TROFIMOV: All Russia is our orchard. Our land is vast and beautiful, there are many wonderful places in it. Pause. Think of it, Anya, your grandfather, your great- grandfather and all your ancestors were serf-owners, owners of living souls, and aren't human beings looking at you from every tree in the orchard, from every leaf, from every trunk? Don't you hear voices? Oh, it's terrify- ing! Your orchard is a fearful place, and when you pass through it in the evening or at night, the old bark on the trees gleams faintly, and the cherry trees seem to be dreaming of things that happened a hundred, two hun- dred years ago and to be tormented by painful visions. What is there to say? We're at least two hundred years behind, we've really achieved nothing yet, we have no definite attitude to the past, we only philosophize, com- plain of the blues, or drink vodka. It's all so clear: in order to live in the present, we should first redeem our past, finish with it, and we can expiate it only by suffer- ing, only by extraordinary, unceasing labor. Realize that, Anya.
Anya: The house in which we live has long ceased to be our own, and I will leave it, I give you my word.
TROFIMOV: If you have the keys, fling them into the well and go away. Be free as the wind.
ANYA, in ecrtasy: How well you put that!
Trofimov: Believe me, Anya, believe mel I'm not yet thirty, I'm young, I'm still a student—but I've already suffered so much. In winter I'm hungry, sick, harassed, poor as a beggar, and where hasn't Fate driven me? Where haven't I been? And yet always, every moment of the day and night, my soul is filled with inexplicable premonitions. ... I have a premonition of happiness, Anya. • . . I see it already!
ANYA, pensively: The moon is rising.
Yepihotov is heard playing the same mournful tune on the guitar. The moon rises. Somewhere near the pop- lars Varya is looking for Anya and calling "Anya, where are you?"
TROFIMOV: Yes, the moon is rising. Pause. There it is, happiness, it's approaching, it's coming nearer and nearer, I can already hear its footsteps. And if we don't see it, if we don't know it, what does it matter? Others wiU!
Varya's voice: "Anyal Where are you?'
TROFIMOV: That Varya again! Angrily. It's revolting!
Anya: Never mind, let's go down to the river. It's lovely there.
Trofimov: Come on. They go. Varya's voice: "Anyal Anya!"
Act III
DRAWING-ROOM separated by an arch from
a ballroom. Evening. Chandelier burning. The Jewish band is heard playing in the anteroom. In the ballroom they are dancing the Grand Rand. PiSHCHIK is heard calling, "Promenade a une paire." Pishchik and CHARLOTI'A, TaOFIMOv and MmE. RANEvSKAYA, ANYA and the PosT Office Clerk, Varya and the STATION- MASTER, and others, enter the drawing-room in couples. Dunyasha is in the last couple. Varya weeps quietly, wiping her tears as she dances. All parade through draw- ing-room. Pishchik calling "Grand rond, balancez!" and "Les cavaliers a genoux et remerciez vos dames!" Fms wearing a dress-coat, brings in soda-water on a tray. Pish^hk and Trofimov enter the drawing-room.
PlSHCHiK: I'm a full-blooded man; I've already had two strokes. Dancing's hard work for me; but as they say, "If you run with the pack, you can bark or not, but at least wag your tail." Still, I'm as strong as a horse. My late lamented father, who would have his joke, God rest his soul, used to say, talking about our origin, that the ancient line of the Simeonov-Pishchiks was de- scended from the very horse that Caligula had made a senator. Sits down. But the trouble is, I have no money. A hungry dog believes in nothing but meat. Snores and wakes up at once. It's the same with me—I can think of nothing but money.
Trofimov: You know, there is something equine about your figure.
PiSHCIDK: Well, a horse is a fine animal—one can sell a horse.
Sound of billiards being played in an adjoining room. VARYA appears in the archway.
Trofimov, teasing her: Madam Lopahina! Madam Lopahina!
Varya, angrily: Mangy master!
Trofimov: Yes, I am a mangy master and I'm proud of it.
Varya, reflecting bitterly: Here we've hired musi- cians, and what shall we pay them with? Exits.
Trofimov, to Pishchik: If the energy you have spent during your lifetime looking for money to pay interest had gone into something else, in the end you could have turned the world upside down.
PISHCIDK: Nietzsche, the philosopher, the greatest, most famous of men, that colossal intellect, says in his works, that it is permissible to forge banknotes.
Trofimov: Have you read Nietzsche?
PISHCHIK: Well . . . Dashenka told me . . . And now I've got to the point where forging banknotes is about the only way out for me. . . . The day after to- morrow I have to pay 310 rubles—I already have 130 . . . Feels in his pockets. In alarm. The money's gone! I've lost my money! Through tears. Where's my money? Joyfully. Here it is! Inside the lining . . . I'm all in a sweat . . .
Enter Mme. and Charl^tca.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA, hums the "Lezginka": Why isn't Leonid back yet? What is he doing in town? To DuN- YASHA. Dunyasha, offer the musicians tea.
Trofimov : The auction hasn't taken place, most likely.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: It's the wrong time to have the band, and the wrong time to give a dance. Well, never mind. Sits down and hums softly.
Charlotta, hands Pisiiciiik a pack of cards: Here is a pack of cards. Think of any card you like.
Pishchik: I've thought of one.
CHAHLO'ITA: ShufUe the pack now. That's right. Give it here, my dear Mr. Pishchik. Ein, zwei, drei! Now look for it—it's in your side pocket.
Pishchik, taking the card out of his pocket: The eight of spades! Perfectly right! Just imagine!
CHARLOTTA, holding pack of cards in her hands. To Trofimov: Quickly, name the top card.
TnoFiMOv: Well, let's see—the queen of spades.
Charlotta: Right! To Pishchik. Now name the top card.
Pishchik: The ace of hearts.
Charlotta: Right! Claps her hands and the pack of cards disappears. Ah, what lovely weather it is today! A mysterious feminine voice which seems to come from under the floor, answers her: "Oh, yes, it's magnificent weather, madam."
Charlotta: You are my best ideal.
VmcE: "And I find you pleasing too, madam."
STATIO^MASTER, applauding: The lady ventriloquist, bravo!
Pishchik, amazed: Just imagine! Enchanting Char- lotta Ivanovna, I'm simply in love with you.
CHARLOTTA: In love? Shrugs her shoulders. Are you capable of love? Cuter Mensch, aber schlechter Musi- kant!
Trofimov, claps Pishchik on the shoulder: You old horse, you!
Charlotta: Attention please! One more trick! Takes a plaid from a chair. Here is a very good plaid; I want to sell it. Shaking it out. Does anyone want to buy it?