Mme. ^^EVSKAYA: Now we can start on our jo^roey.
ANYA, foyfully: On our journey!
GAYEv: My friends, my dear, cherished friends, leav- ing this house forever, can I be silent? Can I at leave- taking refrain from giving utterance to those emotions that now fill my being?
Anya, imploringly: Uncle!
Varya: Uncle, uncle dear, don't.
Gayev, forlornly: I'll bank the yellow in the side pocket . . . I'll be silent . . .
Enter Trofimov, then Lopahin.
TROFIMOV: Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's time to leave.
Lopahin: Yepihodov, my coat.
Mme. RANEVSKA.YA: I'll sit down just a minute. It seems as though I'd never before seen what the walls of this house were like, the ceilings, and now I look at them hungrily, with such tender affection.
Gayev: I remember when I was six years old sitting on that window sill on Whitsunday, watching my father going to church.
Mme. RANEVSKA.YA: Has everything been taken?
Lopahin: I think so. Putting on his overcoat. Yepi- hodov, see that everything's in order.
YEPIHODOV, in a husky voice: You needn't worry, Yer- molay Alexeyevich.
LOPAHIN: What's the matter with your voice?
YEPIHoDov: I just had a drink of water. I must have swallowed something.
YASHA, contemptuously: \Vhat ignorance!
M^. RANEVSKA.YA: When we're gone, not a soul wiU be left here.
Lop^^ : Until the spring.
Varya pulls an umbrella out of a bundle, as though about to hit someone with it. LoPAHIN pretends to be frightened.
Varya: Come, come, I had no such ideal
TROFIMOV: Ladies and gentlemen, let's get into the carriages—it's time. The train will be in directly.
Varya: Petya, there they are, your rubbers, by that trunk. Tearfully: And what dirty old things they are!
TnoFiMOv, puts on rubbers: Let's go, ladies and gentlemen.
GAYEV, greatly upset, afraid of breaking down: The train . . . the station . . . Three cushions in the side pocket, I'll bank this one in the corner . . .
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Let's go.
LOPAHIN: Are we all here? No one in there? Locks the side door on the left. There are some things stored here, better lock up. Let us go!
Anya: Good-by, old house! Good-by, old life!
TnoFiMOv: Hail to you, new life!
Exit with Anya. Varya looks round the room and goes out slowly. YASHA and Charlotta with her dog go vut.
Lopamn: And so, until the spring. Go along, friends . . . 'Bye-'bye! Exits.
Mme. RANEVSKAYA and GAYEV remain alone. As though they had been waiting for this, they throw them- selves on each other's necks, and break into subdued, restrained sobs, afraid of being overheard.
Gayev, in despair: My sister! My sister!
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: Oh, my orchard—my dear, sweet, beautiful orchard! }.ly life, my youth, my happi- ness—good-by! Good-by! Voice of Anya, gay and sum- moning: "Mamma!" Voice of Trofimov, gay and ex- cited: "Halloo!"
Mme. RANEVSKAYA: One last look at the walls, at the windows . . . Our poor mother loved to walk about this room . • .
Gayev: My sister, my sister! Voice of Anya: "Mam- ma!" Voice of Trofimov: "Halloo^"
Mme. Ranevskaya: We're coming.
They go out. The stage is empty. The sound of doors being locked, of carriages driving away. Then silence.
In the stillness is heard the muffled sound of the
striking a tree, a mournful, lonely sound.
Footsteps are heard. Fis appears in the doorway on the right. He is dressed as usual in a jacket and white waistcoat and wears slippers. He is ill.
fim, goes to the door, tries the handle: Locked! They've gone • . . Sits down on the sofa. They've for- gotten me . . . Never mind . . . I'll sit here a bit . . . I'll wager Leonid Andreyevich hasn't put his fur coat on, he's gone off in his light overcoat . . • Sighs anxiously. I didn't keep an eye on him . . . Ah, when they're young, they're green . . . Mumbles something indistinguishable. Life has gone by as if I had never lived. Lies down. I'll lie do^ a while . . . There's no strength left in you, old fellow; nothing is left, nothing. Ah, you addlehead! Lies motionless. A distant sound is heard coming from the sky as it were, the sound of a snapping string mournfully dying away. All is still again, and nothing is heard but the strokes of the ax against a tree far away in the orchard.
LETTERS
Letters
to dmitry v. cmcorovich
(The elderly novelist to whom this letter is addressed won his reputation in the middle of the century and was thus a s^^ivor of the Golden Age of Russian literature. He had written to young Chekhov, with whom he was not ac- quainted, hailing him as the outstanding writer of his gen- eration and urging him to undertake a serious piece of work that would demand time and thought, even if it meant going hungry.)
Moscow, March 28, j886
Your letter, my kind, ardently beloved bringer of good tidings, struck me like a thunderbolt. I nearly cried, I got all excited, and now I feel that your message has left a deep mark on my soul. As you have been kind to my youth, so may God succor your old age. For my part, I can find neither words nor deeds with which to thank you. You know with what eyes ordinary people regard the elect such as you, and so you can imagine how your letter has affected my self-esteem. It is better than any diploma, and for a fledgeling writer it is bounty now and in time to come. I am almost in a daze. It is not within my power to judge whether I merit this high reward. I can only repeat that it has overwhelmed me.
If I have a gift that should be respected, I confess be- fore the purity of your heart that hitherto I have not re- spected it. I felt that I did have talent, but I had got 596
used to thinking it insignificant. Purely external causes are enough to make one unjust to oneself, suspicious, and diffident. And, as I think of it now, there have been plenty of such causes in my case. All those who are near to me have always treated my writing with condescen- sion and have never stopped advising me in a friendly manner not to give up real work for scribbling. I have hundreds of acquaintances in Moscow, among them a score or so of people who write, and I cannot recall a single one who would read me or regard me as an artist. In Moscow there is a Literary Circle, so-called: gifted writers and mediocrities of all ages and complexions meet once a week in a restaurant and give their tongues free rein. If I were to go there and read them even a fragment of your letter, they would laugh in my face. In the five years that I have been knocking about news- paper offices I have come to accept this general view of my literary insignificance; before long I got used to tak- ing an indulgent view of my labors, and so the fat was in the fire. That's the first cause. The second is that I ^ a physician and am up to my ears in medical work, so that the saw about chasing two hares[9] has robbed no one of more sleep than me.