Kitabı oku: «The Three Sisters / Три сестры»

Characters

Andrey Sergeyevitch Prosorov

Natalia Ivanovna (Natasha), his fiancee, later his wife (28)

Feodor Ilitch Kuligin, high school teacher, married to Masha (20)

Alexander Ignateyevitch Vershinin, lieutenant-colonel in charge of a battery (42)

Nicolai Lvovitch Tuzenbach, baron, lieutenant in the army (30)

Vassili Vassilevitch Soleni, captain

Ivan Romanovitch Chebutikin, army doctor (60)

Alexey Petrovitch Fedotik, sub-lieutenant

Vladimir Carlovitch Rode, sub-lieutenant

Ferapont, door-keeper at local council offices, an old man

Anfisa, nurse (80)

The action takes place in a provincial town.

[Ages are stated in brackets.]

ACT I

[In Prosorov’s house. A sitting-room with pillars; behind is seen a large dining-room. It is midday, the sun is shining brightly outside. In the dining-room the table is being laid for lunch.]

[Olga, in the regulation blue dress of a teacher at a girl’s high school, is walking about correcting exercise books; Masha, in a black dress, with a hat on her knees, sits and reads a book; Irina, in white, stands about, with a thoughtful expression.]

O l g a. It’s just a year since father died last May the fifth, on your name-day, Irina. It was very cold then, and snowing. I thought I would never survive it, and you were in a dead faint. And now a year has gone by and we are already thinking about it without pain, and you are wearing a white dress and your face is happy. [Clock strikes twelve] And the clock struck just the same way then. [Pause] I remember that there was music at the funeral, and they fired a volley in the cemetery. He was a general in command of a brigade but there were few people present. Of course, it was raining then, raining hard, and snowing.

I r i n a. Why think about it!

[Baron Tuzenbach, Chebutikin and Soleni appear by the table in the dining-room, behind the pillars.]

O l g a. It’s so warm today that we can keep the windows open, though the birches are not yet in flower. Father was put in command of a brigade, and he rode out of Moscow with us eleven years ago. I remember perfectly that it was early in May and that everything in Moscow was flowering then. It was warm too, everything was bathed in sunshine. Eleven years have gone, and I remember everything as if we rode out only yesterday. Oh, God! When I awoke this morning and saw all the light and the spring, joy entered my heart, and I longed passionately to go home.

C h e b u t i k i n. Will you take a bet on it?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, nonsense.

[Masha, lost in a reverie over her book, whistles softly.]

O l g a. Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! [Pause] I’m always having headaches from having to go to the High School every day and then teach till evening. Strange thoughts come to me, as if I were already an old woman. And really, during these four years that I have been working here, I have been feeling as if every day my strength and youth have been squeezed out of me, drop by drop. And only one desire grows and gains in strength …

I r i n a. To go away to Moscow. To sell the house, drop everything here, and go to Moscow …

O l g a. Yes! To Moscow, and as soon as possible.

[Chebutikin and Tuzenbach laugh.]

I r i n a. I expect Andrey will become a professor, but still, he won’t want to live here. Only poor Masha must go on living here.

O l g a. Masha can come to Moscow every year, for the whole summer.

[Masha is whistling gently.]

I r i n a. Everything will be arranged, please God. [Looks out of the window] It’s nice out today. I don’t know why I’m so happy: I remembered this morning that it was my name-day, and I suddenly felt glad and remembered my childhood, when mother was still with us. What beautiful thoughts I had, what thoughts!

O l g a. You’re all radiance today, I’ve never seen you look so lovely. And Masha is pretty, too. Andrey wouldn’t be bad-looking, if he wasn’t so stout; it does spoil his appearance. But I’ve grown old and very thin, I suppose it’s because I get angry with the girls at school. Today I’m free. I’m at home. I haven’t got a headache, and I feel younger than I was yesterday. I’m only twenty-eight. … All’s well, God is everywhere, but it seems to me that if only I were married and could stay at home all day, it would be even better. [Pause] I should love my husband.

T u z e n b a c h. [To Soleni] I’m tired of listening to the rot you talk. [Entering the sitting-room] I forgot to say that Vershinin, our new lieutenant-colonel of artillery, is coming to see us to-day. [Sits down to the piano.]

O l g a. That’s good. I’m glad.

I r i n a. Is he old?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, no. Forty or forty-five, at the very outside. [Plays softly] He seems rather a good sort. He’s certainly no fool, only he likes to hear himself speak.

I r i n a. Is he interesting?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, he’s all right, but there’s his wife, his mother-in-law, and two daughters. This is his second wife. He pays calls and tells everybody that he’s got a wife and two daughters. He’ll tell you so here. The wife isn’t all there, she does her hair like a flapper and gushes extremely. She talks philosophy and tries to commit suicide every now and again, apparently in order to annoy her husband. I should have left her long ago, but he bears up patiently, and just grumbles.

S o l e n i. [Enters with Chebutikin from the dining-room] With one hand I can only lift fifty-four pounds, but with both hands I can lift 180, or even 200 pounds. From this I conclude that two men are not twice as strong as one, but three times, perhaps even more. …

C h e b u t i k i n. [Reads a newspaper as he walks] If your hair is coming out … take an ounce of naphthaline and hail a bottle of spirit … dissolve and use daily. … [Makes a note in his pocket diary] When found make a note of! Not that I want it though. … [Crosses it out] It doesn’t matter.

I r i n a. Ivan Romanovitch, dear Ivan Romanovitch!

C h e b u t i k i n. What does my own little girl want?

I r i n a. Ivan Romanovitch, dear Ivan Romanovitch! I feel as if I were sailing under the broad blue sky with great white birds around me. Why is that? Why?

C h e b u t i k i n. [Kisses her hands, tenderly] My white bird. …

I r i n a. When I woke up today and got up and dressed myself, I suddenly began to feel as if everything in this life was open to me, and that I knew how I must live. Dear Ivan Romanovitch, I know everything. A man must work, toil in the sweat of his brow, whoever he may be, for that is the meaning and object of his life, his happiness, his enthusiasm. How fine it is to be a workman who gets up at daybreak and breaks stones in the street, or a shepherd, or a schoolmaster, who teaches children, or an engine-driver on the railway. … My God, let alone a man, it’s better to be an ox, or just a horse, so long as it can work, than a young woman who wakes up at twelve o’clock, has her coffee in bed, and then spends two hours dressing. … Oh it’s awful! Sometimes when it’s hot, your thirst can be just as tiresome as my need for work. And if I don’t get up early in future and work, Ivan Romanovitch, then you may refuse me your friendship.

C h e b u t i k i n. [Tenderly] I’ll refuse, I’ll refuse. …

O l g a. Father used to make us get up at seven. Now Irina wakes at seven and lies and meditates about something till nine at least. And she looks so serious! [Laughs.]

I r i n a. You’re so used to seeing me as a little girl that it seems queer to you when my face is serious. I’m twenty!

T u z e n b a c h. How well I can understand that craving for work, oh God! I’ve never worked once in my life. I was born in Petersburg, a chilly, lazy place, in a family which never knew what work or worry meant. I remember that when I used to come home from my regiment, a footman used to have to pull off my boots while I fidgeted and my mother looked on in adoration and wondered why other people didn’t see me in the same light. They shielded me from work; but only just in time! A new age is dawning, the people are marching on us all, a powerful, health-giving storm is gathering, it is drawing near, soon it will be upon us and it will drive away laziness, indifference, the prejudice against labour, and rotten dullness from our society. I shall work, and in twenty-five or thirty years, every man will have to work. Every one!

C h e b u t i k i n. I shan’t work.

T u z e n b a c h. You don’t matter.

S o l e n i. In twenty-five years’ time, we shall all be dead, thank the Lord. In two or three years’ time apoplexy will carry you off, or else I’ll blow your brains out, my pet. [Takes a scent-bottle out of his pocket and sprinkles his chest and hands.]

C h e b u t i k i n. [Laughs] It’s quite true, I never have worked. After I came down from the university I never stirred a finger or opened a book, I just read the papers. … [Takes another newspaper out of his pocket] Here we are. … I’ve learnt from the papers that there used to be one, Dobrolubov, for instance, but what he wrote – I don’t know … God only knows. … [Somebody is heard tapping on the floor from below] There. … They’re calling me downstairs, somebody’s come to see me. I’ll be back in a minute … won’t be long. … [Exit hurriedly, scratching his beard.]

I r i n a. He’s up to something.

T u z e n b a c h. Yes, he looked so pleased as he went out that I’m pretty certain he’ll bring you a present in a moment.

I r i n a. How unpleasant!

O l g a. Yes, it’s awful. He’s always doing silly things.

M a s h a.

“There stands a green oak by the sea.

And a chain of bright gold is around it …

And a chain of bright gold is around it. …”

[Gets up and sings softly.]

O l g a. You’re not very bright today, Masha. [Masha sings, putting on her hat] Where are you off to?

M a s h a. Home.

I r i n a. That’s odd. …

T u z e n b a c h. On a name-day, too!

M a s h a. It doesn’t matter. I’ll come in the evening. Good-bye, dear. [Kisses Masha] Many happy returns, though I’ve said it before. In the old days when father was alive, every time we had a name-day, thirty or forty officers used to come, and there was lots of noise and fun, and today there’s only a man and a half, and it’s as quiet as a desert … I’m off … I’ve got the hump today, and am not at all cheerful, so don’t you mind me. [Laughs through her tears] We’ll have a talk later on, but good-bye for the present, my dear; I’ll go somewhere.

I r i n a. [Displeased] You are queer. …

O l g a. [Crying] I understand you, Masha.

S o l e n i. When a man talks philosophy, well, it is philosophy or at any rate sophistry; but when a woman, or two women, talk philosophy – it’s all my eye.

M a s h a. What do you mean by that, you very awful man?

S o l e n i. Oh, nothing. You came down on me before I could say … help! [Pause.]

M a s h a. [Angrily, to Olga] Don’t cry!

[Enter Anfisa and Ferapont with a cake.]

A n f i s a. This way, my dear. Come in, your feet are clean. [To Irina] From the District Council, from Mihail Ivanitch Protopopov … a cake.

I r i n a. Thank you. Please thank him. [Takes the cake.]

F e r a p o n t. What?

I r i n a. [Louder] Please thank him.

O l g a. Give him a pie, nurse. Ferapont, go, she’ll give you a pie.

F e r a p o n t. What?

A n f i s a. Come on, gran’fer, Ferapont Spiridonitch. Come on. [Exeunt.]

M a s h a. I don’t like this Mihail Potapitch or Ivanitch, Protopopov. We oughtn’t to invite him here.

I r i n a. I never asked him.

M a s h a. That’s all right.

[Enter Chebutikin followed by a soldier with a silver samovar; there is a rumble of dissatisfied surprise.]

O l g a. [Covers her face with her hands] A samovar! That’s awful! [Exit into the dining-room, to the table.]

I r i n a. My dear Ivan Romanovitch, what are you doing!

T u z e n b a c h. [Laughs] I told you so!

M a s h a. Ivan Romanovitch, you are simply shameless!

C h e b u t i k i n. My dear good girl, you are the only thing, and the dearest thing I have in the world. I’ll soon be sixty. I’m an old man, a lonely worthless old man. The only good thing in me is my love for you, and if it hadn’t been for that, I would have been dead long ago. … [To Irina] My dear little girl, I’ve known you since the day of your birth, I’ve carried you in my arms … I loved your dead mother. …

M a s h a. But your presents are so expensive!

C h e b u t i k i n. [Angrily, through his tears] Expensive presents. … You really, are! … [To the orderly] Take the samovar in there. … [Teasing] Expensive presents!

[The orderly goes into the dining-room with the samovar.]

A n f i s a. [Enters and crosses stage] My dear, there’s a strange Colonel come! He’s taken off his coat already. Children, he’s coming here. Irina darling, you’ll be a nice and polite little girl, won’t you. … Should have lunched a long time ago. … Oh, Lord. … [Exit.]

T u z e n b a c h. It must be Vershinin. [Enter Vershinin] Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin!

V e r s h i n i n. [To Masha and Irina] I have the honour to introduce myself, my name is Vershinin. I am very glad indeed to be able to come at last. How you’ve grown! Oh! oh!

I r i n a. Please sit down. We’re very glad you’ve come.

V e r s h i n i n. [Gaily] I am glad, very glad! But there are three sisters, surely. I remember – three little girls. I forget your faces, but your father, Colonel Prosorov, used to have three little girls, I remember that perfectly, I saw them with my own eyes. How time does fly! Oh, dear, how it flies!

T u z e n b a c h. Alexander Ignateyevitch comes from Moscow.

I r i n a. From Moscow? Are you from Moscow?

V e r s h i n i n. Yes, that’s so. Your father used to be in charge of a battery there, and I was an officer in the same brigade. [To Masha] I seem to remember your face a little.

M a s h a. I don’t remember you.

I r i n a. Olga! Olga! [Shouts into the dining-room] Olga! Come along! [Olga enters from the dining-room] Lieutenant Colonel Vershinin comes from Moscow, as it happens.

V e r s h i n i n. I take it that you are Olga Sergeyevna, the eldest, and that you are Maria … and you are Irina, the youngest. …

O l g a. So you come from Moscow?

V e r s h i n i n. Yes. I went to school in Moscow and began my service there; I was there for a long time until at last I got my battery and moved over here, as you see. I don’t really remember you, I only remember that there used to be three sisters. I remember your father well; I have only to shut my eyes to see him as he was. I used to come to your house in Moscow. …

O l g a. I used to think I remembered everybody, but …

V e r s h i n i n. My name is Alexander Ignateyevitch.

I r i n a. Alexander Ignateyevitch, you’ve come from Moscow. That is really quite a surprise!

O l g a. We are going to live there, you see.

I r i n a. We think we may be there this autumn. It’s our native town, we were born there. In Old Basmanni Road. … [They both laugh for joy.]

M a s h a. We’ve unexpectedly met a fellow countryman. [Briskly] I remember: Do you remember, Olga, they used to speak at home of a “lovelorn Major.” You were only a Lieutenant then, and in love with somebody, but for some reason they always called you a Major for fun.

V e r s h i n i n. [Laughs] That’s it … the lovelorn Major, that’s got it!

M a s h a. You only wore moustaches then. You have grown older! [Through her tears] You have grown older!

V e r s h i n i n. Yes, when they used to call me the lovelorn Major, I was young and in love. I’ve grown out of both now.

O l g a. But you haven’t a single white hair yet. You’re older, but you’re not yet old.

V e r s h i n i n. I’m forty-two, anyway. Have you been away from Moscow long?

I r i n a. Eleven years. What are you crying for, Masha, you little fool. … [Crying] And I’m crying too.

M a s h a. It’s all right. And where did you live?

V e r s h i n i n. Old Basmanni Road.

O l g a. Same as we.

V e r s h i n i n. Once I used to live in German Street. That was when the Red Barracks were my headquarters. There’s an ugly bridge in between, where the water rushes underneath. One gets melancholy when one is alone there. [Pause] Here the river is so wide and fine! It’s a splendid river!

O l g a. Yes, but it’s so cold. It’s very cold here, and the midges. …

V e r s h i n i n. What are you saying! Here you’ve got such a fine healthy Russian climate. You’ve a forest, a river … and birches. Dear, modest birches, I like them more than any other tree. It’s good to live here. Only it’s odd that the railway station should be thirteen miles away. … Nobody knows why.

S o l e n i. I know why. [All look at him] Because if it was near it wouldn’t be far off, and if it’s far off, it can’t be near. [An awkward pause.]

T u z e n b a c h. Funny man.

O l g a. Now I know who you are. I remember.

V e r s h i n i n. I used to know your mother.

C h e b u t i k i n. She was a good woman, rest her soul.

I r i n a. Mother is buried in Moscow.

O l g a. At the Novo-Devichi Cemetery.

M a s h a. Do you know, I’m beginning to forget her face. We’ll be forgotten in just the same way.

V e r s h i n i n. Yes, they’ll forget us. It’s our fate, it can’t be helped. A time will come when everything that seems serious, significant, or very important to us will be forgotten, or considered trivial. [Pause] And the curious thing is that we can’t possibly find out what will come to be regarded as great and important, and what will be feeble, or silly. Didn’t the discoveries of Copernicus, or Columbus, say, seem unnecessary and ludicrous at first, while wasn’t it thought that some rubbish written by a fool, held all the truth? And it may so happen that our present existence, with which we are so satisfied, will in time appear strange, inconvenient, stupid, unclean, perhaps even sinful. …

T u z e n b a c h. Who knows? But on the other hand, they may call our life noble and honour its memory. We’ve abolished torture and capital punishment, we live in security, but how much suffering there is still!

S o l e n i. [In a feeble voice] There, there. … The Baron will go without his dinner if you only let him talk philosophy.

T u z e n b a c h. Vassili Vassilevitch, kindly leave me alone. [Changes his chair] You’re very dull, you know.

S o l e n i. [Feebly] There, there, there.

T u z e n b a c h. [To Vershinin] The sufferings we see today – there are so many of them! – still indicate a certain moral improvement in society.

V e r s h i n i n. Yes, yes, of course.

C h e b u t i k i n. You said just now, Baron, that they may call our life noble; but we are very petty. … [Stands up] See how little I am. [Violin played behind.]

M a s h a. That’s Andrey playing – our brother.

I r i n a. He’s the learned member of the family. I expect he will be a professor some day. Father was a soldier, but his son chose an academic career for himself.

M a s h a. That was father’s wish.

O l g a. We ragged him today. We think he’s a little in love.

I r i n a. To a local lady. She will probably come here today.

M a s h a. You should see the way she dresses! Quite prettily, quite fashionably too, but so badly! Some queer bright yellow skirt with a wretched little fringe and a red bodice. And such a complexion! Andrey isn’t in love. After all he has taste, he’s simply making fun of us. I heard yesterday that she was going to marry Protopopov, the chairman of the Local Council. That would do her nicely. … [At the side door] Andrey, come here! Just for a minute, dear! [Enter Andrey.]

O l g a. My brother, Andrey Sergeyevitch.

V e r s h i n i n. My name is Vershinin.

A n d r e y. Mine is Prosorov. [Wipes his perspiring hands] You’ve come to take charge of the battery?

O l g a. Just think, Alexander Ignateyevitch comes from Moscow.

A n d r e y. That’s all right. Now my little sisters won’t give you any rest.

V e r s h i n i n. I’ve already managed to bore your sisters.

I r i n a. Just look what a nice little photograph frame Andrey gave me today. [Shows it] He made it himself.

V e r s h i n i n. [Looks at the frame and does not know what to say] Yes. … It’s a thing that …

I r i n a. And he made that frame there, on the piano as well. [Andrey waves his hand and walks away.]

O l g a. He’s got a degree, and plays the violin, and cuts all sorts of things out of wood, and is really a domestic Admirable Crichton. Don’t go away, Andrey! He’s got into a habit of always going away. Come here!

[Masha and Irina take his arms and laughingly lead him back.]

M a s h a. Come on, come on!

A n d r e y. Please leave me alone.

M a s h a. You are funny. Alexander Ignateyevitch used to be called the lovelorn Major, but he never minded.

V e r s h i n i n. Not the least.

M a s h a. I’d like to call you the lovelorn fiddler!

I r i n a. Or the lovelorn professor!

O l g a. He’s in love! little Andrey is in love!

I r i n a. [Applauds] Bravo, Bravo! Encore! Little Andrey is in love.

C h e b u t i k i n. [Goes up behind Andrey and takes him round the waist with both arms] Nature only brought us into the world that we should love! [Roars with laughter, then sits down and reads a newspaper which he takes out of his pocket.]

A n d r e y. That’s enough, quite enough. … [Wipes his face] I couldn’t sleep all night and now I can’t quite find my feet, so to speak. I read until four o’clock, then tried to sleep, but nothing happened. I thought about one thing and another, and then it dawned and the sun crawled into my bedroom. This summer, while I’m here, I want to translate a book from the English. …

V e r s h i n i n. Do you read English?

A n d r e y. Yes father, rest his soul, educated us almost violently. It may seem funny and silly, but it’s nevertheless true, that after his death I began to fill out and get rounder, as if my body had had some great pressure taken off it. Thanks to father, my sisters and I know French, German, and English, and Irina knows Italian as well. But we paid dearly for it all!

M a s h a. A knowledge of three languages is an unnecessary luxury in this town. It isn’t even a luxury but a sort of useless extra, like a sixth finger. We know a lot too much.

V e r s h i n i n. Well, I say! [Laughs] You know a lot too much! I don’t think there can really be a town so dull and stupid as to have no place for a clever, cultured person. Let us suppose even that among the hundred thousand inhabitants of this backward and uneducated town, there are only three persons like yourself. It stands to reason that you won’t be able to conquer that dark mob around you; little by little as you grow older you will be bound to give way and lose yourselves in this crowd of a hundred thousand human beings; their life will suck you up in itself, but still, you won’t disappear having influenced nobody; later on, others like you will come, perhaps six of them, then twelve, and so on, until at last your sort will be in the majority. In two or three hundred years’ time life on this earth will be unimaginably beautiful and wonderful. Mankind needs such a life, and if it is not ours to-day then we must look ahead for it, wait, think, prepare for it. We must see and know more than our fathers and grandfathers saw and knew. [Laughs] And you complain that you know too much.