Enter Fis, wearing a jacket and a white waistcoat. He goes up to the coffee-pot.
Firs, anxiously: The mistress will have her coffee here. Puts on white gloves. Is the coffee ready? Sternly, to D^tcasha. Here, you! And where's the cream?
D^tcasha: Oh, my God! Exits quickly.
Firs, fussing over the coffee-pot: Hah! the addlehead! Mutters to himself. Home from Paris. And the old mas- ter used to go to Paris too . . . by carriage. Laughs.
Varya: What is it, Firs?
Firs: What is your pleasure, Miss? Joyfully. My mis- tress has come home, and I've seen her at last! Now I can die. Weeps with joy.
Enter Mme. RANEVSKAYA, GAYEV, and SIMEONOv- Pishc^tc. The latter is wearing a tight-waisted, pleated coat of fine cloth, and full trousers. Gayev, as he comes in, goes through the motions of a billiard player with his arms and body.
M^. RANEVSKAYA: Let's see, how does it go? YeUow ball in the corner! Bank shot in the side pocket!
GAYEV: I'll tip it in the corner! There was a ^rne, sister, when you and I used to sleep in this very room, and now I'm fifty-one, strange as it may seem.
lop^hn: Yes, time flies.
540 THE portable chekhov
GAYEV: Who?
Lopahin: I say, time flies.
Gayev: It smells of patchouli here.
Anya: I'm going to bed. Good night, mamma. Kisses her mother.
Mme. Ranevskaya: My darling child! Kisses her hands. Are you happy to be home? I can't come to my senses.
Anya : Good night, uncle.
GAYEv, kissing her face and hands: God bless you, how like your mother you are! To his sister. At her age, Luba, you were just like her.
Anya shakes hands with Lopahin and Pishchik, then goes out, shutting the door behind her.
Mme. Ranevskaya: She's very tired.
PISHCHIK: Well, it was a long journey.
Varya, to LopAHiN and Pishc^k: How about it, gentlemen? It's past two o'clock—isn't it time for you to go?
Mme. RANEVSKAYA, laughs: You're just the same as ever, Varya. Draws her close and kisses her. I'll have my coffee and then we'll all go. Fis puts a small cushion under her feet. Thank you, my dear. I've got used to coffee. I drink it day and night. Thanks, my dear old man. Kisses him.
Varya: I'd better see if all the luggage has been brought in. Exits.
Mme. Ranevskaya: Can it really be I sitting here? Laughs. I feel like dancing, waving my arms about. Covers her face with her hands. But maybe I am dream- ing! God knows I love my country, I love it tenderly; I couldn't look out of the window in the train, I kept cry- ing so. Through tears. But I must have my coffee. Thank you, Firs, thank you, dear old man. I'm so happy that you're still alive.
FIRs: Day before yesterday.
Gayev: He's hard of hearing.
Lopa^w: I must go soon, I'm leaving for Kharkov about five o'clock. How annoying! I'd like to have a good look at you, talk to you • • . You're just as splen- did as ever.
PisHCHIX, breathing heavily: She's even better-look- ing. . . . Dressed in the latest Paris fashion. • • • Per- ish my carriage and aH its four wheels. . . .
Lopa^^: Your brother, Leonid Andreyevich, says I'm a vulgarian and an exploiter. But it's aH the same to me—let him talk. I only want you to trust me as you used to. I want you to look at me with your touching, wonderful eyes, as you use^ to. Dear God! My father was a serf of your father's and grandfather's, but you, you yourself, did so much for me once . . . so much . • . that I've forgotten all about that; I love you as though you were my sister—even more.
Mme. Ranevskaya: I can't sit still, I simply can't. Jumps up and walks about in violent agitation. This joy is too much for me. . . . Laugh at me, I'm si11y! My o^ darling bookcase! My darling table! Kisses it.
Gayev: While you were away, nurse died.
Mme. Ranevskaya, sits down and takes her coffee: Yes, God rest her soul; they wrote me about it.
Gayev: And Anastasy is dead. Petrushka Kossoy has left me and has gone into town to work for the police inspector. Takes a box of sweets out of his pocket and begins to suck one.
pkhc^tc: My daughter Dashenka sends her regards.
LOPAmN: I'd like to tell you something very pleasant —cheering. Glancing at his watch. I am leaving di- rectly. There isn't Jnuch time to talk. But I wi11 put it in a few words. As you know, your cherry orchard is to be sold to pay your debts. The sale is to be on the twenty- second of August; but don't you worry, my dear, you may sleep in peace; there is a way out. Here is my plan. Give me your attention! Your estate is only fifteen miles from the town; the railway runs close by it; and if the cherry orchard and the land along the river bank were cut up into lots and these leased for summer cottages, you would have an income of at least 25,000 rubles a year out of it.
Gayev: Excuse me. . • . What nonsense.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: I don't quite understand you, Yermolay Alexeyevich.
LoPAmN: You will get an annual rent of at least ten rubles per acre, and if you advertise at once, I'll give you any guarantee you like that you won't have a square foot of ground left by autumn, all the lots will be snapped up. In short, congratulations, you're saved. The location is splendid—by that deep river. . . . Only, of course, the ground must be cleared • . • all the old buildings, for instance, must be torn down, and this house, too, which is useless, and, of course, the old cherry orchard must be cut down.
Mme. RANEvsKAYA: Cut down? My dear, forgive me, but you don't know what you're talking about. If there's one thing that's interesting—indeed, remarkable—in the whole province, it's precisely our cherry orchard.
LoPAmN: The only remarkable thing about this orchard is that it's a very large one. There's a crop of cherries every other year, and you can't do anything with them; no one buys them.
Gayev: This orchard is even mentioned in the En- cyclopedia.
Lopahin, glancing at his watch: If we can't think of a way out, if we don't come to a decision, on the twenty- second of August the cherry orchard and the whole estate will be sold at auction. Make up your minds! There's no other way out—I swear. None, none.
Fms: In the old days, forty or fifty years ago, the cherries were dried, soaked, pickled, and made into jam. and we used to—
Gayev: Keep still, Firs.
FIRS: And the dried cherries would be shipped by the cartload. It meant a lot of money! And in those days the dried cherries were soft and juicy, sweet. fragrant. . . • They knew the way to do it, then.
M^. RANEVSKAYA: And why don't they do it that way now?
FIRs: They've forgotten. Nobody remembers it.
PISHCHIK, to Mme. RANEVSKAYA: What's doing in Paris? Eh? Did you eat frogs there?
M^. RANEVSKAYA: I ate crocodiles.
PISHCHIK: Just imagine!
LOPAHIN: There used to be only landowners and peasants in the country, but now these summer people have appeared on the scene. . . . All the towns, even the small ones, are surrounded by these summer cot- tages; and in another twenty years, no doubt, the sum- mer population will have grown enormously. Now the summer resident only drinks tea on his porch, but maybe he'll take to working his acre, too, and then your cherry orchard will be a rich, happy, luxuriant place.