In a word—congratulations. You’re saved. It’s a beautiful situation, the river is deep enough for swimming—

A miss-step; he recovers almost instantly.

LOPAKHIN (cont.)All you have to do is clear the ground, tidy it up, get rid of the old buildings, like this house, which won’t have any use now, and cut down the cherry orchard!

LIUBOVCut it down? My dear, I’m sorry but you don’t understand. If there’s one thing of any interest—one remarkable feature—in this whole district, it’s our cherry orchard.

LOPAKHINThe only remarkable thing about your cherry orchard is it’s big. But it only gives a crop every other year, and then you don’t know what to do with all the cherries, no one wants to buy them.

GAEVOur cherry orchard is mentioned in the encyclopaedia.

LOPAKHIN (glancing at his watch)If we don’t come up with something and make a decision, on the 22nd of August it won’t just be the cherry orchard on the block, it’ll be the whole estate. You have to face up to it. Believe me, there’s no other way out, there absolutely isn’t.

FIRSIn the old days, forty, fifty years ago, they dried the cherries, then soaked them, pickled them, made jam out of them, and sometimes they—

GAEVYes, all right, Firs.

FIRSBack then, the dried cherries were sent off in cartloads to Moscow and Kharkov. There was money in them back then! And your dried cherry isn’t what it used to be—they were soft and juicy, sweet, with a fragrance to them, they knew how to do it, they had the secret.

LIUBOVAnd where is the secret now?

FIRSForgotten. No one remembers it.

PISHCHIK (to Liubov)What was it like in Paris? Eh? Did you eat frogs?

LIUBOVI ate crocodiles.

PISHCHIKFancy that!

LOPAKHINThe days when the countryside was only for landowners and peasants are over. Now it’s the time of the summer folk and the weekend visitor. There are dachas around every town, even the smallest, and over the next twenty years or so the summer population is going to explode. So far all they do is sit on their porches and drink tea, but, who knows, they may start using their little acres to grow things and then your cherry orchard will come into its second flowering and be gay and fruitful again . . .

GAEV (indignantly)What is this rubbish?

Varya and Yasha enter.

VARYAThere were two telegrams for you, Mama.

She selects a key and unlocks the book cupboard.

VARYA (cont.)Here.

LIUBOVThey’re from Paris.

She tears up the telegrams without reading them.

LIUBOV (cont.)I’m done with Paris.

GAEVLiuba, do you know how old this book cupboard is? I pulled out the bottom drawer last week and saw there was a date burned into it. This book cupboard was made exactly a hundred years ago. What do you think of that, eh? We might celebrate its centenary. It’s an inanimate object but look at it another way, it’s, well, it’s a book cupboard.

PISHCHIK (amazed)A hundred years! Fancy that!

GAEVYes . . . Quite something! . . . (feeling the book cupboard all over) Dear old book cupboard! Dear, deeply respected book cupboard, I salute you! For a whole century you have devoted your existence to the highest ideals of truth and goodness—your mute appeal to the creative spirit has never faltered during all your hundred years, (on the brink of tears) sustaining our courage and faith in a better future through generations of our blood, and inspiring us to a social conscience for the common good.

Pause.

LOPAKHINQuite.

LIUBOVAnd you haven’t changed either, dear old Lyonya.

GAEV (somewhat embarrassed)In-off into the bottom-right corner and screw back for the middle pocket!

LOPAKHIN (glancing at his watch)I have to get going.

YASHA (handing Liubov a pill bottle)Perhaps you’d like to take your pills now . . .?

PISHCHIKYou don’t need pills, dear lady, they don’t do any good, or harm either—give them here, madam . . .

Pishchik takes the pills, pours them into his palm, blows on them, puts them in his mouth and drinks them down with kvass.

PISHCHIK (cont.)There!

LIUBOV (alarmed)You’re mad!

PISHCHIKAll gone, swallowed the lot.

LOPAKHINGreedy pig!

Everyone laughs.

FIRSWhen the gentleman was here in Holy Week he got through half a tub of pickled cucumbers . . . (mutters)

LIUBOVWhat is he going on about?

VARYAHe’s been muttering away like that for years, we’ve got used to it.

YASHAAh, the wisdom of old age.

Charlotta Ivanovna in a white dress, very thin, tightly laced, with a lorgnette hanging on her belt, crosses the stage.

LOPAKHINForgive me, Charlotta, I haven’t had a chance to say hello to you.

Lopakhin tries to kiss her hand.

CHARLOTTA (pulling it back)If I let you kiss my hand, it’ll be my elbow next and then my shoulder.

LOPAKHINI’m out of luck today.

Everyone laughs.

LOPAKHIN (cont.)Show us a magic trick.

CHARLOTTANot now.