The Cherry Orchard

Anton Chekhov

Artwork by Ishibashi Chiharu

ACT IV

LYUBOV ANDREEVNA, GAEV, ANYA, and CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA all enter.
 
GAEV:  Let’s go, everyone. Time is short. (Glances at YASHA.) Who smells like herring?!

LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  In about ten minutes we should board the carriages . . . (Looks at the room.) Farewell, home of my fathers, dear old house. Winter will pass, spring will come, and by then you’ll be gone. They’ll tear you down. How much these walls have seen! (Warmly kisses her daughter.) My treasure, you’re beaming, your eyes sparkle like twin diamonds. Are you happy?
 
ANYA:  So happy! We’re starting a new life, Mama!
 
GAEV (cheerfully):  Everything’s turned out wonderfully. Before the cherry orchard’s sale we worried and agonized, but then, when the issue was finally and irrevocably decided, those fears dissolved, we even became cheerful . . . I used to be a bank clerk, and now I’m a financier . . . Off the yellow, into the corner, and you Lyuba, say what you like, but you look better, that’s certain.
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  Yes. My nerves are better, it’s true.

(She’s given her hat and coat.)

I sleep well. Take my luggage, Yasha. It’s time. (To ANYA.) My darling, we’ll see each other again soon. I’m going to Paris, I’ll live there on the money our Aunt in Yaroslavl sent to help with the estate. Three cheers for our Great Aunt! Of course that money won’t last long.
 
ANYA:  You’ll come back soon, Mama . . . Won’t you? I’m studying and when I finish my exams I’ll find work and I’ll be able to help you. We’ll read books together, Mama . . . won’t we? (Kisses her mother’s hands.) We’ll read in the autumn twilight, we’ll read so many books, and we’ll see a new and wondrous world open up before us . . . (Imagining.) Mama, come back . . .
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  I will, my treasure. (Hugs her daughter.)

LOPAKHIN enters. CHARLOTTA quietly hums a tune.

GAEV:  Charlotta’s happy! She’s singing!

CHARLOTTA (picks up a bundle that looks like a child in a wrap):  Bye-bye, my child . . . (The baby can be heard crying: “Wuaaah, wuaaah!”) Quiet, my darling little boy. (“Wuaaah, wuaaah!”) I feel so bad for you! (Throws down the bundle.) And that’s how you’ll look after me. I can’t take it.
 
LOPAKHIN:  We’ll take care of you, Charlotta Ivanovna, don’t worry.
 
GAEV:  Everyone’s abandoning us, Varya’s leaving . . . Suddenly, nobody needs us.
 
CHARLOTTA:  There’s nowhere for me to live in town. I have to go . . . (Sings a little.) Oh, it makes no odds . . .

PISHCHIK enters.
                       
LOPAKHIN:  A miracle!

PISHCHIK (out of breath):  Phew, let me catch my breath . . . I’m spent. . . Can I have some water . . .
 
GAEV: One last chance to grift, eh? I’ll dodge this bullet . . . (Exits.)

PISHCHIK:  It’s been so long since I visited . . . You look ravishing . . . (To LOPAKHIN.) You’re here . . . Glad to see you . . . A man of prodigious intellect . . . Here . . . For you . . . (Gives money to LOPAKHIN.) Four hundred rubles . . . Still eight hundred forty left . . .

LOPAKHIN (shrugs his shoulders in astonishment):  Is this a dream? . . . Where’d you get all this?
 
PISHCHIK: This? . . . So hot . . . Extraordinary circumstance. Some Englishmen came and on my land they discovered some kind of white clay . . . (To LYUBOV ANDREEVNA.) And four hundred to you . . . Ravishing creature . . . Breathtaking . . . (Gives her money.) The rest later. (Drinks water.) A young man on the train just told me about how . . . a famous philosopher jumped off a roof . . . “Jump!” he said, and that solves everything. (Surprised.) Just imagine! Some water! . . .
 
LOPAKHIN:  Who are these Englishmen?

PISHCHIK:  I leased them the plot with the clay for twenty-four years . . . Forgive me, no time for details . . . Gotta run . . . I’m off to Znoikov . . . to Kardamonov . . . I owe money all over . . . (Drinks.) Here’s to your health . . . I’ll swing by on Thursday . . . 

LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  We’re going to town right now, and tomorrow I’ll be on a train to Paris.
 
PISHCHIK:  How’s that? (Alarmed.) Why town? Good god, the furniture . . . Luggage . . . Well, that’s fine . . . (Through tears.) That’s fine . . . Astonishing people . . . Those Englishmen . . . Be well . . . God will help you—no matter . . . All things on earth eventually end . . . (Kisses LYUBOV ANDREEVNA’s hand.) And if you ever hear I’ve met my end, just remember that . . . horse and say: “On earth once lived the scoundrel . . . Simeonov‐Pishchik . . . God rest his soul . . . Magnificent weather . . . Yes . . . (Exits, deeply troubled and embarrassed, and says from behind the door.) My daughter, Dashenka, asked to be remembered! (Exits.)
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  Now we can go. Only two things still trouble me. The first is Firs—he’s ill. (Looks at her watch.) We can wait five more minutes. . .
 
ANYA:  Mama, Firs went to the hospital. Yasha sent him off this morning.
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  The other worry is Varya. She’s used to rising at dawn and getting straight to work, and now without work, she’s like a fish out of water. The poor thing has grown pale and thin, she cries all the time . . . (Pause.) You know this only too well, Yermolay Alekseich. I’ve always dreamed . . . I’d give you her hand, and everyone could see that someday, you two would be married. (Whispers to ANYA, who nods to CHARLOTTA. They both exit.) She loves you and you’re fond of her. It makes no sense to me why you keep missing each other. I don’t understand!
 
LOPAKHIN:  I don’t understand it, myself, to be honest. It’s all a bit weird . . . If there’s still time, then I’ll do my part . . . We’ll settle it once and for all—basta. But I don’t think I can make the proposal on my own.
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  Perfect. It won’t take more than a minute. I’ll call her in . . .
 
LOPAKHIN:  And there’s even some champagne left. (Looks at the glasses.) Empty, someone already drank it. (YASHA coughs.) I hope you were thirsty.
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA (exuberantly):  Splendid. She’s coming . . . Yasha, allez! I’ll call her in . . . (At the door.) Varya, drop everything and come in here. Come on! (Exits with YASHA.)
 
LOPAKHIN (looks at his watch):  Alright . . . (Pause.)
 
At the door one hears stifled laughter, whispers, finally VARYA enters.
 
VARYA (waits at the door for a long time):  That’s strange, I can’t find it anywhere . . .
 
LOPAKHIN:  Find what?

VARYA:  I packed it myself, and now I don’t remember where I put it. (Pause.)

LOPAKHIN:  So where are you headed now, Varvara Mikhailovna?
 
VARYA:  Me? The Ragulins . . . We agreed on a fee, they needed a housekeeper . . . And somebody to look after things, you know.
 
LOPAKHIN:  Is that in Yashnevo? That’s fifty miles from here. (Pause.) So life is over in this house . . .
 
VARYA (searches in the luggage):  Now where could it be . . . I must have packed it in a trunk . . . Yes, life is over in this house . . . Nothing here anymore . . .
 
LOPAKHIN:  And I’m headed to Kharkov now . . . On the same train as you. Lots of work. I’m leaving Yepikhodov in charge . . . I hired him.
 
VARYA:  What?!

LOPAKHIN:  Last year around this time snow was falling, if you remember, but now it’s clear and sunny. Only thing is the cold . . . Three degrees of frost.
 
VARYA:  I didn’t notice. (Pause.) Besides, our thermometer’s broken . . . (Pause.)
 
Voice from upstage door: “Yermolay Alekseich! . . .”
 
LOPAKHIN (as if he’d been expecting to be called for some time):  Coming! (Exits quickly.)
 
VARYA, sitting on the floor, lays her head in a bundle with a dress, quietly sobs. The door opens, LYUBOV ANDREEVNA carefully enters.
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  What happened? (Pause.) We’re leaving.
 
VARYA (she has stopped crying, wipes her eyes):  Yes, it’s time, Mama. I’ll make it to the Ragulins’ today, I just can’t miss the train . . .
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA (in the doorway):  Anya, get your things!

ANYA enters, then GAEV, CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA. GAEV is wearing a heavy overcoat with a hood. The servants and coachmen gather. YEPIKHODOV bustles by the stack of possessions.

Now we can be on our way.

ANYA (joyfully):  On our way!
 
GAEV:  My dear, beloved friends! As I leave this house for the last time, how can I hold my peace, how can I furl my tongue, and not give expression to those feelings as now are welling up within my breast . . .
 
ANYA (pleading):  Uncle!

VARYA:  Dear Uncle, stop!

GAEV (deflated):  Doublette off the yellow into the center . . . I am silent. . .
 
TROFIMOV enters, followed by LOPAKHIN.

TROFIMOV:  Well, ladies and gentlemen? Time to go!
 
LOPAKHIN:  Yepikhodov, my coat!
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  I’ll sit for one more minute. It’s as if I’m seeing these walls, this ceiling . . . all for the first time, and I love them so much . . . I want to look at them forever . . .
 
GAEV:  I remember when we were six years old, on Trinity Sunday, I sat at that window and watched as my father went to Mass . . . 
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  Did we forget anything?

LOPAKHIN:  Seems like everything. (To YEPIKHODOV, as he puts on his coat.) Yepikhodov, be sure you keep the place in order.
 
YEPIKHODOV (in a booming voice):  Rest assured, Yermolay Alekseich: I will!

LOPAKHIN:  What’s wrong with your voice?
 
YEPIKHODOV:  Drank some water, down the wrong pipe.
 
YASHA (suspiciously):  Simpleton.

LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  We’re leaving—and there won’t be a soul left behind . . .
 
LOPAKHIN:  Not until the spring arrives. (VARYA picks up an umbrella that’s leaning in a corner, pretends to swing it at him. LOPAKHIN pretends to be frightened.) Oh, no, no . . . that’s not what I meant.
 
TROFIMOV:  Ladies and gentlemen, come take your seats in the coach . . . It’s time! The train is on its way!
 
VARYA:  Petya, here they are—your galoshes, next to the luggage. (Through tears.) But they’re so dirty, so old . . .
 
TROFIMOV (putting on his galoshes):  We’re off, ladies and gentlemen!

GAEV (deeply troubled, afraid to cry):  The train . . . the station . . . doublette into the middle, bank the white into the corner pocket . . .
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  We’re going!

LOPAKHIN:  Is this everyone? Nobody in there? (Locks the stage-right door.) Here some items will be stowed, have to lock up the place. We’re off!
 
ANYA:  Goodbye, home! Goodbye, old life!

TROFIMOV:  Hello, new life! . . . (Exits with ANYA.)

VARYA looks around, lingers a moment, and exits. YASHA exits, then CHARLOTTA with her dog.

LOPAKHIN:  Until Spring, then. Let’s go, ladies and gentlemen . . . Until we meet again! . . . (Exits.)
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA and GAEV are left alone onstage. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for this, fall into one another’s arms and sob, with restraint, quietly, afraid of being heard.

GAEV (in despair):  My sister, my sister . . .

LYUBOV ANDREEVNA: Oh, my beautiful orchard! . . . My life, my youth, my happiness . . . Goodbye! . . . Goodbye! . . .
 
ANYA (from offstage, cheerful and inviting):  Mama! . . . 

TROFIMOV (from offstage, cheerful, excited): Hallo! . . . 
 
Just one more look at the walls, the windows . . . My mother loved walking through this room . . . 
 
GAEV: My sister, my sister! . . . 
 
ANYA (from offstage):  Mama! . . . 

TROFIMOV (from offstage):  Hallo! . . .
 
LYUBOV ANDREEVNA:  We’re coming! . . .

They exit. One can hear the doors being locked, then the sound of coaches departing. It’s quiet. Amid the silence, one can hear the dull thud of axes against the trees. It sounds forlorn and dismal. Footsteps are heard. From the stage left door, FIRS appears. He is dressed, as always, in a jacket and white waistcoat, slippers on his feet. He is sick. 
 
FIRS (approaches the door, tries the handle):  Locked. They’re gone . . . (Sits on the divan.) They forgot . . . Oh, well . . . I’ll sit down here . . . And Leonid Andreich of course forgot his overcoat, he’s got a jacket on . . . (Nervously sighs.) I didn’t notice . . . Green little tenderfoot . . . (Mumbles something unintelligible.) Life is over, like I never even lived at all . . . (Lies down.) I’ll lie down . . . No zip in these bones, nothing left, just nothing . . . Akh . . . you snifflewit! . . . (Lies motionless.)
 
Suddenly a distant sound, as if from the sky, the sound of a breaking string, dying away, mournful. Fades into silence. The only sound that can be heard is the distant thud of axes falling in the orchard.
 
THE END.

translated from the Russian by Graham Schmidt

The final act of The Cherry Orchard captures so much of what makes Chekhov unique. The scene between Lopakhin and Varya exemplifies a scene with trivial dialogue, but a subtext with incredible power. The characters discuss trifles like the weather, luggage, and trains; meanwhile, Varya’s life is shattered because Lopakhin decides, in the moment, not to propose marriage (the scene is often referred to as the “non-proposal scene” for this very reason). Nothing happens. Emphatically. Yet these spare words have staggering dramatic power in performance. I love this scene.  

Next: I read the play's final scene, in which we discover that Firs has been locked in the family home to die alone and forgotten, as a stinging condemnation of the entire cast of characters. An elderly, infirm man, Firs's vulnerability is matched only by his devotion to Ranyevskaya. She betrays him—they all do. Chekhov is often described as a dispassionate writer, but here I see his zeal for advocacy on behalf of the marginalized, the oppressed, the forgotten, and the dehumanized in society, coming through. After all, Chekhov himself was only two generations removed from enslavement. He would have identified with Firs, and had to be conscious of the fact that he often wrote about people who, under different historical circumstances, would have regarded Chekhov as property, disposable. 

The final word of The Cherry Orchard is a neologism. As far as anyone can tell, Chekhov coined it. Literally, Chekhov's word, “nedotyopa,” translates to something like “half-chopped dumb-dumb.” Other translations use “nitwit,” “silly-billy,” “nincompoop,” and the like, but to my ear, these all sounded stale. Context clues tell me that it's an expression of chiding affection that Firs uses, so it needed to feel ancient, but also be unusual enough to stick in the audience’s mind. It also needed to have enough weight to carry Firs’ overwhelming despair in the play’s final moment. It’s my sense that the play ends with a nonsense word (and a mysterious sound) because it has moved beyond language, into symbolism, the absurd. Almost another planet.

I made up “snifflewit.” I remember spending about a week turning over different sounds in my mouth, finding the long-short-long rhythm through a story my parents used to tell about me when I was learning to talk. They would ask me to try to pronounce my older brother’s teacher’s name and loved it when I struggled to say “Mrs. Smith.” It would come out “Miffuff Fmiff.” And so, that rhythm and sound lived in me already. I kicked around a few possibilities, then landed on “snifflewit.” It worked and resonated, and it makes the translation my own.

Anton Chekhov was a celebrated Russian writer whose work includes hundreds of beloved short stories, and a small body of plays that are among the most staged throughout the world. Born in 1860 into a poor family, Chekhov earned a scholarship to Moscow State University's medical school, beginning a medical practice he would continue until his untimely death from consumption in 1904. While Chekhov lived, his four major plays—The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, and The Cherry Orchard—earned him a reputation as the innovator of a new form of drama called realism. In the nearly one hundred and twenty years since his death, his plays have revealed themselves to be profound metaphors exploring the human condition, concerned with systems of power, class, human beings' capacity for cruelty, and their yearning for purpose and connection.

Graham Schmidt is a Brooklyn-based director and theater maker. From 2007 to 2015, he served as resident director of the company he founded, Breaking String Theater Co. (Austin, TX). Graham’s work with Breaking String included reimaginings of canonical plays (The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, The Cherry Orchard, Ghosts), international collaborations (Dulcey and Roxy at City Hall), contemporary and brand new American plays (The Beyoncé by Eliza Bent, Three, or the Sound of the Great Existential Nothingness by Timothy Braun, The How And The Why by Sarah Treem), and annual new plays festivals that he produced from 2011 to 2013. Graham has directed and developed work at institutions including the National Winter Playwrights’ Retreat, Off Center, Salvage Vanguard Theater, Lark Theatre, Ensemble Studio Theatre, and the Wild Project (NYC). He currently serves as associate director of Chay Yew's production of Cambodian Rock Band by Lauren Yee, M.F.A in directing, The University of Texas at Austin. His website can be found here.