Pishc^k, in amazement: Just imagine!
C^RLO'ITA: Ein, zwei, dreil Raises the plaid quick- ly, behind it stands .ANYA. She curtsies, runs to her mother, embraces her, and runs back into the ballroom, amidst general enthusi^m.
Mme. R^^vsKAYA, applauds: Bravo! Bravo!
Charlotta: Now again! Ein, zwei, drei! Lifts the plaid; behind it stands Varya bowing.
Pishc^k, running after her: The rascall What a woman, what a woman! Exits.
Mme. R^^vsKAYA: And Leonid still isn't here. What is he doing in town so long? I don't understand. It must be all over by now. Either the estate has been sold, or the auction hasn't taken place. Why keep us in suspense so long?
V^rya, trying to consonsole her: Uncle's bought it, I feel sure of that.
Trofimov, mockingly: Oh, yes!
Varya: Great-aunt sent him an authorization to buy it in her name, and to transfer the debt. She's doing it for Anya's sake. And I'm sure that God will help us, and uncle will buy it.
Mme. Ranevskaya: Great-aunt sent fifteen thousand to buy the estate in her name, she doesn't trust us, but that's not even enough to pay the interest. Covers her face with her hands. Today my fate will be decided, my fate—
Trofimov, teasing Varya: Madam Lopahinal
Varya, angrily: Perpetual student! Twice already you've been expelled from the university.
Mme. Ranevskaya: Why are you so cross, Varya? He's teasing you about Lopahin. Well, what of it? If you want to marry Lopahin, go ahead. He's a good man, and interesting; if you don't want to, don't. No. body's compelling you, my pet!
Varya: Frankly, mamma dear, I take this thing seri- ously; he's a good man and I like him.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: All right then, marry him. I don't know what you're waiting for.
Varya: But, mamma, I can't propose to him myseH. For the last two years everyone's been talking to me about him—talking. But he either keeps silent, or else cracks jokes. I understand; he's growing rich, he's ab- sorbed in business—he has no time for me. If I had money, even a little, say, 100 rubles, I'd throw every- thing up and go far away—I'd go into a nunnery.
TROFIMOV: What a blessing . . .
Varya: A student ought to be intelligent. Softly, with tears in her voice. How homely you've grown, Petya! How old you look! To Mme. RANEVSKAYA, with dry eyes. But I can't live without work, mamma dear; I must keep busy every minute.
Enter YASHA.
YASHA, hardly restraining his laughter: Yepihodov has broken a billiard cue! Exits.
Varya: Why is Yepihodov here? Who allowed him to play billiards? I don't understand these people! Exits.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Don't tease her, Petya. She's un- happy enough without that.
TROFIMOV: She bustles so—and meddles in other people's business. All summer long she's given Anya and me no peace. She's afraid of a love-affair between us. What business is it of hers? Besides, I've given no grounds for it, and I'm far from such vulgarity. We are above love.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: And I suppose I'm beneath love? Anxiously. What can be keeping Leonid? If I only knew whether the estate has been sold or not. Such a cal^ity seems so incredible to me that I don't know what to think—I feel lost. ... I could scream. ... I could do something stupid. . . . Save me, Petya, tell me some- thing, talk to me!
Trofimov: Whether the estate is sold today or not, isn't it all one? That's all done with long ago—there's no turning back, the path is overgrown. Calm yourself, my dear. You mustn't deceive yourself. For once in your life you must face the truth.
Mme. Ranevskaya: What truth? You can see the truth, you can tell it from falsehood, but I seem to have lost my eyesight, I see nothing. You settle every great problem so boldly, but tell me, my dear boy, isn't it because you're young, because you don't yet know what one of your problems means in terms of suffering? You look ahead fearlessly, but isn't it because you don't see and don't expect anything dreadful, because life is still hidden from your young eyes? You're bolder, more honest, more profound than we are, but think hard, show just a bit of magnanimity, spare me. After all, I was born here, my father and mother lived here, and my grandfather; I love this house. Without the cherry orchard, my life has no meaning for me, and if it really must be sold, then sell me with the orchard. Embraces Trofimov, kisses him on the forehead. My son was drowned here. Weeps. Pity me, you good, kind fel- low!
TnoFIMov: You know, I feel for you with all my heart.
Mme. RANEvsKAYA: But that should have been said differently, so differently! Takes mit her handkerchief— a telegram falls on the floor. My heart is so heavy today —you can't imagine! The noise here upsets me—my inmost being trembles at every sound—I'm shaking all over. But I can't go into my own room; I'm afraid to be alone. Don't condemn me, Petya. ... I love you as though you were one of us, I would gladly let you marry Anya—I swear I would—only, my dear boy, you must study—you must take your degree—you do noth- ing, you let yourself be tossed by Fate from place to place—it's so strange. It's true, isn't it? And you should do something about your beard, to make it grow some- how! Laughs. You're so funny!
Trofimov, picks up the telegram: I've no wish to be a dandy.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: That's a telegram from Paris. I get one every day. One yesterday and one today. That savage is ill again—he's in trouble again. He begs for- giveness, implores me to go to him, and really I ought to go to Paris to be near him. Your face is stern, Petya; but what is there to do, my dear boy? What am I to do? He's ill, he's alone and unhappy, and who is to look after him, who is to keep him from doing the wrong thing, who is to give him his medicine on time? And why hide it or keep still about it—I love him! That's clear. I love him, love him! He's a millstone round my neck, he'll drag me to the bottom, but I love that stone, I can't live without it. Presses TROFIMov's hand. Don't think badly of me, Petya, and don't say anything, don't say . . .
Trofimov, through tears: Forgive me my frankness in heaven's name; but, you know, he robbed you(
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: No, no, no, you mustn't say such things! Covers her ears.
Trofimov: But he's a scoundrel! You're the only one who doesn't know it. He's a petty scoundrel—a nonen- tity!
Mme. R^revskaya, controlling her anger: You are twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, but you're still a s^oolboy.
Trofimov: That may be.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: You should be a man at your age. You should understand people who love—and ought to be in love yourself. You ought to fall in love! Angrily. Yes, yes! And it's not purity in you, it's prudish- ness, you're simply a queer fish, a comical freak!
TROFIMOV, horrified: What is she saying?
M^. Ranevskaya: "I am above love!'' You're not above love, but simply, as our Firs says, you're an addle- head. At your age not to have a mistress!
Trofimov, horrified: This is frightful! What is she saying! Goes rapidly into the baUroom, clutching his head. It's frightful—I can't stand it, I won't stay! Exits, but returns at once. All is over between us! Exits into anteroom.