Why do you eat so much? Why do you talk so much? And to whom? Talking to the waiters about decadents! Why do you keep twisting about in front of me? That rich man Deriganov is preparing to buy your estate. I tell you every day. I say the same thing every day. Both the cherry orchard and the land must be leased off for villas and at once, immediately—the auction is staring you in the face: Understand!
I must cry or yell or faint. Oh, my sins…. My husband died of champagne—he drank terribly—and to my misfortune, I fell in love with another man and went off with him, and just at that time—it was my first punishment, a blow that hit me right on the head—here, in the river… my boy was drowned, and I went away, quite away, never to return, never to see this river again…I shut my eyes and ran without thinking, but he ran after me… without pity, without respect.
I bought a villa near Mentone because he fell ill there, and for three years I knew no rest either by day or night; the sick man wore me out, and my soul dried up. And last year, when they had sold the villa to pay my debts, I went away to Paris, and there he robbed me of all I had and threw me over and went off with another woman.
I tried to poison myself…. It was so silly, so shameful…. And suddenly I longed to be back in Russia, my own land, with my little girl…. Punish me no more! He begs my forgiveness, he implores me to return…. What a grey life you lead, what a lot you talk unnecessarily. To speak the straight truth, we live a silly life. You went away this morning without telling me. They were already getting ready to marry me before your father was born…. Be quiet, Fiers. Sit down next to me, like that. Just as the wild beast which eats everything it finds is needed for changes to take place in matter, so you are needed too.
Perhaps you are right from your point of view, but if you take the matter simply, without complicating it, then what pride can there be, what sense can there be in it, if a man is imperfectly made, physiologically speaking, if in the vast majority of cases he is coarse and stupid and deeply unhappy? We must stop admiring one another. We must work, nothing more. Who knows? Perhaps a man has a hundred senses, and when he dies only the five known to us are destroyed and the remaining ninety-five are left alive.
The human race progresses, perfecting its powers. Everything that is unattainable now will some day be near at hand and comprehensible, but we must work, we must help with all our strength those who seek to know what fate will bring. Meanwhile in Russia only a very few of us work. The vast majority of those intellectuals whom I know seek for nothing, do nothing, and are at present incapable of hard work.
They are all serious, they all have severe faces, they all talk about important things. Only dirt, vulgarity, and Asiatic plagues really exist…. You want giants, do you? Oh, beautiful and indifferent one, thou whom we call mother, thou containest in thyself existence and death, thou livest and destroyest….
It is quiet. Suddenly a distant sound is heard as if from the sky, the sound of a breaking string, which dies away sadly. Before the misfortune the same thing happened. An owl screamed and the samovar hummed without stopping.
What is it, little girl? I thank you from the bottom of my heart. What is to be done with such a fool as I am! Ermolai Alexeyevitch, lend me some more! Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, on August 22 the cherry orchard will be sold. Think of that! To escape all the petty and deceptive things which prevent our being happy and free, that is the aim and meaning of our lives. We go irresistibly on to that bright star which burns there, in the distance!
What have you done to me, Peter? I loved it so tenderly, I thought there was no better place in the world than our orchard. All Russia is our orchard. The land is great and beautiful, there are many marvellous places in it. Understand that, Anya. The house in which we live has long ceased to be our house; I shall go away. I give you my word. If you have the housekeeping keys, throw them down the well and go away. Be as free as the wind. Believe me, Anya, believe me!
But my soul is always my own; every minute of the day and the night it is filled with unspeakable presentiments. I know that happiness is coming, Anya, I see it already…. The moon rises. Yes, the moon has risen.
And if we do not see it we shall not know it, but what does that matter? Others will see it! Chandelier lighted. A Jewish band, the one mentioned in Act II, is heard playing in another room. In the drawing-room the grand rond is being danced. VARYA is crying gently and wipes away her tears as she dances. My dead father, who liked a joke, peace to his bones, used to say, talking of our ancestors, that the ancient stock of the Simeonov-Pischins was descended from that identical horse that Caligula made a senator….
A hungry dog only believes in meat. Nietzsche… a philosopher… a very great, a most celebrated man… a man of enormous brain, says in his books that you can forge bank-notes. Well… Dashenka told me. Well, never mind…. Now shuffle. All right, now. Give them here, oh my dear Mr. Ein, zwei, drei! In love? Guter Mensch aber schlechter Musikant. ANYA is standing behind it; she bows and runs to her mother, hugs her and runs back to the drawing-room amid general applause.
Everything must be over by now. The estate must be sold; or, if the sale never came off, then why does he stay so long? Grandmother sent him her authority for him to buy it in her name and transfer the debt to her. Why are you getting angry, Varya? I do look at the matter seriously, little mother, to be quite frank. People have been talking about him to me for two years now, but he either says nothing, or jokes about it.
I understand. I want to be doing something every minute. Why is Epikhodov here? Who said he could play billiards? What has it to do with her? We are above love. Then I suppose I must be beneath love. If I only knew whether the estate is sold or not! Save me, Peter. Say something, say something. What truth? You see where truth is, and where untruth is, but I seem to have lost my sight and see nothing. You are bolder, more honest, deeper than we are, but think only, be just a little magnanimous, and have mercy on me.
I was born here, my father and mother lived here, my grandfather too, I love this house. My son was drowned here…. Yes, but it ought to be said differently, differently…. And you ought to do something to your beard to make it grow better [Laughs] You are funny! I get one every day. Once in the room above, he could warn the others not to do anything but wait for Koupriane; then Ermolai was to come down and say to the men, "In just a moment, if you please.
He was an intelligent man, and grasped with extraordinary coolness the importance of the plan of campaign. Easily and naturally he mounted the veranda steps, paused at the threshold of the drawing-room, made the remark he had been told to make, and went upstairs.
Koupriane and Rouletabille now watched the bedroom windows. The flitting shadows there suddenly became motionless. All moving about ceased; no more steps were heard, nothing. And that sudden silence made the two "doctors" raise their faces toward the ceiling. Then they exchanged an aroused glance. This change in the manner of things above was dangerous.
Koupriane muttered, "The idiots! Happily Ermolai came down almost immediately and said to the "doctors" in his very best domestic manner:. The doctors were there! Rouletabille motioned to Madame Matrena, stepped back into the sitting-room and closed the door. Rouletabille smiled. It is since the affair of the bouquet that there have been ten.
We must know where the blow is coming from. You have four different groups of people around here—the police, the domestics, your friends, your family. Get rid of the police first. They must not be permitted to cross your threshold. They have not been able to protect you. You have nothing to regret. And if, after they are gone, something new turns up, we can leave M.
Koupriane to conduct the inquiries without his being preoccupied here at the house. These brave men have given proof of their devotion. Madame Trebassof walked into the salon and signaled. The man appeared. Rouletabille handed him a paper, which the other read. Say to M. Koupriane that I have commanded this and that I require all police service around the villa to be suspended until further orders.
She disappeared after the man of the false astrakhan. A few moments afterwards she returned. She appeared even more agitated. They are much chagrined. They have insisted on knowing where they have failed in their service. I have appeased them with money. You have directed them not to go far away, but to remain near the villa so as to watch it as closely as possible.
But they have gone, nevertheless. They had to obey you. What can that paper be you have shown them? Rouletabille drew out again the billet covered with seals and signs and cabalistics that he did not understand. Signed: Koupriane. I have not asked him his advice, madame, you may be sure. But I will see him to-morrow and he will understand. Rouletabille took her hands again. He saw her suffering, a prey to anguish almost prostrating. He pitied her. He wished to give her immediate confidence. She saw his young, clear eyes, so deep, so intelligent, the well-formed young head, the willing face, all his young ardency for her, and it reassured her.
Rouletabille waited for what she might say. She said nothing. She took him in her arms and embraced him. The Secret of the Night Chapter 2. Hidden category: Subpages. Namespaces Page Discussion. Views Read Edit View history. Why turn up your nose at it? I'm just a simple peasant. Then it's back to business. In a play that's sparing with show-stopping moments, Lopakhin's Big Monologue stands out. He returns from the auction, a little drunk, and announces that he's bought the orchard.
The music screeches to a stop. What begins as a careful retelling of the auction's progress morphs into a cathartic confession of Lopakhin's deepest motives. Lubov's pain is far from his mind as he exults: The cherry orchard is mine now, mine! Tell me I'm drunk, or mad, or dreaming. If my father and grandfather rose from their graves and looked at the whole affair, and saw how their Ermolai, their beaten and uneducated Ermolai, who used to run barefoot in the winter, how that very Ermolai has bought an estate, which is the most beautiful thing in the world!
I've bought the estate where my grandfather and my father were slaves, where they weren't even allowed into the kitchen. Lopakhin's joy and release is so big and ugly we want to look away even as we applaud the justice of his act. We feel bad for Lubov — but doesn't she kind of deserve to hear it?
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