Behind the rug stands ANYA, who curtsies, runs to her mother, embraces her, and runs back to the ballroom amid the general delight.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA (applauding). Bravo, bravo!
CHARLOTTA. One more time! Ein, zwei, drei! (Lifts the rug.)
Behind the rug stands VARYA, who bows.
PISHCHIK (astounded). Can you imagine!
CHARLOTTA. The end! (Throws the rug at Pishchik, curtsies, and runs into the ballroom.)
PISHCHIK (scurrying after her). You little rascal! . . . How do you like that! How do you like that! (Exits.)
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. And Leonid still isn’t back. I don’t understand what he can be doing in town all this time! Everything must be over there, either the estate is sold or the auction didn’t take place, but why keep us in suspense so long?
VARYA (trying to comfort her). Uncle dear bought it, I’m sure of it.
TROFIMOV (sarcastically). Sure.
VARYA. Great-aunt sent him power of attorney, so he could buy it in her name and transfer the debt. She did it for Anya. And I’m sure, God willing, that Uncle dear bought it.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. Your great-aunt in Yaroslavl sent fifteen thousand to buy the estate in her name — she doesn’t trust us — but that money won’t even pay off the interest. (Hides her face in her hands.) Today my fate will be decided, my fate . . .
TROFIMOV (teases Varya). Madam Lopakhin! Madam Lopakhin!
VARYA (angrily). Perpetual student! Twice already you’ve been expelled from the university.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. Why are you getting angry, Varya? He teases you about Lopakhin, what of it? You want to—then marry Lopakhin, he’s a good, interesting person. You don’t want to—don’t get married; darling, nobody’s forcing you.
VARYA. I take this seriously, Mama dear, I’ve got to speak frankly. He’s a good man, I like him.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. Then marry him. What you’re waiting for I cannot understand!
VARYA. Mama dear, I can’t propose to him myself. For two years now people have been talking to me about him, everyone’s talking, but he either keeps still or cracks jokes. I understand. He’s getting rich, busy with his deals, no time for me. If only I’d had some money, even a little, just a hundred rubles, I’d have dropped everything, and gone far away. I’d have entered a convent.
TROFIMOV. Heaven!
VARYA (to Trofimov). A student ought to be intelligent! (in a gentle voice, tearfully) You’ve got so homely, Petya, grown so old! (To Lyubov Andreevna, no longer weeping.) Only I can’t do without work, Mama dear. I have to have something to do every minute.
Enter YASHA.
YASHA (can hardly keep from laughing). Yepikhodov broke a billiard cue!
He exits.
VARYA. What’s Yepikhodov doing here? Who gave him permission to play billiards? I don’t understand these people . . . (Exits.)
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. Don’t tease her, Petya, can’t you see she’s miserable enough without that?
TROFIMOV. She’s just too officious, poking her nose into other people’s affairs. All summer long she couldn’t leave us in peace, me or Anya, she was afraid a romance might break out. What business is it of hers? And anyway, I didn’t show any signs of it, I’m so removed from banality. We’re above love!
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. Well then, I must be beneath love. (Extremely upset.) Why isn’t Leonid back? If only I knew: is the estate sold or not? Imagining trouble is so hard for me I don’t even know what to think, I’m at a loss . . . I could scream right this minute . . . I could do something foolish. Save me, Petya. Say something, tell me . . .
TROFIMOV. Whether the estate’s sold today or not—what’s the difference? It’s been over and done with for a long time now, no turning back, the bridges are burnt. Calm down, dear lady. You mustn’t deceive yourself, for once in your life you’ve got to look the truth straight in the eye.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. What truth? You can see where truth is and where falsehood is, but I seem to have lost my sight. I can’t see anything. You boldly solve all the major problems, but tell me, dovey, isn’t that because you’re young, because you haven’t had time to suffer through any of your problems? You boldly look forward, but isn’t that because you don’t see, don’t expect anything awful, because life is still hidden from your young eyes? You’re more courageous, more sincere, more profound than we are, but stop and think, be indulgent if only in the tips of your fingers, spare me. This is where I was born, after all, this is where my father and my mother lived, my grandfather, I love this house, without the cherry orchard I couldn’t make sense of my life, and if it really has to be sold, then sell me along with the orchard . . . (Embraces Trofimov, kisses him on the forehead.) Remember, my son was drowned here . . . (Weeps.) Show me some pity, dear, kind man.
TROFIMOV. You know I sympathize wholeheartedly.
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. But you should say so differently, differently . . . (Takes out a handkerchief, a telegram falls to the floor.) My heart is so heavy today, you can’t imagine. I can’t take the noise here, my soul shudders at every sound, I shudder all over, but I can’t go off by myself, I’d be terrified to be alone in silence. Don’t blame me, Petya . . . I love you like my own flesh and blood. I’d gladly let you marry Anya, believe me, only, dovey, you’ve got to study, got to finish your degree. You don’t do anything, Fate simply tosses you from place to place, it’s so odd . . . Isn’t that right? Isn’t it? And something’s got to be done about your beard, to make it grow somehow . . . (Laughs.) You look so funny!
TROFIMOV (picks up the telegram). I make no claim to be good looking . . .
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. This telegram’s from Paris. Every day I get one. Yesterday too and today. That wild man has fallen ill again, something’s wrong with him again . . . He begs my forgiveness, implores me to come back, and actually I ought to go to Paris, stay with him a while. You look so disapproving, Petya, but what’s to be done, dovey, what am I to do, he’s ill, he’s lonely, unhappy, and who’s there to look after him, who’ll keep him out of mischief, who’ll give him his medicine at the right time? And what’s there to hide or suppress, I love him, it’s obvious, I love him, I love him . . . It’s a millstone round my neck, it’s dragging me down, but I love that stone and I can’t live without it. (Squeezes Trofimov’s hand.) Don’t judge me harshly, Petya, don’t say anything, don’t talk . . .
TROFIMOV (through tears). Forgive my frankness, for God’s sake: but he robbed you blind!
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA. No, no, no, you mustn’t talk that way . . . (Covers her ears.)
TROFIMOV. Why, he’s a scoundrel, you’re the only one who doesn’t realize it! He’s a petty scoundrel, a nobody . . .
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA (getting angry, but under control). You’re twenty-six or twenty-seven, but you’re still a sophomoric schoolboy!