. For tweuty-five years I've been cooped up in this place

with mother of mine. All our thoughts and feelings were for
this

you alone. In the daytime we talked of you and your writings, we

 UNCLE VANYA Act Three 155

were proud of you and worshipped the very sound of your name.
And we wasted our nights reading books and journals that I now
utterly despise.

TELEGIN. Oh stop it, Vanya, please, I can't stand this.

SEREBRYAKOV [angrily]. What are you driving at? That's what I

don't see.

VOYNITSKY. We thought of you as a superior being and we knew

your articles by heart. But now my eyes have been opened. Every-
thing's perfectly clear. You write about art, but you haven't the
faintest idea what art is all about. Your entire works, which once
meant so much to me, aren't worth a brass farthing. You've made
fools of us all.

SEREBRYAKOV. My fHcnds, can't you stop him? Really! I'll go away.

HELEN. Vanya, I insist you keep quiet. Do you hear me?
VOYNITSKY. I will not keep quiet, [Barring serebryakov'5 way.]
Wait, I haven't finished yet. You've ruined my life! I've not hved,
not hved, I tell you. Thanks to you the best years of my hfe have
been thrown down the drain. You are my worst enemy!
TELEGIN. I can't stand this, I really can't. I'm going. [Goes out in

terrible agitation.]

SEREBRYAKOV. What do you want from me? And what right have
you to talk to me hke that? Nonentity! If the estate is yours take it,
I don't want it.

HELEN. I'm getting out of this madhouse this instant. [Shouting.] I've
had about as much as I can stand.
VOYNITSKY. My life's ruined. I'm gifted, inteUigent, courageous. If
I'd had normal life I might have been a Schopenhauer or a Dosto-
a
yevsky. But I'm talking nonsense, I'm going mad. Mother dear, I'm
desperate. Mother!

MRS. VOYNITSKY [stcmly]. Do as Alexander says.

SONYA down in front 0/ marina and

[kneeling pressing close to her].
Nanny! Nanny, darling!
VOYNITSKY. Mother! What am I to do? Never mind, don't teU me.
I know what to do all right. [To serebryakov.] I'll give you some-

thing to remember me by! [Goes out through centre door.]

[mrs. w oy hit sky follows him.]

 !

156 UNCLE VANYA Act Three

SEREBRYAKOV. Really, everybody, what on earth is all this? Rid me of

this maniac! I cannot Uve under the same roof with him. His room
is here [points to centre door], almost next to mine. Let him move into
the village, into a cottage in the grounds, or I'll move out myself, but
I cannot stay in the same house.
HELEN [to her husband]. We're leaving this place today. We must
arrange it at once.

SEREBRYAKOV. Utter nonentity!

s o N Y A [kneeling, addresses herfather excitedly through her tears] Do show .

some understanding, Father. Uncle Vanya and I are so unhappy.

[Trying to hold back her despair.] You must be charitable. Remember,
when you were younger Uncle Vanya and Grandmother used to
translate books for you at night, copy out your papers every night, —
every single night. Uncle Vanya and I worked without a moment's
rest, afraid to spend anything on ourselves, and sent everything to

you. We did earn our keep, you know. Oh, I'm not putting it the
right way at aU, but you've got to understand us. Father. You must
show some sympathy.
HELEN [very upset, to her husband]. Alexander, for heaven's sake sort
the thing out with him. Please!

SEREBRYAKOV. Very well, I'll talk to him then. I am not accusing

him of anything and I am not angry, but you must admit his con-
duct is, to put it mildly, odd. All right then, I'll go and see him.
[Goes out through centre door.]

HELEN. Be gentle with him, calm him down. [Follows him out.]

SONYA [nestling up to mailina]. Nanny! Nanny, darling!

MARINA. It's all right, my child. The geese will cackle for a while and
then they'll stop. They'll cackle a bit and then they'll stop their
cackling.

SONYA. Nanny!
MARINA [stroking her hair]. You're shivering as if you'd been out in
the cold. There there, my darling, God is merciful. A drink of lime-
flower tea or some raspberry juice and it'U pass off. Don't grieve,
my poor darling. [Looking at the centre door, angrily.] Dear me, the
feathers are flying. A plague on those geese
[A shot offstage, helen is heard to scream, sonya shudders.]

MARINA, oh, a curse upon you!

 UNCLE VANYA Act Three 157

I SEREBRYAKOV [runs m, staggering and terrified]. Stop him, stop him!

He's gone mad!
[helen and voynitsky arf seen struggling in the doorway.]

HELEN [trying to take the revolver from him]. Give it to me. Give it to
me, I tell you!
VOYNITSKY. Let me go, Helen. Let go of me. [Frees himself, runs in

and looks round for serebryakov.] Where is he? Ah, there he is.
[Fires at him.] Bang! [Pawse.] Missed him, did I? Missed him again,

eh? [^n^n/y.] Oh, hell, hell! Hell and damnation! [Bangs the re-
volver on the floor and sinks exhausted in a chair, serebryakov looks
stunned, helen leans against a wall almost fainting.]

HELEN. Get me away from here. Take me away, I don't care if you
kill me, but I can't stay here. I can't.

VOYNITSKY [desperately]. Oh, what am I doing? What am I doing?

SONYA [quietly]. Nanny darling! Nanny!

CURTAIN
 ACT FOUR
vOYNiTSKY*5 Toottt, which scTvcs OS his bedroom and the estate

office. Near the window is a large table covered with ledgers and
various papers^ abo a bureau, cupboards and a pair of scales. There
is a smaller table for astrov with drawing materials and paints on
it. Near them a portfolio. A cage containing a starling. On the wall

hangs a map of Africa which is obviously quite out of place here.

A huge sofa upholstered in American cloth. A door, leading to left,

A door, right, into the hall. Near the door, right,

the rest of the house.
is a mat for the peasants to wipe their boots on.
It is an autumn evening and very quiet.

TELEGIN and MARINA sit facing each other, winding wool.

TELEGIN. Hurry up, Marina, they*!! be calling us to say good-bye

soon. They Ve already ordered their carriage.

MARINA [tries to wind more quickly]. There's not much wool left.

TELEGIN. They're going to Kharkov, going to Hve there.

MARINA. A good thing too.

TELEGIN. They've properly got the wind up. There's Mrs. Serebrya-
kov. *I won't spend another hour in this place,' says she. 'We'll go
away altogether,' she says. We'll go to Kharkov for a bit and have
*

a look round, then send for our things.' They're not taking much
with them. So they're not going to Hve here after all, Marina, so
that's how things have worked out. Such are the dictates of destiny.

MARINA. And a good thing too. The row they made this afternoon
and all that shooting, a thorough disgrace I call it.

TELEGIN. Yes, it was a subject worthy of the brush of Ayvazovsky.

MARINA. It was no sight for my old eyes. [P^Mse.] We'll go back to
our old way of doing things, with breakfast at eight o'clock and
dinner at one. And we'll sit down to supper in the evenings. We'll
do everything properly like other self-respecting people, in a decent
Christian manner. [With a sigh.] I haven't tasted noodles for ages,
old sinner that I am.
TELEGIN. Yes, it's quite a while since noodles were cooked in this

house. [PaM5f.] Quite a while. I was going through the village this
 UNCLE VANYA Act FoUf I59

morning, Marina, and a shopkeeper shouted after me, *Hey there,

you useless scrounger!* It quite upset me, I can tell you.

MARINA. Don't take any notice, my dear. In God's eyes we're all

scroungers. You and Sonya and Mr. Voynitsky are all the same. You
none of you sit around doing nothing. All of us work. Where's
Sonya?
TELEGIN. In the garden with the doctor. They're looking for Vanya,
they're aftaid he might do himself an injury.

MARINA. But where 's his pistol?

TELEGIN [in a whisper]. I hid it in the cellar.

MARINA [with agTin\. What a business!

[voynitsky and astrov come in from outside.]

VOYNITSKY. Leave me alone. [To marina an^TELEGiN.] Go away.

Can't you leave me alone for a single hour? I'm fed up with people
watching me.
TELEGIN. All right then, Vanya. [Creeps away.]
MARINA. You old gander. Cackle, cackle, cackle! \Picks up her wool
and goes out.]

VOYNITSKY. Leave me alone.

ASTROV. With the greatest pleasure. I ought to have gone long ago,
but I tell you once more, I shan't leave till you give me back what
you took from me.
VOYNITSKY. I haven't taken anything from you.

ASTROV. I mean what I say. Don't keep me waiting, please. I should

have left ages ago.

VOYNITSKY. I didn't take anything from you. [Both sit down.]

ASTROV. Oh no? Right, I'll give you a bit longer, and then I'm sorry,
but we'll have to use force. We shall tie you up and search you.
I mean what I say, I can tell you.
VOYNITSKY. Have your own way. [P^M5e.] How could I be such
it

a fool — fire twice and miss both times? I'll never forgive myself.

ASTROV. If you were so keen on shooting someone why didn't you

blow your own brains out?
VOYNITSKY [shrugging his shoulders]. It's very funny. I've just tried to
murder somebody, but no one thinks of arresting me or putting me
l60 UNCLE VANYA Act FOUT
on trial. So they must think I'm mad. [Laughs unpleasantly. \ Tm
a madman. But those who dress themselves up as professors and
learned pundits, so people can't see how cheap, stupid and utterly
callous they are —they aren't mad at And women who marry
all.

old men and openly deceive them, they aren't mad either. I saw you.
I saw you kissing her.

ASTRO V. Yes. I did kiss her, and my answer to you, sir, is this.

[Thumbs his nose.]

VOYNITSKY [looking at the door]. No, it's the earth itself which must
be mad for still putting up with you.

ASTROV. That's a stupid thing to say.

VOYNITSKY. what of it? I'm mad, aren't I? I'm not responsible for
my actions, so I have the right to say stupid things.

ASTROV. That line's as old as the hills. You're no madman, you just
have no sense. You're an old clown. I used to think anyone like
that was ill and abnormal, but my view now is that having no sense
is man's normal conditioiL You're perfectly normal.

VOYNITSKY [hiding his head in his hands]. I'm ashamed of myself, so

ashamed, if you did but know. This feeling of shame, it hurts so much.
It's worse than any pain. [With anguish.] I can't stand it. [Bends over
the table.] What am I to do? What am I to do?

ASTROV. Nothing.
VOYNITSKY. Give me some medicine or something. Oh my God,
I'm forty-seven. Suppose I live to be sixty, that means I have still

thirteen years to go. It's too long. How am I to get through those
thirteen years? What am I to do? How do I
fill the time? Oh, can

—
you think ? [Feverishly clutches ASTROv'i arm.] Can you think
what it would be like to Hve the rest of one's life in a new way? Oh,
to wake up some fine, clear morning feeling as if you'd started Uving
all over again, as if the past was all forgotten, gone like a puff of
smoke. [Weeps.] To begin a new life — . Tell me, how should I
begin? Where do I start?

ASTROV [annoyed]. Oh, get away with you. New life indeed. Our
situation's hopeless, yours and mine.
VOYNITSKY. Is it?

ASTROV. I'm perfectly certain of it.

 .

UNCLE VANYA Act FoUT l6l

VOYNITSKY. Please give me something. [Pointing to his heart.] I've

a burning feeling here.

ASTRO V [shouts angrily]. Oh, shut up! [More gently.] Those who Hve
a century or two and despise us for leading hves so stupid
after us
and tasteless, perhaps they'll find a way to be happy, but as for us —
There's only one hope for you and me, that when we're resting in
our graves we may have visions. Even pleasant ones perhaps. [5i^/i5.]
Yes, my dear fellow\ In our whole district there were only two

—
decent, civilized people you and I. But ten years or so of this con-
temptible, parochial existence have completely got us down. This
filthy atmosphere has poisoned our blood and we've become as
second-rate as the rest of them. [Vigorously.] Anyhow, don't you
try and talk your way out of it. You give me back what you took.

VOYNITSKY. I didn't take anything.

ASTRO v. You took a small bottle of morphia out of my medical case.

[Pj»5e.] Look here, if you're so terribly keen on doing younelf in,
why not go into the woods and blow your brains out there? But
do give me back that morphia or people will start talking and putting
two and two together and they'll end up thinking I gave it you.
It'll be quite bad enough ha\dng to do the post mortem. You don't

suppose that will be exactly fim, do you ?

[sONYA comes in.]

VOYNITSKY. Leave me alone.

ASTROV sonya]. Sonya, your uncle has taken a bottle of morphia

[to

fiom my and he w^on't give it back. Tell him that this is well,
case —
not particularly bright of him. Besides, I'm in a hurry, I ought to
be off.

SONYA. Uncle Vanya, did you take the morphia? [Paw^e.]

ASTROV. He took it aU right.

SONYA. Give it back. Why fiighten us Hke this? [Affectionately.] Give

it back, Uncle Vanya. I daresay I'm no
unhappy than you, but less

I don't give way to despair. I put up with things patiently and that's

how I mean to go on till my life comes to its natural end. You must
be patient as well. [PdM5e.] Give it back. [Kisses his hands.] Uncle,
darling Uncle, do give it back. [Weeps.] You're kind, you'll have
pity on us and give it back. You must be patient. Uncle. Please.
l62 UNCLE VANYA Act FoUT

VOYNITSKY [gets the bottlefrom the table drawer and gives i7 ^o astro v].

There you are, take it. [To sonya.] But we must hurry up and start
work, we must do something quickly, or else I just can't carry on.
SONYA. Yes, yes, we'll do some work. As soon as we've seen the others
off we'll get down to work. [Agitatedly moves some papers about on
the table.] We've let everything go here.

ASTROV [puts the bottle in his case and tightens the straps]. Now I can be
on my way.
HELEN [comes in]. Vanya, are you here? We're just leaving. Go and
see Alexander, he wants a word with you.
SONYA. Come on. Uncle Vanya. [Takes voynitsky by the arm.]
Come with me. You and Father must make it up and be friends,
you really must.
[sonya W voynitsky ^0 out.]

HELEN. I'm just leaving. [Gives her hand to astrov.] Good-bye.

ASTROV. So soon?
HELEN. The carriage is at the door.

ASTROV. Good-bye then.

HELEN. This afternoon you promised me you'd go away.

ASTROV. I haven't forgotten. And I'm just off. [Pawse.] Got cold feet,
have you? [Takes her by the hand.] Are you really quite so scared?
HELEN. Yes, I am.
ASTROV. Why not stay on after all? How about it? Tomorrow at the
forest reservation

HELEN. No. It's all settled. And that's why I can look you in the face
now, just because we definitely are leaving. One thing I do ask you,
don't think too badly of me. I'd like to feel you respected me.

ASTROV. Oh, really! [Makes an impatient gesture.] Do stay, please. You

have nothing in the world to do, you may as well admit it ^no —
—
object in life, nothing to occupy your mind and sooner or later
your feelings are going to be too much for you, that's bound to
happen. Well, it would be a lot better for it to happen here in the
depths of the country than in Kharkov or Kursk or somewhere like
that. At least this is a romantic sort of place and it's even beautiful in
autumn. We've the forest reservation and tumble-down country
houses and gardens like those in Turgenev.
 —

UNCLE VANYA Act FOUT 163

HELEN. You really are absurd. I'm angry with you, but same all the
I shall remember you with pleasure. You're an interesting man,

you're different somehow. We shall never meet again, you and I,

so— I may as well admit it — I did find you rather attractive, actually.

Let's shake hands then and part as fidends. No hard feelings.

ASTROV [after shaking hands]. Yes, you'd better leave. [Thoughtfully.]
You're quite a decent, sensitive person in your way, but everything
about you seems odd somehow. No sooner do you and your hus-
band turn up in this place than people here who were getting on
with their work, all busy creating something, have to drop every-
thing and do nothing all summer but attend to you and your hus-
band's gout. You two have infected us all with your idleness. I've
been under your spell and I've done nothing for a whole month
while all the time people have been falling ill and the villagers have
been grazing their catde in my newly-planted woods. So you see,
you and your husband bring havoc wherever you go. I'm joking of
course, but still —
is odd. And I'm quite sure of this. If you'd stayed
^it

on here we'd have had a full-scale disaster on our hands. It would

have been the end of me and you wouldn't have come out of it too
well either. All right then, off with you. The show is over.

HELEN [takes a pencil from his table and quickly hides it]. I'm taking this

pencil to remember you by.

ASTROV. It 's strange somehow. We've been friends and now suddenly
for no good reason we shall never meet again. It's the way things
happen in this world. Before anyone comes in, before Uncle Vanya
turns up with his bunch of flowers, allow me to kiss you good- —
bye. May I? [Kisses her cheek.] Well, there you are. And very
nice too.

HELEN. I wish you every happiness. [Looks round.] Oh, all right then,
just for once in a lifetime. [Embraces him impulsively^ after which they
quickly move away from each other.] I must go.
ASTROV. Hurry up and go then. If the carriage is ready you'd better
be off

HELEN. I think someone's coming. [Both listen.]

ASTROV. The show is over.

[Enter serebryakov, voynitsky, mrs. voynitsky carrying

a book, TELEGiN and sonya.]
l64 UNCLE VANYA Act FouT

SEREBRYAKOV [to voynitsky]. We'll let bygones be bygones. So

much has happened and I've been through so much and thought so
many thoughts these last few hours, I could probably write a whole
on the art of Uving for the benefit of posterity. I gladly accept
treatise

your apologies and beg you to accept mine. Good-bye. [He and
VOYNITSKY kiss eoch other three times.]

VOYNITSKY. You'll be receiving a regular amount as before. Every-

thing will be just as it was.

[HELEN embraces sonya.]

SEREBRYAKOV [kissitig MRS. voynitsky'j hand]. Mother .

MRS. VOYNITSKY [kissing him]. Do have your photograph taken again,

Alexander, and send me it. You know how fond I am of you.

telegin. Good-bye, sir. Think of us sometimes.

SBREBiLYAKOy [kisses his daughter]. Good-bye. Good-bye, all. [Shaking
hands with astro v.] Thank you for the pleasure of your company.
I respect your way of thinking, your enthusiasm and your eager
impulses, but permit an old man to include one suggestion among
his farewell wishes. You work, gentlemen.
should get down to
What we need is I wish you all the
a bit of action. [Everyone bows.]
best. [Goes out followed by mrs. voynitsky and sonya.]

VOYNITSKY [kisses Helen's hand with great feeling]. Good-bye. For-

give me. We shall never meet again.
HELEN [very touched]. Good-bye, Vanya. [Kisses him on the head and
goes out.]

astrov[^o telegin]. Waffles, would you mind teUing them to bring

my carriage round as well while they're about it?
TELEGIN. At your service, old man. [Goes out.]

[Only astrov and voynitsky are left.]

astro V [removes his paints from the table and puts them in a suitcase].
Why don't you go and see them off?

VOYNITSKY. Let them go, I — . It's all a bit too much for me. I feel
must get down to work quickly. To work
so depressed. I then. Must
work. [Rummages among the papers on the table.]
[Pause. Harness bells can be heard.]

ASTROV. They've gone. I bet the professor's pleased. You won't catch
him coming back here in a hurry.
 UNCLE VANYA Act FOUT 165

MARINA [coming in]. They've gone. [Sits in an armchair atid knits a sock.\

SONYA [coming in\. They've gone. [Wipes her eyes.] I hope to God
they'll be all right. [To her uncle.] Well, Uncle Vanya, how about
getting down to something?

VOYNITSKY. Work —must work.

SONYA. It's ages since we sat at this table together. [Lights the lamp on
the table.] There doesn't seem to be any ink. [Takes the inkstand, goes
to the cupboard and Jills it with ink.] I feel so sad now they've gone.

MRS. VOYNITSKY [coming in slowly]. They've gone. [Sits down and

becomes absorbed in her reading.]

SONYA [sitting down at the table and turning the leaves of a ledger]. First

we'll make out the accounts, Uncle Vanya. We really have let things
sHde. Today someone sent for his account again. Start vmting. You
do one lot and I'll do another.

VOYNITSKY [writing]. To the account^-of Mr. — . [Both write

silently.]

MARINA [yawning]. Well, I'm ready for bed.

ASTRO V. How quiet it is. Pens scratching, the cricket chirping. It's

warm and cosy, I don't feel like leaving. [Harness bells can be heard.]
Ah, there's my carriage. So it remains for me to say good-bye to
you, my friends, to say good-bye to my table and—be off. [Puts his
maps in the portfolio.]

MARINA, what's the great rush? Why not stay on a bit longer?

ASTROV. I can't.

VOYNITSKY [writing]. And two roubles seventy-five brought forward

firom your previous account

[The LABOURER comes in.]

LABOURER. Your Carriage is ready. Doctor.

ASTROV. I heard it. [Hands him the medicine case, suitcase and portfolio.]
Here, take these things. And mind you don't squash the portfoho.

LABOURER. Very good, sir. [Goes out.]

ASTROV. Well now — . [Comes forward to say good-bye.]

SONYA. When shall we see you again?

 .

l66 UNCLE VANYA Act FoUT

A s T R o V. Probably not before next summer. Not this winter, I imagine.

If anything happens of course, let me know and I'll come over.
[Shakes hands.] Thanks for all your hospitaHty and kindness ^for —
everything in fact. [Goes up to marina and kisses her on the head.]
Good-bye, old girl.

MARINA. You*rc not going off without any tea?

AS TROY. I don*t want any, Nanny.

MARINA. A little vodka then?

AS TROY [hesitantly]. Well, perhaps .

[marina ^oe5 out.]

A ST ROY [after a pause]. My trace horse has gone a bit lame. I noticed
it yesterday when Petrushka was taking him to water.

YOYNITSKY. You'll have to get him reshod.

AS TROY. I'd better call at the blacksmith's in Rozhdestvennoyc.

There's nothing else for it. [Goes up to the map ofAfrica and looks at it.]

Down there in Africa the heat must be quite something. Terrific!

YOYNITSKY. Very probably.

marina [returning with a glass of vodka and a piece of bread on a tray].

Here you are.

[as TROY drinks the vodka.]

marina. Your health, my dear. [Bows low.] Why not have a Httle
bread with it?

ASTROY. No, it'll do as it is. All the best to you then. [To marina.]
Don't bother to see me to the door, Nanny, there's no need.
[He goes out. sonya goes after him with a candle to see him off.

MARINA sits down in her armchair.]

YOYNITSKY [writing]. February second, three gallons of linseed

oil — . February sixteenth, another three gallons of linseed oil —
Buckwheat — . [Pdwse.]

[Harness bells are heard.]

MARINA. He's gone.

[Pause.]

SONYA [returning, puts the candle on the table]. He's gone.

 UNCLE VANYA Act FoUT 167

VOYNITSKY [making a calculation on the counting frame and writing it

down]. That makes — fifteen —twenty-five.

[sONYA sits down and writes.]

MARINA [yflu^ni]. Oh dearie me.

[telegin comes in on tip-toe^ sits down near the door and quietly

tunes his guitar.]

VOYNITSKY [to SONYA, runninghis handover her hair]. I'm so depressed,

Sonya, you can't think how depressed I feel.

SONYA. Well, it can't be helped. Life must go on. [Pawse.] And our
life will go on, Uncle Vanya. We shall Hve through a long succession

of days and endless evenings. We shall bear patiently the trials fate
has in store for us. We for others —now and in our old
shall work
age —never knowing any peace. And when our time comes we shall

die without complaining. In the world beyond the grave we shall

say that we wept and suffered, that our lot was harsh and bitter, and
God will have pity on us. And you and I, Uncle dear, shall behold
a life which is bright and beautiful and splendid. We shall rejoice and
look back on our present misfortunes with feelings of tenderness,
with a smile. And we shall find peace. We shall. Uncle, I beheve it

with all my heart and soul. [Kneels down in front of him and places
her head on his handsy continuing in a tired voice.] We shall find peace.
[telegin quietly plays the guitar.]

SONYA. We shall fmd peace. We shall hear the angels, we shall see the
sky sparkling with diamonds. We shall see all the evils of this life,

all our own of mercy which will fill

sufferings, vanish in the flood
the whole world. And then our life will be calm and gentle, sweet
as a caress. I believe that, I do beHeve it. [ Wipes away his tears with

a handkerchief] Poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you're crying. [Through

tears.] There's been no happiness in your life, but wait. Uncle Vanya,

wait. We shall find peace. [Embraces him.] We shall find peace.

[The watchman taps.]

[telegin quietly strums. MRS. voynitsky writes something in

the margin of her pamphlet, marina knits her stocking.]

SONYA. We shall find peace.
THE curtain SLOWLY FALLS
 THREE SISTERS
[Tpu cecmphi]

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

(19OO-I9O1)
 CHARACTERS
ANDREW PROZOROV
NATASHA, his fianccc, later his wife

OLGA "I

MAS HA > his sisters

IRINA j

THEODORE KULYGIN, a schoolmaster, Masha's husband

ALEXANDER VERSHiNiN, a heutenant-colonel and
battery commander
BARON NICHOLAS TUZENBAKH, a heutenant

CAPTAIN VASILY SOLYONY

IVAN CHEBUTYKIN, an army doctor
ALEKSEY FEDOTIK, a second Heutenant
VLADIMIR RODE, a second Heutenant
FERAPONT, a caretaker at the county council offices,

an old man
ANFISA, an old nurse, aged 80

The action takes place in a county town

r ACT ONE
The PROZOROVs' house. A drawing-room with columns beyond
which a ballroom can be seen. Midday. Outside the sun is shining

cheerfully. A table in the ballroom is being laid for lunch.

OLGA, wearing the regulation dark-blue dress of a high-school

teacher, carries on correcting her pupils* exercise books, standing

up or walking about the room, masha, m d black dress, sits with
her hat on her lap reading a book, irina, ma white dress, stands
lost in thought.

OLGA. It's exactly a year ago today since Father died on the fifth —
of May, your name-day, Irina. It was very cold then, and snow-
ing. I thought I'd never get over it and you actually passed out,
fainted right away. But now a year's gone by and we don't mind
talking about it any more. You're wearing white again and you look
radiant. [The clock strikes twelve.] The clock struck twelve then too.
[PrtM5e.] I remember band playing when they took Father to the
the
cemetery, and they fired a salute. He was a general, commanded
a brigade. All the same, not many people came it was a wet day —
of course, with heavy rain and sleet.
IRINA. Why bring up old memories?
[baron tuzenbakh, chebutykin and solyony appear be-
yond the columns near the table in the ballroom.]

OLGA. warm today and we can have the windows wide open, but
It's

It's eleven years now since Father

the birch trees aren't in leaf yet.
got his brigade and we all left Moscow. I remember it so well. It
was early May, as it is now, and in Moscow everything was in
blossom, it was warm and there was sunshine everywhere. Eleven
years ago, but I remember though we'd only left yesterday.
it all as
Heavens, how marvellous ! When I woke
up this morning and saw
the great blaze of Hght and knew that spring had come I felt so —
happy and excited, I felt I just had to go back home to Moscow.
CHEBUTYKIN [to SOLYONY and tuzenbakh]. Not a chance in hell.

TUZENBAKH. Absolute nonsense of course.

[masha, absorbed in her reading, softly whistles a tune.]
172 THREE SISTERS Act One

OLGA. Do Stop whistling, Masha. Really! [P(jM5e.] Being at school

every day and then giving lessons till late in the evening, I'm always
having headaches and the things that run through my mind why, —
I might be an old woman already. And it's true that these four years
I've been at the high school, I've felt my youth and energy draining
away drop by drop each day. Only one thing grows stronger and
stronger, a certain longing

IRINA. To go to Moscow, to sell the house, have done with every-

thing here and go to Moscow.
OLGA. Yes, to Moscow! As soon as we can.

[CHEBUTYKIN W TUZENBAKH laUgh.]

IRINA. Andrew 's probably going to be a professor and he won't live

here anyway. There's nothing stopping us except poor Masha here.

OLGA. Masha can come and spend the whole summer in Moscow
every year.
[masha softly whistles a tune,]

IRINA. I only pray it will work out all right. [Looks out of the window.]
What a marvellous day I'm in such a good mood, I don't know why.
!

This morning I remembered it was my name-day and I suddenly

felt happy, I remembered when we were children and Mother was

still ahve. And such wonderful thoughts passed through my head,
I felt so excited.

OLGA. You're perfectly radiant today, I've never seen you look so
beautiful. Masha's beautiful too. Andrew wouldn't be bad-looking
either, only he's put on so much weight and it doesn't suit him. But
I've aged and grown terribly thin —
because I'm always losing my
temper wdth the girls at school, I suppose. Now I have the day off,
I'm here at home, my headache 's gone and I feel younger than I
did yesterday. I'm twenty-eight, that's all. God's in his heaven, all's
right with the world, but I think if I got married and stayed at
home all day it might be even better. [PflM5e.] I'd love my husband.
TUZENBAKH [to solyony]. You talk such nonsense, I'm tired of
listening to you. [Comes into the drawing-room.] Oh, I forgot to tell
you —do you know who's going to call on you today? Our new
battery commander, Vershinin. [Sits down at the piano.]

OLGA. oh, is he? How nice.

IRINA, I§ h? old?
 THREE SISTERS Act One 173

TUZENBAKH. No, not really. Forty or forty-five at the most. [Plays

softly.] Seems a good chap. He 's no fool, you can take my word for
it, only he does talk rather a lot.

IRINA. Is he an interesting man?

TUZENBAKH. Oh, he*s all right, but he has a wife and mother-in-
law and two Httle girls — his He goes round
second wife, by the way.
calling on people and tells everyone he has a wife and two Httle girls.
He'll tell you the same thing. His wife's not quite all there, she has
a long pigtail like a school-girl and her conversation's rather up in
the air, lot of philosophical stuff. And then she tries to commit
suicide every so often, obviously just to annoy her husband. I'd have
left a woman like that long ago, but he puts up with it and just goes

round feeling sorry for himself.

SOLYONY [comes into the drawing-room from the ballroom with che-
butykin]. With one hand I can only lift half a hundredweight,
but if I use both hands I can lift two or even two-and-a-half himdred-
weight. From which I conclude that two men aren't just twice as
strong as one, but three times as strong, if not more.

CHEBUTYKIN [reading a newspaper as he comes in]. If your hair starts

falling out, take two drams of naphthalene to half a bottle of spirit.
To be dissolved and appHed daily — Must
. [Writes in his notebook.]
note that down. [To solyony.] Well, you cork up as I was saying,
the bottle and you have a Httle glass tube running through it. Then
you take a pinch of ordinary, common-or-garden powdered
alum
IRINA. Doctor, Doctor, dearest Doctor!

CHEBUTYKIN. What is it, my precious?

IRINA. Tell me, why am I so happy today? I feel as if I was sailing
along with a great blue sky above me and huge white birds soaring
about. TeU me, why?
CHEBUTYKIN [kisses both her hands, tenderly]. You're like a white bird
yourself, my dear.

IRINA. Today I woke up, got out of bed and had a wash. And then I

suddenly felt as if everything in the world made sense, I seemed to

know how to Hve. I know everything, dearest Doaor. Man should
work and toil by the sweat of his brow, whoever he is — that's the
whole purpose and meaning of his life, his happiness and his joy.
174 THREE SISTERS Act Otie

How wonderful to be a workman who gets up at dawn and breaks

stones in the road, or a shepherd, or a schoohnaster who teaches
children or an engine-driver. Heavens, better not be a human being
at all —better be an ox you can work,
or just a horse, so long as
rather than the kind of young woman who wakes up at noon, has
her coffee in bed and then spends two hours getting dressed. Oh,
that 's so awful. You know how you sometimes long for a drink on
a hot day —well that'show I long to work. And if I don't start
getting up early and working you must stop being my friend.
Doctor.
CHEBUTYKIN [affectionately]. I will, I will.

OLGA. Father taught us to get up at seven o'clock. Now Irina wakes

at seven and lies in bed at least till nine, just thinking. And looks

so serious too. [Laughs.]

IRINA. You're so used to seeing me as a little girl, you think it's

fimny when I look serious. I am twenty, you know.

TUZENBAKH. This great urge to work, heavens, how well I under-

stand it. I've never done a hand's turn all my life. I was bom in
St. Petersburg —that grew up in a family
bleak, idle place —and
that never knew the meaning of work or worry. I remember how
I used to come home from my cadet school. The footman would

pull off my boots while I'd make a thorough nuisance of myself,

watched by my mother who thought I was just wonderful and

couldn't see why others took a rather different view. They tried to
protect me from work. Only I doubt if their protection is going
to prove all that effective. I doubt it. The time has come, an ava-
lanche is moving down on us and a great storm's brewing that'll
do us all apower of good. It's practically on top of us already and
soon it's going to blast out of our society all the laziness, compla-
cency, contempt for work, rottenness and boredom. I'm going to
work and in twenty-five or thirty years' time everyone will work.
Everyone.

CHEBUTYKIN. Well, I shan't for one.

TUZENBAKH. You don't count.

SOLYONY. In twenty-five years you won't be here at all, thank God.

In a couple of years or so you'll have a stroke and die or I'll lose my
temper and put a bullet through your head, my good friend. [Takes
a bottle of scent fiom his pocket and sprinkles his chest and hands.]
 —

THREE SISTERS Act One 175

CHEBUTYKIN [lauglis]. You loiow, I'vc nevcF done a thing and that's
a fact. Since I left the university I haven't hfted a finger, I've never
even read a book. I've read nothing but newspapers. [Takes another
nexi'spaper out of his pocket.] See what I mean ? I know from news-
papers that there was someone called Dobrolyubov, for instance,

but what the fellow wrote I've no idea. I can't say I greatly care
either. [There is a banging on the floor from below.] Aha! They want
me down there, someone must have come to see me. I'll be with you

in a moment. Just a second. [Hurries out combing his beard.]

IRINA. He's up to something.

TUZENBAKH. That's right. He went out looking terribly solemn,

he's obviously going to bring you a present.

IRINA. How dreadful.

OLGA. Yes, isn't it awful? He's always playing these stupid tricks.

MAS HA. *A green oak by a curving shore.

And on that oak a chain of gold
And on that oak a chain of gold.'
[Stands up and hums quietly^

OLGA. You're not very cheerful today, Masha.

[mas HA, humming, puts on her hat]

OLGA. Where are you going?

MASHA. Home.
IRINA. That's a bit odd, isn't it?

TUZENBAKH. What! Leaving your sister's party?

MASHA. It doesn't matter, I'll be back this evening. Good-bye, darling.

[Kisses IRINA.] Once again, many happy returns. In the old days when
Father was ahve there' d be thirty or forty officers at our parties and
it was all great fun, but today there 's only one man and a boy and
the place is like a graveyard. I must go —I'm down in the dumps
today, I feel so depressed, so don't you listen to me. [Laughing
through her tears.] We'll talk later, but good-bye for now, darling.
I'll go out somewhere.
IRINA [displeased]. Why, what's the matter with you?

OLGA [crying]. I know how you feel, Masha.

176 THREE SISTERS Act One
SOLYONY. when a man starts philosophizing that's what's termed
philosophistics or just plain sophistics, but when a woman or a
couple of women start doing it then it's just a case of them talking
through their hats.

MASHA. What do you mean by that, you terrible, terrible man?

SOLYONY. Never mind.
'Before he'd time to turn a hair
He'd been knocked over by a bear.* [Pawje.]

MASHA [to OLG A, angrily]. Oh, stop that crying!

[Enter anfisa W ferapont with a large cake.]

ANFISA. In here, old fellow. Come in, your boots aren't dirty. [To
IRINA.] This is from the county council offices. Mr. Michael Proto-
popov sent it. A cake.

IRINA. Thank you. Please thank him. [Accepts the cake.]

FERAPONT. Eh?
IRINA [in a louder voice]. Will you please thank him?
OLGA. Nanny dear, give him some cake. You can go, Ferapont,
you'll get a piece of cake out there.

FERAPONT. Eh?
ANFISA. Come on, Ferapont. Come on, old fellow.

[Goes out with ferapont.]

MASHA. I don't like that Protopopov —Michael or Matthew or what-

ever he calls himself. We shouldn't ask him here.
IRINA. I didn't ask him.

MASHA. Well, I'm glad to hear that.

[chebutykin comes in followed by a soldier carrying a silver

samovar. There is a buzz of astonishment and displeasure.]

OLGA [covers her face with her hands]. A samovar! How frightful!

[Goes off towards the table in the ballroom.]

IRINA. My dear good Dr. Chebutykin, how could you?

tuzenbakh [laughs]. What did I say?

MASHA. You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.

CHEBUTYKIN. My darling girls, I've no one else but you, you're
more precious to me than anything in the world. I'll soon be sixty
 THREE SISTERS Act One 177

and I'm an old nian, a lonely, insignificant old man. My love for you
is the only good thing about me and if it wasn't for you I'd have
departed this Hfe long ago. [To irina.] I've known you since the
day you were bom, dear child, I used to hold you in my arms. And
I loved your mother, God rest her soul.

IRINA. But why these expensive presents?

CHEBUTYKiN [through tears, angrily]. Expensive presents! Oh, get

away with you! [To the soldier.] Take the samovar in there.
[Mocking her.] Expensive presents! [The soldier takes the samovar
into the ballroom^

ANFISA way through the drawing-room]. My dears, a colonel's just

[on her
arrived, someone we don't know. He's taken his coat off, girls,
and he's on his way in here. Irina dear, mind you're nice and poHte
to him. [Going out.] You should have started lunch long ago, good-
ness me you should.

TUZENBAKH. Must be Vershinin.

[vershinin comes in.]

TUZENBAKH. Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin.

vershinin [to MASHA and irina]. May I introduce myself? I'm

Vershinin. DeHghted, absolutely deUghted to be here at last. Well,
you have grown up and no mistake.

irina. Please sit down. This is a great pleasure.

VERSHININ [gaily]. I'm more pleased than I can say, I really am. But
there should be three of you sisters. I remember three Httle girls.
Can't remember your faces, but that your father, Colonel Prozorov,
had three Httle girls I remember quite clearly, saw you with my own
eyes. How times flies, dear me, how time does fly.

TUZENBAKH. The Colonel comes from Moscow.

IRINA. From Moscow? You come from Moscow?
VERSHININ. Yes, I do. Your father was battery commander there and
I served in the same brigade. [To masha.] Now I think I do just
remember your face.

MASHA. I don't remember you, I'm afraid.

IRINA. Olga! Olga! [Shouts into the ballroom^ Olg^> do come here.

[OLGA comes into the drawing-room from the ballroom.]

IRINA. We've just heard that Colonel Vershinin comes from Moscow.
178 THREE SISTERS Act One
VERSHININ. You Hiust be Olga Prozorov, the eldest. You're Masha.
And you'll be Irina, the youngest.

OLGA. Do you come from Moscow?

VERSHININ. Yes. I was at school in Moscow and that's where I joined
the service. I was sutioned there for a long time and ended up getting
a battery here and moving here, as you see. I don't really remember
you actually, I only remember there were three sisters. I remember
your father all right, I only have to close my eyes to see him just
as he was. I used to visit you in Moscow.
OLGA. I thought I remembered everyone, and now suddenly
VERSHININ. My name is Vershinin.

IRINA. Colonel Vershinin, you're from Moscow. That really is a

surprise.

OLGA. You see, we're moving to Moscow.

IRINA. We hope to be there by autumn. It's our home town. We were

bom there, in the Old Basmanny Road. [Both laugh happily.]

MASHA. Fancy meeting someone from home. [Eagerly.] Now I re-

member. Olga, you remember how we used to talk about 'the
lovesick major'. You were a heutenant then and you were in love,
and everyone teased you and called you a major for some reason.
VERSHININ [laughs]. Oh yes, the lovesick major. You're quite right.

MASHA. You only had a moustache in those days. Oh, you look so
much older. [Through tears.] So much older.

VERSHININ. Yes, w^hen I was known as the lovesick major I was

young and in love. Things have changed since then.
OLGA. But you haven't a single grey hair. You may look older, but
no one could call you old.

VERSHININ. I'm nearly forty-three all the same. Is it long since you
left Moscow?
IRINA. Eleven years. But why are you crying, Masha, you silly girl?

[Through tears.] You'll have me crying too.

MASHA. Never mind me. Do tell me, what street did you live in?

VERSHININ. The Old Basmanny Road.

OLGA. But that's where we Hved!
 —

THREE SISTERS Act Otie 179

VERSHININ. I lived in Nemetsky Street at one time. Used to walk

to theRed Barracks from there. You cross a gloomy-looking bridge

on the way and you can hear the water rushing underneath it
a depressing place when you're on your own. [P^iwie.] But what a
magnificent wide river you have here. It 's a splendid river.

OLGA. Yes, but it's so cold. It's cold here and there are mosquitoes.

VERSHININ. Oh, you musm't say that. You have a good healthy
climate, what I call a real Russian climate. There are the woods and
the river, and you've silver birches too. Charming, modest birches,
they're my favourite tree. This is a good place to hve. Only what 's so
odd is, the railway sution's twelve miles out of town and nobody
knows why.
SOL YON Y. Well, I know why. [Everyone looks at him.] Because if the
station was near it wouldn't be far away. And if it's far away it
can't be near, can it?

[An awkward pause.]

TUZENBAKH. Captain Solyony likes his Httle joke.

OLGA. Now I do remember you. Yes, I do.

VERSHININ. I knew your mother.

CHEBUTYKIN. She was a wonderful woman, may she rest in peace.

IRINA. Mother 's buried in Moscow.

OLGA. In the Novo-Devichy cemetery.

MAS HA. Do you know, I'm already beginning to forget her face?
Not that anyone will remember us either. We'll be forgotten too.

VERSHININ. Yes, w^e'll be forgotten. Such is our fate and we can't

do anything about it. And the things that strike us as so ver)- serious
and important, they'll all be forgotten one day or won't seem to
matter. [P(2W5e.] The curious thing is, we can't possibly know now

just what will be thought significant and important, or what will

seem pathetic and absurd. Take the discoveries of Copernicus or
Columbus, say. Didn't they look pointless and absurd at first?
While the crzzy rubbish put out by some nonentity seemed a great
revelation. And it may turn out the same with our present way of
life — it suits us all right, but one day it may look odd, inconvenient,
foolish, and not all that reputable either. It may even seem terribly
sinful.
i8o THREE SISTERS Act One
TUZENBAKH. Who Can say? Or perhaps people will think our hfe
was lofty and sublime, and remember it with respect. There are no
tortures, pubHc executions or invasions nowadays, but there's a lot
of suffering for all that.

SOL YON Y [in a high-pitched voice as if calling chickens]. Chuck, chuck,

y

chuck. The baron wouldn't mind starving so long as you let him say
his Httle piece.

TUZENBAKH. Kindly leave me alone, Solyony. [Sits down in another

chair.] It gets a bit boring, you know.

SOLYONY [in a high-pitched voice]. Chuck, chuck, chuck,
TUZENBAKH vershinin]. The suffering we see around us these
[to

— —
days and there's plenty of it is at least a sign that society has
reached a certain moral level.

vershinin. Yes, yes of course.

chebutykin. Baron, you just said that people would think of our-
Hfe as something lofty. But people are a pretty low-down lot all
the same. [Stands up.] Look what a low fellow I am. It's only to
console me that my life has to be called lofty, that's quite plain.

[A violin is played offstage.]

masha. That's Andrew playing, our brother.

IRINA. He's the clever one of the family. He's bound to become a pro-
fessor. Father was a soldier, but his son's chosen an academic career.

MASHA. Which was what Father wanted.

OLGA. We did tease him terribly today. We think he's a bit in love.

IRINA. With one of the local young ladies. She'll be visiting us today,
very likely.

MASHA. Oh way she dresses. It's not merely ugly and un-
dear, the
fashionable, downright pathetic. She wears a weird skirt in
it's

a kind of bright yellow with such a vulgar fringe, my dear, and a

red blouse. And her cheeks always look as if they've been scrubbed
and scrubbed. Andrew isn't in love, that I just won't beUeve. I mean
to say, he has got some taste. He's only having us on, it's just his
Httle game. Yesterday I heard she's going to marry Protopopov,
the chairman of the local council. And a good thing too. [Speaking
into the side door.] Andrew, come here. Come here a moment, dear.

[ANDREW comes in.]

 THREE SISTERS Act One i8i

OLGA. This is my brother Andrew.

VERSHiNiN. My name's Vershinin.

ANDREW. I'm Prozorov. [Wipes the sweat off his face.] You're the
new battery commander here, aren't you?
OLGA. Colonel Vershinin comes from Moscow, beheve it or not.

ANDREW. Really? Then I must congratulate you. Now my dear

sisters won't give you a moment's peace.
VERSHININ. I'm afraid your sisters must be rather bored with me
already.

IRINA. Look what Andrew gave me today, this little picture frame.
[Shows him He made it himself.
the frame.]

VERSHININ [looking at the frame and not knowing what to say]. Yes.
Quite something, isn't it ?

IRINA. And you see that frame above the piano? That's his work too.

[ANDREW makes an impatient gesture and moves away.]

OLGA. He's the one of the family, he plays the violin and does
clever
all this fretwork —in
fact he 's good at everything. Don't go away,
Andrew. He's always going oflf like this. You come back.
[mash A anJ IRINA take him by the arms and bring him back, laughing.]

MAS HA. Now just you come here.

ANDREW. Leave me alone, please.

MAS HA. Isn't he a frmny boy? They used to call Colonel Vershinin
the lovesick major and he didn't mind a bit.

VERSHININ. No, not a bit.

MASH A. And I want to call you the lovesick fiddler.

IRINA. Or the lovesick professor.

OLGA. He's in love. Andrew's in love.

IRINA [clapping her hands]. Three cheers for Andrew! Encore! He's in
love!

CHEBUTYKIN [coming up behind Andrew and putting both arms round

his waist].

'That love alone might rule the earth,

Kind nature gave us mortals binh.' [Laughs loudly.
He keeps his newspaper with him all the time.]
 —

l82 THREE SISTERS Act One

ANDREW. All right, that's enough of that. [Wipes his face.] I couldn't
get to sleep last night and now I don't feel too grand, as they say.
I was reading till four o'clock, then I went to bed, but it was no use.
I kept thinking about one thing and another —then it gets hght so
early and the sun comes streaming right into my room. There 's an
English book I want to translate while I'm here this summer.

VERSHiNiN. So you know English, do you?

ANDREW, oh yes. Our father, God rest his soul, inflicted education
on funny thing, sounds silly in fact, but I must confess that
us. It's a

since he died iVe started putting on weight and in one year I've
filled out like this, just as if my body had shaken off some kind of

burden. Thanks to Father, my sisters and I know French, German

and EngHsh, and Irina knows Italian too. But what an effort!
MASH A. Knowing three languages is a useless luxury in this town. It's
not even a luxury, but a sort of unwanted appendage like having
a sixth finger. We know much too much.
VERSHININ. oh, what a thing to say! [Laughs.] You know much too
much. I don't think there exists, or ever could exist, a town so dull
and dreary that it has no place for intelligent, educated men and
women. Let 's suppose that among the hundred thousand inhabitants
—
of this town oh, I know it's a backward, rough sort of place
there's no one else like you three. Well, you obviously can't hope
to prevail against the forces of ignorance around you. As you go on
living you'll have to give way bit by bit to these hundred thou-
sand people and be swallowed up in the crowd. You'll go under,
but that doesn't mean you'll sink without trace you will have some —
effect. Perhaps when you're gone there will be six people like you,

then twelve and so on, and in the end your kind will be the majority.
In two or three hundred years life on this earth will be beautifiil
beyond our dreams, it will be marvellous. Man needs a life like that,
and if he hasn't yet got it he must feel he's going to get it, he must
look forward to it, dream about it, prepare for it. That means he
must have more vision and more knowledge than his father or
grandfather ever had. [Laughs.] And here are you complaining you
know much too much.
MASH A [takes off her hat]. I'm staying to lunch.
IRINA [with a sigh]. You know, what you've just said ought really to be
written down.
[ANDREW has slipped away unobserved.]
 THREE SISTERS Act One 183

TUZENBAKH. Many years from now, you tell us, life on this earth will

be beautiful and marvellous. That's quite true. But if we're to play

a part in it now, even at this distance, we must get ready for it and
work for it.

VERSHiNiN [stands up]. Yes. I say, what a lot of flowers you have.
[Looking round.] And what a splendid house ! How I envy you. All
my life I've been knocking round from one lot of rooms to another,
with a couple of chairs and a sofa and stoves smoking all the time.
Why, they're just what I've been missing all my life, flowers like
these. [Rubs his hands.] Ah well, never mind.

TUZENBAKH. Ycs, we must work. I'm sure you think that's a bit of
sloppy German sentimentality, but I'm a Russian, you can take
my word for it, and I can't even speak a word of German. My
father belonged to the Orthodox Church. [P^iM^e.]

VERSHININ [walking up and down]. I often wonder what it would be

like if we could start hving all over again, knovmig exactly what we
were doing. Suppose our past hfe could be just the rough draft, so
to speak, and we could start the new one on a fresh sheet of paper.
Then we'd all try hard not to repeat ourselves, I imagine. We'd create
different surroundings for ourselves anyway, and see we had some-
where to Hve hke this with these flowers and all this Hght. I have
a wife and two Httle girls, my wife is in poor health and so on
—
and so forth and, well, if I could start my life again, I wouldn't
get married. No, I would not.

[Enter kulygin wearing a teacher's uniform.]

KULYGIN [goes up to IB-IN a]. Permit me, Irina dear, to wish you many
happy and to add from the bottom of my heart sincere
returns,
wishes for your good health and everything else one may wish a
girl of your age. And now may I present you with this Httle book ?

[Hands over a book.] The history of our high school during the last
fifty years. I wrote it myself. A trifling work, wTitten because I had
nothing better to do, but do read it all the same. Good morning
to you all. [To VERSHININ.] My name is Kulygin and I teach at
the local high school, I'm a senior assistant master. [To irina.]
In this book you'll find a hst of all the pupils who've been through
our school in the last fifty years. Feci quod potui, faciant meliora
potentes. [Kisses mash A.]
irina. But you've given me this book before, last Easter.
i84 THREE SISTERS Act One

KULYGIN [laughs], oh, surely not. In that case give it back. Or better
still, give it to the colonel here. Here you are, Colonel. You can
read it some time when you're at a loose end.

VERSHININ. I thank you. [Prepares to leave.] I really am glad to have

met you.
OLGA. You aren't going, are you? We can't allow that.
I&INA. You must stay to luncheon. Please do.

OLGA. Yes, do suy.

VERSHININ [with a bow]. I beheve I've intruded on a family occasion.
Please excuse me. I didn't know, so I haven't offered my good
wishes. [Goes into the ballroom with olga.]

KULYCIN. My friends, today is Sunday, the day of rest. Let us there-

fore relax and enjoy ourselves, each in the manner befitting his age
and station. summer and
We'll have to take the carpets up for the
put them away till winter. We'll need some insect powder or moth-
balls. The Romans were healthy because they knew how to work

and how to relax, what they had was a mens sana in corpore sano.
Their life followed a definite pattern. Our headmaster says the im-
portant thing about life is its pattern or shape. A thing that loses its

shape is finished, and that's true of our everyday life as well. [Puts
his arm round masha'5 waists laughing.] Masha loves me, my wife

loves me. We
must put the curtains away as well, along with the
carpets. I'm happy today, I'm on top of the world. We're due at
the headmaster's at four this afternoon, Masha. An outing has
been fixed up for the teachen and their families.

MASHA. I'm not going.

KULYGIN [dismayed]. My dear, why ever not?

MASHA. I'll tell you later. [Angrily.] All right then, I'll go, but please
leave me alone. [Moves away.]

KULYGIN. And after that we're to spend the evening at the head-
master's. In spite of poor health our head does do be his best to

sociable. What wonderful inspiration to us all a thoroughly

a —
first-rate chap. After the staff meeting yesterday he said to me, 'I'm
tired, Kulygin. Tired.' [Looks at the clock, then at his watch.] Your
clock's seven minutes fast. 'Yes', he said. 'I'm tired!'

[The sound of a violin is heard from off stage.]

 ^

THREE SISTERS Act One 185

OLGA. Come along please, everyone, let's start luncheon. There's a

pie.

KULYGIN. Ah, Olga my dear! Last night I worked right up to eleven

o'clock and got very tired, and today I feel happy. [Goes to the table

in the ballroom.] My dear

CHEBUTYKIN [puts his newspaper in his pocket and combs his beard]. Did
somebody say pie? Splendid.

MASHA [^0 CHEBUTYKIN, Sternly]. You mind you don't drink today,
do you hear? It's bad for you.
CHEBUTYKIN. Oh, Stuff and nonsense! That's a thing of the past.
It's two years since I really pushed the boat out. [Impatiently.] Any-
way, old girl, what does it matter?

MASHA. All the same, don't you dare drink. Don't you dare. [Angrily
but making sure that her husband cannot This means another
hear.]

dismal evening at the headmaster's, damn it.

TUZENBAKH. I wouldu't go if I were you, it's perfectly simple.

CHEBUTYKIN. Just don't go, my dear.

MASHA. Don't go, indeed. Oh, damn this Hfe, it's the absolute Hmit.
[Goes into the ballroom.]

CHEBUTYKIN [going up to her]. There, there.

SOLYONY [going through to the ballroom]. Chuck, chuck, chuck.

TUZENBAKH. That'll do, Solyony. Give it a rest.

SOLYONY. chuck, chuck, chuck.

KULYGIN [gaily]. Your health, Colonel. I'm a schoolmaster and quite

one of the family here, being Masha's husband. She's a good, kind
girl.

VERSHININ. I think I'll have a Httle of this dark vodka. [Drinks.] Your
health. [To olga.] It's so good to be here. [Only irina Wtuzen-
BAKn are left in the drawing-room.]

IRINA. Masha's in a bad mood today. She got married at eighteen

when she thought him the wisest of men. Now things have changed.
He's the kindest of men, but hardly the wisest.

OLGA [impatiently]. Andrew, when are you coming?

ANDREW [offstage]. Coming. [Comes in and goes up to the table.]

TUZENBAKH. What are you thinking about?

 —

i86 THREE SISTERS Aa One

IRINA. oh, nothing much. I don't Hkc your friend Solyony, he
frightens me. He says such stupid things.

TUZENBAKH. Hc'sa Strange man. I'm som- for him —he annoys me
too, but I feel more sorr)- than annoyed. I think he's shy. He's
always sensible and friendly when we're alone together, but in
company he's rude and throws his weight about. Don't go in
just yet, let's wait till they've all sat do"v^-n. Just let me be -vN-ith you
for a bit. What are you thinking about? [PdM^e.] You're twenty
and I'm not yet thirt)-. What a lot of years we have ahead of us
so many, many da^-s, all full of my love for you.

IRINA. Don't talk to me about love, Nicholas dear.

TUZENBAKH [iiot listening]. I feel such a tremendous zest for life.

I want to work and struggle, and this urge has become part of my
love for you, Irina. And just because you're so beautiful I find life

beautiful too. What are you thinking about?

IRINA. You say life is beautiful. But what if it only seems so? As far
as we three girls are concerned there hasn't been any beauty in our
Hves so far, life has been choking us like weeds in a garden. I'm
cr}ing. I mustn't. [Quickly dries her eyes and smiles] We must
work, work, work. That's why we're so miserable and take such
a gloomy view of things —
because we don't know the meaning of
work. We're descended from people who despised it.

[natasha comes in wearing a pink dress with a green sash.\

NATASHA. They've gone into lunch already. I'm late. [Glances at

the mirror and tidies lierselj.] My hair looks all right. [Seeing irina.]
Many happy returns, Irina dear. [Gives her a vigorous and prolonged
kiss.] You've got so many guests, I feel quite shy, really. Good morn-
ing. Baron.
OLGA [coming into the drawing-room]. Oh, here's Natasha, How are
you, dear? [They kiss.]

NATASHA. 2vlany happy returns. You have so many people here,

I feel a-v^^fiilly nervous.

OLGA. Don't worr\', they're all old fiiends. [In a horrified undertone.]
You're wearing a green sash. That's quite -v^Tong, my dear.

NATASHA. Why? You mean it's unlucky?

OLGA. No, but it just doesn't go with your dress, it looks odd some-
how.
 THREE SISTERS Act One 187

NATASHA [in a tearful voice]. Does it? But it isn't really green, you

know, it*s more a sort of dull colour. [Follows olga into the ballroom.]
[They all sit down to luncheon in the ballroom. The drawing-room is empty.]

KULYGiN. You know, I wish you'd find yourself a nice young man,
Irina. It's high time you were married.

CHEBUTYKIN. And I wish you the same, Natasha.

KULYGIN. Natasha already has a young man.

MASH A. I'm going to have a httle glass of something. Eat, drink and
be merry — after all, we only hve once.

KULYGIN. Take a black mark for conduct.

VERSHiNiN. I say, this wine is good. What's it made of?

SOLYONY. Black-beetles.

IRINA [in a tearful voice]. Oh! How disgusting!

OLGA. We're having roast turkey and apple pie for dinner tonight.
Thank goodness I'll be home all day today, and this evening too.
Do come and see us this evening, all of you.
VERSHININ. Am I invited too?

IRINA. Yes, please do come.

NATASHA. It's ever so informal here.

CHEBUTYKIN. 'That lovc alone might rule this earth,

Kind nature gave us mortals birth.' [Laughs.]
ANDREW [angrily]. Oh, can't you all stop it? I wonder you don't get
tired.

[fedotik and rode come in with a large basket offlowers.]

FEDOTiK. I say, they've already started.

RODE [speaks in a loud voice and pronounces the letter V in his throat in
the manner affected by some Russian cavalry regiments]. Started lunch
already, have they? Yes, they have.

FEDOTIK. Haifa second! [Takes a snapshot.] One. Haifa second again.

[Takes another snapshot.] Two. Now that's done.

[They take the basket and go into the ballroom where they are greeted
noisily.]
 ! —

l88 THREE SISTERS Act Otie

RODE [in a loud voice]. Many happy returns and all possible good
wishes. Marvellous weather today, simply magnificent. I've been
out walking with the boys all morning. I teach gymnastics at the
high school here.
FEDOTIK. You can move now if you want to, Irina. [Takes another
snapshot.] You do look nice today. [Takes a humming-top fiom his
pocket.] By the way, here's ^ top. It's got a wonderful hum.

IRINA. Oh, how lovely!

MASHA. *A green oak by a curving shore.

And on that oak a chain of gold
And on that oak a chain of gold*
[Tearfidly.] But why do I keep saying that? Those words have been
going through my head all day.

KULYGIN. Thirteen at table

RODE [in a loud voice], I say, you surely aren't superstitious, are you?
[LMUghter.]

KULYGIN. when there are thirteen at table it means someone's in love.

I suppose it wouldn't be you by any chance, Chebutykin? [Laughter.]

CHEBUTYKIN. Oh, I'm an old sinner, but why Natasha looks so

embarrassed I really can't imagine.

[Loud laughter. NAT ash A runs from the ballroom into the drawing-room
followed by Andrew.]
ANDREW. Please —don't take any notice of them. Stop. Wait a mo-
ment, please.

NATASHA. I feel so ashamed. I don't know what's the matter with

me and they keep making fun of me. It was a^^^ul of me, getting
up like that, but I couldn't help it, I really couldn't. [Covers her face
with her hands.]

ANDREW. Please don't be upset, Natasha. Please. Believe me, they're

only joking, it's all meant kindly. Natasha, darling, they're all kind,
good-hearted people and they're fond of you and me. Come over
to the window here where they can't see us. [Looks rourui.]

NATASHA. I'm just uot used to meeting people.

ANDREW, oh, how young you are, Natasha, how marvellously,

splendidly young! My dearest, my darling, don't be so upset. Be-
heve me, trust me. I feel so wonderfijl, my heart is full of love and
 THREE SISTERS Act One 189

joy. Oh, they can't see us, they really can't. How, oh how did I

come to fall in love with you and when did it happen? Oh, I don't
understand at all. My dear, innocent darling, I want you to be my
wife. I love you, I love you. I've never loved anyone like this
before. [They kiss.]

[Two officers come in and, seeing NAT as ha and Andrew kissing^

stand and stare in amazement.]

CURTAIN
 ACT TWO
The scene is the same as in Act One.
It is eight o'clock in the evening. From the street comes the faint

sound of an accordion. The stage is unlit. NAT as ha comes in

wearing a dressing-gown and carrying a candle. She crosses the stage
and stops by the door leading into andre w*5 room.

NATASHA, what are you doing, Andrew? Reading, are you? It's all

right, I only wondered. [Goes and opens another door, glances through

the doorway, then closes it.] I thought someone might have left a Hght
burning.

ANDREW [comes in carrying a hook]. What's that, Natasha?

NATASHA. I were any Hghts on. It's carnival week
was Seeing if there

and the servants are in such a state anything might happen you —
need eyes in the back of your head. Last night I went through the
dining-room about midnight and found a candle burning. But who
ht it? That's what I couldn't find out. [Puts down the candle.] What
time is it?

ANDREW [with a glance at his watch]. A quarter past eight.

NATASHA. Olga and Irina aren't here yet. They're stiU not back firom
work, poor things. Olga's at a staff meeting and Irina 's at the post
office. [Sighs.] I was of yours only this morning.
telling that sister

'You look But she won't listen.

after yourself, Irina dear,' I said.

A quarter past eight, you say? I'm afraid Httle Bobik isn't at all
well. Why does he get so chilly? Yesterday he had a temperature
and today he's cold aU over. I'm so worried.
ANDREW. It's all right, Natasha, the child's well enough.

NATASHA. Still, he'd be better on a special diet. I'm so worried. And

I'm told there are some people calling here about half past nine,
a fancy dress party from the carnival. I'd much rather they didn't
come, dear.

ANDREW. I don't quite know what to say. After all, they were asked.

NATASHA. The sweet Httle thing woke up this morning and looked
at me, and suddenly he smiled. He knew who I was, you see. 'Good
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO I9I

morning, Bobik,' I said. 'Good morning, darling.' And he laughed.

Babies do understand, oh yes, they understand very well. All right
then, dear, I'll say those carnival people aren't to be asked in.

ANDREW [indecisively]. Isn't that rather up to my sisters? It is their

house, you know.

NATASHA. Yes, it's their house too. I'll have a word with them, they're
so kind. [Moves off.] I've ordered some yogurt for supper. The doctor
says you shouldn't eat anything but yogurt or you'll never lose
weight. [Stops.] Bobik gets so chilly. I'm afraid his room may be
too cold. We
ought to put him somewhere else, at least tiU the
weather 's warmer. Irina's room, for instance, is just right for a baby,
it's not damp and it gets the sun all day. We must have a word with

her, she can go in with Olga for the time being. She's never at home
during the day anyway, she only sleeps here. [P^M^e.] Andrew,
sweetie-pie, why don't you say something ?

ANDREW. I was thinking. There's nothing to say anyway.

NATASHA. Now I had something to tell you. Oh yes, Ferapont's here

from the council offices, he wants to see you.

ANDREW [ydu^«5]. Ask him to come in, please.

[NATASHA^oes out. ANDREW bends over the candle, which she has
left behind, and starts reading his book, ferapont comes in wearing
a shabby old overcoat with the collar up and a scarf round his ears.]

ANDREW. Hallo, my good fellow. What is it?

FERAPONT. A book and some papers from the chairman. Here. [Hands
over a book and a packet.]

ANDREW. Thank you. Good. But why so late? It's getting on for
nine o'clock.

FERAPONT. Eh?
ANDREW [raising his voice]. You're late, I tell you. It's nearly nine.

FERAPONT. As you Say, sir. I did get here before dark, but they
wouldn't let me in. The master's busy, they told me. Ah well, if you
were busy you were busy. I wasn't in a hurry. [Thinking Andrew
is asking him something.] Eh?
ANDREW. Nothing. [Examining the book.] Tomorrow's Friday and
the office will be closed, but I'll go in and work anyway. I get so
192 THREE SISTERS Act TwO
bored at home. [Pj«5p.] Isn't it fiinny, my dear old fellow, how
things change ? And isn't life a swindle ? Today I was bored and at a
loose end, so I picked up this book, my old university lecture notes,
and couldn't help laughing. God, I'm secretary of the county council
and the chairman's Protopopov. I'm secretary, and the most I can
ever hope for is to get on the council myself. Me—stuck here as a
councillor, when every night I dream Tm a professor at Moscow
University, a di«;tinguished scholar, the pride of all Russia.

FERAPONT. I don't know, sir, I'm a bit hard of hearing.

ANDREW. Ifyou could hear properly I don't suppose I'd talk to you
at alL I must to talk to someone, but my wife doesn't understand
me and I'm somehow afraid of my sisters, afraid they'll laugh at me
and make me look a complete fool. I don't drink and I don't like
going into bars, but if I could drop in at Testov's in Moscow right
—
now, or the Great Muscovite Hotel why, it would suit me down
to the ground, old boy.

FERAPONT. There was a contractor at the office a few days back telling
us about some businessmen in Moscow. They were eating pancakes,
and one of them ate forty and died, or so he said. It was either forty
or fifty, I don't rightly remember.

ANDREW. When you sit do^i^Ti in a big Moscow restaurant you don't
know anyone and nobody knows you, but you still don't feel out
of things. Now here you know everybody and everybody knows
you, but you don't seem to belong at all. You're the odd man out
all right.

FERAPONT. What's that? [Pd«5e.] The same man was saying —^he may
have been having me on of course — that there's an enormous rope
stretched right across Moscow.
ANDREW. What for?
FERAPONT. I don't know, sir. It's what the man said.

ANDREW. Nonsense. [Reads the book, ] Have you ever been to Moscow ?
FERAPONT [ajier a pause]. No, the chance never came my way. [Pj«5e.]
Shall I go now ?
ANDREW. Yes, you can go. Good night, [ferapont goes.] Good
night. [Reading.] You might come and fetch some papers tomorrow
morning. Off with you then. [PjM5f.] He's gone. [A bell rings.]
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO 193

Oh, what a Ufe. [Stretches himself and goes off slowly to his own
room.]

[Singing is heard off stage — the nanny is rocking the baby to sleep,
MASH A and VERSHININ come in. While they talk to each other the

MAID lights the lamp and candles.]

MASHA. I don't know. [Pause.] I don't know. A lot depends on habit
of course. After Father's death for instance it was ages before we got
used to having no orderhes about the place. But quite apart from
what one's used to, I still think what I'm sa^-ing's perfectly fair.

Other places may be different, but in this to^Ti the most decent, the
most civilized and cultivated people are the mihtary.

VERSHININ. I'm a bit thirsty, I could do with some tea.

MASHA [glancing at her watch]. They'll be bringing some in a minute.

I got married when I was eighteen, and I was scared of my husband
because he was a schoolmaster and I'd only just left school m-yself
I thought he was terribly clever, and oh so learned and important.
But things have changed since then, I'm sorry to say.

VERSHININ. Yes, I see.

MASHA. Anyway, I'm not talking about my husband, I'm used to him.
But and bad-
civilians in general are often so rude, disagreeable

mannered. Rudeness bothers me, really upsets me. It's painful to

meet people who aren't as considerate, or as kind and poHte, as they
might be. As for schoolteachers, my husband's colleagues, I find
their company sheer torture.

VERSHININ. Yes. Though I should have thought there was nothing to

choose between civilians and soldiers, at least in this town. It's six
of one and half a dozen of the other. Listen to any educated person
in this place —
soldier or civilian, it makes no difference and you'll —
find he's fed up with his wife, fed up with his house, fed up with
his estate and fed up with his hones. A Russian feels so much at home
when his thoughts are up in the clouds, but tell me why is his every- —
day life so very earthbound? Why?

MASHA. Why?
VERSHININ. why he fed up with his children and fed
is up with his
wife? Why are his wife and children fed up with him?
MASHA. You're in rather a bad mood today.
194 THREE SISTERS Act TwO
VERSHININ. Perhaps I am. I missed lunch, had nothing to cat since
breakfast. One of the girls is a bit unwell, and when my children arc
ill I always get worried and feel so guilty because their mother's the
way she is. Oh, if you could have seen her this morning, she really
is beneath contempt. We staned quarrelling at seven o'clock, and at
nine I walked out and slammed the door. [PoM^e.] I never talk about
it, the funny thing is I never complain to anyone but you. [Kisses her

hand.] Don't be angry with me. Apart from you I have no one, no
one in the world. [PaM5f.]

MASH A. What a noise the stove's making. The wind howled in the
chimney before Father died, made a noise just like that.

VERSHININ. Are you superstitious then?

MAS HA. Yes.

VERSHININ. How strange. [Kisses her hand.] You're a wonderful,

marvellous woman. You're wonderful, marvellous. It's dark in here,
but I can see your eyes shining.

MASHA [moving to another chair]. There's more light over here.

VERSHININ. I love you, love you, love you. I love your eyes, I love
the way you move, I dream about you. You're a wonderful, mar-
vellous woman.
MASHA [laughing softly]. When you talk like this it somehow makes
me laugh, though it frightens me as well. Please don't talk thatway
again. [In an undertone.] No, it's all right, go on, I don't care.
[Covers her face with her hands.] I don't care. There's somebody
coming, you'd better talk about something else, [irina and tuzen-
BAKH come in through the ballroom.]

TUZENBAKH. I have a triple-barrelled name, Baron Tuzenbakh-Krone-

Altschauer, but I'm just as much of a Russian as you are. There's
not much trace of any German ancestr)' about me, except perhaps
that I'm so persistent and stubborn about inflicting m)-self on you.
I walk home with you ever)- evening.

IRINA. I'm so tired.

TUZENBAKH. And I shall go on calling for you at the post office and
bringing you home every evening. I'll keep it up for the next ten
or twenty years if you don't tell me to go away. [Noticing mash A
and VERSHININ, delightedly.] Oh, it's you. Hallo.
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO I95

iRiNA. Well, here I am, home at last. [To mas ha.] Just now a woman
came into the post office and wanted to send a telegram to her
brother in Saratov to tell him her son died today, but couldn't re-
member the So she sent it without a proper address, just sent
address.
it to Saratov. She was cry-ing. And I was rude to her for no reason
at all, told her I'd no time to waste. Wasn't that stupid of me? Are

those carnival people calling tonight ?

MASHA. Yes.

IRINA [sitting down in an armchair]. Must have a rest. I'm so tired.

TUZENBAKH [with a smik]. When you come back from work you
always look so young and pathetic somehow. [Pdw^e.]

IRINA. I'm tired. Oh dear, I don't Hke working at the post office,
I really don't.

MASHA. You've got thin. [Whistles.] You seem younger too and
you've begim to look like a httle boy.

TUZENBAKH. It's the way you do your hair.

IRINA. I must find another job because this one doesn't suit me. The
things I'd hoped for —
and wanted so much they're just what it
doesn't give me. It's sheer drudgery with nothing romantic or
intellectual about it. [There is a knock on the floor from below.] That's
the doctor banging. [To tuzenbakh.] Would you give him a knock,
Nicholas? I can't, I'm too tired.

[tuzenbakh knocks on the floor.]

IRINA. He'll be up here in a moment. Something ought to be done

about this business. The doctor went to the club with Andrew yester-
day and they lost again. I heard Andrew was two hundred roubles

down.
MASHA [apathetically]. It's a bit late to do anything about that now.
IRINA. He lost money also in December. The
a fortnight ago and
sooner he loses the lot the better,might mean we'd leave this place.
it

My God, do you know, I dream about Moscow every night ? I feel

as if I'd gone out of my mind. [Laughs.] We're moving there in

—
June, but it 's, let me see February, March, April, May almost six —
months till June.
MASHA. The only thing is, Natasha musm't find out about his
gambling.
 \

196 THREE SISTERS Act TwO

IRINA. I shouldn't think she'd care.

[CHEBUTYKIN, who hos just got out of bed after an afternoon nap,
comes into the ballroom and combs his beard, then sits doum at the table

and takes a newspaper oxit of his pocket.

MASH A. Oh, look who's come. Has he paid his rent?

IRINA [laughing]. No. We haven't had a thing from him for eight
months. He's obviously forgotten.

MAS HA \laughing\. He looks so pompous sitting there.

[Everyone laughs. Pause.]

IRINA. Why don't you say anything, Colonel?

VERSHININ. I don't know. I'd like some tea. My kingdom for a glass
of tea! I've had nothing since breakfast.
CHEBUTYKIN. Ilina,

IRINA. what is it?

CHEBUTYKIN. Please come here. Venez id. [irina goes over and sits

at the table.] I can't do without you. [irina lays out the cards for a game

ofpatience.]

VERSHININ. Ah well, if there's not going to be any tea we may as

well have a bit of a discussion.

TUZENBAKH. All right then, what about?

VERSHININ. Let me see. Well, for instance, let's try and imagine life

after we're dead and buried, in two or three hundred years, say.
TUZENBAKH. Very well then. When we're dead people will fly
around in balloons, there will be a new st)4e in men's jackets and a
sixth sense may be discovered and developed, but life itself won't
change, it will still be as difficult and full of mystery- and happiness as
it is now. Even in a thousand years men will still be moaning away
about life being a burden. What's more, they'll still be as scared of
death as they are now. And as keen on avoiding it.

VERSHININ [after some thought]. Now how can I put it? I think every-
thing on earth is bound to change bit by bit, in fact already is chang-
ing before our very eyes. Two or three hundred years, or a thousand
years if you like — it doesn't really matter how long—\\4ll bring in a
new and happy life. We'll have no part in it of course, but it is what
we're now living for, working for, yes and suffering for. We're
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO 197

creating it, and that's what gives our Ufe its meaning, and its happi-
ness too if you want to put it that way.

[mas HA laughs quietly.]

TUZENBAKH. What's the matter?

MASHA. I don't know. I've been laughing all day.

VERSHININ. I went to the same cadet school as you, though I didn't go

on to staff college. I do a lot of reading, but I'm not much good at
choosing books and I daresay I read all the wrong things. But the
longer I Hve the more I want to know. My hair's going grey now
and I'm growing old, but the trouble is I know so precious httle. Still,
when it comes to the things that really matter, there I do know my
stuff pretty well, I think. And I only wish I could make you see that
happiness —well, we haven't got we've no right to it, in fact it isn't
it,

meant for us at all. Our business is to work and go on working, and

our distant descendants will have any happiness that's going. [P<zM5e.]
I won't have it, but my children's children may.

[fedotik and rode appear in the ballroom. They sit down and sing
quietly, one of them strumming on a guitar.]

TUZENBAKH. You Seem to think we shouldn't even dream of happi-

ness, but what if I'm happy already?

VERSHININ. You're not.

TUZENBAKH [throwing up his arms and laughing]. We obviously don't

speak the same language. Now how can I convince you?

[masha laughs quietly.]

TUZENBAKH up a finger to her]. Laugh at that then. [To

[holding
VERSHININ.] Forget your two or three hundred years, because even
in a miUion years Ufe will still be just the same as ever. It doesn't
change, it always goes on the same and follows own laws. And
its

those laws are none of our business. Or at least you'll never understand
them. Think of the birds flying south for the winter, cranes for
instance. They fly on and on and on, and it doesn't matter what ideas,
big or small, they may have buzzing about inside their heads, they'll
still keep on flying without ever knowing why they do it or where
they're going. They fly on and on, and what if they do throw up
a few philosophers ? Let them keep their philosophy so long as they
don't stop flying.
 !

ipS THREE SISTERS Act TwO

MASH A. But what's the point of it all?

TUZENBAKH. The point? Look, it's snowing out there. What's the
point of that? [PaM5e.]

MAS HA. I feel that man should have a faith or be trying to find one,
otherwise his life just doesn't make sense. Think of Hving without
knowing why cranes why children are bom or why there
fly, are
stars in the sky. Either you know what you're hving for, or else the
whole thing's a waste of time and means less than nothing. [Paw^e.]

VERSHiNiN. Still, I'm sorry I'm not young any more.

MASH A. As Gogol said, 'Life on this earth is no end of a bore, my

friends.'

TUZENBAKH. What I Say is, arguing with you is no end of a job, my

friends. Oh, I give up.

CHEBUTYKIN [reading the newspaper]. Balzac got married in Berdi-

chev.
[iRiNA sings softly.]

CHEBUTYKIN. I really must put that down in my Httle book. [Makes

a note.] Balzac got married in Berdichev. [Carries on reading the news-
paper.]

IRINA [playing patience y thoughtfully]. Balzac got married in Berdichev.

TUZENBAKH. Well, iVc bumt my boats. Did you know I'd resigned
my commission, Masha?
MASHA. So I'd heard, but what's so good about that? I don't like
civilians.

TUZENBAKH. Ncvcr mind. [Gets up.] I'm not handsome, so what

business have I got in the army? And what does it matter anyway?
I'm going to get a job. For once in my Hfe I'd like to put in a hard
day's work that would bring me home in the evening ready to drop
down on my bed dead tired and fall straight asleep. [Going into the

ballroom.] I'm sure labourers must sleep well.

FEDOTIK [to irina]. I've just bought you some crayons at Pyzhikov's
in the Moscow Road. And this pen-knife.

irina. You always treat me like a child, but I am grown up, you
know. [Takes the crayons and pen-knife, delightedly.] Oh, aren't they
lovely
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO 199

FEDOTIK. And I bought a knife for myself. Just take a look at this. One
blade, two blades, three blades, and here's a thing to clean your ears
out with. These are some Httle scissors and this is a sort of nail-file.

RODE [in a loud voice]. Doctor, how old are you?

CHEBUTYKiN. Me? Thirty-two. [Laughter.]

FEDOTIK. Now let me show you another kind of patience. [Lays out
the cards.]

[The samovar is brought in and anfisa attends to it. A little later

NATASHA comes in and also busies herself at the table, solyony

comes in, greets everybody and sits down at the table.]

VERSHININ. I say, there's quite a wind.

MASH A. Isn't there? I'm fed up with winter, I've forgotten what
summer's like.

IRINA. It's going to come out, this game of patience. So we shall go

to Moscow.
FEDOTIK. No it isn't. You see, that eight's on top of the two of spades.
[Laughs.] Which means no Moscow for you.

CHEBUTYKIN [reads his newspaper]. 'Tsitsihar. A smallpox epidemic

is raging here.'

ANFISA [going up to masha]. Tea's ready, Masha dear. [To ver-

SHiNiN.] Come and have tea. Colonel. I'm sorry, I've forgotten
your name.
MASHA. Bring some here please, Nanny, I'm not going in there.

IRINA. Nanny!
ANFISA. Coming, coming.
NATASHA [to solyony]. Tiny babies understand very well. 'Hallo
Bobik,' I said. 'Hallo, dear.' And he gave me a special kind of look.
You think I only say that because I'm his mother, but that's not it,

you know, it really isn't. He's no ordinary baby.

SOLYONY. If that child was mine I'd fry it up in a frying-pan and eat
it. [Takes his glass of tea into the drawing-room and sits in a corner.]

NATASHA [covering her face with her hands]. What a rude, ill-bred man!
MASHA. People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when
they're happy. If I Hved in Moscow I don't think I'd care what the
weather was like.
200 THREE SISTERS Act TwO
VERSHiNiN. The Other day I was reading the diary of a French
minister written in prison —he'd been sentenced over the Panama
swindle. He gets quite carried away with enthusiasm writing about
the birds he seesfrom his cell window, the birds he'd never even
noticed when he was a minister. Now he's been let out and of course
he takes no more notice of birds than he did before. Just as you
won't notice Moscow when you Hve there. We have no happiness.
There's no such thing. It's only something we long for.

TUZENBAKH [takes a chocolate box from the table]. I say, what happened
to the chocolates ?

IRINA. Solyony ate them.

TUZENBAKH. What, the whole lot?

ANFISA [handing round tea]. A letter for you, sir.

VERSHININ. For me? [Takes the letter.] It's from my daughter. [Reads
it.] Of course, in that case. I'm sorry, Masha, I must shp away
quietly, I won't have tea. [Stands up in agitation.] It's the same old

story again.

MASHA. What's the matter? Or is it something private?

VERSHININ [quietly]. My wife's taken poison again. I must go, I'll sHp
out so nobody notices. How frightfully unpleasant. [Kisses masha'5
hand.] My darling, you splendid, marvellous woman. I'll sHp out
quietly this way. [Goes out.]

ANFISA. Where's he off to? And I'd just poured him some tea. A fine
way to behave.

MASHA [losing her temper]. Oh, be

quiet. You're on at people all the
time —why can't you anyone in peace? [Goes towards the table
leave
carrying her cup.] I'm fed up with you, wretched old woman.
ANFISA. But what have I done wrong, dear?
ANDREW [offstage]. Anfisa!

ANFISA [mimicking him]. Anfisa! Sits in there — . [Goes out.]

MASHA [by the table in the ballroom, angrily]. Well, do let me sit down.
[Jumbles up the cards on the table.] Playing cards all over the place.
Drink your tea.

IRINA. You ore in a bad temper, Masha.

MASHA. Don't talk to me then, if I'm so bad-tempered. You leave me
alone.
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO 201

CHEBUTYKIN [laughttig]. Leavc her alone, mind you leave her alone.

MASH A. You're sixty years old, but you might just as well be a school-
boy with your incessant jabber about absolutely damn all.

NATASHA [^i]^A5]. Need you really use such language, Masha? A nice-
looking gir^like you, why, you could appear in the very best society
— yes, I really mean it —and be thought quite charming if only you
didn't use words Je vous prie, pardonnez-moi, Marie,
like that. tnais

vous avez des manieres un peu grossieres.

TUZENBAKH [trying not to laugh]. Please, give me some— . I think

there's some brandy somewhere.
NATASHA. II parait que mon Bohik deja ne dort pas, the Httle chap's
woken up. He's a bit off colour today. I must see to him, excuse me.
[Goes out.]

IRINA. Where did Colonel Vershinin go?

MASHA. Home. There's been another of those peculiar episodes with

his wife.

TUZENBAKH [approaches solyony carrying a decanter of brandy]. You

always by yourself brooding about something, heaven knows
sit

what. Come on, let's make it up and be friends. Let's have a brandy.
[They drink.] I suppose I'll have to play a lot of rubbish on the piano
all night. Oh, what does it matter?

solyony. Why should we make it up? We haven't quarrelled.

TUZENBAKH. You always give me the feeling there's something
wrong between us. You are an odd specimen and no mistake.
solyony [reciting]. 'I may be odd, but who is not?' Aleko, be not
angry.

TUZENBAKH. What has Aleko got to do with it? [Pd«5e.]

solyony. When I'm alone with someone I'm perfectly all right, I'm
no different from anyone else, but in a group of people I feel un-
—
happy and awkward and talk a lot of rubbish. For all that I'm a
sight more honest and decent than many other people. What 's more,
I can prove it.

TUZENBAKH. You often make me angry and you keep picking on me

incompany, but somehow I like you all the same. Oh, what does it
matter? I'm going to get drunk tonight. Drink up.
202 THREE SISTERS Act TwO
SOLYONY. All right. [They drink.] iVe never had anything against you.
Baron, but I'm rather the Lermontov type. [Quietly.] I even look
a bit like Lermontov, or so people say. [Takes a bottle of scent from

his pocket and puts some on his hands.]

TUZENBAKH. I'm resigning my commission and that's the end of

that. I've been thinking of doing it for five years and at last I've taken
the plunge. I'm going to get a job.

SOLYONY [declaiming]. Aleko, be not angry. Forget, forget your

dreams. [While they are speaking Andrew comes in quietly with a

book and sits down near a candle.]

TUZENBAKH. I'm going to get a job.

CHEBUTYKIN [coming into the drawing-room with irina]. They gave

us real Caucasian food too —onion soup followed by a meat dish,
a kind of escalope.
SOLYONY. A shallot isn't meat at all, it's a plant rather like an onion.
CHEBUTYKIN. You're wrong, my dear man. Escalope isn't an onion,
it's a sort of grilled meat.
SOLYONY. Well, I'm telling you a shallot is an onion.
CHEBUTYKIN. Well, I'm telling you escalope is meat.

SOLYONY. Well, I'm telling you a shallot is an onion.

CHEBUTYKIN. Why should I argue with you? You've never been to
the Caucasus or eaten escalope.

SOLYONY. I've never eaten them because I can't stand them. Shallots
smell just like garHc.

ANDREW [imploringly]. That's enough, you two, please.

TUZENBAKH. When's the carnival party coming?

IRINA. About nine, they said, so they'll be here any moment.
TUZENBAKH [embracing Andrew]. *Oh, my porch, my nice new
'
porch
ANDREW [dancing and singing]. 'My nice new porch of maple
'
wood
CHEBUTYKIN [dancing]. 'With fancy carving everywhere!' [Laughter.]

TUZENBAKH [kisses ANDREw]. Damn it, let's have a drink. Let's

drink to our friendship, Andrew. And I'll go to Moscow University
with you, Andrew my boy.
 THREE SISTERS Act TwO 203

SOLYONY. Which university? Moscow's got two.

ANDREW. Moscow has only one university.

SOLYONY. Well, Tm telling you it has two.

ANDREW, why not make it three while you're about it? The more
the merrier.

SOLYONY. Moscow has two universities. [Sounds of protest and mur-

murs of 'hush'.] Moscow has two universities, one old and one new.
And if you don't choose to hsten, if what I say irritates you, I can
keep my mouth shut. In fact I can go into another room. [Goes out
through one of the doors.]

TUZENBAKH. And a very good thing too. [Laughs.] Ladies and

gentlemen, take your partners, I'll play you something. He's a funny
chap is fhend Solyony. [Sits down at the piano and starts playing a
tvaltz.]

MAS HA [waltzing without a partner]. The baron is drunk, is drunk, is

drunk.
[NATASHA comes in.]

NATASHA [to chebutykin]. Doctor! [Says something to chebu-

TYKiN, then goes out quietly, chebutykin touches tuzenbakh on
the shoulder and whispers to him.]

IRINA. what's the matter?

chebutykin. It's time we were going. Good-night.

TUZENBAKH. Good-uight. Time to go.

IRINA. But look here, what about the carnival party?

ANDREW [embarrassed]. There won't be any carnival party. The fact
is, my dear, Natasha says Bobik's not very well and so —oh really,
I don't know and I certainly don't care either.

IRINA [shrugging her shoulders]. Bobik's unwell.

MAS HA. Oh, what's the odds! If we're being chucked out we'd better
go. [To IRINA.] It isn't Bobik that's ill, it's his mother. In the upper
storey. [Taps her forehead.] Vulgar creature.
[ANDREW ^oe5 off through the door, right, to his own room, followed
by CHEBUTYKIN. In the ballroom everyone is saying good-bye.]

FEDOTIK. what a shame. I was looking forward to a pleasant evening,

but if the baby's ill, then of course —
I'll bring him some toys to-
.

morrow.
204 THREE SISTEIS Aa TwO
SODE [in a hmi woia\. I took x nap aficr loBdi toAxf

thought rd be aandng aE Why, k's ni^ mnc o'dock. o^

M ASHA. Lec*s go out in the soect and talk k over. We can decade
todothoc.
[Vokts arc htardMymg^ 'Good-bye, cake care of yooaelE* Tuzm-
BAKE is htmi Imjjkimg hiffdy. Emajomt goes miL amtisa mti At
MAID dem At iJUt tad paa At %faf mC TV ij am ht htmi

jBywy cff Magt, ANDREW, wtmimg mm tmtnmmi mmi hmt^ mmi

—
CHEBUTYriN omt in quietlj.\
CHEBUTYKiN. I ncvcT got roopd to marryii^ bccaiwf my life ham'jmaL
flashed past like lightning, and besides I was nmfly in kyvc widi yoar
mother and she was married already.

ANDREW. One shouldn't get marrird, indeed one sfaooldn*t. h*s aboce.
CHEBUTYKIN. Ycs, vcs, that's a point of view, but tbcfc is sodi a
tbing as loneliness. You can argue aboot k as mocb as yoa Hkc, my
boy, bat InnrKnrss is a temfafe thing. Tlioiig^ actnaUy of coodc k
doesn't matter a damn,

ANDREW. Lct'shnny i^andgecoot of hoc.

CHEBUTYRIN. What's tbe great lusb? Tlicrc's ^cnty of time.
ANDREW. Tma^aid my wife m^^ flop mc.
CHEBUTYKIN. Oh, I SCC
ANDREW. I shan't play cards fnnighr, lH just sk and watcb. I fed a bk
miwdL I get so out of bccatb, s there anythii^ I on do £br it.
Doctor?
CHEBUTYRIN. Why ask me? I don't know, dear boy. Don't rt-
mcmber.
ANDREW. Let's go throc^ the kirrhm [Tktjga omL\
[Tkedtxn-^Uriags. TUrrtisMpmmxmmiAtmkrimpmgmm. Vmtammi
Immmmttf mft JkmmLj

IRINA \comts m]. What's that?

ANFISA [m a w\dspeT\. The carnival party. [TTk htlX rimgs tgmm .]
IRINA. Tell them there's no one at home, Namiy. TbeyH haic to
excuse us.

[AvnsAgoescmLixiSAwaIksmpmmidtmmAt mmm^Atp\
Sheis upseL Enter soiyony.]
 ?

THREE SISTERS Act TwO 205

SOLYONY [in amazemmt]. No one here. But where is everybody?

IRINA. They've gone home,
SOLYONY. That's funny. Are you on your own then?
IRINA- Yes. [Pf»/5^.] Good-night.

SOLYONY. I rather let myself go just now and was a bit tactless. But
you're different from the rest, you're such a fine, decent person, and
you have so much insight. You're the only one who really under-
stands me, no one else can. I love you so profoundly, so infinitely
much
IRINA- Good-bye. Do please go.

SOLYONY. I can't Hve without you. [Following her.] My happiness!

[Through tears.] My joy! Your glorious, wonderfiil, dazzling eyes,
I've never seen another woman with eyes like yours.

IRINA [coldly]. Please stop, Captain Solyony.

SOLYONY. It's the first time I've ever told you how I love you, and
I feel like a being on another Oh, what
planet. [Rubs his forehead.]
does it matter any\vay? make you love me of course. But I'm
I can't
not having any successful rivals, let that be quite clear. And by God
I mean it, if there's anybody else I'll kill him. Oh, you are so mar-

vellous !

[n AT AS HA Starts to cross the stage, carrying a candle.]

NATASHA [looks through one door, then another, and goes past the door
leading to her husband's room]. Andrew's in there. He may as well go
on reading. Excuse me. Captain Solyony, I didn't know you were
here- I'm not dressed for visitors.

SOLYONY. I don't care. Good-night. [Goes out.]

NATASHA- oh, you are tired, poor child- [K/i3«5 irina-] You should
go to bed a bit earher.

IRINA. Is Bobik asleep

NATASHA- Yes, but he's rather restless. By the way, dear, I keep
meaning to ask you, but either you've been out or I've been too
busy. I think Bobik's nursery's too cold and damp. But your room's
just right for a baby. Darling, would you mind moving in with
Olgafor abit?
IRINA [not understanding]. Move in where?
[A troika with bells is heard driving up to the house.]
 !

206 THREE SISTERS Act TwO

NATASHA. You Can share Olga's room for the time being and Bobik
can have yours. He's such a sweet little fellow. This morning I said
to him, 'Bobik, you're mine, my very own.' And he just looked at
me with his dear little eyes.'[77ie door-bell rings.] That must be Olga.
Isn't she late

[The MAID comes in and whispers in natasha'5 ear.]

NATASHA. Protopopov? Oh, isn't he a scream? Protopopov's turned

up, wants to know if he can take me for a drive. [Laughs.] Aren't
men fimny! [The door-hell And there's someone else.
rings again.]

Perhaps might go for a little spin just for a quarter of an hour. [To
I

the MAID.] Tell him I'm coming. [The door-hell rings.] There goes

the bell again, it must be Olga. [Goes out.]

[The MAID runs out. irina sits deep in thought, kulygin and olga
come in followed by vershinin.]

KULYGIN. Well, this is a surprise. They said they were having a party.
vershinin. It's very fimny. I only left half an hour ago, and they
were expecting some people from the carnival then.
irina. They've all gone away.
kulygin. Has Masha gone too? Where did she go? And what is

Protopopov doing outside in a carriage? Who's he waiting for?

irina. Don't ask questions. I'm tired.

kulygin. Oh dear, isn't she a naughty httle girl!

OLGA. The meeting's only just ended. I'm absolutely worn out. Our
headmistress is jll and I have to take her place. My head, my head,
my poor, poor head, how it aches. [Sits down.] Andrew lost two
hundred roubles at cards last night, the whole town's talking about it.
KULYGIN. Yes, I got tired at the meeting too. [Sits down.]

VERSHININ. My wife has just decided to give me a Httle scare and

almost managed to poison herself. It's aU right now, thank good-
ness, and I can relax. So we've got to go, have we ? Very well, I wish

you all good evening. Shall we go somewhere together, Kulygin?

I can't sit at home, I really can't. What do you say?

KULYGIN. I'm tired, you'd better count me out. [Stands up.] Tm so

tired. Has my wife gone home ?
IRINA. She must have.
 !

THREE SISTERS Act TwO 207

KULYGiN [kisses irina'5 hand]. Good-night. For the next two days
we can take it easy. All the best then. [Moves off.] I would have liked
some tea. I was looking forward to a pleasant social evening, but
0, fallacem hominum spent! Accusative of exclamation.
VERSHININ. I'll have to go off on my own then. [Goes out with
KULYGIN, whistling.]

OLGA. How my head does ache. Andrew lost at cards, the whole
town's talking about it. I'll go to bed. [Moves off.] I've got the day
off tomorrow. My goodness, isn't that nice! I have the day off to-
morrow and the day after too. How my head does ache. [Goes out.]

IRINA [rt/one]. Everyone's gone away. There's nobody left.

[There is the sound of an accordion in the street and of the nanny singing
a song.]

NATASHA [crosses the ballroom wearing a fur coat and a fur hat. She is

followed by the maid]. I'll be back in half an hour, I'm just going
for a Httle airing. [Goes out.]

IRINA [alone on the stage, with intense longing]. Moscow, Moscow,

Moscow

CURTAIN
 ACT THREE
The bedroom shared by olg A and irina. There are beds, lefi and
right, with screens round them. It is between two and three o* clock

in the morning. Off stage church bells are ringing the alarm, afire
having broken out some time previously. Obviously no one in the
house has gone to bed yet. masha w lying on a sofa wearing a black
dress as usual, olga ani anfisa come in.

ANFISA. They're sitting do^Ti there under the stairs now. 'Please come
upstairs', I tell them. 'We can't have this, can we?' They're crying.
*We don't know where Father is,* they say. *He might have been
burnt to death.' What an idea! Then there are those other people out
in the yard as well, they're in their nightclothes too.

OLGA [takes some dresses out of a wardrobe]. Take this grey one. And
this one too. And the blouse. And take this skirt as weU, Nanny.
Oh heavens, what a business! Kirsanovsky Street must be burnt to
the ground. Take this. And this. [Throws the clothes into anfisa*^
arms.] The Vershinins had a fright, poor things, their house only just
escaped. They'd better spend the night here, we can't let them go
home. And poor Fedotik's lost everything, it's all gone up in smoke.
ANFISA. You'd better call Ferapont, dearie, I can't manage all this.

OLGA [n«^5]. They don't come when you ring. [Calls through the
door.] Come here, please. Is anyone there? [The red glare of a window
is seen through the open door. Afire engine is heard passing the house.]

How horrible. And how thoroughly tiresome too.

- [ferapont comes in.]

OLGA. Here, take all this do^^Ti, please. The Kolotilin girls are down
there under the stairs, give it to them. And give them this too.

FERAPONT. Very well, miss. Moscow had a fire as well, in 1812. Dear
oh dear, the French did get a surprise.
OLGA. Run along now, be off w4th you.
FERAPONT. Very well, madam. [Goes out.]

OLGA. Give them everything we have, Nanny dear. We don't need it,

give it all away. I'm so tired, I can hardly stand. We can't possibly
let the Vershinins go home. The httle girls can sleep in the drawing-
 THREE SISTERS Act Three 209

room, and the colonel had better go in with Baron Tuzenbakh down-
stairs.Fedotik can go in with the baron as well or have the dining-
room if he likes. The doctor has to go and get hopelessly drunk at
this of all times, so we can't put anyone in with him. And Vershinin's

wife had better go in the drawing-room too.

ANFiSA [in a tired voice]. Don't send me away, Miss Olga, please don't
send me away.
OLGA. That's silly talk, Nanny. There's no question of sending you
away.
ANFISA [resting her olga* s breast]. I do work hard, Miss Olga,
head on
my precious, I grow too weak to manage I'll be told
really do. If I
to go. But where can I go, you tell me that. I'm over eighty. Eighty-
one I am
OLGA. Sit down a bit, Nanny. You're worn out, poor thing. [Helps
her to sit down.] Have a rest, dear, you look so pale.

[NATASHA comes in.]

NATASHA. They're saying we ought to set up a reHef committee at

once for the fire victims. You know, that's not a bad idea. In fact
weshould always be ready to help the poor. It's up to the rich, isn't
Bobik and Httle Sophie are sound asleep in bed just as if nothing
it?

had happened. There's such a crowd in the house, with people every-
where whichever way you turn. And now there's 'flu about in town
I'm afraid the children might catch it.

OLGA [not listening to her]. You can't see the fire firom this room, it's

peaceful here.

NATASHA. Isn't it? I must look a sight. [Stands in front of the mirror.]
People say I've put on weight. But it's not true, not a bit of it.
Masha's asleep — tired out, poor girl. [To anfisa, coldly.] How dare
you be seated in my presence? Stand up! Be off with you! [anfisa
goes out. Pause.] Why you keep that old woman I don't understand.

OLGA [taken aback]. I'm sorry, I don't quite understand either.

NATASHA. There's no place for her here. She came from a village and
she should go back to her village. This is sheer extravagance. I like
to see a house run properly, there 'sno room for misfits in this house.
[Strokes olga'j Poor thing, you're tired out. Our head-
cheek.]
mistress is tired. You know, when Httle Sophie grows up and goes
to school I'll be quite scared of you.
210 THREE SISTERS Act Three

OLGA. I shan't be a headmistress.

NATASHA. But theyVc appointing you, dear, it's all settled.

OLGA. I down. I can't do it, it's more than I can manage.

shall turn it

[Drinks some water.] A few moments ago you were very rude to
Nanny. I'm sorry, I can't stand that kind of thing, it made me feel
quite faint.

NATASHA [very upset]. Forgive me, Olga, forgive me. I didn't mean
to upset you.

[mash A stands up, takes a pillow and goes out angrily.]

OLGA. Try to understand, my dear. It may be the strange way we

were brought up, but I can't stand that attitude. It really depresses
me, actually makes me ill. I feel simply awful about it.
NATASHA. Forgive me, please. [Kisses her.]

OLGA. The least rudeness, a single word spoken unkindly —and I get
upset.

NATASHA. I often say the wrong thing, I admit, but you must agree,
dear, she could go and live in her village.

OLGA. She's been with our family for thirty years.

NATASHA. But the point is she can't work any more. Either I don't
understand you or you've made up your mind not to understand
me. She can't do a proper job, all she does is sleep or sit aroimd.

OLGA. Then let her sit around.

NATASHA [astonished]. What? Let her sit around! She's a servant, isn't

she? [Through tears.] I can't make you out, Olga. I keep a nanny
myself and a wet nurse for the baby, and we have a maid and
a cook. But what do we need that old woman for? That's what
I don't see.

[The fire-alarm is sounded off stage.]

OLGA. Tonight seems to have put ten yean on my life.

NATASHA. We
must get this straight once and for all, Olga. Your
place is mine is the home. You teach. I run the house.
the school,
And if I happen to pass a remark about the servants I know what I'm
talking about. And the sooner you get that into your head the better.
So you mind that thieving old hag gets her marching orders for
tomorrow. [Stamps herfeet.] The old bitch! How dare you exasperate
 THREE SISTERS Act Three 211

me like this, how dare you? [Regaining her self-control] Really, if you
don't move downstairs we'll never stop quarrelling. It's perfectly
horrible.
[kulygin comes in.]

KULYGIN. Where's Masha? we went home. I'm told

It really is time
Only one row of houses burnt
the fire's dying out. [Stretches himself.]
down, but there was a wind, you know, and it looked at one time
as if the whole town was on fijre. [Sits doum.] I'm tired out. Dear

Olga, I often think, if it hadn't been for Masha I'd have married you,
dear. You're a wonderfiil person. I'm all in. [Listens.]

OLGA. What is it?

KULYGIN. The doctor has to pick a time like this to get roaring drunk.
A time like this. [Gets up.] I think he's coming up here. Can you
hear anything? Yes, he is. [Laughs.] Really, what a character. I'm
going to hide. [Goes towards the cupboard and stands in the comer.] The
old pirate.

OLGA. He hasn't touched a drop for two years and now he has to go
and get drunk. [Moves to the back of the room with natasha.]

[cHEBUTYKiN comcs in. He walks across the room as steadily as if

he was sober, stops, stares, then goes to the washstand and begins to wash
his hands.]

CHEBUTYKIN [moroscly]. Damn the whole lot of them. To hell with

them. They think I'm a doaor and can cure diseases, but I know
absolutely nothing. What I did know I've forgotten, I don't remem-
ber a thing, my mind's a blank, [olga and natasha ^0 out, un-
To hell with them. I had a patient at Zasyp last
noticed by him.]
Wednesday, a woman. She died, and it was all my fault. Yes indeed.
I did know a thing or two about twenty-five years ago, but now
I've forgotten it all, it's all gone. Perhaps I'm not even a human
being, perhaps I only pretend to have arms and legs and a head,
perhaps I don't even exist at all, and only imagine I walk about and
eat and sleep. [Weeps.] Oh, how nice not to exist. [Stops weeping,
morosely.]Who the hell cares? A couple of days ago at the club they
were talking about Shakespeare and Voltaire. I've never read them,
never read a word of them, but I managed to look as if I had and
ever)^one else did the same. Could anything be more vulgar? Or
more sordid ? Then I suddenly remembered the woman I killed on
 \

212 THREE SISTERS Act Three

Wednesday, it all came back to me and I felt rotten, dirty, twisted

So I went and got drunk.
inside.

[iRINA, VERSHININ and TUZENBAKH COme in. TUZENBAKH IS

wearing a new and fashionable suit.\

IRINA. Let's sit here a bit. No one will come in here.

VERSHININ. If it hadn't been for the troops the whole town would
have gone up in flames. Good for them! [Ruhs his hands with pleasure.
What a grand lot of chaps! Absolutely splendid!

KULYGIN [going up to them]. I say, what's the time?

TUZENBAKH. Well after three. It's starting to get light.

IRINA. They're all sitting in the dining-room, nobody seems to be

going. Your friend Solyony's there as well. [To chebutykin.]
Why don't you go to bed, Doaor?

chebutykin. I'm all right. Thanking you very much. [Comhs his

heard.]

KULYGIN [laughs]. Thoroughly plastered, aren't you. Doctor? [Claps

him on the shoulder.] Well done, my boy. In vino Veritas, as the
ancients used to say.

TUZENBAKH. Every One 's asking me to get up a concert in aid of the

fire victims.

IRINA. Oh, I shouldn't have thought anyone would

TUZENBAKH. We could do it if we wanted. Masha for instance plays
the piano beautifully.

KULYGIN. Indeed she does. Beautifully.

IRINA. She's forgotten how to. She hasn't played for three or four
years.

TUZENBAKH. Nobody in this town appreciates music, nobody at all.

But I do, I really do, and beHeve me, Masha plays magnificently.
Brilliantly almost.

KULYGIN. Quite right. Baron. I'm so fond of Masha. She's wonderfuL

TUZENBAKH. Imagine being able to play so gloriously, knowing all

the time that not one living soul appreciates you.

KULYGIN [«]^/»^]. True enough. But would it be quite the thing for
her to play in a concert? [P^M^e.] Of course I'm a child in these
matters, you know. I daresay it's quite all right. But to be perfectly
 THREE SISTERS Act Three 213

honest, though our head's a decent enough chap — first rate in fact,
quite outstanding — still he does hold certain views. This is nothing
to do with him of course, but still I could have a word with him if

you liked.

[CHEBUTYKIN picks up a poTcelain clock and examines it.\

VERSHININ. I got terribly dirty at the fire, must look like nothing on
earth. [Pij«5e.] Yesterday I heard a rumour that our brigade's in for
a transfer to the back of beyond. Some say it's Poland. Others reckon
it's the far side of Siberia.

TUZENBAKH. I heard the same. Ah well, the town will be deserted

and no mistake.
IRINA. We're going away as well.

CHEBUTYKIN [drops the clock and breaks it]. Smashed to smithereens.

[Pause. Everyone is distressed and embarrassed.]

KULYGIN [picking up the pieces]. A valuable object like that good —

heavens. Doctor, whatever next! Take nought out of ten for conduct.

IRINA. That clock belonged to Mother.

CHEBUTYKIN. Very possibly. No doubt was your mother's if you

it

say so, but what if I didn't really break what if we only think
it,

I did? What if we only think we exist and aren't really here at all?
I know nothing and nobody else knows anything either. [Stands by
the door.] What are you all staring at? Natasha's carrying on with

Protopopov and a lot of notice you take. You sit around as if you'd
lost the use of your eyes while Natasha carries on with Protopopov.
[5m^5.] 'Be so good as to accept one of these dates.' [Goes out.]

VERSHININ. Well, well. [Laughs.] A funny business all this, it really

is. [P^M5e.] When the fire broke out I ran home as fast as I could.
I reached the house and saw was quite all right, not in any danger
it

or anything. My two were standing by the front door in

little girls

their nightclothes, their mother wasn't there, people were rushing

about, horses and dogs were charging around, and you should have
seen the children's faces. They looked frightened out of their wits,
terribly pathetic and goodness knows what else. When I saw those
faces my heart sank. My God, I thought, how much more have the
children got to live through before they're fmished ? I grabbed them
and rushed off, and I could think only of one thing —how much
214 THREE SISTERS Act Three

more will they have to put up with in this world? [The alarm sounds.

Pause.] I arrive here and find their mother shouting and in a filthy
temper.

[mas HA comes in with a pillow and sits down on the sofa.]

VERSHININ. The children were standing by the firont door in their

nightclothes, the street was all red with flames, there was a most
appalling din. It struck me that it must have been rather like this in
the old days of sudden enemy invasions, with all the looting and burn-
ing. But what a difference between then and now, come to think
—
of it. Before very long in two or three hundred years, say people —
will look back on our way of life with the same horror and contempt,
they'll regard our times as tough, hard, strange and most uncom-
fortable. Why, life is going to be absolutely wonderful, it really is.

[Laughs.] Sorry, I'm laying down the law again. Does anyone mind
if I go on? I'm in just the mood to air my views at the moment,
I can't help it. [P^Mse.] Everyone seems to be asleep. Well, as I say,
going to be wonderful. Just imagine it. The point is, just now
life is

there are only three people like you in this town, but in future
more and more of them. Things will change
generations there will be
in course of timeand everything will be done your way. People will
live your way too and after that you'll become back numbers in
your turn, and a new and better breed will arise. [Laughs.] I'm in a
funny sort of mood tonight, I feel ready to take on anything.
[Sings.]

'As everyone has always found.

It's love that makes the world go round.* [Laughs.]

MAS HA. Ti turn ti tum ti

VERSHININ. Tum tum tum

MAS HA. Tara tarara.

VERSHININ. Tum ri tum. [Laughs.]

[fedotik comes in.]

FEDOTIK [dances about]. Burnt to a cinder. Not a thing left! [Laughter.]

IRINA. It isn't exactly funny. Have you really lost everything?

FEDOTIK [laughs]. The whole lot. The cupboard's bare. My guitar,

my photographic stuff, my letters—all gone up in smoke. I was going
to give you a Uttle notebook, but that went up as well.

[soLYONY comes in.]

 THREE SISTERS Act Three 215
IRINA. oh, please go away. Captain Solyony. You can't come in here.
SOLYONY. No? And why is the baron allowed in here when I'm not?
VERSHININ. We really should be going. What news of the fire?

SOLYONY. I was told it's dying down. I must say it's decidedly odd
that the baron can come in here when I can't. [Takes out a bottle of
scent and sprinkles himself with it.]

VERSHININ. Ti turn ti tum.

MASHA. Tum tum.
VERSHININ [laughing, to solyony]. Let's go into the dining-room.

SOLYONY. Very well, I'll take a note of it.

'I could develop my idea,

But might annoy the geese, I fear.'

[Looking fl^TUZENBAKH.] Chuck, chuck, chuck. [Goes out with

VERSHININ and fedotik.]
IRINA. That beastly Solyony 's filled the place with scent. [Bewildered.]
The baron's gone to sleep. Hey, Baron!
TUZENBAKH [opening his eyes]. I say, am tired. A brick-works. No,
I

I'm not talking in my sleep, I'm actually going to a brick-works very

shortly, going to do a job there. I've already spoken to them. [To
IRINA, tenderly.] You look so pale and beautiful, so enchanting. Your
pale face seems to Hght up the darkness around you. You're de-
pressed and dissatisfied with life. Oh, why not come wath me?
We'll go away and get a job together.
MASHA. Oh Nicholas, I wish you would go away.
TUZENBAKH So you're here, are you? I can't see. [Kisses
[laughing].
irina'^ hand.] Good-bye then, I'll be off. Looking at you now,

I remember a long time ago —

it was on your name-day when you —
spoke about the thrill of doing a real job of work. You were so
and I seemed to see a happy future ahead
cheerful and confident then
of me. Where's gone now? [Kisses her hand.] There are tears
all that
in your eyes. You'd better go to bed, it's already getting hght. It's
almost morning. How I wish I could give my life for you.

MASHA. Do go, Nicholas. This really is too much.

TUZENBAKH. I'm going. [Goe5.]

MASHA [lying down]. Theodore, are you asleep?

KULYGIN. Eh?
2i6 THREE SISTERS Act Three

MASH A. why don't you go home?

KULYGIN. Darling Masha, Masha my dear one
IRINA. She's tired out. Better let her rest, Theodore.

KULYGIN. All right, I'll go. My splendid, wonderful wife— I love you,
I love no one but you.

MASHA [angrily]. AmOy amas, amat, amamus, amatiSy amant.

KULYGIN [laughs]. Oh, isn't she marvellous! You and I've been man
and wife for seven years, but I feel as if we were married only yester-
day, I do honestly. You really are a marvellous creature. I'm happy,
happy, oh so happy.

MASHA. I'm bored, bored, oh so bored. [Sits up.] And there's some-
thing else I can't get out of my mind, something quite revolting.
It's become an obsession, I can't keep it to myself any longer. It's

about Andrew. He's mortgaged this house to the bank and his wife's
*

pocketed the money. But the point is the house isn't his alone, it

belongs to all four of us. He must surely reahze that if he has any
decency at all.

KULYGIN. Steady on, Masha. Why bring all that up ? Andrew 's in debt
all round, so leave the poor fellow alone.

MASHA. Well, anyway, it's revolting. [Lies down.]

KULYGIN. You and I aren't poor. I have my job at the high school
and I give private lessons as well. I'm a plain straightforward chap.
Omnia mea mecum porto, as the saying goes.

MASHA. It's not that I want anything for myself. It's so unfair, that's
what infuriates me. [Pdw^e.] Theodore, why don't you go home?
KULYGIN [kisses her]. You're tired. Have half an hour's rest, and I'll

just sit and wait. Go to sleep. [Moves off.] I'm happy, happy, oh so
happy. [Goes out.]

IRINA. must say, poor old Andrew has gone to seed. Living with that
I

wretched woman has put years on his life and knocked all the stuffing
out of him. At one time he was aiming to be a professor, and there
he was yesterday boasting he'd got on the county council at long
last. He's on the council and Protopopov's the chairman. The whole

town's talking about it, everyone's laughing at him and he's the
only one who doesn't know or see what's going on. And when
everyone rushed off to the fire just now, there was he sitting in his
 —

THREE SISTERS Act Three 217

room not taking the slightest notice and just playing his violin.
[Upset.] Oh, it's frightful, absolutely frightful. [CnW.] I've had as
much as I can take, I just can't stand any more.
[oLGA comes in and starts tidying her bedside table.]

IRINA [sobs loudly]. Why don't you get rid of me, throw me out?
I can't stand it any more.
OLGA [frightened]. But what's the matter, darling?
IRINA [sobbing]. What's become of everything, where 's it all gone?
Where is it? Oh my
God, I've forgotten, forgotten everything, my
head's in such a whirl. I can't remember the Italian for 'window'
or 'ceiling' either. I'm always forgetting things, I forget something
every day. And Hfe is sHpping away, it will never, never come back
again, and we shall never go to Moscow either, I just know we
shan't.

OLGA. Don't, dear, don't.

IRINA Oh, I'm so miserable. I can't, I won't,

[trying to control herself].

I will not had enough. I used to be at the post office and

work. I've
now I work for the town council, and I loathe and despise everything
they give me to do. I'm twenty-three, I've been working all this
time and my brain's shrivelled up. I've grown thin and ugly and old
and I've nothing to show for it, nothing, no satisfaction of any kind,
while time passes by and I feel I'm losing touch with everything fine
and genuine in life. It's like sinking down, down into a bottomless
pit. I'm desperate. Why am I still alive, why haven't I done away

with myself? I don't know.

OLGA. Don't cry, child, please, it upsets me so.

IRINA. I'm not crying, I'm not. I won't. Look, I've stopped now.
I must stop, I really must.

OLGA. My dear, let me tell you something as your sister and your
friend. If you want my advice, marry the baron.
[iRiNA cries quietly.]

OLGA. After all you do respect him, you think so much of him. He
may not be all that good-looking, but he's a fine, decent man. One
doesn't marry for love, you know, it's only a matter of doing one's
duty. That's what I think anyway, and I'd marry without love. I'd
marry the first man who came along provided it was someone honest
and decent. I'd even marry an old man.
2i8 THREE SISTERS Act Three

IRINA. I've been waiting for us to move to Moscow all this time,
thinking I'd meet my true love there. I've dreamed about him, loved
him, but that was sheer fooUshness as it's turned out.

OLGA [embraces her sister]. I understand, Irina darling, I do understand.

When the baron resigned his commission and came to see us in his
civiUan suit, he looked so ugly it actually brought tears to my eyes.
He asked me why I was crying. How could I tell him? But if he did
marry you, if such was God's will, I'd be happy. That's an altogether
different thing, you see.

[NATASHA comes in through the door, right, carrying a candle, aosses

the stage and goes out through the door, left, without saying anything.]

MASH A [sits up]. The way she goes about you'd think it was she who
started the fire.

OLGA. Masha, you're silly. You're the silliest person in the whole
family. Forgive me saying so. [P<iM^e.]

MASHA. My dears, I've a confession to make. I feel I must get it off

my chest. you two and then never breathe another word
I'll tell

about it to anyone, I'll tell you right away. [Quietly.] It's my secret,
but I want you to know it, I can't keep it to myself [Patt5e.] I'm in
love, in love with that man. He was in here just now. Oh, what's the
use? What I'm saying is, I love Vershinin.

OLGA [goes behind her screen]. That's enough of that. I'm not Ustening
anyway.

MASHA. It's hopeless. [Clutches her head.] found him strange at first,
I

then felt sorry for him, then fell in love with him —
with him, with
his voice, his conversation, his misfortunes and his two Httle girls.

OLGA [from behind the screen]. Anyway, I'm not Ustening. I don't care
what rubbish you talk, I'm just not Hstening.

MASHA. Oh, you are funny, Olga. Since I love him it must be my
fate, it must be my destiny. And he loves me. It's terrifying,
isn't it? Isn't it? [Takes irina by the hand and draws her towards
herself] Oh how shall we spend tlie rest of our Uves,
darling,
and what's to become of us? When you read a novel this sort
of thing all seems so trite and obvious, but when you fall in love
yourself you see that nobody knows anything and we all have to
decide these things for ourselves. My dears, now I've confessed I'll
 THREE SISTERS Act Three 219

say no more. Now I'll be like the madman in Gogol's story. I'll

keep quiet and say nothing.

[ANDREW comes in followed by ferapont.]

ANDREW [angrily]. What do you want? I don't understand.

FERAPONT [standing in the doorway, impatiently]. I must have told you

ten times already, Mr. Andrew.
ANDREW. WeU, don't call me Mr. Andrew for a start. Call me sir.

FERAPONT. It's the firemen, sir, they say can they please go to the
river through your garden. They've been going the long way round
all this time and it's more than flesh and blood can stand.

ANDREW. All right. Tell them it's all right, [ferapont goes out.]
Confound them. Where's Olga? [olga comes out from behind the
screen.] It's you I wanted to see. Would you mind giving me the

key of the cupboard? I've lost mine. You know that Httle key you've
got. [olga silently hands him the key. irina goes behind her screen.
Pause.]

ANDREW. Well, it's been quite a fire, hasn't it? It is dying down now.

That wretched Ferapont made me lose my temper, dammit, and say

something silly. I told him to call me sir. [P(iM5e.] Why don't you

speak, Olga? [P^iM^e.] Isn't it time you stopped being so silly, there's
nothing to sulk about. You're here, Masha, and Irina 's here. Well,
that's fme, we can clear the air once and for all. What have you all

got against me, eh?

OLGA. Don't start that, Andrew. We can talk about it tomorrow.

[With feeling.] What a dreadful night.

ANDREW [greatly put out]. There's no need to get excited. I'm asking

you quite calmly what it is you have against me, and I want a straight
answer.

VERSHININ [offstage]. Tum ti ti.

MASHA [getting up, in a loud voice]. Tum tum tum. [To olga.] Good-
night, Olga, look after yourself. [Goes behind the screen and kisses
IRINA.] Pleasant dreams. Good-night, Andrew. Do go away, they're
worn out. You can sort this all out tomorrow. [Goes out.]

OLGA. Yes, really, Andrew, let's leave it till tomorrow. [Goes behind
her screen.] It's time we were in bed.
220 THREE SISTERS Act Three

ANDREW, ril say what's on my mind and go. Right. In the first place,
you seem to have it in for Natasha. Oh yes, I've noticed it since
all

the day we were married. My wife, in case you want to know, is a

fine, decent, straight-forward, honourable woman. Or that's what

I think. I love my wife and respect her. I respect her, I tell you, and

I require others to do the same. I repeat —

she 's a decent, honourable
woman, and you'll forgive my saying that all your objections to
her are sheer childishness. [Powse.] And in the second place, you seem
annoyed with me because I'm not a professor and don't do academic
work. But I happen to work for the county council. I'm a county
councillor and I consider that work every bit as honourable and
worth-while as any academic job. I'm on the county council and
proud of it, in case you're interested. [Pa«5e.] And in the third place
I've something else to say. I know I mortgaged this house without
getting your permission. That was wrong, I admit, and I apologize.
I had to do it because of all that money I owed, thirty-five thousand

roubles of it. I don't gamble any more, I gave that up long ago, but
the main point in my defence is that you girls have an annuity,
whereas I've had no such source of—income, so to speak. [Pawse.]

KULYGIN [through the door]. Isn't Masha here? [Agitated.] Where can
she have got to? This is all very odd. [Goes out.]

ANDREW. They won't Hsten. Natasha's a fine, decent woman, I tell

you. [Walks silently up and doum the stage, then stops.] When we got
married I thought we were going to be happy, all of us. But oh my
God! [Cries.] My dear sisters, my darling sisters, don't beUevc what
I've been saying, don't beHeve a word of it. [Goes out.]

KULYGIN [through the door, agitatedly]. Where's Masha? Isn't she here?
This is most pecuHar. [Goes away.]

[The alarm sounds. The stage is empty.]

IRINA [from behind the screen]. Olga, who's that knocking on the floor?

OLGA. The doctor. He's drunk.

IRINA. It's been one thing after another all night. [Pause.] Olga!
[Looks out from behind the screen.] Have you heard? They're moving
our brigade, posting it somewhere far away.

OLGA. That's only a rumour.

IRINA. Then we'll be all on our own. Olga!

 THREE SISTERS Act Three 221

OLGA. Yes?
IRINA. I Olga darling, I think very highly of him,
respect the baron,
he is good man and I will marry him, I will, I will, only do
a very
let's go to Moscow. We must go. Please! There's nowhere in the

world Hke Moscow. Let's go, Olga, do let*s go!

CURTAIN
 ACT FOUR
The old garden belonging to the prozorovs* house. A long
avenue offirs with a view of the river at the end. A wood on the far
side of the river. On the right the terrace of the house. On it a table
with bottles and glasses —someone has obviously just been drinking
champagne. Midday. From time to time people from the street go
through the garden towards the river. Five or six soldiers march
briskly past.
CHEBUTYKIN, who remains in a genial mood throughout the
Act, is sitting in an armchair in the garden waitingfor someone to call

him. He has his army cap on and holds a stick, irina, kulygin —
who wears a decoration on a ribbon round his neck and has shaved

off his moustache

—and tuzenbakh are standing on the terrace

saying good-bye ^o fedotik and rode, who are coming down the
steps. Both officers are in service dress.

TUZENBAKH [embraces fedotik]. You're a good fellow, we've

always got on well together. [Embraces rode.] Once more then.
Good-bye, my dear fellow.

IRINA. Au revoir.

FEDOTIK. It isn't au revoir, it's good-bye. We'll never see each other
again.

KULYGIN. Who knows? [Wipes his eyes and smiles.] Now I'm cry-
ing too.

IRINA. We'll meet again some time.

FEDOTIK. You mean in ten or fifteen years? By then we'll hardly
know each other, we'll meet as strangers. Stand still, please. [Takes
a snapshot.] Now, just once more.
RODE [embraces tuzenbakh]. This is the last time we'll see each
other. [Kisses irina'^ hand.] Thank you for all you've done.
FEDOTIK [annoyed]. Oh, can't you stand still a moment?
TUZENBAKH. We shaU meet again with luck. And be sure to write
to us, don't forget.

RODE [looking round the garden]. Good-bye, trees. [S/ioMfi.] Halloo-oo!

[Pa«5e.] Good-bye, echo.
 THREE SISTERS Act FoUT 223

KULYGiN. You'll get married over in Poland, very likely. Your wife
will put her arms round you and call you 'darling' in Polish.
[Laughs.]

FEDOTIK [with a glance at his watch]. There's less than an hour to go.
Solyony's the only one from our battery on the barge party, the rest

of us go with the marching column. There's a unit of three batteries

leaving today and three more going tomorrow, and then the town
will have a bit of peace and quiet.

TUZENBAKH. And an awful dose of boredom.

RODE. I say, where 's Masha?

KULYGIN. In the garden somewhere.

FEDOTIK. We must say good-bye to her.

RODE. Good-bye. I must go or I'll start crying. [Quickly embraces t u z e N-
BAKH and KULYGIN, kisses irina'5 hand.] We've had a wonderful
time here,
FEDOTIK [to kulygin]. Here's something to remember me by, a
note-book and pencil. We'll take this way down to the river.
[fedotik and rode move off, glancing hack.]

RODE [s/ioM^i]. Halloo-oo!

KULYGIN [shouts]. Good-byc.

[fedotik and rode meet masha at the hack of the stage and say
good-bye to her. She goes off with them.]
IRINA. They've gone. [Sits down on the bottom step of the terrace.]

CHEBUTYKiN. And forgotten to say good-bye to me.

IRINA. Well, what about you?

CHEBUTYKIN. That's true, I forgot to myself Still, I'll be seeing them

again before long. I'm off tomorrow. Yes. I have just one day left.

A year from now I'll be on the retired Hst and I'll come back here
and spend the rest of my Ufe with you. Only a year now till I get
my pension. [Puts his newspaper in his pocket and takes out another.]
I'll come back here and turn over a new leaf I'll be a good httle
boy, very considerate, and oh so well behaved.
IRINA. It's high time you did mend your ways somehow, my dear,
it really is.

CHEBUTYKIN. Quite. That's how I feel. [Sings quietly.] Tararaboom-

deay, let 's have a tune today.
224 THREE SISTERS Act Four

KULYGIN. You're incorrigible, Doctor, incorrigible.

CHEBUTYKIN. You should have taken me in hand then, you might

have put me on the right, Unes.

IRINA. Theodore's shaved off his moustache. I can't bear to look at

him.

KULYGIN. Why, what's wrong?

CHEBUTYKIN. I might tell you what your face puts me in mind of,
but I'd better not.

KULYGIN. Why all the fuss? It's quite the thing these days, modus
Vivendi and all that. The head's clean shaven, so when I became
second master I followed suit. No one likes it, but I don't care. I'm
perfealy happy. Moustache or no moustache, I'm happy either
way. [Sits doum.]

[ANDREW aosses the back of the stage pushing a pram with a sleeping
baby in it.]

IRINA. Doctor, be an angel —

I'm awfully worried. You were in town
last night. Tell me, what was this affair on the boulevard?
CHEBUTYKIN. What affair? It was nothing. Lot of poppycock. [Reads
his paper.] Nothing that matters anyway.
KULYGIN. What I heard is, Solyony and the baron met on the boule-
vard outside the theatre yesterday

TUZENBAKH. Plcasc Stop. Oh, what's the use — ? [Makes a gesture as

if to dismiss the subject and goes into the house.]

KULYGIN. It happened outside the theatre. Solyony started picking on

the baron and the baron lost his temper and insulted him.

CHEBUTYKIN. I dou't know anything about it. It's a lot of bunkum.

KULYGIN. A schoolma'ster once wrote 'bunkum' on a pupil's essay

and the boy thought it was Latin and started declining it. Bunkum,
bunkum, bunkum, bunki, bunko, bunko. [Laughs.] Terribly funny that.
Solyony 's said to be in love with Irina and he seems to have got it
in for the baron. Well, that's only natural. Irina 's a very nice girl,
even a bit like Masha, always wrapped up in her own thoughts.
she's
But you're more easy-going than Masha, Irina. Though aaually
Masha 's very good-natured too. Oh, I do love Masha.
[From offstage at the back comes a cry: Hallo there! Halloo-oo!]
 THREE SISTERS Act Four 225

IRINA [shudders]. The least thing seems to frighten me today. [PdMie.]

I've packed everything and I'm sending my stuff on after luncheon.
The baron and I are getting married tomorrow, then we're going
straight off to that brick-works. Next day I start work at school and
a new life begins, God willing. When I sat for my teacher's diploma
I was actually crying for joy. [Pause.] The carter will be here for our
things in a minute.

KULYGiN. This is all very well, but it doesn't add up to much, does
it? It's just a lot of hot air, there's precious httle sense in it. Anyway
I wish you luck, I really do.

CHEBUTYKIN [deeply moved]. My darling child, my splendid Httle

girl, you're so far ahead of me I'll never catch up with you now. I've
been left behind like a bird that 's too old to fly away with the flock.
Fly away, my dears, fly away and the best of luck to you. [PdMse.]
It's a pity you shaved your moustache off, Kulygin.

KULYGIN. That's quite enough of that. [Sighs.] Well, the army's

leaving today and we'll be back where we were. They can say what
they like, but Masha's a good, loyal httle woman, I love her very
much and I thank my lucky stars. It you 's all the luck of the game,
know. There's a clerk in the tax office here, fellow called Kozyrev.
We were at school together, but when he was in the fifth form he
was expelled because he just couldn't grasp the construction of «^ and
the subjunctive. He's ill these days and terribly hard up, and when
I run across him I always say, 'Hallo there, ut and the subjunctive.*
*Yes,' he always says. 'That's just my trouble, ut and the subjunctive.*
Then he starts coughing. Now I've been lucky all my life, I'm very
fortunate, I even have the Order of St. Stanislaus second class. And
now I teach other people this ut and the subjunctive business. Of
course I'm no fool, I am brighter than average. But there's more to
happiness than that.

[The Maiden's Prayer is played on a piano in the house.]

IRINA. Tomorrow night I shan't have to hear that Maiden s Prayer any
more or keep meeting Protopopov. [P^M^e.] Do you know, Proto-
popov's in the drawing-room. He's even turned up today.

KULYGIN. Isn't our headmistress here yet?

IRINA. No. We've sent for her. You can't imagine what a bore I find
it hving here on my own without Olga. Now she's headmistress,
she Hves in at school and she's on the go all day, while I'm lonely
226 THREE SISTEHS Act FOUT
and depressed with nothing to do and I hate my room in this house.
But I've made up my mind. If I can't go to Moscow, well, I can't,
and that's that. It's just the way things have turned out. It can't be
helped, it's all God's will and that's the truth. Nicholas asked me to
marry him. Well, I thought it over and decided to say yes. He's a
—
good man, he really is unbeUevably good. I suddenly felt as if I'd
grown wings. I cheered up and felt so much easier in my mind, and
the old urge came over me to work, work, work. But then there
was this incident yesterday, whatever it was, and I feel as if some-
thing awful 's going to happen to me.

CHEBUTYKiN. StufFand nonsense. Bunki, hunkoy bunko.

NATASHA [through a window]. The headmistress.

KULYGIN. The headmistress has come. Let's go in.

[Goes indoors with irina.]

CHEBUTYKIN [reads the paper and sings softly]. Tararaboomdeay, let's

have a tune today.

[masha comes up to him. Andrew crosses the back of the stage
pushing the pram.]

MASHA. Taking it nice and easy, aren't you?

CHEBUTYKIN. What's wrong with that?

MASHA [sits down]. Oh, nothing. [P<7«5e.] Were you in love with my
mother?
CHEBUTYKIN. Very much so.

MASHA. Did she love you?

CHEBUTYKIN [after a pause]. That I don't recall.

MASHA. Is my man here? That's what our cook Martha used to call
—
her poUceman *my man'. Is my man here?

CHEBUTYKIN. Not yet.

MASHA. when you have what crumbs of happiness you can

to snatch
and then lose it all, as happening to me, you gradually grow hard
is

and bad-tempered. [Points at her breast.] I feel I'm going to burst.

[Looking at Andrew as he pushes the pram.] There goes brother
Andrew. All our hopes have come to nothing. Imagine thousands
of people hoisting up a huge bell. Then after all the effort and money
spent on it, it suddenly falls and is smashed to pieces. Suddenly, for
no reason at all. That's how it's been with Andrew.
 THREE SISTERS Act FOUT 227

ANDREW. I say, when are we going to have some quiet round here?
What an awful row.
CHEBUTYKIN. It won't be long now. [Looks at his watch.] I've got an
old-fashioned watch, a repeater. [Winds the watch. It rings.] One,
Two and Five Battery are leaving at one o'clock sharp. [PdM^e.] And
I'm off tomorrow.
ANDREW. Will you ever come back?
CHEBUTYKIN. I don't know, I may be back next year. Damned if

I know. Or care either.

[There is the sound of a harp and violin somewhere far away.]

ANDREW. This town will be quite dead, it'll be like Hving in a mu-
seum. [PciM^e.] Something happened outside the theatre yesterday,
I've no idea what, but everyone's talking about it.

CHEBUTYKIN. Oh, it was nothing. Lot of nonsense. Solyony started

annoying the baron, the baron lost his temper and insulted him, and
the upshot was Solyony had to challenge him to a duel. [Looks at
his watch.] It must be pretty well time. It's to be at half past twelve
in that bit of crown forest over there on the other side of the river.
Bang, bang! [Laughs.] Solyony sees himself as a Lermontov. Even
writes poetry. Joking apart though, this is his third duel.

MASHA. whose?
CHEBUTYKIN. Solyony's.

MASHA. What about the baron?

CHEBUTYKIN. What about the baron? [Pause.]

MASHA. I'm in a complete daze. I still say they shouldn't be allowed

to fight. He might wound the baron or even kill him.

CHEBUTYKIN. The baron's a nice enough fellow, but one baron more
—
or less in the world what does that matter? Let them get on with
it. Who cares? [Shouts are heard from the other side of the garden:
*Yoo-hoo Halloo-oo !']
! You can just wait a minute. That 's Skvortsov
shouting, one of the seconds. He's there in a boat. [Pause.]

ANDREW. If you ask me, duelling or attending a duel, even as a doctor,

is downright immoral.
CHEBUTYKIN. That's only the way you see it. We're not real, neither
is anything else in the world. We aren't here at all actually, we only
think we are. And who cares anyway ?
 —

228 THREE SISTERS Act FOUT

MAS HA. Talk, talk, talk. Nothing but talk the whole blessed day.
[Moves off.\ As if this climate wasn't quite enough, with snow Uable

to fall any minute, there has to be all this chit-chat as well. [Stops.]
I'm not going indoors, I can't bear it there. Please let me know when
Vershinin gets here. [Moves off down the avenue.] Look, the birds are
flying off already. [Looks up.] They're swans or geese. Dear, happy
birds. [Goes off.]

ANDREW. Our house is going to seem awfully empty. The officers

are going, you're going, Irina's getting married, and I'll be all on
my own here.
CHEBUTYKIN. What about your wife?
[ferapont comes in with some papers.]
ANDREW. My wife is —well, she's my wife. She's loyal and decent
kind too, if you like —but there's something degrading about her
too, as if shewas some kind of blind, groping, scruffy httle animal.
She's not a human
being anyway. I'm speaking to you as a friend.
There's no one else I can really talk to. I love Natasha, yes I do, but
there are times when I find her thoroughly vulgar, and then I don't
know what to think and I've no idea why I do love her so much
or anyway used to.

CHEBUTYKIN [stands up]. I'm leaving tomorrow, old boy, and we may
never meet again, so here's a word of advice. You just put your hat
on, pick up a walking stick and go. Go on and on and on, and don't
ever look back. And the further you go the better.
[soLYONY crosses the hack of the stage with two officers. Seeing
CHEBUTYKIN, he tums towards him while the officers walk on.]
SOLYONY. It's time. Doctor. Half past twelve. [Greets Andrew.]
CHEBUTYKIN. All right then, confound you all. [To Andrew.] If
anyone wants me, Andrew, would you mind saying I'll be back in
a minute? [5i^A5.] Ah me!

SOLYONY. 'Before he'd time to turn a hair

He'd been knocked over by a bear.' [Moves off with chebu-
TYKiN.] What are you moaning about. Grandad?

CHEBUTYKIN. Oh, go away.

SOLYONY. How are you feeling?

CHEBUTYKIN [angrily]. Don't ask silly questions and you won't get
silly answers.
 ?

THREE SISTERS Act FOUT 229

SOLYONY. The boy needn't get hot under the collar. I shan't
old
overdo it, I'll him like a woodcock. [Takes out a bottle
only wing
and sprinkles scent on his hands.] I've used up a whole bottle today,
but my hands still smell. They smell like a corpse. [Pa«5e.] Yes indeed.
Do you remember those lines of Lermontov's ?
'Restless, he seeks the raging stonn,
As if the storm could give him rest.'
CHEBUTYKIN. YeS.
'Before he'd time to turn a hair
He'd been knocked over by a bear.' [Goes out with
SOLYONY.]
[Shouts are heard: 'HdSioo-ool Yoo-hool* AN D-REW and FERAVONT
come in.]

FERAPONT. Some papers to sign

ANDREW [irritably]. Leave me alone for heaven s sake, do leave me

alone. [Goes out with pram.]

FERAPONT. But that's what papers are for, isn't it? To be signed.
[Goes to the back of the stage.]

[Enter irina and tuzenbakh, who is wearing a straw hat. kuly-

GiN crosses the stage shouting, 'Hallo there, Masha, hallo!']

TUZENBAKH. He must be the only person in town who's glad the

army's leaving.
IRINA. That's only natural. [Pawie.] The town will be half dead now.
TUZENBAKH. I'll be back in a minute, my dear.

IRINA. Where are you going

TUZENBAKH. I must go into town and —see some of my friends off.

IRINA. That isn't true. Your thoughts seem far away this morning,
Nicholas. Why? [Pi7M5e.] What did happen outside the theatre last

night?
TUZENBAKH [with an impatient gesture]. I'll be back in an hour, back
with you again. [Kisses her hands.] Darling. [Gazes into her eyes.] It's

five years since I first fell in love with you and I still can't get used
to it, Iyou more beautiful every day. You have such marvellous,
find
wonderful hair, such lovely eyes. I'll take you away tomorrow,
we'll work, we'll be rich and all my dreams will come true. And
you'll be happy. There is just one thing wrong though. You don't
love me.
230 THREE SISTERS Aa Four
IRINA. I can't help that. 1*11 be your wife, I'll honour and obey you,
but I don't love you and I can't help it. [CnVj.] I've never been in
love, never. Oh, I've longed for love, dreamed about it so much
day and night, but my heart is like a wonderful grand piano that
can't be used because it's locked up and the key's lost. [PdMsr.] You
look worried.

TUZENBAKH- I Couldn't sleep last night. Not that there's anything

alarming or particularly frightening in my life, but the thought of
that lost key torments me and keeps me awake. Say something to
me. [Pjmsp.] Say something.

IRINA. Why, what am I to say?

TUZENBAKH. An)thing.
IRINA. Oh, please don't talk like that. [P««e.]

TUZENBAKH. It's funny the way stupid, trivial little things sometimes
loom up out of the blue and aSea one's life. You still laugh at them,
still think of them as tri\-ial. but you somehow get carried away by

them and don't seem able to stop yoursel£ An\"v\-ay let's not talk
about that. I feel marvellous. I feel as if I'm seeing all these fir-trees,
maples and seem to
silver birches for the first time. All these things

be watching me
wondering what was going to happen next.
as if

What beautiful trees. And when you come to think of it, what a
beautiful thing life ought to be v.-ith trees like this around, [Shouts of.
*Yoo-hoo! Halloo-ool'] I have to go now. Look at that dead tree
It's v.-ithered, but it still swa\-s in the breeze vnxh. all the others. It's
the same v,ith me, I feel I'll still be pan of life somehow or other
even Good-bye, Irina. [Kisses irina'^ hands.]
if I die. I've put those
papers you gave me under a calendar on my table.

IRINA. I'm coming with you.

TUZENBAKH [ahmmd]. oh no, nol [Moves off quickly and stops some
way doum Ae avauie.] Irina!

IRINA. What?
TUZENBAKH [tiot knowing what tc say]. I haven't had any coffee this
morning. Would yoa ask them to make me some ? [Goes off quickly.]

[irina stands lost in thought, that goes to the back of the stage and sits
on the swing. Andrew comes in puAing the pram, ferapont
appcats,\
 THREE SISTERS Act FOUT 23I

FERAPONT. Mr. Andrew, these papers aren't mine, you know, they're
official documents. I didn't invent them.

ANDREW. Where is my past Hfe, oh what has become of it when —

I was young, happy and inteUigent, when I had such glorious
thoughts and visions, and my present and future seemed so bright
and promising? Why is it we've hardly started Uving before we all
become dull, drab, boring, lazy, complacent, useless and miserable?
This town's two hundred years old and we've a hundred thousand
people Uving here, but the trouble is, every man jack of them's
exactly like every other one, and no one here does anything really
worth while. Or ever has. We've never produced a single scholar or
artist or anyone else with a touch of originality to make us envy him,

or decide we were damn well going to go one better ourselves. All

these people do is eat, drink and sleep till they drop down dead.
Then new ones are bom to carry on the eating, drinking and sleeping.
And to save themselves getting bored to tears and put a bit of spice
in their lives, they go in for all this sickening gossip, vodka, gambling,
htigation. Wives deceive their husbands and husbands tell Hes and
pretend they're deaf and blind to what 's going on, and all the time
the children are crushed by vulgarity, lose any spark of inspiration
—
they might ever have had, and like their fathers and mothers before
—
them turn into a lot of miserable living corpses, each one exactly
like his neighbour. \To ferapont, (ingrily.\ What do you want?

FERAPONT. Eh? Papers for you to sign.

ANDREW. You're a nuisance.

FERAPONT [handing over the papers]. The was

porter at the tax office
on about something just now, says they had two hundred degrees
of frost in St. Petersburg last winter.

ANDREW. I loathe our present life, but thinking about the future makes
me feel really good. I feel so easy and relaxed, I see a Hght gUmmering
in the distance, I have a vision of freedom. I see myself and my chil-
dren freed from idleness and drinking kvass and stuiFmg ourselves
with goose and cabbage, freed from our after-dinner naps and this
vile habit of trying to get something for nothing.

FERAPONT. Two thousand people froze to death, he says. He says

everyone was scared stiff. It was either St. Petersburg or Moscow,
I don't rightly remember.
232 THREE SISTERS Act FoUT

ANDREW [in a sudden access of tenderness]. My dear sisters, my wonder-

ful sisters. [Through tears.] Masha, my sister

NATASHA [appearing in a window]. Who's making all that noise?

Is that you, Andrew? You'll wake up Httle Sophie. // ne faut pas

faire du bruit, la Sophie est dormee deja. Vous etes un ours. [Flaring up.]

Ifyou can't keep your mouth shut you'd better give the pram to
someone else. Ferapont, take that pram from Mr. Prozorov.
FERAPONT. Very well, madam. [Takes the pram.]

ANDREW [embarrassed]. I wasn't making much noise.

NATASHA [from behind the window, speaking lovingly to her little boy].

Bobik! Naughty Bobik! Bad, bad Bobik!

ANDREW [glancing over the papers]. All right, I'll look through this lot

and sign the ones that need signing, and you can take them back to
the office. [Goes indoors reading the papers, ferapont wheels the pram

off into the garden.]

NATASHA [from behind the window]. Bobik! What's Mummy's name?

Oh, isn't he sweet? And who's this? It's Aunty Olga. Say, 'Hallo,
Aunty Oily.'
[Two street musicians, a man and a girl, come in playing a violin and
a harp, vershinin comes out of the house with olga and anfisa.
They listen for a while in silence. I'Ritih goes up to them.]

OLGA. Our garden's like a pubUc highway with people coming and

going all the time. Nanny, give these people something.

ANFISA [gives the musicians money]. Run along then and God be with
you, my dears. [The musicians bow and go off.] Poor things, they must
be half starved. Why else would they do it ? Good morning, Irina
dear. [Kisses her.] I'm having a lovely time, child, I really am. I'm
Hving with Olga at the high-school in a school flat. The good Lord's
found me a Httle place of my own in my old age and I'm having the
time of my life, old sinner that I am. It's a great big flat belonging
to the school, and I've a Httle room of my own and my own Httle
bed, aU rent free. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and
—
think Lord and Holy Mother of God, I'm the happiest woman in
the world.

VERSHININ [with a glance at his watch]. We'rejust leaving, Olga. I have

to go. [PflMse.] I wish you every, every — . Where's Masha?
IRINA. Somewhere in the garden. I'll go and find her.
 THREE SISTERS Act FoUT 233

VERSHININ. That's very kind, I am in rather a hurry.

ANFiSA. I'll go and look as well. [Shouts.\ Masha, are you there? [Goes
off into the garden with irina.] Hallo there, hallo!

VERSHININ. Everything comes end some time, and here we are

to an
saying good-bye. [Looks at his watch.] The town gave us a sort of
farewell lunch, we had champagne and the mayor made a speech.
I ate my lunch and Ustened to the mayor, but I was here with you

in spirit. [Glances round the garden.] I've grown so fond of you all.

OLGA. Shall we ever meet again?

VERSHININ. I shouldn't think so. [P(j«ie.] My wife and the girls are

staying on here for a couple of months. If anything should happen

or they need anything, please

OLGA. Yes, yes of course, set your mind at rest. [P<3«5e.] Tomorrow
there won't be a single soldier left in town. We shall stay behind
with our memories, and of course things will be very different for
us now. [Pa«5e.] Nothing ever works out as we want it. I never
wanted to be a headmistress, but I am one. So it's obvious I'll never
get to Moscow now.

VERSHININ. Ah well, thank you for everything. And if there's been

anything at all amiss, please forgive me. I've talked much too much.
Please forgive that too. Don't think too badly of me.

OLGA [wiping her eyes]. Why doesn't Masha come?

VERSHININ. What else is there to say before I go? Shouldn't I hold
forth about something? [Laughs.] Life isn't a bed of roses. A lot of
us think it's a hopeless dead end. Still, you must admit things are
getting brighter and better all the time, and it does look as if we'll
see a real break in the clouds before very long. [Looks at his watch.]

It really is time for me to go. In the old days people were always
fighting wars and their Hves were one long round of campaigns,
invasionsand victories, but those things are all past history
now. They've left a great gap behind them and so
been far there's
nothing to put in their place, but people are desperately trying to
find something and in the end they're bound to succeed. Oh, if that

could only happen soon. [P^Mie.] If we could only combine educa-

tion with hard work, you know, and hard work with education.
[Looks at his watch.] Well, I really must be on my way

OLGA. Here she is.

[masha comes in.]

 —

234 THREE SISTERS Act FoUT

VERSHiNiN. I came to say good-bye. [olga moves a little to one side

so that they can say good-bye.]

MAS HA [looking into his eyes]. Good-bye, dear. [^4 long kiss.]

OLGA. Don't, don't, please.

[mas HA sobs loudly.]

VERSHININ. Write to me, darling. Don't forget me. Now let me go,
I must go —
You take her, Olga, I really have to go. I'm late.
. —
[Deeply moved, kisses olga' 5 hands, then embraces mas ha again and
quickly leaves.]

OLGA. Don't cry, Masha. Do stop, dear.

[kulygin comes in.]

KULYGiN [embarrassed]. Never mind, let her cry, let her. Dear Masha,
good, kind Masha, you're my wife, and I'm still happy in spite of
everything. I'm not complaining or blaming you at all, as Olga here
can witness. Let 's go back to hving as we used to, and I won't breathe
so much as a word or hint

masha [choking back her sobs].

*A green oak by a curving shore,

And on that oak a chain of gold
And on that oak a chain of gold.'
I'm going crazy. A green oak —by a curving shore.
OLGA. There, there, Masha. Calm yourself. Get her some water.
MASHA. I've stopped crying now.
KULYGIN. she's stopped crying. She's a good girl.

[The muffled sound of a distant shot is heard.]

MASHA. 'A green oak by a curving shore.

And on that oak a chain of gold.*
A green cat. A green oak. I've got it all mixed up. [Drinks some
water.] I've made a mess of my Hfe. I don't want anything now.
I'll be all right in a moment — . It doesn't matter. What does it mean,
*by a curving shore'? Why can't I get those words out of my head?
Oh, my thoughts are in such a whirl.

[iRiNA comes in.]

OLGA. Calm yourself, Masha. That's right, there's a sensible girl. Let's

go indoors.
 THREE SISTERS Act FOUT 235

MASHA [angrily]. I'm not going in there. [Starts sobbing again^ but stops

at once.] I don't go in that house any more. I'm not going in now.

IRINA. Let's all sit here for a bit, there's no need to talk. I'm leaving
tomorrow, you know. [P<i«5e.]

KULYGIN. Yesterday I took this false beard and moustache off a boy
in the third form. [Puts on the beard and moustache.] I look like our
German master. [Laughs.] I do, don't I? Those boys are really price-
less.

MASHA. I say, you really do look like the German master.

OLGA [laughs]. Yes, he does.

[mash A cries.]

IRINA. Please don't, Masha.

KULYGIN. A striking resemblance.

[NATASHA conies in.]

NATASHA [to the maid]. Now what was it? Oh yes. Mr. Protopopov's
going to keep an eye on Sophie and my husband may as well push
Bobik's pram. Children do make such a lot of work. [To irina.]
What a shame you're leaving tomorrow, Irina. Why don't you stay
on another week? [Sees kulygin and shrieks. He laughs and removes
the beard and moustache.] Oh, you awful man, you did give me a
shock. [To IRINA.] I'm used to having you around and I'll find it
quite a wrench, you know, now you're leaving. I'll move Andrew
into your room along with his violin. He can scrape away in there
as much as he likes and we'll put Sophie in his room. What a heavenly
Uttle girl. Isn't she a won^erfiil child? She gave me such a sweet look
today and said 'Mummy'.

KULYGIN. she is a lovely baby, no doubt about it.

NATASHA. So I'll be all on my own here tomorrow. [Sighs.] The first

thing I'll do is have that avenue of firs cut down and that maple-tree.
It looks so hideous in the evening. [To irina.] That sash doesn't suit
you at all, dear, in faa it's in very poor taste. You need something
nice and bright. And I'll have lots and lots of nice flowers planted all

over the place, and they'll make ever such a lovely perfume. [Sternly.]
What's this fork doing on the bench here? [Going indoors, to the

MAID.] I asked what this fork was doing on the bench. [Shouts.]
You dare answer me back!
236 THREE SISTERS Act FOUT
KULYGIN. She's off again.

[A hand is heard playing a march off stage. Everyone listens.\

OLGA. They're leaving.

[CHEBUTYKIN comes in.\

MASH A. Our friends are leaving. Oh well, may they have a happy
journey. [To her husband.] We'd better go home. Where's my hat
and coat ?
KULYGIN. I took them indoors. I'll go and get them.
OLGA. Yes, now we can all go off home. It's high time.
CHEBUTYKIN. Olga!
OLGA. What is it? [P(7«5e.] What's happened?
CHEBUTYKIN. Nothing. I don't know how to tell you. [Whispers in

her ear.]

OLGA [aghast]. No, no, it can't be true.

CHEBUTYKIN. Yes. What a business! I'm tired out, absolutely done in,

I don't want to say another word. [Annoyed.] Anyway, what does

it all matter?

MASH A. What happened?

OLGA [embraces irina]. This has been a terrible day. Darling, I don't
know how to tell you
irina. What is it? Tell me at once, for God's sake —what is it?

[Cries.]

CHEBUTYKIN. The baron's just been killed in a duel.

irina [weeps quietly]. I knew it, I knew it.

CHEBUTYKIN [sits down on a bench of the stage]. I'm worn

at the back

out. [Takes a newspaper out of his pocket.] They may as well have a cry.
[Sings softly.] Tararaboomdeay, let's have a tune today. Anyway,
what does it all matter?

[The three sisters stand close together.]

MAS HA. Oh, listen to the band. They're all leaving us, and one has
gone right away and will never, never come back, and we shall be
left alone to begin our lives again. We must go on living, we must.
IRINA [puts her head on olga'5 breast]. What is all this for? Why all
this suffering? The answer will be known one day, and then there
 THREE SISTERS Act FoUT 237

will be no more mysteries left, but till then life must go on, we must
work and work and think of nothing else. I'll go off alone tomorrow
to teach at a school and spend my whole life serving those who may
need me. It's autumn now and it will soon be winter, with every-
thing buried in snow, and I shall work, work, work.
OLGA [emhracts both her sisters]. Listen to the band. What a splendid,
rousing tune, it puts new heart into you, doesn't it? Oh, my God!
In time we shall pass and be forgotten. Our faces will be
on for ever
forgotten and our voices and how many of us there were. But our
sufferings will bring happiness to those who come after us, peace and
joy will reign on earth, and there will be kind words and kind
thoughts for us and our times. We still have our lives ahead of us,

my dears, so let's make the most of them. The band's playing such
cheerful, happy music, it feels as if we might find out before long
what our lives and sufferings are for. If we could only know If we !

could only know!

[The music becomes fainter and fainter, kulygin, smiling cheerfully,

brings the hat and coat, while Andrew pushes the pram with bobik
sitting in it.]

CHEBUTYKIN [singing softly]. Tararaboomdeay, let's have a tune to-

day. [Reads the newspaper.] None of it matters. Nothing matters.

OLGA. If we could only know, oh if we could only know!

CURTAIN
THE CHERRY ORCHARD
[BuiuHeehiu cad]

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS

(19O3-I904)
 CHARACTERS
MRS. LYUBA RANEVSKY, an cstate-owner
ANYA, her daughter, aged 17

VARY A, her adopted daughter, aged 24

LEONID GAYEV, Mrs. Ranevsky's brother

YERMOLAY LOPAKHiN, a businessman

PETER TROFIMOV, a Student

BORIS SIMEONOV-PISHCHIK, an estate-owner
CHARLOTTE, a govemess
SIMON YEPiKHODOV, a cletk

DUNYASHA, a maid
FIRS, a manservant, aged 87

YASHA, a young manservant

A passer-by
A stationmaster
A post office clerk
Guests and servants

The action takes place on Mrs. Ranevsky^s estate

 —

ACT ONE
A room which is still known as 'the nursery'. One of the doors leads
to ANYA*5 room. Dau^n is breaking and the sim will soon be up.
It is May. The cherry trees are in bloom, but it is cold and frosty in

the orchard. The windows of the room are shut.

Enter dunyasha carrying a candle, and lopakhin with a
hook in his hand.

LOPAKHIN. The tram's arrived, thank God. What time is it?

DUNYASHA. Nearly two o'clock. [Blows out the candle.] It's already
Ught.

LOPAKHIN. How late was the train then? A couple of hours at least.

[Yiiu^ni and stretches himself] And

am, making an ass
a prize idiot I

of myself like this. I come out here specially so I can go and meet
them at the station, then suddenly fall asleep and wake up too late.
Dropped off in the chair. What a nuisance. You might have woken
me.
DUNYASHA. I thought you'd gone. [Listens.] It sounds as if they're

coming.
LOPAKHIN [listening]. No, they're not. There's the luggage to be got
out and all that. [Pa«5e.] Mrs. Ranevsky's been hving abroad for
five years and I've no idea what now. She was always such
she's like
a nice woman, on with. I remember when
unaffected and easy to get
I was a lad of fifteen and my father —
he's not aHve now, but he kept

—
the village shop in those days punched me in the face and made
my nose bleed. We'd come round here for something or other and
he had a bit of drink inside him. Mrs. Ranevsky I can see her now —
was still quite a shp of a girl. She brought me over to the wash-stand
here in this very room, the nursery as it was. 'Don't cry, httle
peasant,' she said. 'You'll soon be right as rain.' [PaM5e.] Little
peasant. It's true my father was a peasant, but here am I in my white
waistcoat and brown boots, barging in like a bull in a china shop.
The only thing is, I am rich. I have plenty of money, but when you
really get down to it I'm just another country bumpkin. [Turns
the pages of his book.] I was reading this book and couldn't make sense
of it. Fell asleep over it. [Pat<5e.]
242 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One
DUNYASHA. The dogs have been awake all night, they can tell the
family are coming.

LOPAKHiN. What's up with you, Dunyasha?

DUNYASHA. My hands are shaking. I think I'm going to faint.

LOPAKHIN. You're too sensitive altogether, my girl. You dress like

a lady and do your hair like one too. We can't have that. Remember
your place.

[yepikhodov comes in carrying a bunch offlowers. He wears a jacket

and brightly polished high boots which make a loud squeak. Once inside
the room he drops the flowers.]

YEPIKHODOV [picking up the flowers]. The gardener sent these, says

they're to go in the dining-room. [Hands the flowers to dunyasha.]
LOPAKHIN. And you might bring me some kvass.

DUNYASHA. Yes sir. [Goes out.]

YEPIKHODOV. There are three degrees of frost this morning and the
cherry trees are in full bloom. I can't say I think much of our climate.
[5i^A5.] That I can't. It isn't exactly co-operative, our climate isn't.

Then if you'll permit a further observation, Mr. Lopakhin, I bought

these boots the day before yesterday and, as I make so bold to assure
you, they squeak like something out of this world. What could I put
on them?
LOPAKHIN. Leave me alone. I'm tired of you.
YEPIKHODOV. Every day something awful happens to me. Not that
I complain, I'm used to it. Even raise a smile.

[dunyasha comes in and hands lopakhin the kvass.]

YEPIKHODOV. I'll be off. [Bumps into a chair and knocks it over.] You
see. [With an of triumph.] There you are, if you'll pardon my
air

language, that's just the kind of thing I mean, actually. Quite re-
markable really. [Goes out.]

DUNYASHA. The fact is Yepikhodov has proposed to me, Mr. Lopa-

khin.

LOPAKHIN. oh yes.
DUNYASHA. I really don't know what to do. He's the quiet type, only

sometimes he gets talking and you can't make head or tail of what
he says. It sounds ever so nice and romantic, but it just doesn't make
sense. I do sort of like him, and he's crazy about me. He's a most
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 243

unfortunate man, every day something goes wrong. That 's why he
gets teased here. They call him 'Simple Simon'.
LOPAKHIN [pricking up his ears]. I think I hear them coming.
DUNYASHA. They're coming! Oh, whatever 's the matter with me?
I've gone all shivery.

LOPAKHIN. Yes, they really are coming. Let's go and meet them.
I wonder if she'll know me, we haven't seen each other for five years.

DUNYASHA [agitated]. I'm going to faint. Oh dear, I'm going to faint.

[Two carriages are heard driving up to the house, lopakhin and

DUNYASHA hurry out. The stage is empty. Noises begin to be heard
from the adjoining rooms, firs, who has been to meet mrs. ranevsky
at the station, hurries across the stage leaning on a stick. He wears an
old-fashioned servant's livery and a top hat. He mutters something to
himself but not a word can be understood. The noises off stage become
louder. A voice is heard: 'Let's go through here'. Enter, on their way
through the room, mrs. ranevsky, anya and charlotte, with
a small dog on a lead, all dressed in travelling clothes, vary A, wearing
an overcoat and a scarf over her head, GAYBV, simeonov-pishchik,
LOPAKHIN, DUNYASHA carrying a bundle and an umbrella, and other
servants with luggage.]

ANYA. Let's go through here. You remember this room, don't you,
Mother?
MRS. RANEVSKY [happily, through tears]. The nursery!

VARY A. How cold it is, my hands are quite numb. [To mrs. ranev-
sky.] Your rooms are just as they were. Mother, the white one and
the mauve one.
MRS. RANEVSKY. The nursery! My lovely, heavenly room! I slept in
here when I was a Httle girl. [Weeps.] And now I feel Uke a Httle girl
again. [Kisses her brother and vary A, and then her brother again.] Varya
hasn'tchanged a bit, she still looks like a nun. And I recognized
Dunyasha. [fCi55e5 dunyasha.]
GAYEV. The train was two hours late. Pretty good, eh? What price
that for efficiency?

CHARLOTTE [to pishchik]. My dog eats nuts too.

pish CHI K [with surprise]. Extraordinary thing.

[All go out except anya anJ dunyasha.]

244 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One

DUNYASHA. WcVc been longing for you to get here. [Helps any A off
with her overcoat and hat.]

ANYA. I've travelled four nights without sleep, and now Tm frozen.

DUNYASHA. You left before Easter in the snow and frost. What a

difference now. Darling 'Anya! [Laughs and kisses her.] I've been
longing to see you again, my precious angel. I must tell you at once,
I can't keep it to myself a minute longer

ANYA [listlessly]. Whatever is it this time?

DUNYASHA. Yepikhodov—^you know, the clerk —proposed to me

just after Easter.

ANYA. Can't you talk about something else? [Tidying her hair.] I've

lost all my hair-pins. [She is very tired and is actually swaying on her
feet.]

DUNYASHA. I really don't know what to think. He loves me so much,

he really does.

ANYA [fondly y looking through the door into her room]. My own room,
my own windows, just as if I'd never been away. I'm home again!
I'll getup tomorrow and run straight out into the orchard. Oh, if
I could only go to sleep. I didn't sleep at all on the way back, I was
so worried.

DUNYASHA. Mr. Trofimov arrived the day before yesterday.

ANYA [joyfully]. Peter!

DUNYASHA. He's sleeping in the bath-house, in fact he's Uving there.

Afraid of being in the way, he says. [ With a glance at her pocket-

watch.]Someone ought to wake him up, but your sister said not to.

'Don't you wake him,' she said.

[vary A comes in. She has a hunch of keys on her belt.]

VARY A. Dunyasha, go and get some coffee quickly. Mother wants

some.

DUNYASHA. I'll scc to it at once. [Goes out.]

VARY A. Well, thank heavens you're back. You're home again. [Affec-
tionately.] My lovely, darling Anya's home again.

ANYA. I've had a terrible time.

VARY A. So I can imagine.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 245

ANY A. I left just before Easter and it was cold then. On the way there
Charlotte kept talking and doing those awful tricks of hen. Why
you ever landed me with Charlotte
VARY A. But you couldn't have gone on your own, darling. A girl of
seventeen!

ANYA. was cold and snowing when we got to Paris. My French is

It

atrocious. I find Mother Hving on the fourth floor somewhere and

when I get there she has visitors, French people some ladies and an —
old priest with a httle book. The place is full of smoke and awfully
uncomfortable. Suddenly I felt sorry for Mother, so sorry, I took
her head in my arms and held her and just couldn't let go. Afterwards
Mother was terribly sweet to me and kept crying.
VARYA [through tears]. Don't, Anya, I can't bear it.

ANYA. She'd already sold her villa near Menton and had nothing left,

nothing at all. I hadn't any money was hardly enough

either, there

for the journey. And Mother simply won't understand. If we have

a meal in a station restaurant she asks for all the most expensive
things and tips the waiters a rouble each. And Charlotte 's no better.
Then Yasha has to have his share as well, it was simply awful. Mother
has this servant Yasha, you know, we've brought him with us

VARY A. Yes, I've seen him. Isn't he foul?

ANYA. Well, how is everything? Have you paid the interest?

VARY A. what a hope.

ANYA. My God, how dreadfiil.

VARYA. This estate is up for sale in August.
ANYA. oh my God!
LOPAKHIN [peeping round the door and mooing like a cow]. Moo-oo-oo.
[Disappears.]

VARYA [through tears]. Oh, I could give him such a — . [Shakes her

ANYA [quietly embracingvarya]. Has he proposed, Varya? [vary A

shakes her head.] But he does love you. Why can't you get it all
settled? What are you both waiting for?
VARYA. I don't think anything will come of it. He's so busy he can't
be bothered with me, he doesn't even notice me. Wretched man,
I'm fed up with the sight of him. Everyone's talking about our
246 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One
wedding and congratulating us, when there's nothing in it at all
actually and the whole thing's so vague. [In a different tone of voice.]
You've got a brooch that looks like a bee or something.
ANY A [sadly]. Yes, Mother bought it. [Goes to her room^ now talking
away happily like a child.] Do you know, in Paris I went up in a
balloon.

VARY A. My lovely, darling Anya's home again.

[dunyasha has returned with the coffee-pot and is making coffee.]

VARY A [standing near the door]. You know, darling, while I'm doing
my jobs round the house I spend the whole day dreaming. I imagine
marrying you off to a rich man. That would set my mind at rest and
I'dgo off to a convent, then on to Kiev and Moscow, wandering
from one holy place to another. I'd just wander on and on. What
bhss!

ANY A. The birds are singing in the orchard. What time is it?

VARY A. It must be nearly three. Time you were asleep, dear. [Going
into anya'5 room.] What bhss!

[Enter yasha with a rug and a travelling bag.]

yasha [crossing the stage and speaking in a refined manner]. Is one per-
mitted to pass this way?
dunyasha. I wouldn't have known you, Yasha. You've changed so
much since you've been abroad.
YASHA. H'm! And who might you be?
dunyasha. When you left here I was no bigger than this. [Shows
her height firom the floor.] I'm Dunyasha, Theodore Kozoyedov's
daughter. You won't remember me.
YASHA. H'm! Tasty Httle morsel. [Looks round, then embraces her. She
gives a squeak and drops a saucer, yasha hurries out.]

VARY A [in the doorway, speaking angrily]. What is it now?

dunyasha [through tears]. I've broken a saucer.

VARY A. That's supposed to be lucky.

anya [coming out of her room]. Someone ought to let Mother know
that Peter's here.

VARYA. I told them not to wake him up.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 247

ANY A [thoughtfully]. It's six years since Father died. And a month after
that our brother Grisha was drowned in the He was a lovely
river.

httle It was too

boy, only seven years old. much for Mother, she
went away, dropped everything and went. [Shudders.] How
just
well I understand her, if only she knew. [P^iMie.] Peter Trofimov was
Grisha' s tutor, he might bring back memories.

[firs comes in wearing a jacket and a white waistcoat.]

FIRS [goes to the coffee-pot, anxiously]. The mistress is going to have her
coffee here. [Puts on white gloves.] Is it made? [To dunyasha,
sternly.] You there! What about the cream?

dunyasha. Oh, goodness me. [Goes out quickly.]

FIRS [fussing around the coffee-pot]. The girl's a nincompoop. [Muttering

to himself] They've come from Paris. There was a time when the
old master used to go to Paris, went by carriage. [Laughs.]

VARY A. What is it. Firs?

FIRS. Beg pardon. Miss Varya? [Happily.] The mistress is home. Home
at last. Now I can die happy. [Weeps with joy.]

[Enter mrs. ranevsky, gayev and simeonov-pishchik, the

last wearing a sleeveless coat offine cloth and wide trousers tucked inside
his boots. As he comes in, gayev moves his arms and body as if making
billiard shots.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. How does it go now? Let me remember. *Pot the

red in the comer. Double into the middle.'

GAYEV. Screw shot into the comer. At one time, dear sister, we both
used to sleep in this room. And now I'm fifty-one, unlikely as it may

sound.

LOPAKHiN. Yes, time marches on.

GAYEV. what's that?

LOPAKHIN. Time. It marches on, I was saying.

GAYEV. This place smells of cheap scent.

ANY A. I'm going to bed. Good night. Mother. [Kisses her mother.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. My own bcautiful little baby. [Kisses anya'5

hands.] Are you glad to be home? I still can't get used to it.

ANY A. Good night, Uncle.

 !

248 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One

GAYEV [kissing her face and hands]. God bless yoiL You look so like
your mother. [To his sister.] You were just like her at that age, Lyuba.
[anya shakes hands with lopakhin and pishchik, goes out and
shuts the door behind her.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. She's completely worn out.

PISHCHIK. Yes, it must have been a long journey.

VARYA [to LOPAKHIN and viskchik]. Well, gentlemen? It*s nearly
three o'clock. Time you were on your way.
MRS.RANEVSKY [laughing]. Varya, you haven't changed a bit. [Draws
VARYA towards her and kisses her.] I'll just drink this coffee, then
we'll all go. [firs puts a hassock under her feet.] Thank you, my dear.
I've got used to coffee, I drink it day and night. Thank you, dear
old friend. [Kisses firs.]

VARYA. I'll go and see if they've brought all the luggage. [Goes out.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Is it really me sitting here? [Laughs.] I feel like

dancing and waving my arms about. [Covers her face with her hands.]
But perhaps I'm only dreaming. God knows, I love my country,
I love it dearly. I couldn't see anything from the train, I was crying

so much. [Through tears.] But I must drink my coffee. Thank you.

Firs. Thank you, dear old friend. I'm so glad you're still aHve.

FIRS. The day before yesterday.

GAYEV. He's a bit deaf

LOPAKHIN. have to leave for Kharkov soon, about half past four.
I

What a nuisance. I'd like to have seen a bit more of you and had
a talk. You're just as wonderful as ever.

PISHCHIK [breathes heavily]. Even prettier. In that Parisian outfit. Well

and truly bowled me over, and no mistake.

LOPAKHIN. This brother of yours calls me a lout of a peasant out for

what I can get, but that doesn't bother me a bit. Let him talk. You
just beHeve in me as you used to, that's all I ask, and look at me in
the old way, with those wonderfril, irresistible eyes. Merciful heavens
My father was a serf, belonged to your father and your grandfather
before him. But you —you've done so much for me in the past that
Tve forgotten all that and love you as a brother. Or even more.
MRS. RANEVSKY. I Can't sit Still, I really can't. [Jumps up and walks
about in great excitement.] I'll die of happiness. Laugh at me if you
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 249

Tm silly. My own dear little book-case.

want, [Kisses the book-case.]

My own little table

GAYEV. Nanny died while you were abroad.
MRS. RANEVSKY [sitting dowti and drinking her coffee]. Yes, God rest

her soul. Someone wrote to me about it.

GAYEV. Anastasy has died too. Petrushka —remember the chap with
the squint? — left me for another job, he's with the chief of pohce
in town now. [Takes a packet of sweets from his pocket and sucks one.]

PiSHCHiK. My daughter Dashenka sends her regards.

LOPAKHIN. I want to teU you something nice and cheerful.

feel I

[With a glance I'm just leaving and there isn't time to

at his watch.]

say much. Anyway, I'll be brief As you know, the cherry orchard's
being sold to pay your debts and the auction's on the twenty-
second of August. But you needn't worry, dear friend, you can
sleep in peace because there's a way out. Here's my plan. Please
Your estate's only twelve miles or so from town and
Hsten carefully.
the new railway isn't far away. If you divide the cherry orchard
and the land along the river into building plots and lease them out
for summer cottages you'll have a yearly income of at least
twenty-five thousand roubles.

GAYEV. Oh really, what rubbish.

MRS. RANEVSKY. I dou't quite follow you, Yermolay.

LOPAKHIN. You'll get at least ten roubles an acre from your tenants
every year. And if you advertise right away I bet you anything you
won't have a scrap of land left by autunm, it'll all be snapped up.
In fact I congratulate you. You're saved. The situation's magnificent
and there's a good depth of river. But of course you will have to do
a spot of tidying and clearing up. For instance, you'll have to pull
down all the old buildings, let's say, and this house — it's no more
use anyway, is it ? —and cut down the old cherry orchard
MRS. RANEVSKY. Cut it down? My dear man, forgive me, you don't
know what you're talking about. If there's one interesting, in fact
quite remarkable, thing in the whole county it 's our cherry orchard.

LOPAKHIN. The only remarkable thing about that orchard is its size.

It only gives a crop every other year and then no one knows what
to do with the cherries. Nobody wants to buy them.
GAYEV. This orchard is even mentioned in the Encyclopaedia.
 —

250 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One

LOPAKHIN [with a glance at his watch]. If we don't make a plan and

get something decided, that orchard —and the whole estate with it

is going to be auctioned on the twenty-second of August, you can

make up your minds to that. There's no other way out, you can
take it from me. And that 's flat.

FIRS. In the old days, forty or fifty years ago, the cherries used to be
dried, preserved and bottled. They used to make jam out of them,
and time was
GAYEV. Be quiet please, Firs.

FIRS.Time was when dried cherries used to be sent to Moscow and

Kharkov by the wagon-load. They fetched a lot of money. Soft and
juicy those dried cherries were, sweet and tasty. People had the
knack of it in those days.
MRS. RANEVSKY. But whcrc's the recipe now?
FIRS. Forgotten. No one remembers it.

PISHCHIK [to MRS. ranevsky]. How are things in Paris, eh? Eat any
frogs?

MRS. ranevsky. I ate crocodiles.

PISHCHIK. Extraordinary thing.

LOPAKHIN. Until lately everyone in the countryside was a gentleman

or a peasant, but now there are these holiday visitors as well. All our
towns, even the smallest, are surrounded by summer cottages nowa-
days. And it looks as though in twenty years or so there are going to
be fantastic numbers of these hoHday-makers. So far your hoUday-
maker only has his tea on the balcony, but he may very well start
growing things on his bit of land and then this cherry orchard will
become a happy, rich, prosperous place.
GAYEV [indignantly]. That's all rubbish.

[Enter varya W yasha.]

VARY A. Two telegrams came for you. Mother. [Picks out a key and
unlocks the old-fashioned book-case with a jingling noise.] Here you are.

MRS. RANEVSKY. They're from Paris. [Tears them up without reading

them.] I've finished with Paris.

GAYEV. Lyuba, do you know how old this book-case is? Last week
I pulled out the bottom drawer and saw some figures burnt on it.

This book-case was made exactly a hundred years ago. Not bad, eh?
 ?

THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 25I

We might celebrate its centenary. It's an inanimate object, but all

the same it is a book-case, you can't get away from that.

PiSHCHiK [in amazement]. A hundred years. Extraordinary thing.

GAYEV. Yes, this really is quite something. [Feeling round the book-
case.] Dear and most honoured book-case. In you I salute an existence

devoted for over a hundred years to the glorious ideals of virtue and
justice. In the course of the century your silent summons to creative
work has never faltered, upholding [through tears] in several genera-
tions of our line confidence and faith in a better future and fostering
in us the ideals of virtue and social consciousness. [Pf?«5e.]

LOPAKHiN. Yes.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Dear Leonid, you haven't changed a bit.

GAYEV [somewhat embarrassed]. In off on the right into the comer.

Screw shot into the middle.
LOPAKHIN [after a glance at his watch]. Well, time for me to go.

YASHA [handing some medicine to mrs. ranevsky]. Would you care

to take your piEs now?
PISHCHIK. Don't ever take medicine, dear lady, it doesn't do any good.
Or harm, if it comes to that. Here, give it to me, dearest lady. [Takes
the pills, pours them out on the palm of his hand, blows on them, puts them

in his mouth and washes them down with kvass.] There you are.

MRS. ranevsky [terrified]. You must be crazy!

PISHCHIK. I've taken the lot.

LOPAKHIN. You greedy pig. [Everyone laughs.]

firs. The gentleman was here at Easter. Ate over a gallon of pickled
gherkins. [Mw^er^.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What 's he Saying

VARY A. He's been muttering like this for three years now. We've got
used to it.

YASHA. It's a case o£ anno domini.

[charlotte crosses the stage wearing a white dress. She is very thin
and tightly laced and has a lorgnette attached to her belt.]

LOPAKHIN. I'm sorry. Miss Charlotte, I haven't had a chance to say

hallo. [Tries to kiss her hand.]
252 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One

CHARLOTTE [withdrawing her hand]. If I let you kiss my hand it'll be

my elbow next, then my shoulder

LOPAKHIN. This is my unlucky day. [Everyone laughs.] Do us a trick,

Charlotte.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Yes, do US a trick, Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE. Not now. I want to go to bed. [Goes out.]

LOPAKHIN. We'll meet again in three weeks. [Kisses mrs. ranev-

sky'5 hand.] Good-bye for now. I must go. [To gayev.] Fare you
well [kisses pishchik] for
I must leave you. [Shakes hands with

VARYA, yasha.] I don't really feel Hke going.

then with firs and
[To MRS. RANEVSKY.] Think it over about those cottages, let me
know if you decide to go ahead and I'll get you a loan of fifty thou-
sand or so. Give it some serious thought.

VARYA [angrily]. Oh, do for heaven's sake^o.

LOPAKHIN. All right, I'm going. [Goe5.]

GAYEV. Ill-bred lout. Oh, I beg your pardon, Varya's going to marry
him. He's Varya's 'young man'.
VARYA. Don't overdo it. Uncle.

MRS. RANEVSKY. But I should bc Only too pleased, Varya. He's such
a nice man.
PISHCHIK. A most worthy fellow. Got to hand it to him. My daughter
Dashenka says so too. She says all sorts of things actually. [Gives a
snore, hut wakes up again straight away.] By the way, dear lady, can

you lend me two hundred and forty roubles ? I've interest to pay on
a mortgage tomorrow.

VARYA [terrified]. We haven't got it. Really.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Houestly, I'vc no money at all.

PISHCHIK. It'll turn up. [Laughs. ] Never say die. The times I've thought,
'This is the end of me, I'm finished.' And then, lo and behold,
they run a railway line over my land I get some
or something and
money. And sooner or later something will turn up this time, you'll
see. Dashenka will win two hundred thousand. She has a ticket in

the lottery.

MRS. RANEVSKY. I'vc finished my coffee. Now for some rest.

FIRS [reprovingly, brushing GAYEv'5 clothes]. You've got the wrong

trousers on again. What am I to do with you ?
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 253

VARY A [in a low voice]. Anya's asleep. [Quietly opens a window.] The
sun's up now and it's not cold. Look, Mother, what marvellous
trees! And the air is glorious. The starlings are singing.
GAYEV [opening another window]. The orchard is white all over. Lyuba,
you haven't forgotten that long avenue, have you? It runs on and on,
straight as an arrow. And it gleams on moonht nights, remember?
You can't have forgotten?
MRS. RANEVSKY [looking through the Oh, my
window at the orchard].

childhood, my innocent childhood! where I slept

This is the nursery
and I used to look out at the orchard from here. When I woke up
every morning happiness awoke with me, and the orchard was just
the same in those days. Nothing's changed. [Laughs happily.] White!
All white! Oh, my orchard! After the damp, dismal autumn and
the cold winter here you are, young again and full of happiness. The
angels in heaven have not forsaken you. If I could only shake off the
heavy burden that weighs me down, if only I could forget my past.
GAYEV. Yes, and now the orchard's to be sold to pay our debts, un-
likely as it may sound.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Look! Mother's walking in the orchard. In a white

dress. [Laughs happily.] It's Mother.
GAYEV. Where?
VARY A. Really, Mother, what things you say!

MRS. RANEVSKY. There's no one there, I just imagined it. On the

right at the turning to the summer-house there's a Httle white tree
which has leant over, it looks like a woman.
[Enter trofimov. He is dressed in a shabby student's uniform and
wears spectacles.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What a superb orchard! The great banks of white

blossom, the blue sky

trofimov. Mrs. Ranevsky! [She looks round at him.] I'll just pay my
respects and go away at once. [Kisses her hand with great feeling.]
I was told to wait till later in the morning, but I was too impatient.
[mrs. RANEVSKY looks at him in bewilderment.]

VARY A [through tears]. This is Peter Trofimov.

TROFIMOV. I'm Peter Trofimov. I was Grisha's tutor. Can I have

changed so much?
[mrs. RANEVSKY embraces him and weeps quietly.]
254 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One

GAYEV [embarrassed]. There, Lyuba, don't cry.

VARY A [weeping]. I did tell you to wait till later, Peter.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Grisha, my— my little boy. Grisha, my son

VARYA. It can't be helped, Mother, it was God's will.

TROFIMOV [gently, through tears]. Don't cry. Please don't.

MRS. RANEVSKY [weeping quietly]. I lost my little boy —drowned.

Why? Why did it happen, my dear? [In a quieter voice.] Anya's
asleep in there and here I am raising my voice and making all this

noise. Well, Peter? Why have you grown so ugly? And why do you
look so old?
TROFIMOV. A woman in the train called me 'that seedy-looking gent'.
MRS. RANEVSKY. You Were only a boy in those days, just a nice Httle
imdergraduate. But now you're losing your hair and wear these
spectacles. You can't still be a student, surely? [Moves towards the

door.]

TROFIMOV. I'll obviously be a student for the rest of time.

MRS. RANEVSKY [kisses her brother and then varya]. Well, go to bed
then. You look older too, Leonid.

PISHCHIK [follows her]. So we're off to bed now. Oh dear, my gout.

I'd better stay the night here. And to-morrow morning, Lyuba my
sweetheart, that Httle matter of two hundred and forty roubles.

gayev. Can't he think about anything else?

PISHCHIK. Two hundred and forty roubles to pay the interest on my

mortgage.
MRS. RANEVSKY. But iVe no money, my dear man.

PISHCHIK. I'll pay you back, dearest lady. A trifling sum.

MRS. RANEVSKY. All right then, Leonid will let you have it. Leonid,
give him the money.
GAYEV. What, me give it him? Not likely!

MRS. RANEVSKY. Let him have it, what else can we do? He needs it,

he'U pay us back.

[mRS. RANEVSKY, TROFIMOV, PISHCHIK and FIRS gO OUt.

GAYEV, VARYA and YASHA remain behind.]

GAYEV. My sister hasn't lost her habit of throwing money about.
[To YASHA.] Out of the way, my man, you smell like a farmyard.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 255

YASHA [with an ironical griti]. You haven't changed a bit, Mr. Gayev
sir.

GAYEV. What's that? [To varya.] What did he say?

VARY A [to yasha]. Yout mother's come from the village. She's been
waiting in the servants' quarters since yesterday and wants to see you.

yasha. Why can't she leave me alone?

VARYA. You —you ought to be ashamed of yourself!
YASHA. What's the big idea? Couldn't she have come tomorrow?
[Goes out.]

VARYA. Mother's just the same as ever, hasn't changed a bit. She'd
give everything away if we let her.

GAYEV. Yes. [Pm<5e.] When a lot of different remedies are suggested

for a disease, that means it can't be cured. I've been thinking and
racking my brains. I have plenty of remedies, any amount of them,
and that means I It would be a good thing
haven't really got one.
if somebody left ussome money. It would be a good thing to marry
Anya to a very rich man. And it would be a good thing to go to
Yaroslavl and try our luck with our aunt the Countess. Aunty is
rich, you know, very much so.

VARYA [^rym^]. May God help us.

GAYEV. Stop that crying. Aunty's rich enough, but she doesn't like us.
To start with, my sister married a lawyer, a social inferior .

[anya appears in the doorway.]

GAYEV. She married beneath her, and the way she's behaved well, —
she hasn't exactly been a model of propriety, has she? She's a good,
kind, splendid person and I love her very much, but make what
allowances you like, she's still a loose woman and you can't get away
from it. It shows in every movement she makes.
VARYA [in a whisper]. Anya's in the doorway.
GAYEV. what's that? [P^wie.] Curious thing, there's something in my
right eye. Can't see properly. And on Thursday when I was at the

County Court
[anya comes in.]

VARYA. Why aren't you asleep, Anya?

ANYA. I can't. I just can't get to sleep.
256 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One
G AYE V. My dear child. [Kisses AH Y A* s face and hands.] My little child.
[Through tears.] You're not my niece, youVe an angel, you're every-
thing in the world to me. Do, do beheve me.
ANY A. I do beheve you, Uncle. Everyone loves and respects you.
But, Uncle dear, you should keep quiet, just keep quiet. What were
you saying just now about my mother, about your own sister? What
made you say it?
GAYEV. Yes, yes. [Takes her hand and covers his face with it.] You're
quite right, it was dreadful of me. Oh God! God, help me! And that
speech I made to the book-case just now. How silly of me. And it
was only when I'd finished that I saw how silly it was.

VARY A. It's true. Uncle dear, you oughm't to talk. Just don't talk,
that's all.

ANYA. If you stop talking you'll feel easier in your own mind.

GAYEV. I am silent. [Kisses anya'^ and varya'5 hands.] I am silent.

There is something rather important, though. I was at the County

—
Court last Thursday and well, a lot of us got talking about this
and that and about several other things as well. It seems we might
manage to borrow some money and pay the interest to the bank.
vArya. May God help us.

GAYEV. I'm going back there on Tuesday and I'll talk to them again.
[To VARYA.] Stop that crying. [To any A.] Your mother's going
to speak to Lopakhin and I'm sure he won't let her down. And when
you've had a rest you can go and see your great-aunt the Countess
at Yaroslavl. This way we'll be tackling the thing from three
different directions at once and we simply can't fail. We shall pay
that interest, I'm sure of it. [Puts a sweet in his mouth.] I give you my
word of honour, I swear by anything you like, this estate isn't going
to be sold. [Elatedly.] As I hope to be happy, I swear it. Here's my
hand and you can call me a good-for-nothing scoundrel if I let it
come to an auction. I won't, on that I'll stake my life.
ANYA [has reverted to a calmer mood and is happy]. What a good person
you are, Uncle, you're so sensible. [Embraces him.] I feel calm now.
Calm and happy.
[Enter firs.]

FIRS [reproachfully]. Mr. Leonid sir, you're past praying for. When are
you going to bed?
 —

THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act One 257

GAYEV. At once, at once. You can go, Firs. It's all right, I'll undress
myself. Well, children, bed-time. The details willmorning keep till

and you go to bed now. [Kisses anya and varya.] I'm a man of
the eighties. No one has a good word to say for those days, but still

I've suffered quite a bit for my convictions, I can tell you. Do you
wonder the peasants like me somuch? You have to know your
peasant of course. You have to know how to
ANYA. Uncle, you're off again.

vARYA. Uncle dear, do be quiet.

FIRS [angrily], Mr. Leonid, sir!

GAYEV. I'm coming, I'm coming. Go to bed. Off two cushions into
the middle. Pot the white. [Goes off with firs tottering after him.]

ANYA. I'm not worried now. I don't feel like going to Yaroslavl and
I don't like my great-aunt, but I do feel less worried. Thanks to
Uncle. [Sits down.]

VARYA. Wemust get to bed. I'm just going. Oh, something un-
pleasant happened here while you were away. As you know, there's
no one hving in the old servants' quarters except some of our old
—
folk Yefim, Polya, Yevstigney, oh yes, and Karp. They began
letting odd tramps and people spend the night there. I kept quiet
about it. But then I heard of a story they'd spread that I'd said they
must be fed on nothing but dried peas. Out of meanness if you
please. It was all Yevstigney's doing. All right, I thought. If that's

the way things are, then you just wait. I sent for the man. [Yiuu^ni.]

He came. 'What's all this?' I said. 'You stupid so-and-so.' [Looks at

ANYA.] Anya, dear! anya hy the arm.]
[Pause.] She's asleep. [Takes
Come to bed, dear. Come on. [Leads her hy the arm.] My Httle
darling's gone to sleep. Come on. [They move off.]

[A shepherd' s pipe is heard playing from far away on the other side of
the orchard, trofimov crosses the stage, catches sight o/varya and
ANYA and stops.]

VARYA. Sh! She's asleep — asleep. Come on, my dear.

ANYA [quietly, half asleep]. I'm so tired. I keep hearing bells. Uncle
dear —Mother and Uncle
VARYA. Come on, dear, come on. [They go into anya'5 room.]

TROFIMOV [deeply moved]. Light of my being! My springtime!

curtain
 ACT TWO
In the open country. A small, tumble-down old chapel long ago
abandoned. Near it a well, some large stones which look like old
tombstones and an old bench. A road can be seen leading to gay EW*s
estate. Dark poplar trees loom on one side and beyond them the cherry
orchard begins. There is row of telegraph poles in the distance and
a

far, far away on the horizon are the dim outlines of a big town,
visible only in very fine, clear weather. It will soon be sunset,
CHARLOTTE, YASHA and DUNYASHA are sitting on the bench.
YEPIKHODOV statuls near them playing a guitar, while the others
sit lost in thought, charlotte wears a mans old peaked cap. She

has taken a shot-gun fiom her shoulder and is adjusting the buckle
on the strap.

CHARLOTTE [meditatively]. I haven't any proper identity papers.

I don't know how old I am and I always think of myself as a young

girl. When I was Httle, Father and Mother used to go on tour round
all the fairs good ones too. I used to
giving performances, and very
do the dive of death and lots of other tricks. When Father and
Mother died a German lady adopted me and began educating me.
Well, I grew up and became a governess. But where I come from
and who I am I've no idea. Who my parents were I don't know
either, very likely they weren't even married. [Takes a cucumber out
of her pocket and starts eating it.\ I don't know anything. [P«<5e.] I'm
longing for someone to talk to, but there isn't anyone. I'm alone in
the world.

YEPIKHODOV [playing the guitar and singing].

'I'm tired of the world and its bustle,

I'm tired of my friends and my foes.'

How nice it is to play a mandolin.

DUNYASHA. That isn't a mandolin, it's a guitar. [Looks at herself in a

hand-mirror, and powders her face.]

YEPIKHODOV. To a man crazed with love it's a mandolin. [Sings sofily.]

*If only my heart were deUghted

By the warmth of an ardour requited.'
[YASHA;om5 in.]
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Two 259

CHARLOTTE. The awful way these people sing —ugh! Like a lot of
hyenas.

DUNYASHA [to yasha]. You're ever so lucky to have been abroad,

though.
YASHA. Yes, of course. My sentiments precisely. [Yawns, then lights a

cigar.]

YEPiKHODOV. It Stands to reason. Abroad everything's pretty com-

prehensive like. Has been for ages.

YASHA. Oh, definitely.

YEPIKHODOV. I'm a cultured sort of person and read all kinds of re-
markable books, but I on what it is I'm really
just can't get a line
after. Shall I go on Uving or shall I shoot myself, I mean? But any-

way, I always carry a revolver. Here it is. [Shows them his revolver.]
CHARLOTTE. Well, that's that. I'm off. [Slings thegunover her shoulder.]
Yepikhodov, you're a very clever man and a most alarming one.
Women must be quite crazy about you. Brrr! [Moves off.] These
clever men are all so stupid, I've no one to talk to. I'm lonely, oh so
lonely. I'm on my own in the world, and —
and who I am and what
I'm for is a mystery. [Goes out slowly.]

YEPIKHODOV. Actually, other considerations apart, there's something

I must explain about myself at this juncture, which is that fate
really
treats me most unkindly, like a storm buffeting a small boat. If I'm

— —
mistaken which I allow is possible why is it, to take a case in
point, that I wake up this morning and there, sitting on my chest,
is a spider of gigantic proportions ? This size. [Uses both hands to show

the size.] Or I pick up a glass of kvass to have a drink and lo and

behold there's something highly improper inside it like a black-

beetle. [PaM5e.] Have you ever read Buckle's History of Civilization'^
Might
[Pause.] I trouble you for the favour of a few words. Miss
Dunyasha?
DUNYASHA. AU right, carry on.

YEPIKHODOV. I should prefer it to be in private. [Sighs.]

DUNYASHA [embarrassed]. Very well then, only first go and get me

my cape. You'll fmd it in the cupboard or somewhere. It's rather
damp out here.

YEPIKHODOV. Oh certainly, I'm sure. At your service. Now I know

what to do with my revolver. [ Takes the guitar andgoes out strumming it. ]
26o THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO
YASHA. Simple Simon! The man's a fool, between you and me.
[Yawns.]

DUNYASHA. Heavens, I hope he doesn't go and shoot himself. [PflM5e.]

I've grown so nervous and I feel worried all the time. The master
and mistress took me in when I was a Httle girl and now I've lost
touch with the way ordinary people Hve. Look at my hands, as
white as white could be, just like a lady's. Yes, I've become all soft

and refined and ladylike and easily frightened. I'm scared of every-
thing. If you deceive me, Yasha, I can't think what it'll do to my
nerves.

YASHA [kissing her]. Tasty Httle morsel. A girl should know her place,
mind. There's nothing I dislike so much as loose behaviour in a girL

DUNYASHA. Tm SO much in love with you. You're so educated, you

can talk about anything. [PoMse.]

YASHA \yawning\ That's true enough. To my way of thinking, if a

girl's in love with anybody that proves she's immoral. [Pause.] How
smoke a cigar out of doors. [Pricks up
nice to his ears.] There's some-
body coming. It's the missis and the others.
[dunyasha embraces him impulsively.]

YASHA. Go back to the house as if you'd been down to the river for
a bathe. Take that path, or else you'll meet them and they'll think
we've been walking out together. I can't have that.

DUNYASHA [coughing quietly]. Your cigar's given me an awful head-

ache. [Goes off.]

[yasha remains behind, sitting near the chapel. Enter mrs. ranev-
SKY, GAYEV and lopakhin.]

lopakhin. You must make up your minds once and for all, time's
nmning out. And anyway it's a perfealy simple matter. Are you
prepared to lease your land for summer cottages or aren't you? You
—
can answer it in one word yes or no. Just one single word.

MRS. ranevsky. Who's smoking disgusting cigars round here? [Sits

doum.]

GAYEV. How handy it is now they've built the railway. [Sits doum.]
We've been into town for lunch. Pot the red in the middle. I must
go indoors now and have a game.

MRS. ranevsky. There's no hurry.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO 26l

LOPAKHIN. One single word. [Imploringly.] Do give me an answer.

GAYEV [yawning]. What's that?

MRS. RANEVSKY [looking in her purse]. Yesterday I had lots of money,

but I've hardly any left today. My poor Varya tries to save by feeding
us on miUc soup and the old servants in the kitchen get nothing
all

but peas toeat, while I go round simply squandering money, I can't

think why. [Drops her purse, scattering some gold coins.] There, now
I've dropped it all. [Is annoyed.]

YASHA. Allow me to pick it up, madam. [Picks up the coins.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Please do, Yasha. Oh, whatever made me go out to

lunch? That beastly restaurant of yours with its music and table-
cloths smeUing of soap. Does one have to drink so much, Leonid ?
Or eat so much ? Or talk so much ? You talked much too much again
in the restaurant today,all most unsuitable stuff about the seventies

and the decadent movement. And just think who you were speaking
to. Fancy talking about the decadents to the waiters.

LOPAKHIN. Quite so.

GAYEV [making a gesture of dismissal with his hand]. I'm a hopeless case,
obviously. [To yasha, irritably.] Why is it I always see you hanging
about everywhere?
YASHA [laughing]. I just can't help laughing when I hear your voice.

GAYEV [to his sister]. Either he goes or I do.

MRS. RANEVSKY. You may leave, Yasha. Off with you.

YASHA [returning the purse to mrs. ranevsky]. I'll go at once. [Hardly

able to contain his laughter.] This very instant. [Goes out.]

LOPAKHIN. Do you know who's thinking of buying your property?

A rich man called Deriganov. They say he's coming to the auction
himself

MRS. RANEVSKY. Oh? Where did you hear that?

LOPAKHIN. It's what they're saying in town.

GAYEV. Our aunt in Yaroslavl has promised to send money, but when
she'll send it and how much it'll be, nobody knows.

LOPAKHIN. How much is she sending? A hundred thousand roubles?

Two hundred thousand?
MRS. RANEVSKY. Oh, about ten or fifteen thousand, and we're lucky
to get that much.
262 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO
LOPAKHIN. With due respect, iVe never met anyone as scatter-
brained as you two, or as odd and unbusinesslike either. I tell you
in plain language that your place is up for sale and you can't even
seem to take it in.

MRS. RANEVSKY. But what are we to do about it? You tell us that.

LOPAKHIN. I Jo you every day. Every day I say the same

tell you. I tell

thing over and over again. The cherry orchard and the rest of the
land must be leased out for summer cottages. You must act at once,
without delay, the auction's almost on top of us. Do get that into
your heads. Once you definitely decide on those cottages you can
raise any amount of money and you'll be all right.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Cottages, summer visitors. Forgive me, but all

that's so frightfully vulgar.

GAYEV. I entirely agree.

LOPAKHIN. I'm going to burst into tears or scream or faint. This is too
much. I've had about all I can stand! [To gayev.] You're an old
woman.
GAYEV. What's that?

LOPAKHIN. I say you're an old woman. [Makes to leave.]

MRS. RANEVSKY [terrified]. No, my dear man. Stay

don't go away,
with us, I implore you. Perhaps we'll think of something.

LOPAKHIN. 'Think'? This isn't a question of thinking.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Dou't go away, I beg you. Besides, it's more amus-
ing with you around. [Pfl«5e.] I keep expecting something awful to
happen, as if the house was going to collapse around our ears.
GAYEV [deep in thought]. Off the cushion into the comer. Across into
the middle

MRS. RANEVSKY. I suppose wcVe Committed so many sins

LOPAKHIN. oh? what sins have you committed?

GAYEV [putting a sweet in his mouth]. People say I've wasted my sub-
stance on boiled sweets. [Laughs.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Oh, my sins. Look at the mad way I've always
wasted money, spent it like water, and I married a man who could
do nothing but run up debts. My husband died of champagne, he
drank Hke a fish, and then I had the bad luck to fall in love with
someone else and have an affair with him. And just then came my
 .

THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Two 263

first punishment, and what a cruel blow that was In the river here ! —
My httleboy was drowned and I went abroad, went right away,
never meaning to return or see the river again. I shut my eyes and
ran away, not knowing what I was doing, and he followed me. It
was a cruel, brutal thing to do. I bought a villa near Menton because
he fell ill there and for three years I had no rest, nursing him day and
night. He utterly wore me out. All my feelings seemed to have dried
up inside me. Then last year, when the villa had to be sold to pay
my debts, I left for Paris where he robbed me, deserted me and took
up with another woman. I tried to poison myself. It was all so stupid
and humihating. Then I suddenly longed to be back in Russia, back
in my own country with my Httle girl. [Dries her eyes.] Lord, Lord,
be merciful, forgive me my sins. Don't punish me any more. [Takes
a telegram from her pocket. This came from Paris today. He asks my
\

forgiveness and begs me to go back. [Tears up the telegram.] Isn't that

music I hear? [Listens.]

GAYEV. That's our famous Jewish band. You remember, the four
fiddles, flute and double-bass?

MRS. RANEVSKY. Are they still about then? We must get them round
here some time and have a party.

LOPAKHIN [listening]. I don't hear anything. [Sings quietly.]

'For a spot of cash your Prussian
Will frenchify a Russian.'

[Laughs.] I saw a rather good play at the theatre last night, something
really funny.

MRS. RANEVSKY. I don't suppose it was a bit funny. You people

shouldn't go and see plays, you should try watching your own per-
formance instead. What drab hves you all lead and what a lot of
rubbish you talk!

LOPAKHIN. Quite right. To be honest, the we lead is preposterous.

life

[PaM5e.] My father was a peasant, an idiot who understood nothing,

taught me nothing and just beat me when he was drunk, with a stick
too. As a matter of fact I'm just as big a numskull and idiot myself.
I never learned anything and my handwriting 's awful. A pig could
write about as well as I do, I'm ashamed to let anyone see it.

MRS. RANEVSKY. You ought to get married, my friend.

LOPAKHIN. Yes, that's true enough.

264 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO
MRS. RANEVSKY. Why not marry Varya? She's a very nice girl.

LOPAKHIN. True.
MRS. RANEVSKY. She's a jiice simple creature. She works all day long,
and the great thing is she loves you. And you've been fond of her
for some time too.

LOPAKHIN. All right, I've nothing against it. She is a very nice girl.
[Pause.]

GAYEV. I've been offered a job in a bank. At six thousand roubles a

year. Had you heard?

MRS. RANEVSKY. What, you in a bank! You stay where you are.

[firs comes in with an overcoat.]

FIRS [to GAYEv]. Please put this on, Mr. Leonid sir. It's damp out here.
GAYEV [putting on the overcoat]. You are a bore, my dear fellow.

FIRS. We can*t have this. Goes off in the morning without so much
as a word. [Inspects him.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. How you have aged, Firs!

FIRS. Beg pardon, madam?

LOPAKHIN. Your mistress says you look a lot older.

FIRS. Well, I've been aUve a long time. They were arranging my
wedding before your Dad was so much as thought of [Laughs.] And
when the serfs were freed I was already head valet. But I wouldn't
have any of their freedom, I stayed on with the master and mistress.
[PflMse.] As I recall, everyone was very pleased, but what they were

so pleased about they'd no idea themselves.

LOPAKHIN. oh, it was a good life all right. At least there were plenty
offloggings.

FIRS [not hearing him]. Yes, those were the days. The serfs had their
masters and the masters had their serfs, but now everything 's at sixes
and sevens and you can't make head or tail of it.

GAYEV. Keep quiet a minute, Firs. I have to go to town tomorrow.

I've been promised an introduction to a general who might let us
have a loan.

LOPAKHIN. It won't come off and you won't pay the interest either,

of that you may be sure.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO 26$

MRS. RANEVSKY. He's only talking nonsense. There is no such

general.
[Enter trofimov, anya and varya.]
GAYEV. Ah, here come the children.

ANYA. Look, there's Mother.

MRS. RANEVSKY [affectionately]. Come, come to me. My darUng
girls. [Embracing anya and varya.] If you only knew how much
I love you both. Sit beside me, that's right. [All sit down.]

LOPAKHiN. Our eternal student never strays far from the young
ladies.

TROFIMOV. Mind your own business.

LOPAKHIN. He's nearly fifty and he's still a student.

TROFIMOV. oh, stop making these idiotic jokes.

LOPAKHIN. But why so angry, my dear fellow?

TROFIMOV. Can't you leave me alone?

LOPAKHIN [laughing]. Just let me ask you one question. What's your
opinion of me?

TROFIMOV. My opinion of you is simply this, Lopakhin. You're a

rich man. You'll soon be a milHonaire. Now, as part of the process
whereby one form of matter is converted into another, nature needs
beasts of prey which devour everything in their path. You fulfil that
need. [Everyone laughs.]

VARYA. Oh Peter, couldn't you tell us something about the planets

instead?

MRS. RANEVSKY. No, let's go on with what we were talking about

yesterday.

TROFIMOV. What was that?

GAYEV. Pride.

TROFIMOV. We we didn't get anywhere.

talked a lot yesterday, but
A proud man your sense of the word has something mystical
in
about him. You may be right in a way. But if we look at the thing
quite simply and don't try to be too clever, then what room is there
for pride and what's the sense of it anyway, if in fact man is a pretty
poor physiological specimen and if the great majority of the human
race is crude, stupid and profoundly miserable? It's time we stopped
admiring ourselves. The only thing to do is to work.
266 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO
GAYEv. We shall all die anyway.
TROFIMOV. Why be so sure of that? And what does it mean anyway,
*to die' ? Perhaps man has a hundred senses and perhaps wiien he dies
he loses only the five we know, while the other ninety-five live on.

MRS. RANEVSKY. How clever you are, Peter.

LOPAKHiN [ironicaUy]. Oh, brilhant!

TROFIMOV. Mankind marches on, going from strength to strength.

All that now eludes us will one day be well within our grasp, but, as
I say, we must work and we must do all we can for those who are
trying to find the truth. Here in Russia very few people do work
at present. The kind of Russian intellectuals I know, far and away
the greater part of them anyway, aren't looking for anything. They
don't do anything. They still don't know the meaning of hard work.
They call themselves an intelligentsia, but they speak to their servants
as inferiors and treat the peasants like animals. They don't study

properly, they never read anything serious, in fact they don't do

anything at all. Science is something they just talk about and they
know precious Httle about art. Oh, they're all very earnest. They all
go round looking extremely solemn. They talk of nothing but
weighty issues and they discuss abstract problems, while all the time
everyone knows the workers are abominably fed and sleep without
proper bedding, thirty or forty to a room —with bed-bugs every-
where, to say nothing of the stench, the damp, the moral degradation.
And clearly all our fine talk is just meant to pull wool over our own
eyes and other people's too. Tell me, where are those children's
creches that there's all this talk about? Where are the Hbraries?
They're just things people write novels about, we haven't actually
got any of them. What we have got is dirt, vulgarity and squalor.
I loathe all these earnest faces. They scare me, and so do earnest
conversations. Why can't we keep quiet for a change?
LOPAKHIN. I'm always up by five o'clock, you know. I work from
morning till night, and then —well, I'm always handling money, my
own and other people's, and I can see what sort of men and women
Ihave around me. You only have to start a job of work to reahze
how few decent, honest folk there are about. When I can't sleep I
sometimes think —the Lord gave us these huge forests, these bound-
less plains, these vast horizons, and we who live among them ought
to be real giants.
 —

THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO 267

MRS. RANEVSKY. You*re Calling for giants. They're all very well in

fairy-tales, but elsewhere they might be rather alarming.

[yepikhodov crosses the back of the stage playing his guitar.]

MRS. RANEVSKY [petisively]. There goes Yepikhodov.

ANY A [pensively]. There goes Yepikhodov.

GAYEV. The sun has set, my friends.

TROFiMOV. Yes.

GAYEV [in a quiet voice y as if giving a recitation]. Nature, glorious

Nature, glowing with everlasting radiance, so beautiful, so cold
you, whom men call mother, in whom the Hving and the dead are
joined together, you who give life and take it away
VARY A [imploring him]. Uncle dear!
ANY A. Uncle, you're off again.

TROFIMOV. You'd far better pot the red in the middle.

GAYEV. I am silent. Silent.

[Everyone sits deep in thought. It is very quiet. All that can be heard
is FIRS '5 low muttering. Suddenly a distant sound is heard. It seems to
come from the sky and is the sound of a breaking string. It dies away
sadly.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What was that?

LOPAKHiN. I don't know. A cable must have broken somewhere away
in the mines. But it must be a long, long way off.

GAYEV. Or perhaps it was a bird, a heron or something.

TROFIMOV. Or an owl.
MRS. RANEVSKY [shudders]. There was something disagreeable about
it. [PflM5e.]

FIRS.The same thing happened before the troubles, the owl hooting
and the samovar humming all the time.

GAYEV. What 'troubles' were those?

FIRS. When the serfs were given their freedom. [PdWie.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Come, let's go in, everyone. It's getting late. [To
ANY A.] You've tears in your eyes. What is it, child? [Embraces her.]

ANY A. It's nothing, Mother. I'm all right.

268 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act TwO
TROFIMOV. There *s somebody coming.
[The PASSER-BY appears. He wears a shabby, white peaked cap and
an overcoat. He is slightly drunk.]

PASSER-BY. Excuse me asking, but am I right for the station this way?
GAYEV. Yes. Follow that road.

PASSER-BY. Tm uncommonly obliged to you. [With a cough.] Splen-

did weather, this. [Declaiming.] 'Brother, my suffering brother!*
'Come out to the Volga, you whose groans — .'
[To vary A.] Miss,
could you spare a few copecks for a starving Russian?

[vary A takes fright and shrieks.]

LOPAKHiN [angrily]. Even where you come from there's such a thing
as being poHte.

MRS. RANEVSKY [flustered]. Here, have this. [Looks in her purse.] I've
no silver. Never mind, here's some gold.

PASSER-BY. I'm uncommonly obHged to you. [Goes off.]

[Everyone laughs.]

VARYA [frightened]. I'm going. I'm going away from here. Oh

Mother, we've no food in the house for the servants and you gave
him all that money.

MRS. RANEVSKY. What's to be done with me? I'm so siUy. I'll give
you all I have when we get home. Yermolay, lend me some more
money.

LOPAKHIN. At your service.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Come on, everybody, it's time to go in. Varya,

we've just fixed you up with a husband. Congratulations.

VARYA [through tears]. Don't make jokes about it, Mother.

LOPAKHIN. Ameha, get thee to a nunnery.

GAYEV. My hands are shaking. It's a long time since I had a game of
biUiards.

LOPAKHIN. AmeUa, nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Come on, all of you. It's nearly supper time.

VARYA. That man scared me. I still feel quite shaken.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Two 269

LOPAKHiN. May I remind you all that the cherry orchard's going to
be sold on the twenty-second of August ? You must think about it.

Give it some thought.

[All go off except trofimov and anya.]

ANY A We should
[laughing]. be grateful to that man for frightening
Varya. Now we're alone.
TROFIMOV. Varya 's afraid we might fall in love, so she follows us
about for days on end. With her narrow outlook she can't under-
stand that we're above love.To rid ourselves of the pettiness and
which stop us being free and happy, that's the whole
the illusions
meaning and purpose of our Hves. Forward then! We are marching
triumphantly on towards that bright star shining there far away.
On, on! No falling back, my friends.
ANYA [clapping her hands]. What splendid things you say! [PdMie.] Isn't
it heavenly here today?

TROFIMOV. Yes, it's wonderful weather.

ANYA. What have you done to me, Peter? Why is it I'm not so fond
of the cherry orchard as I used to be? I loved it so dearly. I used to
think there was no better place on earth than our orchard.

TROFIMOV. is our orchard. The earth is so wide, so beauti-

All Russia
ful, so fullof wonderful places. [PaM5e.] Just think, Anya. Your
grandfather, your great-grandfather and all your ancestors owned
serfs, they owned human souls. Don't you see that from every cherry-
tree in the orchard,from every leaf and every trunk, men and women
are gazing at you? Don't you hear their voices? Owning Hving
souls, that's what has changed you all so completely, those who went

before and those aHve today, so that your mother, you yourself, your

—
uncle you don't reahze that you're actually living on credit. You're
Hving on other people, the very people you won't even let inside
your own front door. We're at least a couple of hundred years behind
the times. So far we haven't got anywhere at all and we've no real
sense of the past. We just talk in airy generaUzations, complain of
boredom or drink vodka. But if we're to start Hving in the present
isn't it abundantly clear that we've first got to redeem our past and
make a clean break with it? And we can only redeem it by suffering
and getting down to some real work for a change. You must under-
stand that, Anya.
270 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Two
ANYA. The house we Hve in hasn't really been ours for a long time
and I mean to leave it, I promise you.
TROFiMOv. If you have the keys of the place throw them in the well
and go away. Be free, free as the wind.
ANYA [carried away]. How beautifiiUy you put it.

TROFIMOV. Believe me, Anya. Trust me. I'm not yet thirty. Tm
young and I'm still a student, but I've had my share of hardship. In
winter time I'm always half-starved, ill, worried, desperately poor.
And I've been landed in some pretty queer places. I've seen a thing
or two in my time, I can tell moment of the
you. Yet always, every
day and night, I've been haunted by mysterious visions of the future.
Happiness is coming, Anya, I feel it. I already see it
ANYA [pensively]. The moon is rising.

[yepikhodov ij heard playing his guitar, the same sad tune as before.
The moon rises. Somewhere near the poplars varya is looking for
ANYA and calling, 'Anya, where are you?']

TROFIMOV. Yes, the moon is rising. [PdM5e.] Here it is! Happiness is

here. Here it comes, nearer, ever nearer. Already I hear its footsteps.
And i£we never see it, \£ we never know it, what does that matter?
Others will see it.

VARY A [offstage]. Anya! Where are you?

TROFIMOV. Varya's at it again. [Angrily.] She really is infuriating.

ANYA. Oh well, let's go down to the river. It's lovely there.

TROFIMOV. Come on then. [They move off.]

VARY A [offstage]. Anya! Anya!

CURTAIN
 i :

ACT THREE
The drawing-room. Beyond it, through an archway, the ballroom.
The chandelier is lit. The Jewish band mentioned in Act Two is
heard playing in the entrance-hall. It is evening. In the ballroom they
are dancing a grand rond. s i M E o N o v- p s h c H
i k's i^o/Ve /5 heard
'Promenade a une paire!' They come into the drawing-room, the
first two dancers being pishchik andcharlotte, trofimov
and MRS. RANEVSKY /orm the second pair, anya and the post
OFFICE CLERK the third, varya and the stationmaster the
fourth and so on. varya is quietly weeping and dries her eyes as she
dances. The last couple consists o/dunyasha and a partner. They
cross the drawing-room, pishchik shouts, 'Grand rond, balancez!*
and 'Les cavaliers a genoux et remerciez vos dames!'
FIRS, wearing a tail-coat, brings in soda-water on a tray, pi-
shchik and trofimov come into the drawing-room.

PISHCHIK. I've got high blood pressure, I've twice had a stroke and
it's hard work dancing. Still, as the saying goes, those who run with

the pack must wag their tails, even if they can't raise a bark. I'm as
strong as a horse, though. My old father —he hked his Httle joke,
God bless him —sometimes spoke about the family pedigree and
he reckoned that the ancient line of the Simeonov-Pishchiks comes
from one CaHgula made a senator. [Sits down.] Trouble
a horse, the
is though, I've no money. A hungry dog thinks only of his supper.

[Snores, but wakes up again at once.] I'm just the same, can't think
of anything but money.

TROFIMOV. You know, you really are built rather like a horse.

PISHCHIK. Well, and why not? The horse is a fine animal. You can
sell a horse.

[From an adjoining room comes the sound of people playing billiards.

VARYA appears in the ballroom beneath the archway.]

TROFIMOV [teasing her]. Mrs. Lopakhin! Mrs. Lopakhin!

VARYA [angrily]. Seedy-looking gent!

TROFIMOV. Yes, I am a seedy-looking gent and I'm proud of it.

272 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three

VARY A [brooding unhappily]. We've gone and hired this band, but how
are we to pay them ?
[Goes out.]

TROFIMOV [to pishchik]. Think of all the energy you've wasted in

your time looking for money to pay interest on your loans. If you'd
used it on something else you might have turned the world upside
down by now.
PISHCHIK. Nietzsche, the philosopher —tremendous fellow, very
famous, colossally clever chap — says in his works that there's nothing
wrong with forging bank-notes.

TROFIMOV. Have you read Nietzsche then?

PISHCHIK. Well, Dashenka told me about it actually. And the way
Tm fixed now, forging a few bank-notes is about my only way out.
I have to pay three hundred and ten roubles the day after to-

morrow. So far I've got a hundred and thirty. [Feels his pockets in
alarm.] My money's gone! I've lost my money! [Through tears.]
Where is it? [Happily.] Oh, here it is in the lining. That gave mc
quite a turn.

[mrs. ranevsky and charlotte come in.]

MRS. ranevsky [hums a Caucasian dance tune, the Lezginka.] Why is

Leonid so long? What can he be doing in town? [Todunyasha.]

Dunyasha, ask the band if they'd care for some tea.

TROFIMOV. Most likely the auction didn't even take place.

MRS. RANEVSKY. What a time to have the band here and what a time
to give a party! Oh well, never mind. [Sits down and hums quietly.]

CHARLOTTE [handing pishchik a pack of cards]. Here's a pack of

cards. Think of a card.

PISHCHIK. All right.

CHARLOTTE. Now shufflc the pack. That's fine. Now give them to
me, my dearest Mr. Pishchik. Ein, zwei, dreil And now look in your
coat pocket. Is it there ?

PISHCHIK [taking a card out of his coat pocket]. The eight of spades,
you're quite right. [In amazement.] Extraordinary thing.

CHARLOTTE [holding the pack of cards on the palm of her hand, to trofi-
Mov]. Tell me quick, what's the top card?

TROFIMOV. Well, say the queen of spades.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 273

CHARLOTTE. And here she is! [To pishchik.] Right. What's the
top card now?
PISHCHIK. The ace of hearts.
CHARLOTTE. Correct. [Claps her hand on the pack of cards, which dis-
appears.] What fine weather we've had today. [She is answered by a
mysterious Jemale voice which seems to come from under the floor: 'Oh
yes, magnificent weather, madam.'] Oh you're so nice, quite charm-
ing in fact. [TTze voice: *I hkes you very much too, madam.']
STATIONMASTER [dapping his hands]. Hurrah for our lady ventri-
loquist!

PISHCHIK [astonished]. Extraordinary thing. Miss Charlotte, you're

utterly bewitching, I've quite fallen in love with you.
CHARLOTTE. In love? [Shrugging her shoulders.] As if you were capable
of love. Guter Mensch, aher schlechter Musikant.

TROFiMOV [claps PISHCHIK on fAe shoulder]. Good for the old horse.

CHARLOTTE. Your attention, please. Another trick. [Takes a rug from

a chair.] Here's a very fine rug, I'd like to sell it. [Shakes it.] Doesn't
anyone want to buy?
PISHCHIK [astonished]. Extraordinary thing.

CHARLOTTE. £m, zwei, dreil [Quickly snatches up the rug, which she
had allowed to fall down, to reveal anya standing behind it. anya
curtsies, runs to her mother and embraces her, then runs back into the ball-
room amid general enthusiasm.]
MRS. RANEVSKY [c/fipf]. Well done, well done!
CHARLOTTE. Now for another. Ein, zwei, dreil [Raises the rug.

Behind it stands vary A, who bows.]

PISHCHIK [astonished]. Extraordinary thing.

CHARLOTTE. The performance is over. [Throws the rug at pishchik,

curtsies and runs off into the ballroom.]

PISHCHIK [hurries after her]. What a naughty girl! Not bad, eh? Not
bad at all. [Goes out.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. And Still no sign of Leonid. I can't think what he's
been up to in town all this time. The thing must be over by now.
Either the estate's sold or the auction didn't take place, so why keep
us in suspense all this time?
VARY A [trying to console her]. Uncle's bought it, he must have.
274 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three

TROFIMOV [with a sneer]. Oh, of course.

VARYA. Our great-aunt sent him the authority to buy it in her name
and transfer the mortgage to her. She's doing it for Anya's sake.
Uncle will buy it, God willing, I'm sure of that.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Your great-aunt in Yaroslavl sent fifteen thousand

to buy the estate in her name —she doesn't trust us —but that much
wouldn't even pay the interest. [Covers her face with her hands.] My
fate, my whole future is being decided today.

TROFIMOV [teasing y AiLY a], Mrs. Lopakhin!

VARYA [angrily]. Hark at the eternal student. He's already been sent
down firom the university twice.
MRS. RANEVSKY. Why are you so cross, Varya? If he teases you about
Lopakhin, what of it? If you want to marry Lopakhin, do he's —
a nice, attractive man. And if you don't want to, don't. Nobody's

forcing you, darling.

VARYA. I'm perfectly serious about this, Mother, I must tell you
quite plainly. He is a nice man and I do like him.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Well, marry him then. What are you waiting for?
That's what I can't see.

VARYA. I can't very well propose to him myself, can I? Everyone's

been talking to me about him for the last two yean. Everyone goes
on and on about it, but he either says nothing or just makes jokes.
And I see his point. He's making money, he has his business to
look after and he hasn't time for me. If I had just a bit of money
myself — —
even a hundred roubles would do I'd drop everything and
go right away. I'd go to a convent.

TROFIMOV. What bHss!

VARYA TROFiMOv]. Our Student must show how witty he is,

[to

voice, tearfully.] Oh, you have grown ugly,

mustn't he? [In a gentle
Peter, and you do look old. [She has stopped crying and speaks to
MRS. RANEVSKY.] But I Can't stand having nothing to do, Mother,
I must be doing something every minute of the day.

[Enter yasha.]

YASHA [hardly able to restrain his laughter]. Yepikhodov's broken a

biUiard cue. [Goes out.]
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 275

VARY A. What is Yepikhodov doing here? And who said he could play
biUiards? I can't make these people out. [Goes out.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Don't tease her, Peter. Don't you see she's unhappy
enough already?
TROFIMOV. she's a great deal too officious. Why can't she mind her
own business? She's been pestering me and Anya all summer, afraid
we might have a love affair. What's it got to do with her? Not that
I ever gave her cause to think such a thing, anyway, I'm beyond such
triviahties. We are above love.
MRS. RANEVSKY. While I'm supposed to be beneath it, I imagine.
[Greatly agitated.] Why isn't Leonid back? If only I knew whether
the estate's been sold or not. I feel that such an awful thing just
couldn't happen, so I don't know what to think, I'm at my wits' end.
I'm hable to scream or do something silly. Help me, Peter. Oh, say
something, do, for heaven's sake speak.
TROFIMOV. What does it matter whether the estate's been sold today
or not? All that's over and done with. There's no turning back, that
avenue is closed. Don't worry, my dear. But don't try and fool your-
self either. For once in your life you must face the truth.

MRS. RANEVSKY. What truth? You can see what's true or untrue, but
I seem to have lost my sight, I see nothing. You solve the most
serious problems so confidently, but tell me, dear boy, isn't that
—
because you're young not old enough for any of your problems
to have caused you real suffering? You face the future so bravely,
but then you can't imagine anything terrible happening, can you?
And isn't that because you're still too young to see what life's really

like? You're bolder, more honest, more profound than we are, but
try and put yourself in our place, do show a Httle generosity and
spare my feelings. You see, I was bom here, my father and mother
lived here, and my grandfather too. I love this house. Without the
cherry orchard life has no meaning for me and if it reallymust be
sold then you'd better sell me with it. [Embraces trofimov and kisses
him on the forehead.] My
boy was drowned here, you know.
Httle

[Weeps.] Don't be too hard on me, my good kind friend.

TROFIMOV. As you know, I feel for you with all my heart.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Well, that isn't the way to say it, it really isn't.
[Takes out her handkerchief. A telegram falls to the floor.] I'm so de-
pressed today, you just can't imagine. I hate all this noise. Every
276 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three

sound sends a shiver right through me. I'm trembHng all over, but
I can't go to my room, the silence frightens me when I'm on my
own. Don't think too badly of me, Peter. I love you as my own son.
I'd gladly let Anya marry you, I honestly would, only you really must
study, dear boy, you must take your degree. You never do anything,
you just drift about from place to place, that's what's so pecuhar.
Well, it is, isn't it? And you should do something about that beard,
make it grow somehow. [Laughs.] You do look funny.

TROFiMOV [picks up the telegram]. I don't pretend to be particularly

good-looking.

MRS. RANEVSKY. That telegram's from Paris. I get one every day.
One came yesterday and there's another today. That crazy creature
is illand in trouble again. He asks my forgiveness, begs me to come
to him, and I really ought to go over to Paris and be near him for a
bit. You look very disapproving, Peter, but what else can I do, my

dear boy, what else can I do? He's ill, he's lonely and unhappy, and
who'll look after him there? Who'll stop him making a fool of him-
self and give him his medicine at the right time ? And then, why

make a secret of it, why not say so? I love him, that's obvious. I love
him, I love him. He's a millstone round my neck and he's dragging
me down with him, but I love my millstone and I can't Hve without
it. [Presses TROFiMOv'5 hand.] Don't think badly of me, Peter, and

don't say anything, don't talk.

TROFIMOV [through tears]. Excuse me being so blunt, for heaven's sake,

but he did rob you.

MRS. RANEVSKY. No, no, no, you musm't say that. [Puts her hands
over her ears.]

TROFIMOV. Why, the man's a swine and you're the only one who
doesn't know it. He's a Httle swine, a nobody
MRS. RANEVSKY [angry, but restraining herself]. You're twenty-six or
twenty-seven, but you're still a schoolboy.

TROFIMOV. what if I am?

MRS. RANEVSKY. You should be more of a man. At your age you
should understand people in love. And you should be in love your-
self, you should fall in love. [Angrily.] Yes, I mean it. And you're
not all that pure and innocent either, you're just a prig, a ridiculous
freak, a kind of monster
 !

THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 277

TROFIMOV [horrified]. She can't know what she's saying!

MRS. RANEVSKY. *I am above love!' You're not above love, you're

just what our friend Firs calls a nincompoop. Fancy being your age
and not having a mistress

TROFIMOV [horrified]. This is outrageous. She can't know what she's

saying! [Goes quickly into the ballroom clutching his head.] It's outra-
geous. I can't stand it, I'm going. [Goes out, but immediately comes back.]
All is over between us. [Goes out into the hall]

MRS. RANEVSKY [shouting after him]. Peter, wait a minute. Don't be

silly, I was only joking. Peter!

[There is a sound of rapid footsteps on the staircase in the hall and then
of someone suddenly falling downstairs with a crash, anya and varya
scream, but this is at once followed by laughter.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What's going on out there?

[anya runs in.]

ANYA [laughing]. Peter fell downstairs. [Runs out.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What a funny boy Peter is.

[The STATIONMASTER Stands in the middle of the ballroom and be-

gins to declaim The Sinful Woman by Aleksey Tolstoy. The others
listen, but he has only recited a few lines when the sound of a waltz
comes from the hall and the recitation is broken off. Everyone dances.
TROFIMOV, ANYA, VARYA and MRS. -RANEVSKY pass through fiom
the hall]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Now, Peter. There now, my dear good boy. Please
forgive me. Let's dance. [Dances with peter.]

[anya and varya dance together, firs comes in and stands his
walking-stick near the side door, yasha has also gone in from the
drawing-room and is watching the dancing.]

yasha. How goes it, old boy?

firs. I don't feel so good. We used to have generals, barons and

admirals at our dances in the old days, but now we send for the
post office clerk and the stationmaster and even they aren't all that
keen to come. I feel so frail somehow. The old master, Mr. Leonid's
grandfather, used to dose us all with powdered sealing-wax no

matter what was wrong with us. I've been taking seaHng-wax every
278 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three

day for the last twenty years or more. Maybe that's what's kept me
alive.

YASHA. Granddad, you make me tired, [yiau/nj.] It's time you were
dead.

FIRS. Get away with you. Nincompoop! [Mwrteri.]

[trofimov and mrs. ranevsky dance in the ballroom, then in the

drawing-room.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Thank you. I think I'll sit down a bit. [Sits doum.]
I'm tired.

[Enter anya.]
ANY A [excitedly]. There was someone in the kitchen just now saying
the cherry orchard's been sold today.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Sold? Who tO?

ANYA. He didn't say. He's gone away now. [She and troyimov danu
off into the ballroom.]

YASHA. It was only some old man's gossip. Nobody from here.

FIRS. And Mr. Leonid hasn't come yet, he's not back. He's only
still

got his Hght overcoat on and he'll catch cold, Hke as not. These young
people never stop to think.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Oh, I shall die. Yasha, go and find out who bought it.

YASHA. But he's been gone some time, that old feUow. [Laughs.]

MRS. RANEVSKY [somewhat annoyed]. Well, what's so funny? What

are you so pleased about ?

YASHA. Yepikhodov really is a scream. The man's so fiitile. Simple

Simon!
MRS. RANEVSKY. Firs, if the estate's sold where will you go?
FIRS. I'll go wherever you tell me.
MRS. RANEVSKY. Why do you look like that? Aren't you well? You
ought to be in bed, you know.
FIRS. Oh yes. [With amusement.] I go off to bed and then who'll do the
serving and look after everything ? There 's only me to run the whole
house.

YASHA [to MRS. ranevsky]. Mrs. Ranevsky, may I ask you some-
thing, please? If you go back to Paris, do me a favour and take me
with you. I can't stay here, that's out of the question. [Looks round.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 279

in an undertone.] It goes without saying, you can see for yourself, this
is an unciviHzed country and no one has any morals. Besides it's

boring, the food they give you in the kitchen is something awful
and on top of that there's old Firs wandering round mumbling and
speaking out of turn. Do take me with you. Please.
[Enter pishchik.]
PISHCHIK. May I have the pleasure of a httle waltz, you ravishing
creature? [mrs. RANEVSKY^oe^ with him.] But I'll have a hundred
and eighty roubles ojff you, my bewitching friend. That I will.
[Da«ce5.] Just a hundred and eighty roubles, that's all. [They go into
the ballroom.]

YASHA [singing softly]. 'Couldst thou but sense the trembling of my

'

heart

[In the ballroom a woman in a grey top hat and check trousers is seen
jumping and waving her arms about. Shouts are heard: 'Well done,
Charlotte!']

DUNYASHA [stops to powder her face]. Miss Anya told me to join in the
dancing. There are lots of gentlemen and only a few ladies. But I get
giddy when I dance and it makes my heart beat so. I say, Mr. Firs,

the man from the post office has just told me something that gave
me quite a turn.

[The music becomes quieter.]

FIRS. What was that?

DUNYASHA. 'You're like a flower,' he said.

YASHA [yawning]. Shockin' ignorance. [Goes out.]

DUNYASHA. Like a flower. I'm such a sensitive girl and I like it ever
so when people say such nice things.

FIRS. You'll end up in a real old mess.

[Enter yepikhodov.]
YEPIKHODOV. You don't seem to want to seeme, Miss Dunyasha,
I might be an insect or something. [5i^/i5.] Oh, what a life!
DUNYASHA. What do you want?
YEPIKHODOV. Undoubtedly you maybe right. [5/^/^5.] But of course,
if one looks at things from a certain angle, as I venture to assert if

you'll excuse my frankness, you've fmally reduced me

of to a state
mind. I know what I'm up against. Every day something goes
280 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Thee

wrong, but I got used to that long ago, so I just smile at my fate.

You gave me your promise, and though I

DUNYASHA. Please! Can*t we talk about it some other time? And you
leave me alone now. I'm ih a sort of dream. [Plays with her fan.]

YEPiKHODOV. Every day something goes wrong, but, as I make so

bold to assert, I just smile. Even raise a laugh.

[vary A comes in from the ballroom.]

VARY A. Are you Simon? Really, you don't listen to any-

still here,
dunyasha.] Be off with you, Dunyasha.
thing you're told. [To
[To YEPIKHODOV.] First you play bilHards and break a cue, and
now you wander round the drawing-room as if you were a guest.
YEPIKHODOV. You've no right to tell me off, permit me to inform
you.

VARYA. I'm not telling you off, I'm just telling you. All you do is
drift about from one place to another, you never do a stroke of

work. Goodness knows why we keep a clerk at all.

YEPIKHODOV [offended]. Whether I work or drift about and whether

I eat or play billiards, these are questions for older and wiser heads
than yours.

VARYA. How dare you talk to me like that! [Flaring up.] How dare
you! So I don't know what I'm talking about, don't I? Then get
out of here! This instant!

YEPIKHODOV [cowed]. I must ask you to express yourself in a more

refmed manner.

VARYA [losing her temper]. Get out of here this instant! Out you go!
[He moves towards the door, and she follows him.] Simple Simon! You
clear out of here! Out of my sight! [yepikhodov^o^^ out. His voice
is heardfrom behind the door: *I shall lodge a complaint.'] Oh, so you're

coming back, are you? [Picks up the stick which firs /f/? near the door.]
—
Come on then. All right Come on, I'll teach you. Ah, so you are
.

coming, are you? Then take that. [Lashes out just as lopakhin
comes in.]

lopakhin. Thank you very much.

VARYA [angrily and derisively]. I'm extremely sorry.

lopakhin. Not at all. Thank you for such a warm welcome.

 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 281

VARYA. Oh, don't mention it. [Moves away, then looks round and asks
gently.] I didn't hurt you, did I?

LOPAKHiN. No, it's all right. I'm going to have a whacking great
bruise, though,

[Voices in the ballroom: 'Lopakhin's arrived! Yermolay! Mr. Lopakhin!]

PISHCHIK. As large as Hfe and twice as natural. [Embraces lopakhin.]
There's a sHght whiiF of brandy about you, dear old boy. We're
having a pretty good time here too.
[mrs. ranevsky fome5 m.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Is it you, Yeimolay? Why have you been so long?

Where's Leonid?
LOPAKHIN. We came together. He'U be along in a moment.
MRS. RANEVSKY [agitated]. Well? Did the auction take place? For
heaven's sake speak!

LOPAKHIN [embarrassed and fearing to betray his delight]. The auction

was over by four o'clock. We missed our train and had to wait till

half past nine. [Gives a heavy sigh.] Oh dear, I feel a bit dizzy. [Enter

GAYEV. He carries some packages in his right hand and wipes away his

tears with his left.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. What happened, Leonid? Leonid, please! [Impa-

tiently y in tears.] Hurry up! TeU me, for God's sake!

GAYEV [not answering her and making a gesture of resignation with his hand.
To FIRS, weeping]. Here, take this, some anchovies and Black Sea
herrings. I haven't eaten all day. I've had a frightful time. [The door
into the billiard room The click of billiard balls is heard and
is open.
yasha'5 voice: 'Seven and eighteen!' gayev'^ expression changes and
he stops crying.] I'm terribly tired. Come and help me change, Firs.

[Goes off through the ballroom to his own room followed by firs.]

PISHCHIK. What happened at the sale? For heaven's sake tell us!

MRS. RANEVSKY. Was the cherry orchard sold?

LOPAKHIN. It was.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Who boUght it?

LOPAKHIN. I did. [PaM5e.]

[mrs. RANEVSKY is overwhelmed and would have fallen if she had not
been standing near an armchair and a table, vary A takes the keys from
282 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three

her belt, throws them on the floor in the middle of the drawing-room and
goes out.]

LOPAKHIN. I bought it. Just a moment, everybody, if you don't mind.

I muddled, I can't talk. [Laughs.] When we got to the auction

feel a bit

Deriganov was already there. Gayev only had fifteen thousand, and
straight off Deriganov bid thirty on top of the arrears on the
mortgage. I saw how things were going, so I weighed in myself and
bid forty. He bid forty-five. I went up to fifty-five. He kept raising
his bid five thousand, you see, and I was going up in tens. Anyway,
it finished in the end. I bid ninety thousand roubles plus the arrears.
And I got it. And now the cherry orchard is mine. Mine! [Gives a
loud laugh.] Great God in heaven, the cherry orchard's mine! Tell
me I'm drunk or crazy, say
it's all a dream. [Stamps his feet.] Don't

laugh me. If my father and grandfather could only rise from their
at

graves and see what happened, see how their Yermolay ^Yermolay —
who was always being beaten, who could hardly write his name and
—
ran round barefoot in winter how this same Yermolay bought this
estate, the most beautiful place in the world. I've bought the estate
where my father and grandfather were slaves, where they weren't
even allowed inside the kitchen. I must be dreaming, I must be
imagining it all. It can't be true. This is all a figment ofyour imagina-
tion wrapped in the mists of obscurity. [Picks up the keys, smiling
fondly.] She threw away the keys to show she's not in charge here
now. [Jingles the keys.] Oh well, never mind. [The hand is heard
tuning up.] Hey, you in the band, give us a tune, I want to hear you.
Come here, all of you, and you just watch Yermolay Lopakhin get
his axe into that cherry orchard, watch the trees come crashing down.

We'll fill the place with cottages. Our grandchildren and our great-
grandchildren will see a few changes round here. Music, boys!

[The hand plays. MRS. ranevsky has sunk into a chair and is weeping
Utterly.]

LOPAKHIN [reproachfully]. But why, oh why, didn't you Hsten to me

before? My poor dear friend,you can't put the clock back now.
[With tears.] Oh, if all this could be over quickly, if our miserable,
mixed-up Uves could somehow hurry up and change.

PISHCHIK [taking him hy the arm, in an undertone]. She's crying. Come

into the other room and leave her alone. Come on. [Takes him hy
the arm and leads him into the hallroom.]
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Three 283

LOPAKHIN. Hey, what's up? You in the band, let's have you playing
properly. Let's have everything the way / want it. [Ironically.] Here
comes the new squire, the owner of the cherry orchard ! [Acciden-
tally jogs a small tahle^ nearly knocking over the candelabra.] I can pay
for everything. [Goes out with pishchik.]

[There is no one left in the ballroom or drawing-room except mrs.

RANEVSKY, who sits hunched up, weeping bitterly.The band plays
quietly, anya and trofimov come in quickly. AhiYAgoes up to her
mother and kneels down in front of her. trofimov stays by the
entrance to the ballroom.]

ANYA. Mother! Mother, are you crying? My lovely, kind, good

mother. My precious, I love you. God bless you. The cherry
orchard's sold, it's gone. That's true, quite true, but don't cry.
Mother, you still have your life to Hve. You're still here with your
kind and innocent heart. Come with me, dear, come away. We shall
plant a new orchard, more glorious than this one. And when you
see it everything will make sense to you. Your heart will be filled
with happiness —deep happiness and peace, descending from above
like the sun at evening time. And then you'll smile again. Mother.
Come, my dear, come with me.

CURTAIN
 ACT FOUR
77»e scene is the same as in Act One. There are no window-curtains
or pictures. Only a few pieces offurniture are left and have been
stacked in one comer as iffor sale. There is a feeling of emptiness.
Suitcases, travelling bags and so on have been piled up near the out-

side door and at the back of the stage. The voicesvary a and
0/
ANYA can be heard through the door, left, which isopen. lopakhin

yasha w holding a
stands waiting, tray with glasses of champagne

on YEPIKHODOV is roping up
it. a box in the hall. There is a
murmur offstage at the rear, the voices of peasants who have come
to say good-bye. GAYEv'i voice is heard: 'Thank you, my good
fellows, thank you very much/

YASHA. Some village people have come to say good-bye. If you ask
my opinion, sir, the low^er orders mean well, but they haven't got
much sense.

[The murmur of voices dies away. MRS. ranevsky and gayev come
She is not crying, but she is pale, her face is working
in through the hall.

and she cannot speak.]

GAYEV. You gave them your purse, Lyuba. You shouldn't do such
things, you really shouldn't.

MRS. RANEVSKY. I Couldn't help it, just couldn't help it.

[Both go out.]

LOPAKHIN [calling through the door after them]. Come along, please,
come on. Let's have a Httle glass together before we go. I didn't think
of bringing any from town and I could only get one bottle at the
station. Come on. [Pm<5e.] What's the matter? None of you want
any? [Comes back from the door.] I wouldn't have bought it if I'd
known. All right then, I won't have any either, [yasha carefully
places the tray on a chair.] You have some, Yasha, anyway.

yasha. Here's to those that are leaving. And good luck to them that
aren't. [Drinks.] This champagne isn't the genuine article, you can
take it from me.
LOPAKHIN. And at eight roubles a bottle. [Pdw^e.] It's damn cold in
here.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Four 285

YASHA. The stoves haven't been Ut today. Never mind, we're going
away. [Laughs.]
LOPAKHiN. What's the joke?

YASHA. I feel so pleased.

LOPAKHIN. It's October now, but it might be summer, it's so fine and
sunny. Good building weather. [Glances at his watch and calls through
the door.\ I say, don't forget the train leaves in forty-seven minutes.

So we must start for the station twenty minutes from now. Better
get a move on.

[trofimov comes in from outside. He wears an overcoat.]

TROFiMOV. I think it's time we were off. The carriages are at the door.
Damn it, where are my galoshes? They've disappeared. [Through the
door.] Anya, I've lost my galoshes. I can't find them anywhere.

LOPAKHIN. I've got to go to Kharkov. We're all taking the same

train. I'm spending the winter in Kharkov — I've been kicking my
heels round here quite long enough and I'm fed up with doing
nothing. I can't stand not working look, I don't know what to do —
with my arms. See the absurd way they flop about as if they belonged
to someone else.

TROFIMOV. We'll soon be gone and then you can get back to your
useful labours again.

LOPAKHIN. Come on, have a drink.

TROFIMOV. Not for me, thank you.

LOPAKHIN. So you're off to Moscow, are you?
TROFIMOV. Yes, I'm seeing them as far as town and going on to
Moscow tomorrow.
LOPAKHIN. I see. Ah well, I daresay the professors haven't started
lecturing yet, they'U be waiting for you to turn up.

TROFIMOV. Oh, mind your own business.

LOPAKHIN. How many years is it you've been at the university?

TROFIMOV. Can't you say something new for a change? That joke's
played out. [Looks for his galoshes.] Look here, you and I may never
meet again, so let me give you a word of advice before we say
good-bye. Stop waving your arms about. Cure yourself of that
stupid habit. What's more, all this stuff about building cottages
and working out that the owners will end up as smallholders —that 's
286 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FOUT
just as stupid as waving your arms about. Anyway, never mind, I
still like you. You have sensitive fingers like an artist's and you're
a fine, sensitive person too, deep down inside you.

LOPAKHIN [embracing him]. 'Good-bye, Peter. Thanks for everything.

Let me give you some money for the journey, you may need it.

TROFIMOV. I don't. Why should I?

LOPAKHIN. Because you haven't any.

TROFIMOV. Yes I have, thank you very much. I got some for a transla-
tion, it's here in my pocket. [Anxiously.] But I still can't find my
galoshes.

VARY A [jrom another room]. Oh, take the beasdy things. [Throws a pair
of galoshes on to the stage.]

TROFIMOV. why are you so angry, Varya? I say, these aren't my

galoshes.

LOPAKHIN. I put nearly three thousand acres down to poppy in the

spring and made a clear forty thousand roubles. And when my
poppies were in flower, that was a sight to see. What I'm trying to
say is, I've made forty thousand and I'd like to lend it you because
I can afford to. So why turn it down? I'm a peasant, I putit to you

straight.

TROFIMOV. Your father was a peasant and mine worked in a chemist's

shop, allof which proves precisely nothing, [lopakhin takes out his
wallet.] Oh, put it away, for heaven's sake. If you offered me two
hundred thousand I still wouldn't take it. I'm a firee man. And all the
things that mean such a lot to you all, whether you're rich or poor
— why, they have no more power over me than a bit of thistledown
floating on the breeze. I can get on without you, I can pass you by.
I'm strong and proud. Mankind is marching towards a higher truth,
towards the greatest possible happiness on earth, and I'm in the van-
guard.

LOPAKHIN. Will you get there?

TROFIMOV. I shall. [PflM5e.] I'll either get there or show others the
way.
[There is the sound of an axe striking a tree in the distance.]

LOPAKHIN. Well, good-bye, my dear fellow. It's time to go. You

and I look down our noses at each other, but life goes on without
bothering about us. When I work for a long time at a stretch I feci
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act Four 287
a bit calmer, and I too seem to know why I exist. But there are lots
of people in Russia, old boy, and why some of them exist is anyone's
guess. Oh well, never mind, that's not what makes the world go
round. I hear Gayev's taken a job at the bank at six thousand a year.
He'll never stick it out, though, he's too lazy.

ANY A [in the doorway]. Mother says would you mind waiting till she's
gone before cutting down the orchard.
TROFIMOV. Yes, you reaUy might have shown more tact, I must say.
[Goes out through the hall]

LOPAKHIN. Right, rU see to it. Those people are the limit. [Goes out
afier him.]

ANY A. Has Firs been taken to hospital yet?

YASHA. I told them to this morning. They must have taken him,
I reckon.

ANYA [to YEPiKHODOV, who is passitig through the hallroom]. Simon,

please find out if Firs has been taken to hospital.

YASHA [offended]. I told Yegor this morning. Why keep on and on

about it?

YEPIKHODOV. The aged Firs, or so I have finally concluded, is beyond

repair. It 's time he was gathered to his fathers. As for me, I can only
envy him. [Has placed a suitcase on a hat box and squashed it.] Oh look,
that had to happen. I knew it. [Goes out.]

YASHA [with a sneer]. Simple Simon.

VARY A [from behind the door]. Has Firs been taken to hospital?

ANYA. Yes.

VARY A. Then why didn't they take the letter to the doctor?

ANYA. Well, we'll have to send it on after him. [Goes out.]

VARYA [from the next room]. Where's Yasha? Tell him his mother's
come to say good-bye.

YASHA [with an impatient gesture]. Oh, this is too much.

[All this time DViiY ash A has been busy with the luggage. Now that

YASHA is alone she goes up to him.]

DUNYASHA. You might at least look at me, Yasha. You're going

away, deserting me. [Weeps and throws her arms round his neck.]
288 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FoUT

YASHA. Why all the tears? [Drinks champagne. \ I'll be back in Paris in
a week. Tomorrow we catch the express and then you won't see
us for smoke. I can hardly beheve it somehow. Veev la Francel It
doesn't suit me here, this isn't the Ufe for me and that's that. I've seen
enough ignorance to last me a Hfetime. [Drinks champagne.]So why
the tears? You be a good girl and then you won't have anything to
cry about.
DUNYASHA [powders her face, looking in a hand-mirror]. Write to me
from Paris. You know, I did love you Yasha, I loved you so much.
Oh Yasha, I'm such a soft-hearted girl.

YASHA. Somebody's coming. [Attends to the suitcases, humming quietly.]

[mrs. ranevsky, gayev, anya and charlotte come in.]

GAYEV. We ought to be going, there's not much time left. [Looks at

YASHA.] Someone round here smells of herring.
MRS. RANEVSKY. We'd better be getting into the carriages in about
ten minutes. [Looks round the room.] Good-bye, house. Good-bye,
dear old place. Winter will pass, spring will come again and then
you won't be here any more, you'll be pulled down. These walls
have seen a few sights in their time. [Kisses her daughter with great
feeling.] My treasure, you look radiant, your eyes are sparkling like
diamonds. Are you very pleased? You are, aren't you?
ANYA. Oh yes, I am. This is the start of a new life. Mother.
GAYEV [happily]. It's quite true, everything's all right now. Before
the cherry orchard was sold we were all worried and upset, but when
thingswere settled once and for all and we'd burnt our boats, we all
calmed dov^oi and actually cheered up a bit. I'm working at a bank
now, I'm a fmancier. Pot the red in the middle. And you can say
what you like, Lyuba, you're looking a lot better, no doubt about it.
MRS. RANEVSKY. Yes. I'm not so much on edge, that's true. [Someone
helps her on with her hat and coat.] And I'm sleeping better. Take my
things out, Yasha, it's time. [To anya.] We'll soon be seeing each
other again, child. I'm going to Paris and I'll Hve on the money your
great-aunt sent from Yaroslavl to buy the estate —good old Aunty!
Not that it'll last very long.
ANYA. You'll come back soon. Mother. You will, won't you? I'm
going to study and pass my school exams and then I'll work and help
you. We'll read together, won't we. Mother — all sorts of books?
[Kisses her mother* s hands.] We'll read during the autumn evenings.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FoUT 289

We'll read lots of books and a wonderful new world will open up
before us. [Dreamily.] Do come back, Mother.
MRS. RANEVSKY. I will, my piccious. [Embraces her daughter.]

[lopakhin comes in. charlotte quietly hums a tune.]

GAYEV. charlotte's happy, she's singing.

CHARLOTTE [picking up a bundle which looks like a swaddled baby].

Rock-a-bye, baby. [A babys cry is heard.] Hush, my darling, my dear
Httle boy. [The cry is heard again.] You poor httle thing! [Throws the
bundle down.] And please will you find me another job? I can't go on
like this.

LOPAKHIN. We'll find you something, Charlotte, don't worry.

GAYEV. Everyone's deserting us. Varya's going, suddenly no one

wants us any more.
CHARLOTTE. I haven't anywhere to Hve in town. I shall have to go
away. [Sings quietly.] Anyway, I don't care.

[piSHCHiK comes in.]

LOPAKHIN. oh, look who's come! Wonders will never cease.

PISHCHIK [out of breath]. Phew, I say, let me get my breath back. I'm
all in. My good fidends— . Give me some water.

GAYEV. Wants to borrow money, I'll be bound. I'll keep out of harm's
way, thank you very much. [Goes out.]
PISHCHIK. Haven't been here for ages, dearest lady. [To lopakhin.]
You here too ? Glad to see you. Tremendously clever fellow you are.
Here. Take this. [Gives lopakhin money.] Four hundred roubles.
That leaves eight hundred and forty I owe you.
LOPAKHIN [amazed, shrugging his shoulders]. I must be seeing things.
Where can you have got it ?
PISHCHIK. Just a moment, I'm so hot. Most extraordinary occurrence.
Some EngHshmen came along and found a kind of white clay on my
land. [To mrs. ranevsky.] And there's four hundred for you, you
ravishing creature. [Hands over the money.] You'll get the rest later.
[Drinks some water.] A young fellow on the train was just saying that
some great philosopher advises everyone to go and jump off a roof.
'Just you jump,' he tells them, 'and you'll find that solves your
problem.' [With astonishment.] Extraordinary thing. More water,
please.
 —

290 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FOUT

LOPAKHIN. But what Englishmen?
PiSHCHiK. I've leased them this land with the clay on it for twenty-
four years. But now you must excuse me, Must be run-
I can't stay.
ning along. Going to see Znoykov. And Kardamonov. Owe them
allmoney. [Drinks.] And the very best of luck to you. I'll look in
on Thursday.
MRS. RANEVSKY. We're just leaving for town and I'm going abroad
tomorrow.

PISHCHIK. What! [Deeply concerned.] Why go to town? Oh, I sec, the

furniture and luggage. Well, never mind. [Through tears.] It doesn't
matter. Colossally clever fellows, these EngHsh. Never mind. All the
best to you. God bless you. It doesn't matter. Everything in this
world comes to an end. [Kisses mrs. ranevsky'j hand.] If you
should ever hear that my end has come, just remember remember —
the old horse, and say, 'There once hved such-and-such a person, a
certain Simeonov-Pishchik, may his bones rest in peace.' Remarkable
weather we're having. Yes. [Goes out in great distress^ hut at once
returns and speaks from the doorway.] Dashenka sends her regards.
[Goes out.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Well, now we can go. I'm leaving with two
worries. One is old Firs, who's ill. [With a glance at her watch.] We
still have about five minutes.

ANY A. Firs has been taken to hospital, Mother. Yasha sent him off this
morning.

MRS. RANEVSKY. My Other worry's Varya. She's used to getting up

early and working, and now she has nothing to do she's like a fish
out of water. She's grown thin and pale and she's always crying, poor
thing. [Pf7«5e.] As you know very well, Yermolay, I had hoped
to see her married to you, and it did look as if that was how things
were shaping. [Whispers to any A, who nods to charlotte. They
both go out.] She loves you, you're fond of her, and I haven't the
faintest idea why you seem to avoid each other. It makes no sense
to me.

LOPAKHIN. It makes no sense to me either, to be quite honest. It's a

curious business, isn't it? If it's not too late I don't mind going ahead
even now. Let's get it over and done with. I don't feel I'll ever pro-
pose to her without you here.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FOUT 29I

MRS. RANEVSKY. That's a very good idea. Why, it won't take more
than a minute. I'll call her at once.

LOPAKHIN. There's even champagne laid on. [Looks at the glasses.]

They're empty, someone must have drunk it. [yasha coughs.]

That's what I call really knocking it back.

MRS. RANEVSKY [excitedly]. I'm so glad. We'll go out. Yasha, allez!

I'll call her. [Through the door.] Varya, leave what you're doing and
come here a moment. Come on! [Goes out with yasha.]

LOPAKHIN [with a glance at his watch]. Yes. [P(7M5e.]

[Suppressed laughter and whispering are heard from behind the door.
After some time varya comes in.]

VARYA [spends a long time examining the luggage]. That's funny, I can't
find it anywhere.

LOPAKHIN. What are you looking for?

VARYA. I packed it myself and I still can't remember. [Pd«5e.]

LOPAKHIN. Where are you going now, Varya?

VARYA. Me? To the Ragulins'. I've arranged to look after their place,
a sort of housekeeper's job.

LOPAKHIN. That's in Yashnevo, isn't it? It must be fifty odd miles

from here. [P<jM5e.] So life has ended in this house.

VARYA [examining the luggage]. Oh, where can it be? Or could I have
put it in the trunk? Yes, Hfe has gone out of this house. And it will
never come back.

LOPAKHIN. Well, I'm just off to Kharkov. By the next train. I have
plenty to do there. And I'm leaving Yepikhodov in charge here,
I've taken him on.

VARYA. Oh, have you?

LOPAKHIN. This time last year we already had snow, remember? But
now it's calm and sunny. It's a bit cold though. Three degrees of
frost, I should say.

VARYA. I haven't looked. [PiiM5e.] Besides, our thermometer's broken.

[Pause.]

[A voice at the outer door: *Mr. Lopakhin!*]

292 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FoUf

LOPAKHiN [as if he had long been expecting this summons]. Vm just

coming. [Goes out quickly.]

[vary A sits on the floor with her head on a bundle of clothes, quietly
sobbing. The door opens arid mrs. ranevsky comes in cautiously.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Well? [P^M5e.] We'd better go.

VARY A [has Stopped crying and wiped her eyes]. Yes, Mother, it's time.
I can get to the Ragulins' today so long as I don't miss my train.

MRS. RANEVSKY [calling through the door]. Put your things on, Anya.
[anya comes in followed by gayev and charlotte, gayev wears
awarm overcoat with a hood. Servants and coachmen come in. yepi-
KHODOV attends to the luggage.]

MRS. RANEVSKY. Now we really can be on our way.

anya [joyfully]. On our way!
GAYEV. My friends, my dear good friends! As I leave this house for
the last time, how can I be silent ? How can I refrain from expressing
as I leave the feelings that overwhelm my entire being ?

ANYA [beseechingly]. Uncle.

VARYA. Uncle dear, please don't.

GAYEV [despondently]. Double the red into the middle. I am silent.

[trofimov comes in followed by lopakhin.]

TROFIMOV. Well everybody, it's time to go.

LOPAKHIN. My coat please, Yepikhodov.
MRS. RANEVSKY. I'll just Stay another minute. I feel as though I'd
never really looked at the walls or ceilings of this house before and
now I can hardly take my eyes off them, I love them so dearly.

GAYEV. I remember when I was six years old sitting in this window
on Trinity Sunday and watching Father go off to church.
MRS. RANEVSKY. Have they taken all the luggage out?

LOPAKHIN. It looks like it. [Putting on his coat, to yepikhodov.]

Make sure everything's all right, Yepikhodov, will you?
YEPIKHODOV [speaking in a hoarse voice]. Don't worry, Mr. Lopakhin!
LOPAKHIN. What's wrong with your voice?
YEPIKHODOV. I've just had some water, I must have swallowed
something.
 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FoUT 293

YASHA [contemptuously]. Shockin* ignorance.

MRS. RANEVSKY. When we've gone there will be no one left here.
No one at all.
LOPAKHIN. Not till spring.

VARYA \pills an umbrella out of a bundle in such a way that it looks as if she
meant to hit someone with it. lofakhin pretends to be frightened]. Oh,
don't be silly, I didn't do it on purpose.
TROFIMOV. Come on, everyone, let's get into the carriages. It's time.
The train will be in soon.
VARYA. There your galoshes are, Peter, just by that suitcase. [Tear-

fully.] And what dirty old things they are.

TROFIMOV [putting on his galoshes]. Come on, everyone.

GAYEV [greatly distressed, afraid of bursting into tears]. The train. The
station. In off into the middle, double the white into the comer.

MRS. RANEVSKY. Come on then.

LOPAKHIN. Iseveryone here? Nobody left behind? [Locks the side door
on the left.] There are some things stored in there, so I'd better keep
it locked. Come on.

ANY A. Good-bye, house. Good-bye, old life.

TROFIMOV. And welcome, new life. [Goes out with anya.]

[vary A looks round the room and goes out slowly, yasha and
CHARLOTTE, with her dog, follow.]
LOPAKHIN. Till the spring then. Come along, everyone. TiU we meet
again. [Goes out.]

[mrs. RANEVSKY and GAYEV are left alone. They seem to have been
waiting for this moment and fling their arms round each other, sobbing

quietly, restraining themselves, afraid of being heard.]

GAYEV [in despair]. My sister, my dear sister

MRS. RANEVSKY. Oh, my dear, sweet, beautiful orchard. My hfe, my
youth, my happiness, good-bye. Good-bye.
ANYA [offstage, happily and appealingly]. Mother!

TROFIMOV [off stage, happily and excitedly]. Hallo there!

MRS. RANEVSKY. One last look at the walls and the windows. Our
dear mother loved to walk about this room.
294 THE CHERRY ORCHARD Act FoUf

GAYEV. Oh Lyuba, my dear sister

ANY A [offstage]. Mother!

TROFiMOV [offstage]. Hallo, there!

MRS. RANEVSKY. We're coming. [They go out.]

[The stage is empty. The sound of all the doors being locked, then of
carriages leaving. It grows quiet. In the silence a dull thud is heard, the
noise of an axe striking a tree. It sounds lonely and sad. Footsteps are

heard, firs appears from the door, right. He is dressed as always in

jacket and white waistcoat, and wears slippers. He is ill.]

FIRS [goes up to the door and touches the handle]. Locked. They've gone.
[Sits on the sofa.] They forgot me. Never mind, I'll sit here a bit.

And Mr. Leonid hasn't put his fur coat on, I'll be bound, he'll have
gone oflf in his Hght one. [Gives a worried sigh.] I should have seen to
it, these young no sense. [Mutters something which cannot
folk have
be understood.] Life's sUpped by just as if I'd never hved at all. [Lies
down.] I'll He down a bit. You've got no strength left, got nothing
left, nothing at all. You're just a —nincompoop. [Lies motionless.]

[A distant sound is heard. It seems to come from the sky and is the sound

of a breaking string. It dies away sadly. Silence follows, broken only by

the thud of an axe striking a tree far away in the orchard.]

CURTAIN
 SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

Biography and Autobiography

Heim, Michael Henry (trans.), and Karlinsky, Simon (ed.). Letters of
Anton Chekhov (New York, 1973).
Hingley, Ronald, y4 Life of Chekhov (Oxford, 1989).
Rayfield, Donald, /4«ro« Chekhov: A Life (London, 1997).

Bibhography
Lantz, Kenneth, Anton Chekhov: A Reference Guide to Literature (Boston,
1985).

Background
Bruford, W H., Chekhov and His Russia (London, 1948).
Tulloch, John, Chekhov: A Stmcturahst Study (London, 1980).

Criticism

Clyman, Toby W. (ed.),^ Chekhov Companion (Westport, 1985)

Emeljanow, Victor, Chekhov: Hie Critical Heritage (London, 198 1).
Gottlieb, Vera, Chekhov and the Vaudeville (Cambridge, 1982).
Magarshack, David, Chekhov the Dramatist (New York, 1952).
Pitcher, Harvey, Tlie Chekhov Play: A New Interpretation (London, 1973).
Rayfield, Donald, Chekhov's 'Uncle Vania', and 'TJie Wood Demon'
(London, 1995).
Senehck, Laurence, /!«?(?« Chekhov (London, 1985).
Senelick, Laurence, Tlie Chekhov Tlieatre: A Century of the Plays in

Performance (Cambridge, 1997).

Worrall, Nick (ed.), File on Chekhov (London, 1986).

Further Reading in Oxford World's Classics

Twelve Plays; translated and edited by Ronald Hingley {On the High Road;
Swan Song; Tlie Bear, Tlie Proposal; Tatyana Repin; A Tragic Role; Tlie

Wedding; Tlie Anniversary; Smoking is Bad for You; Tlie Night Before the

Trial; Tlie Wood-Demon; Platonov)

Early Stories, translated and edited by Patrick Miles and Harvey Pitcher.

The Steppe and Other Stories, translated and edited by Ronald Hingley.
Ward Number Six and Other Stories, translated and edited by Ronald
Hingley.
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Anton Chekhov Early Stories

Five Plays
The Princess and Other Stories
The Russian Master and Other Stories
The Steppe and Other Stories
Twelve Plays
Ward Number Six and Other Stories
Fyodor Dostoevsky Crime and Punishment
Devils
A Gentle Creature and Other Stories
The Idiot
The Karamazov Brothers
Memoirs from the House of the Dead
Notes from the Underground and
The Gambler
Nikolai Gogol Dead Souls
Plays and Petersburg Tales

Alexander Pushkin Eugene Onegin

The Queen of Spades and Other Stories
Leo Tolstoy Anna Karenina
The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories
The Raid and Other Stories
Resurrection
War and Peace
Ivan Turgenev Fathers and Sons
First Love and Other Stories
A Month in the Country
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Six French Poets of the Nineteenth

Century

HoNORE DE Balzac Cousin Bette

Eugenie Grandet
Pere Goriot

Charles Baudelaire The Flowers of Evil

The Prose Poems and Fanfarlo
Benjamin Constant Adolphe

Denis Diderot Jacques the Fatalist

Alexandre Dumas (pere) The Black Tulip

The Count of Monte Cristo
Louise de la Valliere
The Man in the Iron Mask
La Reine Margot
The Three Musketeers
Twenty Years After
The Vicomte de Bragelonne
Alexandre Dumas (fils) La Dame aux Camelias
GusTAVE Flaubert Madame Bovary
A Sentimental Education
Three Tales

Victor Hugo Notre-Dame de Paris

j.-k. huysmans Against Nature

Pierre Choderlos Les Liaisons dangereuses

DE Laclos

Mme DE Lafayette The Princesse de Cleves

GUILLAUME DU LORRIS The Romance of the Rose
and Jean de Meun
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Guy de Maupassant A Day in the Country and Other Stories

A Life
Bel-Ami
Mademoiselle Fifi and Other Stories
Pierre et Jean

Prosper MtRiM^E Carmen and Other Stories

MOLIERE Don Juan and Other Plays
The Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and Other
Plays

Blaise Pascal Pensees and Other Writings

Jean Racine Britannicus, Phaedra, and Athaliah

Arthur Rimbaud Collected Poems

Edmond Rostand Cyrano de Bergerac

Marquis de Sade The Misfortunes of Virtue and Other Early

Tales

George Sand Indiana

Mme de Stael Corinne

Stendhal The Red and the Black

The Charterhouse of Parma
Paul Verlaine Selected Poems

Jules Verne Around the World in Eighty Days

Journey to the Centre of the Earth
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas

Voltaire Candide and Other Stories

Letters concerning the English Nation
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Emile Zola L'Assommoir

The Attack on the Mill
La Bete humaine
La Debade
Germinal
The Ladies' Paradise
The Masterpiece
Nana
Pot Luck
Therese Raquin
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Eirik the Red and Other Icelandic Sagas

The German-Jewish Dialogue

The Kalevala
The Poetic Edda
LuDOvico Ariosto Orlando Furioso

Giovanni Boccaccio The Decameron

Georg Buchner Danton's Death, Leonce and Lena, and
Woyzeck

Luis vaz de CamOes The Lusiads

Miguel de Cervantes Don Quixote
Exemplary Stories

Carlo Collodi The Adventures of Pinocchio

Dante Alighieri The Divine Comedy
Vita Nuova

Lope de Vega Three Major Plays

J. W. von Goethe Elective Affinities

Erotic Poems
1
Faust: Part One and Part Tvi^o
The Flight to Italy
E. T. A. Hoffmann The Golden Pot and Other Tales
Henrik Ibsen An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck,
Rosmersholm
Four Major Plays
Peer Gynt

Leonardo da Vinci Selections from the Notebooks

Federico Garcia Lorca Four Major Plays

Michelangelo Life, Letters, and Poetry

Buonarroti
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

Petrarch Selections from the Canzoniere and Other

Works

J. C. F. Schiller Don Carlos and Mary Stuart

JoHANN August Missjulie and Other Plays
Strindberg
A SELECTION OF OXFORD WORLD'S CLASSICS

LuDovico Ariosto Orlando Furioso

Giovanni Boccaccio The Decameron

Matteo Maria Boiardo Orlando Innamorato

Luis Vaz de CamOes The Lusiads

Miguel de Cervantes Don Quixote de la Mancha

Exemplary Stories

Dante Alighieri The Divine Comedy

Vita Nuova

Benito Perez Gald6s Nazarin

Leonardo da Vinci Selections from the Notebooks

NiccoLO Machiavelli Discourses on Livy

The Prince

Michelangelo Life, Letters, and Poetry

Petrarch Selections from the Canzoniere and

Other Works

Giorgio Vasari The Lives of the Artists

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Anton Chekhov
Five Plays
Translated with an Introduction by Ronald Hingley

Ivanov

The Seagull
Uncle Vanya

Three Sisters

The Cherry Orchard

The five plays on which Chekhov's worldwide reputation rests defy
attempts to determine what they are about. Some productions of
Chekhov exude an atmosphere of unrelieved gloom; others turn into a
boisterous romp round the samovar. Are they tragedies of loss and
dispossession, or lighthearted send-ups of society's misfits? Chekhov does
not answer such questions; instead, he involves us in the emotional
experience of his characters as they seek for a pattern and meaning in their
lives. The grand design eludes them, but what they have left, their
everyday existence, their unspectacular victories, and unheroic
disappointments, can seem somehow, within the confines of the Chekhov
play, to matter at least as much.

This collection offive great plays is taken from The Oxford Chekhov,
Ronald Hingley 's scholarly edition, acclaimed for the accuracy and
'speakability' of the translations.

Cover illustration: detail from A Family Gathering in an Orchard, 1890, by Theodore van Rijsselberghe.
Kroller-Miiller Museum, Otterlo, The Netherlands.

ISBN 0-19-283412-6

OXTORD
UNIVERSITY PRESS

9 780192"834126
www.oup.com £5.99 RRP $7.95 USA