Varya: Sh! She's asleep . • • asleep . . . Come, darling.
Anya, softly, half-asleep: I'm so tired. Those bells . . . uncle . . . dear. . . • Mamma and uncle . . .
Varya: Come, my precious, come along. They go into Anya's room.
Trofimov, with emotion: My sunshine, my spring!
Act II
MEADOW. An old, long-abandoned, lopsided
little chapel; near it, a well, large slabs, which had apparently once served as tombstones, and an old bench. In the background, the road to the Gayev estate. To one side poplars loom darkly, where the cherry or- chard begins. In the distance a row of telegraph poles, and far off, on the horizon, the faint outline of a large city which is seen only in fine, clear weather. The sun will soon be setting. Charlotta, Yasha, and Dunyasha are seated on the bench. Yepihodov stands near and plays a guitar. All are pensive. Charlotca wears an old peaked cap. She has taken a gun from her shoulder and is straightening the buckle on the strap.
CHARLO"ITA, musingly: I haven't a real passport, I don't know how old I am, and I always feel that I am very young. When I was a little girl, my father and mother used to go from fair to fair and give perform- ances, very good ones. And I used to do the salto mortale, and all sorts of other tricks. And when papa and mamma died, a German lady adopted me and be- gan to educate me. Very good. I grew up and became a governess. But where I come from and who I am, I don't know. . . . Who were my parents? Perhaps they weren't even married . ... I don't know. . . . Takes a cucumber out of her pocket and eats it. I don't know a thing. Pause. One wants so much to talk, %and there isn't anyone to talk to. . . . I haven't anybody.
Yepihodov, plays the guitar and sings: "What care I for the jarring world? What's friend or foe to me? . . ." How agreeable it is to play the mandolin.
Dunyasha: That's a guitar, not a mandolin. Looks in a hand mirror and powders her face.
YEPUJODOV: To a madman in love it's a mandolin. Sings: "Would that the heart were warmed by the fire of mutual love!" Yasha joins in.
CHARLOTTA: How abominably these people sing. Pfui! Like jackals!
DUNYASHA, to YASHA: How wonderful it must be though to have stayed abroad!
Yasha: Ah, yes, of course, I cannot but agree with you there. Yawns and lights a cigar.
Yepihodov: Naturally. Abroad, everything has long since achieved full perplexion.
YASHA: That goes without saying.
YEPIHODOV : I'm a cultivated man, I read all kinds of remarkable books. And yet I can never make out what direction I should take, what is it that I want, properly speaking. Should I live, or should I shoot myself, prop- erly speaking? Nevertheless, I always carry a revolver about me. . . . Here it is . . . Shows revolver.
CHARLOTTA: I've finished. I'm going. Puts the gun over her shoulder. You are a very clever man, Yepiho- dov, and a very terrible one; women must be crazy about you. Br-r-rl Starts to go. These clever men are all so stupid; there's no one for me to talk to . . . always alone, alone, I haven't a soul . . . and who I am, and why I am, nobody knows. Exits unhurriedly.
YEPIHooov: Properly speaking and letting other sub- jects alone, I must say regarding myself, among other things, that fate treats me mercilessly, like a storm treats a small boat. If I am mistaken, let us say, why then do I wake up this morning, and there on my chest is a spider of enormous dimensions . . . like this . . . in- dicates with both hands. Again, I take up a pitcher of kvass to have a drink, and in it there is something un- seemly to the highest degree, something like a cock- roach. Pause. Have you read Buckle? Pause. I wish to have a word with you, Avdotya Fyodorovna, if I may trouble you.
DuNYASHA: Well, go ahead.
YEPIHoDOv: I wish to speak with you alone. Sighs.
DUNYASHA, embarrassed: Very well. Only first bring me my little cape. You'll find it near the wardrobe. It's rather damp here.
YEPIHODOv: Certainly, ma'am; I will fetch it, ma'am. Now I know what to do with my revolver. Takes the guitar and goes off playing it.
Yasha: Two-and-Twenty Troubles! An awful fool, between you and me. Yawns.
DuNYASHA: I hope to God he doesn't shoot himself! Pause. I've become so nervous, I'm always fretting. I was still a little girl when I was taken into the big house, I am quite unused to the simple life now, and my hands are white, as white as a lady's. I've become so soft, so delicate, so refined, I'm afraid of everything. It's so terrifying; and if you deceive me, Yasha, I don't know what will happen to my nerves. Yasha kisses her.
Yasha: You're a peach! Of course, a girl should never forget herself; and what I dislike more than anything is when a girl don't behave properly.
DuNYASHA: I've fallen passionately in love with you; you're educated—you have something to say about everything. Pause.
Yasha, yawns: Yes, ma'am. Now the way I look at it, if a girl loves someone, it means she is immoral. Pause. It's agreeable smoking a cigar in the fresh air. Listens. Someone's coming this way . . . It's our madam and the others. DUNYASHA embraces him impulsively. You go home, as though you'd been to the river to bathe; go by the little path, or else they'll run into you and sus- pect me of having arranged to meet you here. I can't stand that sort of thing.
Dunyasha, coughing softly: Your cigar's made my head ache. Exits. Yasha remains standing near the chapel. Enter Mme. Ranevskaya, Gayev, and Lopahin.
Lopahin: You must make up your mind once and for all—there's no time to lose. It's quite a simple question, you know. Do you agree to lease your land for sum- mer cottages or not? Answer in one word, yes or no; only one word!
Mme. Ranevskaya: Who's been smoking such abom- inable cigars here? Sits down.
Gayev: Now that the railway line is so near, it's made things very convenient. Sits down. Here we've been able to have lunch in town. Yellow ball in the side pocket! I.feel like going into the house and playing just one game.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: You can do that later.
LOPAIDN: Only one word! Imploringly. Do give me an answer!
Gayev, yawning: Who?
Mme. Ranevskaya, looks into her purse: Yesterday
I had a lot of money and now my purse is almost empty. My poor Varva tries to economize by feeding us just milk soup; in the kitchen the old people get nothing but dried peas to cat, while I squander money thoughtlessly. Drops the purse, scattering gold pieces. You see there they go . . . Shotvs vexation.
Yasha: Allow me—l'll pick them up. Picks up the money.
Mme. Ranevskaya: Be so kind, Yasha. And why did I go to lunch in town? That nasty restaurant, with its music and the tablecloth smelling of soap . . . Why drink so much, Leonid? Why eat so much? Why talk so much? Today again you talked a lot, and all so inap- propriately about the 'Seventies, about the decadents. And to whom? Talking to waiters about decadents!