TnOFiMOV: What I think of you, Yermolay Alexeye- vich, is this: you are a rich man who will soon be a mil- lionaire. Well, just as a beast of prey, which devours everything that comes in its way, is necessary for the process of metabolism to go on, so you too are neces- sary. All laugh.
Varya: Better tell us something about the planets, Petya.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: No, let's go on with yesterday's conversation.
Trofimov: What was it about?
Gayev: About man's pride.
Trofimov: Yesterday we talked a long time, but we came to no conclusion. There is something mystical about man's pride in your sense of the word. Perhaps you're right, from your own point of view. But if you reason simply, without going into subtleties, then what call is there for pride? Is there any sense in it, if man is so poor a thing physiologically, and if, in the great majority of cases, he is coarse, stupid, and profoundly unhappy? We should stop admiring ourselves. We should work, and that's all.
Gayev: You die, anyway.
Trofimov: Who knows? And what does it mean— to die? Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and at his death only the five we know perish, while the other ninety-five remain alive.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: How clever you are, Petyal
LoPAHIN, ironically: Awfully clever!
Trofimov: Mankind goes forward, developing its powers. Everything that is now unattainable for it will one day come within man's reach and be clear to him; only we must work, helping with all our might those who seek the truth. Here among us in Russia only the very few work as yet. The great majority of the intel- ligentsia, as far as I can see, seek nothing, do nothing, are totally unfit for work of any kind. They call them- selves the intelligentsia, yet they are uncivil to their servants, treat the peasants like animals, are poor stu- dents, never read anything serious, do absolutely noth- ing at all, only talk about science, and have little appreci- ation of the arts. They are all solemn, have grim faces, they all philosophize and talk of weighty matters. And meanwhile the vast majority of us, ninety-nine out of a hundred, live like savages. At the least provocation—a punch in the jaw, and curses. They eat disgustingly, sleep in filth and stuffiness, bedbugs everywhere, stench and damp and moral slovenliness. And obviously, the only purpose of all our fine talk is to hoodwink ourselves and others. Show me where the public nurseries are that we've heard so much about, and the libraries. We read about them in novels, but in reality they don't exist, there is nothing but dirt, vulgarity, and Asiatic backwardness. I don't like very solemn faces, I'm afraid of them, I'm afraid of serious conversations. We'd do better to keep quiet for a while.
Lopahin: Do you know, I get up at five o'clock in the morning, and I work from morning till night; and I'm always handling money, my own and other people's, and I see what people around me are really like. You've only to start doing anything to see how few honest, de- cent people there are. Sometimes when I lie awake at night, I think: "Oh, Lord, thou hast given us immense forests, boundless fields, the widest horizons, and living in their midst, we ourselves ought really to be giants."
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Now you want giants! They're only good in fairy tales; otherwise they're frightening.
Yprnonov crosses the stage at the rear, playing the guitar.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA, pensively: There goes Yeoihodov.
Anya, pensively: There goes Yepihodov.
Gayev: Ladies and gentlemen, the sun has set.
Trofimov: Yes.
Gayev, in a low voice, declaiming as it were: Oh, Nature, wondrous Nature, you shine with eternal radi- ance, beautiful and indifferent! You, whom we call our mother, unite within yourself life and death! You ani- mate and destroy!
Varya, pleadingly: Uncle dear!
Anya: Uncle, again!
Trofimov: You'd better bank the yellow ball in the side pocket.
GAYEV: I'm silent, I'm silent . . .
All sit plunged in thought. Stillness reigns. Only FiRS's muttering is audible. Suddenly a distant sound is heard, coming from the sky as it were, the sound of a snapping string, mournfully dying away.
Mme. Ranevskaya: What was that?
LoPAmN: I don't know. Somewhere far away, in the pits, a bucket's broken loose; but somewhere very far away.
Gayev: Or it might be some sort of bird, perhaps a heron.
Trofimov: Or an owl . . .
Mme. RANEVSKAYA, shudders: It's weird, somehow. Pause.
Frns: Before the calamity the same thing happened— the owl screeched, and the samovar hummed all the time.
GAYEV: Before what calamity?
Fms: Before the Freedom.[8] Pause.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Come, my friends, let's be going. It's getting dark. To Anya. You have tears in your eyes. What is it, my little one? Embraces her.
Anya: I don't know, mamma; it's nothing.
Trofimov: Somebody's coming.
A TRAMP appears, tuearing a shabby white cap and an overcoat. He is slighthj drunk.
Tramp: Allow me to inquire, wiil this short-cut take me to the station?
Gayev: It will. Just follow that road.
Tramp: My heartfelt thanks. Coughing. The weather is glorious. Recites, "My brother, my suffering brother . . . Go do^ to the Volga! Whose groans . . . ?" To Varya. Mademoiselle, won't you spare 30 kopecks for a hungry Russian?
Varya, frightened, cries out.
LoPAHIN, angrilj: Even panhandling has its pro- prieties.
Mme. RANEvsKAYA, scared: Here, take this. Fumbles in her purse. I haven't any silver . . . never mind, here's a gold piece.
TRAMP: My heartfelt thanks. Exits. Laughter.
Varya, frightened: I'm leaving, I'm leaving . . . Oh, mamma dear, at home the servants have nothing to eat, and you gave him a gold piece!
Mme. RANEvsKAYA: What are you going to do me? I'm such a fool. When we get home, I'll give you everything I have. Yermolay Alexeyevich, you'll lend me some more . . .
Lopahin: Yes, ma'am.
Mme. Ranevskaya: Come, ladies and gentlemen, it's time to be going. Oh! Varya, we've settled all about your marriage. Congratulations!
Varya, through tears: Really, mamma, that's not a joking matter.
LoPAHIN: "Aurelia, get thee to a nunnery, go . • •"
Gayev: And do you know, my hands are trembling: I haven't played billiards in a long time.
LoPAJDN: "Aurelia, nymph, in your orisons, remem- ber me!"
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Let's go, it's almost suppertime.
Varya: He frightened me! My heart's pounding.
LopAHIN: Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, on the 22nd of August the cherry orchard will be up for sale. Think about that! Think!
All except Trofimov and Anya go out.
Anya, laughs: I'm grateful to that tramp, he fright- ened Varya and so we're alone.
Trofimov: Varya's afraid we'll fall in love with each other all of a sudden. She hasn't left us alone for days. Her narrow mind can't grasp that we're above love. To avoid the petty and illusory, everything that prevents us from being free and happy—that is the goal and meaning of our life. Forward! Do not fall behind, friends!
Anya, strikes her hainds together: How well you speak! Pause. It's wonderful here today.
Trofimov: Yes, the weather's glorious.
Anya: What have you done to me, Petya? Why don't I love the cherry orchard as I used to? I loved it so tenderly. It seemed to me there was no spot on earth lovelier than our orchard.