THE CHEKHOV MACHINE

by

Matéi Visniec

Translated from the French

by

Jeremy Lawrence

Copyright ã2000 by Matei Visniec

All performance rights, including professional, amateur, stock, motion picture, radio,
television, recitation, public reading, etc. are strictly reserved. All inquiries
should be addressed to the author's agent:
Société des Auteurs et Compositeurs Dramatiques (SACD)
11 bis, rue Ballu, 75442 Paris cedex 09, France
Tel. 0033 - (0)1 40 23 44 44 Fax. 0033 - (0)1 40 23 45 58
E-mail : sabine.ledoux@sacd.fr ; international@sacd.fr

Original title in french : La Machine Tchekhov

Published by LANSMAN, 2001, Belgium
 2

Cast of Characters

CHEKHOV
THE PASSERBY
LOPAKHIN
ANFISA, the old maid
FIRS, the old valet
ARKADINA
TREPLEV
TUSENBACH
SOLYONY
UNCLE VANYA
LYUBA ANDREYEVNA RANYEVSKAYA
ANNA PETROVNA
The three doctors:
CHEBUTKIN, ASTROV, LVOV
The three sisters:
OLGA, MASHA, IRINA
BOBIK

The members of the cast each play a number of roles.

Minimum cast size: 5 women; 7 men.

First produced by La Comédie Française on Radio France Culture

Awarded a grant from the French Minister of Culture for a full stage production in 2002
 3

Anton Pavlovitch Chekhov – Russian author and doctor, born in 1860. He died of
pulmonary tuberculosis in 1904. His last play was “The Cherry Orchard”.

Anfisa – old housemaid, 80 years old, a character in “The Three Sisters” in which
she was persecuted by Natalia Ivanovna, the mother of Bobik.

The Passerby – a character in “The Cherry Orchard”. In the second act, he makes
his appearance while Mme. Ranyevskaya and her family watch the sunset,
and asks the way to the railway station; then, with ever perfect and polished
manners, he asks the customary thirty kopeks for a “starving Russian.”

Firs – a character in "The Cherry Orchard". He is the valet who served three
generations of masters in the Ranyevsky family; at the end of the play he is
left in the empty house by the family who goes to spend the winter in the
town.

Ermolai Alekseyevitch Lopakhin – a character in “The Cherry Orchard”. A rich

merchant, he is the buyer of Mme. Ranyevskaya’s cherry orchard. He
maintains an ambiguous relationship with her: “My father was a serf of your
father and your grandfather, but you have done so much for me that I have
forgotten all that; I love you as if we were family, more than family…” In his
letters Chekhov explains: “this isn’t a tradesman in the vulgar sense of the
word… this is without a doubt a tradesman, but also, in every sense, a man in
his own right.

Lyuba Andreyevna Ranyevskaya – a character in "The Cherry Orchard". The

mother of Grisha who died drowning, the woman who lost all in the name of
love (her fortune, her child). A broken, tragic destiny. She lives in a parallel
universe and prefers the descent to the ascent.

Irina Nikolayevna Arkadina – an actress, a character in “The Seagull”, the mother

of Treplev.

Konstantin Gavrilovitch Treplev – a young man, a character in the same play. He

fails at one suicide and repeats the attempt at the end of the play. “That is
the pain of having a famous actress as a mother, it seems to me that is she
was an ordinary woman, I would be happier.”

Nikolai Lvovitch Tusenbach – a character in “The Three Sisters”. A lieutenant, but

 4
also a baron. A romantic, he is in love with Irina. Solyony often mocks his
philosophical diatribes on the future of humanity, the necessity of work, etc.
Eventually he resigns from the army in order to begin finally “to work”. At the end
of the play, Irina has the premonition that Tusenbach has been killed in the
duel by Solyony.

Vassily Vasilyvitch Solyony – a character in “The Three Sisters”. The Battery

Commander, he is himself also madly in love with Irina. He speaks relatively
little, usually to mock Tusenbach. His sentences are, by their nature,
disconcerting to others. He frequently creates a little discomfort among the
guests of the three sisters. About Bobik, the son of Natasha and of Andrei he
says, “If this child was mine, I would fry it in the frying pan and eat it.”

Ivan Petrovitch Voinitsky "Vanya" – a character in "Uncle Vanya". The man who
blindly believes in the great destiny of his brother-in-law, the professor
Alexander Vladimirovich Serebryakov, a pretentious art critic. After his
unhappy awakening, after having destroyed his life, Uncle Vanya commits the
mad gesture of shooting two bullets at Serebryakov, but he misses.

Anna Petrovna (Sara) – a character in “Ivanov”. The wife of Ivanov, she meets
her end dying of pulmonary tuberculosis. Her end is precipitated by the
behavior of Ivanov who no longer loves her and who cannot hide the truth
from her.

Evgeny Konstantinovitch Lvov – “a young doctor of Zemstvo”, a character in

“Ivanov”, he is at the same time devoted to his profession and limited when
it’s a question of human psychology; in which respect he plays the role of the
Grand Inquisitor at the side of Ivanov (“Nikolai Alexeyevitch Ivanov, I
declare it here, in front of everyone, you are a coward!”. He is ready to fight a
duel with Ivanov the death of whose wife, Anna Petrovna (Sarah), he
considers the husband responsible. In the first part of the play, Lvov tries to
treat Anna Petrovna but also to open her eyes to the bad character of her
husband. It is understood that he is secretly in love with this woman
condemned to death by tuberculosis.

Ivan Romanovitch Chebutkin - a character in “The Three Sisters”; 60 years old.

He is a doctor who has both completely forgotten his profession and wasted
his life. “In reality, I haven’t accomplished anything, Since I left the
University, I haven’t lifted a finger; I haven’t even read a book, I only read
newspapers…” He pretends to have been madly in love with the mother of
the three sisters.
 5

Mikhail Lvovitch Astrov – a character in “Uncle Vanya”, a doctor very active,

confident in progress. “From morning to evening, always on the go. I don’t
know the meaning of rest…”; “I sit down, I close my eyes and I think of
those who will live one hundred, two hundred years after us and for whom we
are clearing the way.”

Olga, Masha, Irina – characters in “The Three Sisters”. Their dream never realized
is to leave the small provincial town which eats away their youth bit by bit
and move to Moscow where they hope finally to begin to “live”.

Bobik – the child of Natalia Ivanovna, the sister-in-law of the three sisters; a
character in “The Three Sisters”. The birth of Bobik overthrows the pattern of
life in the great family house. Bobik becomes the means for Natalia Ivanovna
to gain the prize of power at the Prozorovs.
 6

SCENE 1

CHEKHOV, PASSERBY, ANFISA

A room in shadow. The furniture suggests the bedroom of Chekhov’s home in

Yalta: an iron bed, a wooden table and chair, one leather armchair and one
in wicker, an old buffet, a rug at the foot of the be… A glass door half-hidden
by curtains so long that they caress the floor. A table lamp on the table.

CHEKHOV startled sits up in bed. A sudden gunshot.

CHEKHOV: Is that you Anfisa?

Pause. CHEKHOV sits motionless.

The face of the PASSERBY appears in the corner of one of the panes of the
glass door. It is the image of a ghost. He knocks softly on the glass.

CHEKHOV lights the table lamp, gets out of bed, puts on his dressing gown
and goes to open the glass door.

PASSERBY: Good evening. Sorry to bother you. I'm afraid I am absolutely

discombobulated. I'm looking for Nicholas Station. Would you be so kind as to
tell me, is this the way to the station? It's such a lovely evening... but all the
same, I must find the station. They told me that there’s still a ways to go, that
Nicholas Station is 17 versts from here... on foot, that is... But, how could that
be? Maybe they were all were mistaken. How could the station still be another
17 versts from here? [ Note: a verst =.6629 miles]

The passerby disappears without waiting for a response while ANFISA

makes her appearance behind CHEKHOV. A gas lamp in her hand, the old
servant is somewhat ghost-like (at least at first.) When he sees her,
CHEKVOV begins to cough.

ANFISA: How many times have I told you, Anton Pavlovich, “Don’t leave your
 7
bed”? Where on earth do you want to go? As it is, you have too many visitors.
All the time there is someone with you. Even foreigners. The whole world
comes knocking on your door at all hours of the day and night. It's not normal
for a sick man. There now, you're coughing again. The whole night you've been
coughing and spitting up blood. That’s not good. And on top of that, you keep
leaving your bed. You mustn’t leave your bed when you’re coughing like that
all night long and forever spitting up blood. How much more blood are you
going to spit? How much more blood do you have left in you?

CHEKHOV, deaf to ANFISA, washes his face in a porcelain basin. ANFISA

hands him a towel.

ANFISA: You have spit up so much blood, there can’t be any left in your veins. And
it's me who has to wash your linen. It's me who washes the sheets and
everything else. And you just don't know how hard it is to get blood out.
Washing out blood is as tough as it gets. Even grease stains are easier... And
it's all because you keep leaving your bed. That's not good that, no. As soon as
I doze off a little, you get up and start writing letters.
(She takes out a blood-stained page)
What use are all these letters? You receive too many letters to begin with, and
then you go and answer them all… it’s crazy. Yesterday, you vomited blood all
over the letter you were in the midst of writing. And today you want to recopy
it…
(She hands him the letter)
Here. It’s all dry, but you can't make out a word of it... It's not nice what you're
doing, Anton Pavlovich. It's not nice to mock an old woman of eighty years. I
can't get any rest, if I keep waking up. I really must sleep from time to time.
But as soon as I fall asleep, you start to scribble or you go off somewhere
wearing only your dressing gown.

CHEKHOV gestures kindly for ANFISA to pass him the coat which he puts on
with the help of his old servant.

ANFISA: It's not kind, Anton Pavlovich. You only have a few days to live, but as
soon as I fall asleep, you’re out of bed. I tell you, Anton Pavlovich, if I was
sick I would never let you take care of me. What kind of doctor are you, Anton
Pavlovich? Doctors are not supposed to spit up blood. How can you be a
doctor and spit up so much blood at the same time? What did they teach you at
the university anyway?

With another gesture, gentle but firm, CHEKOV asks ANFISA to pass him his
 8
hat then his umbrella. The old woman obeys without stopping her flood of
reproach.

ANFISA: Look, I didn't make it through school but nevertheless I have absolutely
positively arrived at the ripe old age of eighty. And God willing, some day I
will pass away peacefully in my bed without any pain. I won't be spitting up
blood. I won't cough. I won't annoy anyone... For now, while it’s true my feet
wear out more quickly these days, I am in good health. And God knows my life
hasn’t been easy. All my life I’ve been in the service of others. I've taken care
of a lot of sick people in my life, but never anyone like you, Anton Pavlovitch.
You don't listen to a single word I say. Anton Pavlovich, you are a very bad
patient.

CHEKHOV looks at himself in the mirror, coughs, gargles some medicine.

When he hears from outside a bizarre cry, perhaps the cry of a bird, he stands
for a moment, motionless, water in his mouth. ANFISA brings him his boots
and helps him put them on.

ANFISA: I have never seen a sick person as stubborn as you. Why do you always
get up to write? What could you still have left to write? You’re going to die
soon if you keep at it. It's not good, this. Why keep flogging a dead horse.
Enough is enough already. It’s finished. There's nothing more to write. Have
you no shame? Is it not enough that you've left your home to die in this foreign
country...?

CHEKHOV: Anfisa, please bring me my doctor’s bag.

ANFISA (who goes to look for the bag): Yes, Anton Pavlovich, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself, to die so young. How old are you? Look! Not even 44
and almost dead. At your age a man only starts to understand life... how really
to relish in it. But you! You're already on your deathbed. Shame on you, Anton
Pavlovich. Shame on you!
(She hands him his doctor's bag.)
You ought to have been a veterinarian... Better you should work with animals,
because, from what I’ve seen, as far as people are concerned, you’re hopeless.

CHEKHOV: Anfisa, how in God’s name, did you get here?

ANFISA: What would your mother say, dear Yevgenia Yakovlevna? What would your
sister Maria say? What would your brothers say? Aleksander, Nikolai, Ivan and
Mischa. What would they say? And on top of everything you are a doctor.
 9
Really, I don't understand it at all.

CHEKHOV: Anfisa, please bring me my doctor’s bag...

ANFISA: You are one sad story! If at least…

She starts off again towards the armoire to look for the case, but after
two steps she stops. “Hadn’t she already brought him the bag?” The
contradiction leaves her motionless, confused, disconcerted. Loud
military music is heard a little ways away, perhaps in the town square.
CHEKHOV leaves by the glass door.

SCENE 2

THE PASSERBY, LOPAKHIN

A road among demolished cherry trees.

PASSERBY: Sorry to disturb you… did you hear that?

LOPAKHIN: What?

PASSERBY: That noise…

LOPAKHIN: Ah, the noise.

PASSERBY: What could that have been?

LOPAKHIN: I don't know. I've been hearing it for the past two days, several times a
day… especially in the evening.

PASSERBY: It scared me a bit… There, again! Did you hear that?

LOPAKHIN: Yes.

PASSERBY: It’s not human. Oh no. It’s just my opinion mind you, but I have to say I
find this noise very strange indeed.

LOPAKHIN: You get used to it. I have. Especially in the evening. It repeats
 10
sometimes four or five times… And it's the same after nightfall. You hear it
again and again. But don't ask me what it could be. Maybe it comes from the
town.

PASSERBY: No, the town is too far away… And anyway it's not coming from that
direction… Not at all. More than likely, this noise comes from the sky. Is this
your property?

LOPAKHIN: Yes. You are on the lands of Ermolai Alekseyevich Lopakhin.

PASSERBY: Are you Lopakhin, the tradesman?

LOPAKHIN: Yes. Have we met before?

PASSERBY: No… Forgive me for following you, but your boots squeak quite loudly
and… I didn't mean anything by trailing you. They must be brand new… your
boots.

LOPAKHIN: Exactly whom are you looking for? And whom do I have the honor of
addressing?

PASSERBY: I am only a passerby. In fact I wanted to know if this is the right road to
Nicholas Station. I was told that one had to pass by a cherry orchard… They
told me that one could take a short cut through the cherry orchard… Well one
should never trust the moujiks… Everything they tell you is a lie. They told me,
“Look, you pass by the cherry orchard which is two versts from here… But the
more I walked, the further away the cherry orchard seemed to get… Or maybe
it simply disappeared. I've been walking for two hours. A little while ago I said
to myself, “Careful, this is how people lose their way at nightfall...” And these
strange noises! But happily I heard the squeaking of your boots… And I
allowed myself to approach you… So if you will allow me, may I ask… Is this
the way to Nicholas Station?

LOPAKHIN: Yes.

The whistling of a train in the distance.

PASSERBY: There. I must hurry... Although... I think I'm late in any case... Yes, I'm
sure I'm late. Do you by any chance have the time?

LOPAKHIN: No.
 11

PASSERBY: Yes, I'm sure I am late… And it's all because of the cherry orchard...
because I was looking for the cherry orchard.

LOPAKHIN: But you are in the cherry orchard... Only I had all the trees cut down...
Me, Ermolai Alekseyevich Lopakhin, I gave the order to cut down all the trees.
I was going to parcel the land up and build vacation cottages... Since the
station isn't far... they'd sell like hotcakes… Allow me to present myself...
Ermolai Aleksyevich Lopakhin... the king of the assholes, the biggest idiot of
them all... and to assist me I have an accountant, Semyon Panteleyevich
Epihodov... but I would never let him touch my books... Before he worked for
me, he was the accountant of the former owner of these lands, Lyubov
Andreyevna Ranyevskaya... Of course, since the whole family was ruined there
was nothing for him to keep track of... And with the sale of the cherry
orchard... he came into my service, me, Ermolai Aleksyevich Lopakhin... but I
do all the accounts myself... Why am I telling you this? Perhaps because you
are a passerby and as you are a passerby it means you are only passing by and
so I can confess to you. But maybe you are pressed for time.

PASSERBY: Not really...

LOPAKHIN: In any case I am the king of the assholes. I wanted the woman, and I
end up with her cherry orchard. Do you understand?

PASSERBY: No, but it doesn't matter.

LOPAKHIN: I am so happy that you are only a passerby. I would never have the
courage to confess to anyone else. Yes, I loved a woman and I ruined her... Just
as I took her clerk in spite of the fact that I had no need of him. I would never
let someone else even look at my books. But for an old moujik who made
good, that’s me, it seems only fitting that I go into town, to Kharkhov or
somewhere and brag, "I have an accountant." That's why I hired him so I could
brag in town to the other tradesmen, "I have an accountant". An accountant I
never let count. Not even for the stumps of the cherry trees. I counted them
myself. Do you know how many there were?

PASSERBY: No.

LOPAKHIN: Guess.

PASSERBY: Three hundred?

 12

LOPAKHIN: 879. In all, there were 879 cherry trees cut down. 879 It was the most
beautiful cherry orchard in the region... Even the great Encyclopedia of Russia
mentions this cherry orchard... Now, I think that they are going to have to
delete it from the Encyclopedia... ha, ha, ha... which is why I am telling you
that I am the king of the assholes... I might have offered her the cherry
orchard... I might have gotten down on my knees before her and confessed
everything to her... I might have said to her... Lyubov Andreyevna, I love you
like a fool... And because I love you like a fool, here I've bought your cherry
orchard and I offer it to you... And I don't want anything in exchange... I know
that I can never have your love but even so and for that very reason… here, I
make a gift to you of your own cherry orchard... Take it...
(To the PASSERBY.)
By the way, do you like cherries?

PASSERBY: Yes.

The strange noise is heard again.

PASSERBY: There it’s starting again.

LOPAKHIN: Yes, another round.

PASSERBY: It's coming from far away... That couldn't come from the town... no,
more likely from the sky... It’s like a cord that’s cut...

LOPAKHIN: Maybe it comes from a mine. A coal-tram breaking loose...

PASSERBY: It doesn't come from the belly of the earth. It comes from the sky...
Listen...

The noise comes again. The two listen in silence

LOPAKHIN: So, that’s why I am the king of the assholes... But how could I offer her
the cherry orchard when my father and all my ancestors had been serfs on this
property. How could I do it? I couldn’t... And so I tore the orchard down, as if I
tore her body down... tore down the beautiful Lyubov Andreyevna... who
would never be mine. The cherry orchard, yes, but never her... So there dear
sir, that’s what makes me the king of the assholes... I wanted the body of a
woman and I get a cherry orchard which I proceed to tear down, every tree…
all 879 of them… Oh it's done me good to talk to you about this... the pain will
 13
never go away... But it's better... I’m glad you were passing by.

PASSERBY: Well, I am going to leave you now. I must get to Nicholas Station. If this
is really the right way.

LOPAKHIN: Since you are a passerby, I imagine that you will never pass by this way
again. But nevertheless I wanted to ask you... Are you perhaps also a
tradesman?… Are you interested in buying a small parcel of land?

PASSERBY: No. Not at all... I'm only passing...

LOPAKHIN: Right. Passing. That’s good. Thank you for passing...The station is
there...You go straight ahead… through the fallen cherry trees... And to come
back, if ever you want to come back, you just take the same road only you go
in the opposite direction from the way you came. My directions are stupid but
easy to follow. I probably give the impression that I am a madman, but no, I’m
just the king of the assholes. The road lies there.

PASSERBY: I am most grateful.

(He coughs.)
In any case, the weather is superb. Last year at the end of October, there was
already snow on the ground... Well, I’m off. I leave you to count your cherry
trees.

The PASSERBY goes off. The strange noise repeats.

LOPAKHIN (calling after the PASSERBY): It must be a bird... a heron.

PASSERY: This noise is driving me to the limit... well the station’s not too far...

THE PASSERBY disappears.

LOPAKHIN (suddenly worried): Sir...Wait... Maybe it's an owl that cries... With the
cherry trees gone, maybe it’s a bird that doesn't know where to land… He's
gone... He didn't even ask me to lend him the customary thirty kopecks... Soon,
the sun will set... Did I count the trunks correctly? And these damned boots that
squeak, and squeak... Wait, maybe I should have told him, this noise, Mr.
Passerby, its the noise of the tree trunks trampled under my boots. Crying out
to the sky, up to the very heart of the celestial vault. And then the sky sends it
back to me as an echo and I hear them scream... Mr. Passerby, wait, the station
isn’t even built yet.
 14

He too moves away going off in the opposite direction.

SCENE 3

ARKADINA, TREPLEV, CHEKHOV

TREPLEV shirt off, a bandage around his chest is seated on a chair.

ARKADINA, standing behind her son, caresses him. In front of them,
standing, is CHEKHOV, his doctor's bag in his hand.

ARKADINA (to her son): Come now, you know that Anton Pavlovitch has a gentle
touch.

TREPLEV: No.

ARKADINA: Come now, Kostia, this is ridiculous.

TREPLEV: That's because I am ridiculous human being.

ARKADINA: Don’t be ridiculous.

TREPLEV: But I am.

ARKADINA: Kostia, my dear Kostia...You are my son... Look at me... Anton

Pavlovich stands there... He has been kind enough to oblige my request to
come… He is here to change your bandage and clean your wound...

TREPLEV: No. You do it.

ARKADINA: Kostia...

TREPLEV: I want you to do it. You! You haven't changed the dressing for two days
now... It will get infected.

ARKADINA: It will get infected only because you want it to get infected in order to
torture me some more.

TREPLEV: You know you're the only one who knows how to do it... And in spite of
that you haven't changed the bandage in two days.
 15

ARKADINA (to CHEKHOV): He has a fever. I am sure of it. But I can't take his
temperature because he broke the thermometer.
(To TREPLEV)
Why did you break the thermometer, Kostia? Kosta I asked you something.
Anton Pavlovich is asking you, why did you break the thermometer?

CHEKHOV mimes a gesture in protest, suggesting that he hadn't made

such a request.

TREPLEV: I'm thirsty. And this bandage smells foul. It makes me nauseous. And all
because you haven't changed it in two days.

ARKADINA: You are killing me, Kostia. You are killing me…
(To CHEKHOV.)
He's killing me... Really... The more desperate he sees me getting, the more he
tries to make me ill. First he botches all those suicides and then... he forces me
to take care of him like an infant...
(To her son.)
Kostia, why are you doing this to me?

TREPLEV: I want a glass of water. It stinks here, and all because of my wound.

ARKADINA: Come on, let Anton Pavlovich do his work. He has everything that is
necessary to clean the wound... In a few days you will be perfectly healed. Isn't
it true Anton Pavlovich? And then I am going to send you abroad. That's a
promise.

TREPLEV: I don't want to go anywhere.

ARKADINA: Yes you do. You're going to go abroad.

TREPLEV: No. I'm staying here.

ARKADINA: You can't stay here all your life.

TREPLEV: I'm staying. I'm staying. I'm staying. In any case, I'm going to die.

ARKADINA: No, Kostia you are not capable of dying. You are going to live if only
to torture me.
 16
TREPLEV: I'm going to die. I already stink of death. I must have broken a rib.

ARKADINA: That's because you never shoot where you’re supposed to, Kostia.
(To CHEKHOV.)
He always misses. First he wants to put a bullet through his head and he grazes
his ear. Then he wants to shoot himself in the heart and he nicks a rib.
(To TREPLEV.)
The heart is much further to the left, sweetheart. . .Don’t you know that?

CHEKHOV: Irina Nikoleyevna... Leave us alone a bit.

ARKADINA: All right... Certainly... Why not...

(She plants a kiss on the head of her son.)
You be good with Anton Pavlovich, all right? You really must cooperate with
the doctor, Kostia, and I mean it. “The first job of a patient is to want to get
better”, at least that’s what the medical books say.
(She presses a tender kiss on CHEKHOV's forehead.)
Isn’t that right, Anton Pavlovich?

CHEKHOV: Yes.

ARKADINA: Good bye, Anton Pavlovich. You will stay for dinner, won’t you?
(She leaves without waiting for a response.)

CHEKHOV: Konstantin Gavrlilovitch...

TREPLEV: I have nothing to say.

CHEKHOV: It's not...

TREPLEV: I have nothing to say to you. I am ridiculous human being, but at least I
accept the role and I will play it to the end. And anyway medicine doesn’t have
a remedy for the kind of wound I have. Because even I myself don’t know
what kind of wound this is. When one feels an immense void in one's soul, is
that a wound? When one doesn’t want to leave this world and one doesn’t want
to accept it, but instead wants to live between the two worlds like a ghost come
back from the dead. What kind of wound causes that? What can medicine do,
poor little medicine, against the emptiness that pushes you to wander endlessly
around life and around death, without having the strength to take on one or the
other?
 17
CHEKHOV: Calm yourself, Konstantin Gavrilovich, I have no intention of giving you
an answer.

CHEKHOV begins to unwrap the bandage that surrounds Treplev's

chest. He does it with a light hand and with a certain gracefulness.

TREPLEV: So, why have you come? I am not sick like the rest of your patients... I
botch my suicides because my very being is ridiculous. But one fine day, I will
stop being ridiculous. And if my mother asked you to come here to convince
me to stay ridiculous so that I continue to make a ridiculous mess of my
suicides, don’t bother, it’s a waste of your time.

CHEKHOV (who examines the bandage stained with blood): I haven't come to ask
you to continue to be ridiculous. I have come simply to spend some time with a
colleague.

TREPLEV: Colleague? What do you mean by that?

CHEKHOV (he leans over the wound and sniffs it): I read your article in the Saint
Petersberg Gazette and I was terribly impressed. You have talent, Konstantin
Gavrilovich. You have received a gift from heaven, one not given to everyone:
talent. You were chosen over millions of other human beings.
(He sniffs the bandage as well.)
This gift must be respected. One must accept it as a joy and at the same time as
a burden... Thanks to your talent, your life is already charged with meaning,
while millions of others are still in the dark searching for some sense of
purpose in their life...

With a quick but gentle move, CHEKHOV pulls off the bandage.

TREPLEV: Ouch!

CHEKHOV: May I give you some advice, Konstantin Gavrilovich?

TREPLEV: Again? Has my mother put you up to this again?

CHEKHOV (who opens his case and starts to take out the instruments necessary to
clean the wound): When you write about the misfortunate, the unlucky, for
example... and you want the sympathy of the reader... try to be more cold
...That gives the distress of others a kind of backdrop against which they stand
 18
out in bold relief. In your work, for the moment, when the heroes cry, you sigh
with them. Be colder That's what I want to say to you, be more cold.

TREPLEV lights a cigarette. CHEKHOV start to wash TREPLEV’s

wound with a touch of tenderness.

CHEKHOV: If you want to be a writer, a writer in the deepest sense of the word,
protect your independence at any price. Your duty is to ask questions, not to
resolve them. Avoid sneaking sermons into your work. Don't even try to send a
message. The writer who wants to send a message at any price distorts the
work. Show life without trying to prove anything. It is the writer who must be
at the service of the character and not the character who is at the service of the
writer.
(He puts ointment on TREPLEV’s wound.)
The moment you intervene and start judging your character, the game is over,
all bets are off. No one wants to play once they see that you’ve stacked the
deck. Your reader will either stop reading, or read on in disgust. The worst
thing a writer can do is act as his characters’ judge, executioner, protector or
interpreter. The more visible you become, the more your character disappears.

(He puts a new dressing on TREPLEV.)

You end by impoverishing him, by stealing his personality and finally by killing
him. On the other hand, the more you disappear behind him, the more he
lives… and the more you give him the chance to live, the more he becomes a
true character in flesh and blood with the chance to live on long after you.
Because literature, Konstantin Gavrilovich, great literature is also a race
against death. The closer you come to creating true emotion, the further away
death recedes... If you want to tell a story, right from the beginning take the
position of a neutral observer. That way, you have at least a chance of creating
something truly stirring. If you have talent, and you do have talent, your story
will be moving without being sentimental. It will touch the whole world solely
by its simplicity and its truth.
(CHEKHOV has finished his work.)
There!

TREPLEV: Thank you, Anton Pavlovich. Will you stay for dinner?

CHEKHOV wants to wash his hands. TREPLEV pours him some water.

CHEKHOV (as he washes his hands): And pay attention to style as well. Be very
careful not to over-polish your text, otherwise you will flatten it. And also, you
 19
shouldn't tire the reader with a style that is too dense. I will give you an
example. When I write "The man sits in the grass" my sentence is easy to
understand. It is clear and it doesn't attract attention to itself. But if I write, " A
large man of medium stature with a narrow chest and red hair sits in the green
grass already crowded with people out for a stroll, silently throwing looks that
are frightened and full of fear" my sentence is altogether too ponderous and
difficult to understand. The reader can’t take it in. And literature must enter
one’s thoughts all at once, in an instant.

TREPLEV hands CHEKHOV a white towel all prepared.

CHEKHOV: That's why I say to you, write only when you are very clear. One should
only set out to write when one is cold as ice.

CHEKHOV coughs. TRPLEV extinguishes his cigarette. A strange

noise makes itself heard in the garden. The both turn their head in the
direction from which the noise came.

SCENE 4

NIKOLAI LVOVICH TUZENBACH and VASILLI VASILLIEVICH SOLYONY.

Then the PASSERBY and CHEKHOV.

A field. One hears crickets maybe or perhaps the imperfect silence that
emanates from fields when all the noises of the countryside come
together, creating a musical synthesis in the mind of the one who
listens. It's an obsessive music or rather a buzzing/ringing music hardly
perceptible thanks only to the tremendous effort of the listener.

TUSENBACH: Vassili Vassilievich, before the arrival of our witness, will you permit
me to tell you one last thing...?

SOLYONY: To tell you the truth, Nikolai Lvovich, I'd rather play a hand of cards.

TUSENBACH: You are a real fool, Vassili Vassillievich. You have always been a real
fool and you remain a real fool. Nevertheless, I would like to tell you one last
thing before...

SOLYONY: All right, tell me, Nikolai Lvovich. Tell me, if it makes you feel better. I
 20
am a real fool anyway you look at it, so it makes no difference to me.

TUSENBACH: All I wanted to say was...

SOLYONY: Say what you want but just don’t embarrass yourself. Promise me you
will maintain your dignity no matter what.

TUSENBACH: Have no fear, Vassili Vasillievich, I have no intention of asking you

for anything. All I want to say to you is that... I don't hate you, Vassili
Vasillievich.

SOLYONY: You don't hate me...

TUSENBACH: No, I don't hate you.

SOLYONY: It’s the same to me, Baron, whether you do or not.

TUSENBACH: Yes, but I had to let you know, from the bottom of my heart. I don't
hate you.

SOLYONY: I appreciate your sincerity, Baron.

TUSENBACH: I just had to let you know.

SOLYONY: But it changes nothing.

TUSENBACH: No. But I had to tell you.

SOLYONY: Well, in that case, I just have to tell you, I don’t hate you either.

TUSENBACH: So, bravo!

SOLYONY: You don’t say.

TUSENBACH: But I do. Bravo. I say “bravo!”

SOLYONY:" Bravo"? What do you mean by that?

TUSENBACH: I don't know. All of this suddenly struck me as very amusing, so I

said bravo. It just came out. “Bravo.”
 21
SOLYONY: But, my dear Baron, I don't find all this very amusing. In a few minutes
you will, perhaps, be dead by my hand. There’s nothing amusing about that.

TUSENBACH: On the contrary, Captain, at the onslaught of eternity, it's definitely

amusing. Think about it a bit. Before the infinity of uselessness, our actions,
even our words… Oh it’s very definitely amusing.

SOLYONY: Stop talking, Nikolai Lvovich. This kind of thinking can only lead to
embarrassment.

TUSENBACH: I don't hate you, Captain, but the thing that fascinates me is that while
I truly don’t hate you, I really want to kill you. Can you explain that to me,
Captain? Is the human mind able to explain that, Captain?

SOLYONY: Do not confuse the human mind with the Russian mind. The Russian
brain doesn't think like other brains. Our brain drowns in the almost infinite
space of our mother Russia. And that’s why the Russian soul is so unhappy.
Because, and this is our great paradox, we can't get enough air. The Russian
brain is like a drowning man, gasping for air, drowning in the infinite space of
its homeland, suffocating from the moment it first begins to think. But you,
Baron Tuzenbach, you are only half Russian. so you can't understand this. It's
much easier for me to kill you than to explain the mystery and the misery of the
Russian soul to you...What a beautiful day it is today, Nikolai Lvovich... Do
you hear this cawing? It’s rather bizarre, is it not? Today it is so beautiful and
tomorrow it's going to rain. Now, that is what I can’t understand for anything
in this world.

TUSENBACH: Come on, admit it. You want to kill me too despite the fact that you
don't hate me.

SOLYONY: You are the true madman, Nikolai Lvovich. Me I am only a Russian
officer who is bored to death with being a Russian, in general; and a Russian
officer, in particular. But there is something that I find funny in all this, and it’s
that the world will think we fought over a woman.

TUSENBACH: We are both caught up in the same circle of folly, Captain. We are
irreparably caught up in a circle which hems us in on all sides and which
tightens around us, which grips us and we... there is no other exit except by
death... unless...

SOLYONY: It isn’t cawing, really... It's more like chirping... or else... What could be
 22
worse than death?

TUSENBACH: What could be worse? What I said... madness... true madness... The
madness that sees things exactly as they are. It threatens us all… Do you know
what this lucid lunacy is? It's like the kind of nightmare when you know you’re
having a nightmare and you’re desperately trying to wake up out of it, but you
can’t... That is supreme suffering… To know that one is... and... Do you have
some tobacco, Captain? In order to get here on time, I left so quickly I left my
tobacco with Irina. And I want a smoke.

SOLYONY takes out the tobacco. They both roll cigarettes. SOLYONY
lights their cigarettes. The two smoke in silence.

SOLYONY (listening to the birds on the plain): That must be a blackbird.

TUSENBACH (referring to the tobacco): It's good. Where did you buy it?

SOLYONY: It’s from my brother in law. He travels to Europe a lot. He’s a merchant.

TUSENBACH: I didn't know you had a sister.

SOLYONY: So I have a sister... so what

TUSENBACH: Nothing. I only said I didn't know that...

SOLYONY: What difference does it make if one has a sister or a mother, or a sick
father or a niece who has lost both parents and who now is in your care or
worse still... a... I don't know... .

TUSENBACH: Don’t upset yourself, I don’t want to talk about all that. It makes no
difference, at all. It serves no purpose whatsoever.

SOLYONY: What’s your point then? It really upsets me to hear the word "bravo"
come out of your mouth.

TUSENBACH: I have no point. I only said I thought your tobacco is good. Very
good even. In any case I like it a lot.

SOLYONY: Take the whole packet. I make it a gift to you.

TUSENBACH: No.
 23

SOLYONY: Yes.

TUSENBACH: No, It's not normal.

SOLYONY: Normal. Nothing’s normal at a time like this. You would take it if I die,
wouldn't you?

TUSENBACH: No, especially not if...

SOLYONY: Then, I'll keep it.

Silence. They smoke. The PASSERBY arrives. He seems exhausted but

determined to finish his journey.

PASSERBY: Good day, officers. Sorry to disturb you. I know that you are busy. You
smoke... You have things to say... In any case, I have no intention of stopping
here. I know that Nicholas station is over there, so I'm not going to ask you. I
am only going to pass by, I am going this way because Nicholas Station is this
way... Good bye dear friends. A passerby... ”a starving Russian” as the great
Russian writer says, salutes you.

The PASSERBY disappears. A new moment of silence.

TUSENBACH: He should have been here already.

SOLYONY: No, we’re just early.

They smoke in silence.

TUSENBACH: You see the fir tree over there, Captain?

SOLYONY: Which one ?

TUSENBACH: The one that’s taller than the rest.

SOLYONY: Yes.

TUSENBACH: It's astonishing, it 's young but it's already taller than the others. It
must be sick.
 24
SOLYONY: What makes you think it must be sick?

TUSENBACH: Because it's too young to be so tall.

SOLYONY: So?

TUSENBACH: So the first storm of winter will break it. Still it lifts itself above the
rest in spite of its fragility. It will be the first victim of the passion of living...
But look who’s here, it’s Anton Pavlovich.

CHEKHOV makes his appearance equipped with his case.

CHEKHOV: Excuse me, Baron, excuse me Captain... I'm late, I know, I had to take
care of a patient. Everyone gets sick this time of year. This morning I woke up
and the moujiks were already lining up for me in front of the house. The
situation is becoming intolerable. Well, that's why I'm late.

TUSENBACH: Not to worry, Anton Pavlovich. We used the time to chat a bit, to get
to know each other better. Isn't that right, Vassili Vassilievich?

SOLYONY: Yes. We bared our souls to each other...

CHEKHOV: I’m relieved, I was a feeling a little guilty because...

SOLYONY: Come, Nikolai Lvovich... You can see that Anton Pavlovich is pressed
for time.

CHEKHOV opens the case from which the duelers each choose a
pistol.

CHEKHOV: When you wish, Sirs.

The two officers walk the ten paces then turn to face each other.

CHEKHOV: Fire at will, Vassili Vassilievitch you are first.

SOLYONY: It really irritates me this chirping... In your opinion, Anton Pavlovitch is it

a blackbird or a wagtail.

TUSENBACH: (furious) Shoot, I beg you... Shoot... Vassili Vassilievich.

 25
A gun fires. Blackout.

SCENE 5

CHEKHOV, FIRS.

In the black, CHEKHOV lights a lamp. FIRS is seated in a leather

armchair. He seems asleep but the lamp startles him.

FIRS: Who is it?

CHEKHOV: It's me.

FIRS: Oh it's you... You have returned, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: I never left, Firs.

FIRS: Ah... you never left... It's kind of you to visit me. You see what they did to me?

CHEKHOV (he takes out the packet of tobacco that we saw in the last scene in the
hands of SOLYONY): Here, I brought you a little tobacco.

FIRS: But how do you do it, Anton Pavlovitch, how do you manage to come back
each time after everyone else leaves without any one seeing you?

CHEKHOV: This room needs airing out.

FIRS: You see how they forgot me.

CHEKHOV: Yes.

FIRS: That really makes me laugh. I should have left with them. Everything was
ready. I had put all the bags in the carriage and at the last moment... Hop! They
go without me... And so now... they must be already 30 versts from here and it
still hasn’t occurred to them that I'm not with them... Don't you find it a bit
queer?

CHEKHOV: Yes.
 26

FIRS: Because it was very well understood... It was clear... I was to go with Madame
Ranyevskaya and with Gaev and everyone from the estate... And yet they
forgot me... And not because there was no space in the carriage... No. Did you
pass them, maybe?

CHEKHOV: No, Firs, I didn't pass them. I only came upon a passerby who wanted to
know where the station was.

FIRS: And really it’s all my fault. Instead of saying, "Here I am, don't forget me,” I
doze off. But perhaps it’s not all my fault, after all, I am of a certain age. It's
been 50 years that I have been in the service of the family.

CHEKHOV: Firs, there's no air here. I can't breathe in this room.

FIRS: Yes, Anton Pavlovich. Right away.

He opens the shutters. From another side, there appears as if leaving a

magic box a group of characters frozen, one might say, like statues of
wax. They are the characters from the last scene of THE CHERRY
ORCHARD before their departure: Madame Ranyevskaya, Gaev,
Lopakhin, Yasha, Varya, etc. Their faces are stuck to the panes. They
have the look of having plunged into the void.

CHEKHOV: Wait, I have also brought some tea.

FIRS: Then I will light the samovar. How happy I am to see you again, Anton
Pavlovich. So, will you stay until spring as usual?

CHEKHOV: I don’t know.

FIRS: It’s all right, Anton Pavlovitch. It's just fine. No one will annoy you here... No
one... Well, no one ever comes here in winter. And one will have time to.

CHEKHOV: Time to do what, Firs?

FIRS brings the samovar in on a rolling cart.

FIRS: Time to take one's time, that's all I wanted to say... Time to do nothing, nothing
but to take one's time... and to...
 27
CHEKHOV: I'm cold. I'm going to get some wood. We must light a fire.

FIRS: Don't move, Anton Pavlovich, I will take care of it. I'm not as brittle as all
that... I'm only 87... And I can still bring in the wood… I make a lot more trips
that's all. In any case, I am going to close the window.
(He closes the shutters and thus makes the group of frozen characters
disappear.)
You're always cold... Did you finally go to see a doctor?

CHEKHOV: Yes.

FIRS: And what did he tell you?

CHEKHOV: He told me to make a cure of mare's milk.

FIRS (carrying in a log): Yes that's good... He told you to do what?

CHEKHOV (seated in the leather armchair): He told me to drink some mare's milk.

FIRS: And... why not?

FIRS brings in a second log.

CHEKHOV: Is there sugar, Firs?

FIRS: In the armoire, there...

(He starts towards the buffet but stops midway, confused.)
Do you know what I was thinking about before you came? Here, in the dark,
before you came, you know what I was thinking about?

CHEKHOV: What were you thinking about?

FIRS: I was wondering, Anton Pavlovitch, why we are all so unhappy...

CHEKHOV: We? us?... who?

FIRS: All of us... All men, Mankind...

CHEKHOV: And is there an answer?

FIRS: Yes.
 28

CHEKHOV: Well then... why?

FIRS: It's perhaps because it’s getting close to the end of times...

FIRS, who is in search of the sugar opens the armoire. The armoire
works like a magic box, in the interior one sees TUZENBACH and
SOLYONY, revolvers in hand, shirts stained with blood. They are
devoid of all expression, frozen like wax statues. SOLYONY holds in his
hand a box of sugar. FIRS takes the box, closes the doors of the
armoire and returns to CHEKHOV and the samovar.

FIRS: Each time we approach a round number, it's like a part of time which ends...
That’s how it goes... Time ends, but men never accomplish a thing. That's to
say that man, he has dreams. He dreams and then he is swallowed up by his
dreams. That's it. What good is it to dream then... In the end it's even funny...
Me, I am nothing more than an old valet, but I cannot stop myself from
observing what goes on.

CHEKHOV: You are a real philosopher, Firs.

FIRS: Not at all, Anton Pavlovich... Far from it... But look, everyone is unhappy...
The moujiks are unhappy, the masters are unhappy... Serf or master, man is
made like that, he dreams. And he believes his dreams can come true. And he
searches for ways to make that happen. And, in the end, that makes him
afraid, because dreams are like tortoises... they move very slowly and their
shells are very hard... And nothing can get through the shell. Or to get through
it, it will take a lot of hard work. And the thing about hard work is that it
prevents one from dreaming. It’s very annoying. So man is like a samovar who
teems with dreams, and as soon as he starts to work, he becomes unhappy... he
gets nervous... and he makes a mess of everything. It's because of that, that
wise men don't even try to make their dreams come true, because they know
already that this work can never be accomplished. So Anton Pavlovitch,
because you write stories, I ask you, who ought to do the work instead of man.
That's what I want to know.

CHEKHOV: I don’t know, Firs.

Meanwhile. FIRS has prepared tea. He serves the tea. Both men stir the
tea in their cups.
 29
FIRS: Why did you study medicine?

CHEKHOV: You know, Firs, I have two men inside of me or rather two beings. One
is the doctor, the other is the patient... Maybe that’s the reason I studied
medicine. Or if not, I don't know. Perhaps because I wanted, like all cultivated
young men of my generation, to be useful, to live among the people, to help the
unfortunate... to help the backward Russian people, sick from their own
ignorance... But, this patient in me held back the doctor in me. Already as a
child, I was sick. And then one day, I started coughing up blood... And in this
way, the doctor and the patient have had to learn to get along with one another,
sharing the same body, the same heart, at the same time. I have always felt
them in me, these two... All my life, they have been lying in wait for one
another. All my life, squabbling with each other. All my life, the mistrust
between them has always remained... Never, never has the patient truly trusted
the doctor... But really, I was a good doctor. I had, as they say “the eye”... You
remember Potapenko's eczema... It was me who prescribed the medicine that
cured him after he had been martyred by a horde of specialists... And Miss
Knipper who suffered from peritonitis, it was me who prescribed for her the
diet... But for me, for my sufferings, I have seldom known how to prescribe the
appropriate medicines. Or perhaps my suffering was of a different kind. All the
same, the most ordinary germs have finished me off. What I could do for
others, I could not do for myself. For all the time they’ve been together inside
of me, my doctor and my patient never made a very good team. How old are
you Firs?

FIRS: 87.

CHEKHOV: 87 You see, you are twice as old as I am, Firs. And me, me, I am going
to die in a few months while you. Firs, you are going to live another two long,
beautiful years .

FIRS: How do you know, Anton Pavlovich?

CHEKHOV: I have the gift of predicting how long someone is going to live... My
mother for instance... She is going to live almost as long as you. She is going to
reach 85, I'm sure of it. And my sister is going to live still longer, she is meant
to reach 95 at least. That’s how it is...

FIRS, who has fallen asleep in his armchair, snores softly.

 30

SCENE 6

CHEKHOV, UNCLE VANYA

CHEKHOV seated at a table, a heap of documents in front of him UNCLE

VANYA enters dressed as a convict, with chains on his feet.

CHEKHOV: Last name, first name, age.

UNCLE VANYA: Ivan Petrovitch Voynitsky, your Noble Highness. But everyone
calls me Uncle Vanya. I am 54 years old, you Noble Highness. I have been
convicted of murdering a corpse.

CHEKHOV: Don’t call me. “your Noble Highness.” My name is Anton Pavlovitch
Chekhov and I am a doctor. I’ve come here to write about the labor camp and
the life of the convicts.

UNCLE VANYA: I know your noble highness. Everyone talks about you. It’s
extremely rare to have someone interested in us. It’s said that you are also a
writer. You’ve already interrogated some thousand inmates, but also the
colonists and even the prostitutes and the escapees… Soon there won’t be
anyone who hasn’t answered your questions. Aren’t you tired, your noble
highness, of listening to the same responses all the time. Because everyone
here considers themselves innocent.

CHEKHOV: Where do you come from, Ivan Petrovitch? It seems to me that you are
an intellectual, but yet you are not a political prisoner…

UNCLE VANYA: No, your Noble Highness, I am not all that educated, although in
my youth I did study. I myself have had, like many young people of my
generation, ideals, the desire to change the world… only to end up out in the
country acting as cruelly towards the serfs as those that I wanted to fight…
Forgive me for calling you, you noble highness… Here at the camp, if one
does not want to get beaten to a pulp, one must call the guards “your Noble
Highness” or “your Excellency”. O I am not an educated man… on the
contrary, I am here because I have killed someone who considered himself an
educated man, an intellectual, a man of brilliance… I am here, your Noble
Highness, because I killed a corpse named Aleksander Vladimirovitch
 31
Serebryakov.

CHEKHOV: What is you sentence, Ivan Petrovitch?

UNCLE VANYA: I have been condemned to fifteen years of hard labor for having
killed with two shots of a revolver a retired professor of the university, a
certain Aleksander Vladimirovitch Serebryakov. Have you never heard of this
Aleksander Vladimirovitch Serebryakov, your Noble Highness?

CHEKHOV: No, I don’t think so.

UNCLE VANYA: Even so, he wrote a certain number of articles about Art… In
fact, all his life he wrote articles about Art, articles which today no one
remembers. There you have it. But are you not a regular reader of literary
journals, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: Yes I’ve always read the literary journals.

UNCLE VANYA: And yet, the name of Aleksander Vladimirovitch Serebryakov

means nothing to you?

CHEKHOV: No, nothing.

UNCLE VANYA: then I did well to kill him.

Pause. CHEKHOV takes out a flask of cognac.

CHEKHOV: Would you like a little? It’s cognac, very good cognac. A friend of mine
gave it to me in Moscow at Yaroslavl Station, the day I left. He made me
swear not to touch it until I arrived at the edge of the Pacific.

UNCLE VANYA drinks.

UNCLE VANYA: Ah! That reminds me that happiness exists. Because for us
inmates, happiness is reduced to a very few things… a hot plate of food
which tastes like something, a glass of vodka that has not been tampered
with, a good night of sleep someplace warm, a pair of boots that aren’t
cracked… That’s what makes for happiness here on Sakhalin Island… the ass
hole of our mother Russia… To us, Anton Pavlovitch!

CHEKHOV: To us!
 32

UNCLE VANYA: Your are an exceptional man, Anton Pavlovitch. Frankly, I don’t
understand why you have traveled 10,000 versts to come to here to us…
What are you researching?… It’s hard to believe that the hardship of convicts
interests you to the point of ruining your health… You don’t look well, Anton
Pavlovitch… You ought to leave here quickly. This place is bad for everyone,
executioners as well as victims. But perhaps you have run out of inspiration,
Anton Pavlovitch? That’s why you have had the kindness of making this visit?
Tell me, is this fascinating to you, to mix with all these criminals, these
rapists, all these illiterate brutes, these incurable monsters?

CHEKHOV: No, I don’t think so.

UNCLE VANYA: Or rather, is this a love story? Hmmm? Come on admit, dear
author, that you have fled a love that can never be, a woman beyond your
reach, a face, pure and soft whose image has come to be a physical torture for
you.

CHEKHOV: I don’t know…

UNCLE VANYA: If you have descended into hell to flee a woman, that I can
understand… Because I, myself, could no longer endure seeing a pure soul
wither at the side of a pitiful, fatuous dried-up old man. Why are you
laughing, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: Because I have just left behind me in Moscow, a woman, who as you
say, believed truly to be the cause of my decision to disappear to this
monstrosity of geography and humanity that is Siberia. It’s good for her to
believe that, I think. In fact, the day before I left I was almost cynical
enough to send her my photo with the dedication. “To the excellent creature
who has made me flee to Sakhalin” But I doubt that she would be capable of
getting the irony of my words.

He hands him the flask.

Help yourself, Ivan Petrovitch. Would you like a little tobacco as well?

UNCLE VANYA drinks.

UNCLE VANYA: Thank you, Anton Pavlovitch. I will not forget you. There are
some convicts who, upon arrival at the camp, rediscover God in a flash…
 33
Me, I still have yet to meet God… Perhaps because I haven’t searched very
hard… But I am content, now having met you, yes you. Because of this I am
going to make a terrible confession to you. You know Anton Petrovitch, that
you have before you, a happy convict. I am perhaps the only happy convict
who is rotting here. If that can nurture our literature, then note it in your
notebook. I have killed, yes, I have killed a man, an old man and I am glad of
it What do you think of my words, Anton Pavlovitch. Do you think I am
insane?

CHEKHOV: No, you are not insane, Ivan Petrovitch. It is the workings of the
human soul that is insane. That is where one must find all the answers. But
how do you search through the inner workings of human clockwork without
breaking its springs? That is the problem of all science which concerns itself
with human beings.

UNCLE VANYA: So you believe me then?

CHEKHOV: Yes, I believe you. The human soul does not have a monolithic
structure, it is made up of contradictions. That’s how the same person can
have an expression as base as it is noble. Baseness does not crowd out
nobility, genius does not reduce stupidity and cruelty does not exclude
tenderness in the inner workings of mankind.

UNCLE VANYA: So then, you understand, Anton Pavlovitch, that I could kill e a
man without the least regret in my soul. Really now, after seven years of hard
labor, I am proud to the depths of my soul of having done it. Sometimes I
speak with him, with this poor Serebryakov, the husband of my sister. In any
case he loved to philosophize. “I don’t know if one has he right to deprive
another man of his life. It is only God, perhaps who has the right to do this,
but I have taken your life all the same. Since I don’t believe in God, I have
taken your life, my poor Serebryakov, in my own name. I have taken your life
because your hollow life as a man had poisoned my own.. I have taken your
life at the end of your long migraine of an existence, because you had ruined
the life and fortune of my sister.” Then he says to me, because he so likes to
philosophize, “ Yes, but even if one kills, I don’t think one has the right to be
happy that one has killed.” So I respond, “Well, all I can say is that I have
taken your life, and I am happy for it. You have to admit,” I tell him, “that
you never believed that I would have the courage to do it”… And you know
how he reacted when I said that?

CHEKHOV: He laughed.
 34

UNCLE VANYA: Bravo! You win. How did you know?

CHEKHOV: I knew because he is not an idiot.

UNCLE VANYA: No, he is not an idiot, far from it.

(Abruptly he addresses SEREBRYAKOV)
You are not an idiot, Serebryakov, that’s for sure, you are no idiot. You made
us believe for twenty years that you were a man of importance, a superior
spirit, a man who lives in another world, the world of ideas, of beauty, of the
future of man. Everyone waits on you, me, my sister, my mother, and your
daughter, that you came one day to say to us , “Look how I have laid the
ground work for you… this space of light is now yours, your sacrifice is not
in vain, I have done important things for humanity”… And instead of that, you
have left behind you thousands and thousands of articles on art which no one
reads, no one understands and which the world couldn’t give a damn about.
Here’s why, I say that you were already a corpse when I tool your life,
Serebryakov… You had already been dead for a long time, drowning in your
useless articles, in the masquerade of your life that you pretended to dedicate
to the Arts and to Science. For twenty years, I have worked for you, me and
all my family. My sister, for whom I have renounced my part of the
inheritance, adored you, my mother adored you… Your daughter Sonya, she
too has grown in the adoration of your person… And then my sister died, and
you get married without delay to a young woman, a marvelous woman, pure
sincere, who also is set on adoring you. And me, I have continued to work
for you, to run the property which had belonged to my sister and which
belongs to you now, and to send you money… for your pretentious studies,
your pretentious research, your pretentious books… And even after the death
of my sister, I always saw in you my reason to exist, a sort of metaphysical
Savior, that in some way would justify my time on earth before God and all
humanity. And one day, the void that was in you went bang! The void
exploded. The day when you came to see us in the countryside, and when you
asked us to sell this earth which had sucked up all my energies, all my youth,
all my beliefs… And then, dear Serebryakov, I killed you with two bullets in
the chest. Boom! Boom! And I felt so much weight lifted from me. Do I have
the right Anton Pavlovitch, to feel such relief as a murderer.

CHEKHOV: I don’t know, Ivan Petrovitch, I don’t know.

UNCLE VANYA (to SEREBRYAKOV): Do I have the right Herr Professor, to feel
such relief as the murderer of the corpse that you were.
 35
(Pause. To CHEKHOV.)
Hear that?

CHEKHOV: He didn’t say anything.

UNCLE VANYA: He is silent. When I ask him this question, he is always silent.
And nevertheless, he knows I don’t hate him. I didn’t kill him with hate. Or
do you believe that I hate him, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: No you don’t hate him. You were secretly in love with his young wife,
perhaps, but you didn’t hate him.

UNCLE VANYA: I have drunk too much, Anton Pavlovitch. I am sick to my

stomach. The polluted vodka, that doesn’t make me feel ill, but a good cognac
after seven years of hard labor, that makes me ill… I will leave you Anton
Pavlovitch. There are other murderers, other assassins waiting behind me…
who want to speak to you… But you must believe me, Anton Pavlovitch, I
have not lied. I am happy to have killed the man who killed my hope. My
only problem now is that in seven years I am likely to be free… But it is not
normal to free a murderer who is happy to have done what he has done… If
in seven years I feel the same feeling of happiness, what am I to do? Do I
demand that my sentence be extended? To whom would I confess this at that
moment? What does that serve to serve a sentence if at the end one leaves
feeling proud as ever to have committed the crime? And me, I feel, in seven
years, in ten years, in twenty years, I will always feel relieved, happy to have
killed Herr Professor Aleksandr Vladimirovitch Serebryakov… (He addresses
SEREBRYAKOV again directly.) Herr Professor, what does one do if in seven
years I again feel the same desire to kill your corpse? What do I do if my
fifteen years in hard labor pass without serving any purpose. (He exits
speaking with SEREBRYAKOV.) How is it acceptable to take off my chains, if
in my soul nothing has changed.

SCENE 7

All the characters of the play, with the exception of CHEKHOV are
reunited around an enormous roulette table. The atmosphere recalls
that of a French casino on the Côte d’Azur.
 36
BOBIK plays the role of the CROUPIER. Music underneath.

THE CROUPIER: Place your bets, Ladies Gentlemen place your bets.
No more bets. No more bets.

We hear very loudly the sound of the ball which turns, turns. Great
suspense.

RANIEVSKAYA doesn’t dare to look at the ball. She covers her eyes
with her hands.

RANIEVSKAYA (in a state of trance, as if she were saying a prayer):

Grisha… Griiiisha… (She continues to keep her face covered by her
hands as she listens to the sound of the ball which still turns a few long
seconds and finally stops.) Grisha, forgive me, Grisha…

THE CROUPIER collects the chips and distributes the winnings.

RANIEVSKAYA has won nothing.

Still in his pajamas, CHEKHOV enters like a ghost, he approaches

RANIEVSKAYA and sits beside her at the gaming table. He has with
him a few chips in his hand and he places them for the next game.

THE CROUPIER: Place your bets, Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets.

The character put their chips on the green table. RANIEVSKAYA

hesitates, looks around her, sees CHEKHOV.

RANIEVSKAYA: Anton Pavlovitch! Is it you? Anton Pavolovitch, wha t a

surprise! Oh thank God, I am saved. Oh, Anton Pavlovitch if you could
only know how happy I am that you are here. But somehow I knew, I
knew that you had to come… When do you arrive?

CHEKHOV: Yesterday.

RANIEVSKAYA: Oh Anton Pavlovitch. Everyone here talks about you. The

moment I meet a Russian, we talk of you. Which hotel are you staying
in? How long are you staying? Come to us one day... You simply must
come to us in Menton one day, did you know that I have a villa in
Menton? And Russia. What is happening in Russia. Give me news,
 37
Anton Pavlovitch, I want to hear news of Moscow. What is happening
with Russia,. Soon, it will be three years that I have not been back to
Russia. One hears that there is a famine with us, that the serfs are
dropping like flies because of the famine. Is it true there was a famine in
our land. How is it possible that a country as large as ours which
stretches almost to infinity cannot feed its people, Anton Pavlovitch?
How is it possible? I learned that the French fleet has left to render us a
visit in Kronstadt. There are those who say that there will be war again.
Others say there will be a revolution. Well, only God knows. Can I offer
you a glass of champagne, Anton Pavlovitch.

CHEKHOV (looks around him and sees a waiter and calls) Garçon!

The waiter arrives with two glasses of champagne.

THE CROUPIER: No more bets. No more bets.

The ball turns for a long time. The noise made by the ball grows
stranger and stranger. The wait seems interminable. Fascinated, all the
characters watch the ball, only RANIEVSKAYA covers her eyes with
her hands.

RANIEVSKAYA: My God, I don’t even have the courage to look… I have the
courage to play, but I don’t have the courage to look… I have the feeling that if
I look I will go mad. I have the feeling that if I look I will suffer a horrible
death. And it seems so hot in here… I am ruined Anton Pavlovitch. I have even
sold my villa in Menton to pay my debts… I have nothing left, I sold
everything that I had in Russia. Everything gone everything, everything. I no
longer have anywhere I can return to. I’ve ruined myself for a man I’ve never
stopped loving, Anton Pavlovitch. A man I love like a madwoman, yes… I’ve
lost everything for him. I have mortgaged myself for him, I have sunk myself
into debt for him.
(The ball stops.)
Did I lose or did I win?

CHEKHOV: You lost.

A strange ceremony takes place around the roulette table. Each time
the ball stops, a character disappears from the table, disappearing into
the void, snapped up by worthlessness. Towards the end f the scene no
 38
one remains at the table but THE CROUPIER, CHEKHOV and
RANIEVSKAYA.
The CROUPIER distributes the winnings.

THE CROUPIER: Place your bets, Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets.

RANIEVSKAYA: How long were you in Italy, Anton Pavlovitch? I have

heard it said that you also passed through Venice where you met
Mareyovski… As for me, I don’t care for the writing of this
Mareyovski… Do you see, Anton Pavlovitch, I lose all the time. Why,
why?

CHEKHOV: I don’t know, Lyubov Andreyevna.

RANIEVSKAYA: I have no luck, Anton Pavlovitch. It is said if one is lucky

in love, one has no luck at roulette. But I have had no luck in love. I
have had no luck with men, Anton Pavlovitch. My first husband, he had
one sole passion, champagne. The only thing he loved was to drink
champagne. And he drank champagne until the champagne killed him.
That’s the luck that I had with my first husband… Or perhaps it was
lucky for me that he died.

THE CROUPIER: No more bets! No more bets!

RANIEVSKAYA covers her eyes, presses herself against CHEKHOV’s

chest. The interminable noise of the turning ball.

RANIEVSKAYA: That’s it, no luck for me, Anton Pavlovitch. I have never had any
luck, not in Russia, not here. But all the same I prefer having no luck here than
in Russia. Otherwise I have, not have any place for me to go back to. It’s been
five years since I set foot in Russia. And I miss the snow, Anton Pavlovitch…
Here in Nice, the snow never falls… The winters come, but there is no snow…
And because of this, I cannot even keep track of time… Anton Pavlovitch,
take me with you to Russia…
(The ball stops.)
What is it. Odd? Even? I lost, didn’t I?

CHEKHOV: Yes.

Another character disappears from around the table

 39

THE CROUPIER: Place your bets, Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets.

The players place their chips.

RANIEVSKAYA: If Grisha hadn’t drowned, I would never be here. If my

angel hadn’t drowned, everything would have been different. I would
have lived differently. I would have stayed in Russia. I would have
occupied myself with him. I would have stayed with him in Moscow so
that he could have gone to the university… Do you really believe there
will be a revolution in Russia, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: I don’t’ know, Lyubov Andreyevna. All our revolutionaries are

in Siberia, in exile. Who’s going to make a revolution? It would only be
a real revolution if each man tried all on his to become a better
person… If one day one could wake up saying “Today, I will be good
for an hour, I am going to look people straight in the eye, for an hour, I
am going to think about others, for an hour... “

CROUPIER: Place your bets! No more bets! No more bets!

The roulette wheel starts its hellish movement once again.

RANIEVSKAYA covers her eyes.

RANIEVSKAYA: These are my last francs, Anton Pavlovitch. I have been losing
constantly for a week now. Anya and Varya have nothing. All their share of the
inheritance is mortgaged, loss… I feel like I’ve gone mad, Anton Pavlovitch. I
love a man who is sick at this moment. I have brought him with me to Nice to
care for him. That makes three years that he has been sick and I have cared for
him, for three years I have done nothing but search for money, money, money
and have sunk myself into debt. Everyone avoids me here, all the Russians that
I meet are afraid I will ask them for money...
(The ball stops.)
I lost, didn’t I? I have lost… All the tie I believed my lick would change... But
no, my luck never changes. Never, never, never. I lost didn’t I?

CHEKHOV: Yes.

Another character disappears. The CROUPIER distributes the

winnings.
 40
THE CROUPIER: Make you r bets, ladies and gentlemen, make your bets.

RANIEVSKAYA: I have nothing left. I have lost everything. Everything

gone, gone gone. How can I play now? The only way perhaps is to
tear out my heart and put it on the roulette table, on red or on odd.
What am I going to do now, Anton Pavlovitch. Play my soul, play my
eyes, play my dead child, play Grisha who lost his life at the bottom of
a lake. Why has God punished me so much, Anton Pavlovitch.
Because I had the courage to run off with another man, and abandon
my entire family, all my children, even little Grisha, my little angel who
was only seven? Oh, my Grisha… Its for this that God has chosen me
to rebuke me… Yes I ran away with another man, I buried myself away
with him in Paris, to be happy… and I was truly happy… but I don’t
know how for how long, a day, a week, a month
(She cries wipes away the tears.)
And then there was this telegram which arrives.
(She takes out a scrap of paper and reads.)
Grisha drowned in the pond… stop… on a beautiful summer’s day… stop…
(She places the telegram on the gaming table as if it were a chip.)
My Grisha has paid for me… Which woman would have been able to survive
all that?

CHEKHOV also puts a chip on the table.

THE CROUPIER: No more bets! No more bets!

RANIEVSKAYA: Thank you for being so kind to me, Anton Pavlovitch. If

there weren’t such a crowd here, I would kiss you hand. (She places
the telegram on a number, waits a minute, changes her mind, replaces
it.) I have heard it said that you have published one of your short
stories in France… Why does one always believe in miracles, Anton
Pavlovitch? Why? Why? Why are we made like this? Why does man
always believe in a miracle. Why all through our life do we believe that
we are bound to meet a miracle and so one awaits the miracle and one
believes to the last moment in the miracle and it never comes, the
miracle, never come…

CHEKHOV: I don't know Lyubov Andreyevna. I myself thought all that for
years, but I don’t know what to say…

THE CROUPIER: No more bets…

 41

The ball turns, turns, turns. The character that ate still around the
table disappear one after the other. CHEKHOV waits a good while for
the stop of the ball, but finally he looks at his watch and he also
leaves.

RANIEVSKAYA stays all alone waiting for the ball to stop. BOBIK,
THE CROUPIER lights a cigarette, waits a bit more and he goes off.

Totally absorbed by the movement of the ball, RANIEVSKAYA does

not seem to have noticed everyone’s departure. She waits on for the
ball to stop.

Like a ghost, GRISHA, the drowned child appears in the gaming room
like a ghost. One might say that she came directly from the bottom of
the lake because she is totally wet, terribly muddy, leaves and algae
stick to her face.

While the ball continues to turn, the child approaches his mother. He
approaches quietly and stops a certain distance from RANIEVSKAYA.

GRISHA: Mother…

RANIEVSKAYS doesn’t see him, she is still waiting for the ball to stop.
GRISHA takes a few more steps.

GRISHA: Mother…

RANIEVSKAYA starts looks around her, sees he child, but she does not
seem astonished.

GRISHA takes his mother by the hand and gets her to follow him.

GRISH: Come, mother… Let’s go.

RANIEVSKAYA follows GRISHA. But before leaving she throws a

glance to the roulette table to see if the ball has in spite of what has
happened finally stopped.
 42

SCENE 8

ANNA PETROVNA (SARAH), CHEKHOV.

The same room, only FIRS has disappeared. The door opens. A strong
light as if there is a fire outside. ANNA PETROVNA appears at the
threshold of the door, a package in one hand, a white sheet in the other.
It is a macabre apparition, one might say a macabre fairy.

ANNA PETROVNA: Do you recognize me, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV (like a runaway child): Yes, Anna Petrovna, I recognize you.

ANNA PETROVNA: Get out of your clothes, Anton Pavlovitch

CHEKHOV: Yes, Anna Petrovna.

CHEKHOV does so with feverish gestures. The woman examines

CHEKHOV's shirt.

ANNA PETROVNA: Where did this blood come form?

CHEKHOV: I was treating a patient.

ANNA PETROVNA: Get back into bed immediately, Anton Pavlovitch.

Shivering with cold, CHEKHOV gets on the iron bed.

ANNA PETROVNA: I have brought you a little gift, Anton Pavlovitch.

(She gives him the package.)
Do you still have the strength to open it?

CHEKHOV: It's kind of you, to think of me, Sarah. But I have no need of anything.

ANNA PETROVNA: All the same, Anton Pavlovich, you cannot refuse my gift...

CHEKHOV: What is this light outside? Is there a fire?

ANNA PETROVNA: You have always been so gracious with women... a gift is a gift,
 43
Anton Pavlovitch

CHEKHOV: They say all of Kirssanov street is in flames. Is it true?

ANNA PETROVNA: I beg you, accept it. What's more, it's a useful gift.

CHEKHOV: All right, Sarah, open the box for me.

She opens the box and takes out a spittoon.

CHEKHOV:A cuspidor? Thank you, Sarah. You think of everything...

ANNA PETROVNA: It's porcelain...With pictures of the Black Sea... Do you want to
try it?

CHEKHOV: Later Sarah. Put it on the chaise there, Good bye Sarah.

ANNA PETROVNA: Oh no, Anton Pavlovitch. I have no intention of leaving you so

quickly. I've come to teach you how to die.

CHEKHOV: Thank you again, Sarah. It's very touching of you to think of me. Thank
you for being here... But I believe that I can manage on my own.

ANNA PETROVNA: No, Anton Pavlovitch, I must help you a bit.

(She closes the door again. The room is plunged in a cold light.)
Me too. I also died of tuberculosis. Or have you forgotten?

CHEKHOV: No, Sarah, I never forget anything.

ANNA PETROVNA: Look how feverish you are... That's the last phase. I've already
been through it, Anton Pavlovitch. From day to day you become more and
more weak and feverish. You can’t even lie down, because you start to choke.
You have to sleep sitting up in a chair and God knows that’s almost as
exhausting as not sleeping at all. It's really very cruel, the end of consumption,
dear Anton Pavlovitch. As soon as you lie down and stretch out, you start to
suffocate, you feel your end coming nearer and nearer all the time. Seated in a
chair, you breathe easier and you start to hope anew, but fatigue sets in and the
match burns itself out.

CHEKHOV: I know all that, Anna Petrovna. After all, I am a doctor.

 44
ANNA PETROVNA: Not any more, Anton Pavlovitch. The patient in you has killed
the doctor. You have chronic pulmonary tuberculosis and this disease is
incurable. You knew that, didn't you, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: Yes, I knew it.

ANNA PETROVNA: Yes, I know you knew it. You have already cared for quite a
few consumptives. But it's good to remind yourself of all of that. I know. It’s
how I died... in a stifling... suffocating... heat. It’s crazy. The heat weighs in the
air like a ton of lead and you can’t breathe any more. The attacks get more and
more violent. To keep the patient’s heart going, the doctors resort to injections
of morphine and doses of oxygen... The morphine is nice, good stuff that
morphine, isn't it? Have you given morphine to your patients, Anton
Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV (he bursts out laughing): One day at Taganrog, my mother sent me to the
marker to buy a duck. And Mischa came with me...

ANNA PETROVNA: I asked you if you've ever administered morphine to your

patients, Anton Pavlovitch. Did you hear me? I would like to know what you
think of morphine. Morphine is a touchy subject and there are many schools of
thought. So what’s your opinion, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV: We bought the duck and coming home, all along the way, Mischa
tormented the bird, shaking it and pinching it to make it cry. "I want all the
world to know that we are going to have duck for dinner,” said Mischa. That's
funny isn't it.
(He laughs again.)
And another day in my father's grocery store, a rat was drowning in an oil
barrel. Now given the state of the products in my father’s store, a drowning rat
did not make that much of a difference one way or the other... But my father,
Paul Egorovich, didn't want to sacrifice a whole barrel of oil. He was too
greedy for that. He was also very devout so he got a priest to come and read
prayers of purification over the barrel of oil... And once it had been properly
sanctified, he put the oil back on sale.

ANNA PETROVNA: You are delirious, Anton Pavlovitch. Come, you are short of
breath and you are delirious... But you're face is very peaceful, did you know
that?

CHEKHOV: “I have been illuminated by the Highest of the High,” our father told us,
 45
“illuminated by the Highest of the High...”

ANNA PETROVNA: Yes the delirium is a relief. Do you want me to put the ice pack
back on your chest?

CHEKHOV: No Sarah, don't put ice on an empty heart.

ANNA PETROVNA: I'll open the windows, all right?

CHEKHOV: Everything's burning at poor Fedotiks. All...

She doesn't move.

ANNA PETROVNA: You are panting. You have sweat on your forehead. Don't be
afraid. I am going to wipe your brow.

She does nothing.

CHEKHOV (as if he was in the middle of falling asleep): Close the window, Sarah. I
don't like all these moths invading the bedroom... And blow out the lamp. I
don't want to hear the moths smash against the lamp. These butterflies of the
night. I don't like the smell of burned butterflies, Anna Petrovna.

ANNA PETROVNA starts slowly to unroll the white sheet over the body
of CHEKHOV, She covers it softly, with tenderness, starting with the
feet and finishing with the face and the head of the dying man.

CHEKHOV: (under the sheet) Have you put out the light?

ANNA PETROVNA: Yes, Anton Pavlovitch…Yes

She lights a candle. Knocking at the door. ANNA PETROVNA goes to open it.

SCENE 9

CHEKHOV and the three doctors: CHEBUTKIN, ASTROV and LVOV.

Later, THE PASSERBY.
 46
The three doctors are reunited around the body of CHEKHOV which lies on
the bed, covered by a white sheet.

ASTROV: I still don't understand why we are here.

CHEBUTKIN: We are here because they told us to come.

ASTROV: Your explanation, dear colleague is totally absurd.

CHEBUTKIN: They told us to come and we came. That is why we are here.

ASTROV: Who told us to come?

CHEBUTKIN: Mikhail Lvovich, you ask too many questions. And in any event, I
have no idea.

LVOV: And in any event, you don’t give a damn, Ivan Romanovich

CHEBUTKIN: I didn’t say that.

LVOV: Nevertheless that's how it seems. Anton Pavlovitch Chekhov is dead and you
could care less.

CHEBUTKIN: Aha! So it’s because you say he is dead that we have convened to
certify the death of Mr. Chekhov.

ASTROV: This is totally ridiculous. Now, that he is dead you could at least leave him
in peace.

CHEBUTKIN: My point exactly. And anyway, I am against autopsy. Besides it takes

a long time and I no longer do autopsies. I don't even know how to do an
autopsy. Before, yes, I knew, but between then and now, I have forgotten
everything.

LVOV: Who’s talking about an autopsy. It just takes a glance to identify the corpse.

ASTROV: So go on, Evgeny Konstantinovitch, since you seem to know what you are
doing, lift the sheet and take a look.

CHEBUTKIN: Maybe someone is going to ask us to embalm him.

 47
ASTROV: It's bizarre that no one thought of lighting a candle...

CHEBUTKIN: What for? Mr. Chekhov never believed in anything.

ASTROV: That has no bearing whatsoever.

CHEBUTKIN: Anyway, it's all the same to me. And I'm too tired. Gentlemen, I
propose we drink a glass at the bedside of the corpse that used to be Anton
Pavlovitch, with all the respect that he is due.

CHEBUTKIN takes out a bottle of vodka and three glasses. He

distributes the glasses and fills them.

ASTROV: And if someone ever discovers that this is not his corpse?

CHEBUTKIN: Ah there you go with your lucubrations...

ASTROV: No, no, I'm just thinking...

LVOV: Come on, Gentlemen, enough! To work!

They clink glasses but before drinking it down they spill a little on the ground
in the old orthodox tradition to give the dead one a taste of alcohol.

LVOV: We are here to certify the death of a man. It's as simple as that. So, lets certify
and be done with it!

ASTROV approaches the corpse, raises the sheet a bit and glances on
what ought to be the remains of CHEKHOV

CHEBUTKIN: So?

ASTROV: So what?

CHEBUTKIN: Is it really he? (He looks at him also.) Is he really dead?

ASTROV: Yes. So it seems.

CHEBUTKIN: Poor unhappy man... It's sad to see that the corpse of a great writer is
as insignificant and useless as the corpse of the most despised serf.
 48
CHEBUTKIN refills the glasses.

LVOV: As for myself, I wouldn't say that this is a question of the corpse of a great
writer. For me, Mr. Chekhov was never a great writer.

ASTROV: All the same, you cannot deny that he has been a great writer.

LVOV: I don't deny it. But he was not as great as Tolstoy... for example.

CHEBUTKIN: He was part of the family of our great writers, all the same.

LVOV: Yes but in the family of the great, he is the least great.

They toast, spill a taste of alcohol on the ground and drain their glasses.

ASTROV (after having cleared his throat): And why would he be “least great”?

LVOV: Because he was not a heroic writer.

ASTROV: Oh that! Well, that's a question of taste.

LVOV: No, dear Mikhail Lvovitch, permit me to contradict you, it's a question of
duty.

ASTROV: And who says that all writers have a duty to be heroic.

LVOV: All I want to say is that Mr. Chekhov has never keenly felt, in a profound way,
the life of the people. The characters of Chekhov have no strength of character.
You might say that he wasn't capable of seeing in all of Russian society a single
peasant, a single worker, a single intellectual who had any strength of
character.

CHEBUTKIN: It's a pity that I didn't bring a little caviar along... Still... (He refills the
glasses.) As for me, between Chekov who found no strength of character and
Gorky who found strength of character, I prefer Chekhov who found no
strength of character.

LVOV: That's because you never had any strength of character.

CHEBUTKIN: Whom are we discussing here? Me or Anton Pavlovitch?

 49
ASTROV: I myself think that Chekhov has the same nobility as Pushkin, Gogol and
Lermontov.

LVOV: Yes but in the line of the great ones, he is the least great.

ASTROV: Just so long as you recognize that he was part of the line of the great ones.

LVOV: Yes, of course he was in the line of great ones but in the line of the great ones,
he is the least great.

The same ritual. The three drain their drinks.

ASTROV: So, to resume, the corpse of Chekhov is nevertheless part of the line of
“the greats.”

CHEBUTKIN: Chekhov is surely a great “great”, even a very great “great”, all the
same he was also very boring.

ASTROV: Boring!

CHEBUTKIN: Try reading four or five of his stories in a row... boring... And the
more one reads, the more boring they become... This is the problem with Mr.
Chekhov.

LVOV: There I agree with you.

CHEBUTKIN: You read a story a month, it’s fine. You read several one after another
after another, it becomes more and more and more boring. But he remains,
undeniably one of the greatest writers who ever lived.

CHEBUTKIN refills the glasses again.

ASTROV: If he is boring, it’s because his character are all monotonous. Take us for
example.

LVOV: I beg your pardon. but I don't consider myself monotonous

ASTROV: Good for you!

LVOV: I have moral principles, I fight for the good of my fellow man, and I'm a
patriot to boot.
 50

CHEBUTKIN: That is the very definition of monotony. As for me, I have done
nothing for my country and I have never worked and I have never had any
principles either. And, when you think about it, that’s as monotonous as when
one has principles or as when one works or as when one does something for
his country. Monotony is necessary to the human soul. And this is what he has
seen very clearly, this gentleman whose corpse waits for us to certify his death.
To all of us!

They drink.

ASTROV: I don't know why, but for me, now that Anton Pavlovitch is dead, I feel
relieved.

CHEBUTKIN: Maybe because he prevented you from existing?

ASTROV: I’m not sure

CHEBUTKIN: Maybe because he prevented you from dreaming?

ASTROV: But now that he is dead. I say let’s forget him and get back to work.

LVOV: Angst, boredom and darkness stuck to his characters like flies to fly-paper.

ASTROV: Well, that’s that. The King of the Slavic soul is dead. Long live the king!

CHEBUTKIN refills their glasses.

CHEBUTKIN: What is that, Mikhail Lvovich, the Slavic soul? Me, I've never seen
this Slavic soul. I've never seen it in my parents, in my neighbors or in my
colleagues at school... What does that mean: the Slavic soul?... The Slavic
snore, yes, I know what that means. Or a good, hefty Slavic spit or a Slavic
fart or a healthy, unbridled Slavic belch... But soul? Who invented this stupid
idea, to say that the Slavic soul has something more than the Latin soul or the
German soul or the Turkish soul...

The three doctors are frozen glasses in hand. CHEKHOV raises the sheet and
sits up in bed.

CHEKHOV: There are too many contradictions in me. How can I live with them all?.
The executioner and the victim are equal parts of me... sometimes I search
 51
desperately for solitude and as soon as I am alone I'm desperately bored and I
desperately seek company... Beauty fascinates me. I obey only the God of
Beauty, but all my life I have seen only ugliness, beauty altered, beauty
decayed, beauty eaten away by death... I am not religious, I hate religion, I hate
the Gods and at the same time I thirst for immortality... I hate God, in fact,
because he doesn't exist... And the ideologues make me laugh, I find their
positivist philosophy with its promise of a better life, stupid and simplistic...
nevertheless I can't help myself from living in the future, my idol is the future,
my memory is turned toward the future...

He goes to the armoire, opens it and takes out a glass and a glass of
olives. He returns in front of the three doctors. CHEBUTKIN pours him
a glass. All four drink and eat the olives.

CHEKHOV: I know that I have never treated my characters tenderly. I know that my
stories and my plays are among the cruelest ever written... But that’s because
my sense of direction in life is guided by a strictly moral compass which
always points me towards the dark...

THE PASSERBY enters.

PASSERBY: Hello... Excuse me for bothering you with a question in a moment which
is without doubt of great sadness for you... but is this the right funeral
procession for the writer, Anton Pavlovitch Chekhov?

LVOV: Yes.

PASSERBY: Oh! What a relief!.. Imagine, I went to Nicholas Station to await

Chekov's coffin... but I arrived a little late and there was a procession that was
already in the process of forming... A military orchestra played a funeral march
on the platform and I said to myself, well, its really commendable that the
authorities thought to take this opportunity to make something special of such
an event, that is to say the internment of a great writer... And I followed the
procession to the beat of this martial music... And somewhere along the way I
learned this was the wrong procession. You see it seems that the coffin of
General Keller, the one who was killed in Manchuria, arrived at the same
moment as that of Chekhov which had arrived from Germany... So I turned
back up the road and went back to the station... But at Nicholas Station there
was nothing there... except for the train car in which the coffin of the writer had
arrived and when I saw it I burst out laughing because the car, which was a
greenish color, was marked "Oyster Transport". Actually, I was relieved
 52
because I said to myself, it’s reassuring to see that the authorities are as stupid
as ever... That's Russia for you... And I ran to catch up with the right
procession, except that... that, I'm not sure of anything, but since you’re telling
me that this is the right one...

ASTROV: Yes this is the right one.

PASSERBY (he flops down on a chair): Good, because if this is the right one, I can
rest... But what a run!.. I'm covered with sweat...

CHEKHOV hands him the sheet. THE PASSERBY wipes his forehead.

CHEKHOV crumbles in a chair, takes a book, opens it and covers his face
with it.
 53

SCENE 10

The same as the previous scene with the three sisters, OLGA, MASHA and
IRINA.

The entrance of the three sisters marks the beginning of a sort of

celebration. Outside one hears a fanfare which plays perhaps in the
park.

At first, the three sisters approach CHEKHOV.

OLGA: Hello, Anton Pavlovitch...

MASHA: Louder...

OLGA: Hello, Anton Pavlovitch...

IRINA (to LVOV): Is he sleeping?

LVOV: Who knows?

MASHA: Or perhaps, he is already dead...

LVOV: We don’t know if he's alive or dead.

OLGA: No, he’s not dead. He breathes. Hello, Anton Pavlovitch.

LVOV: Dear, Olga Sergeyevitch, allow me to present myself... Yevgeny

Konstantinovitch Lvov, doctor of Zemstvo.

IRINA: Let him sleep. We can wait. We're in no hurry.

LVOV: And this is my colleague, Mikhail Lvovitch Astrov...

CHEBUTKIN (who moves to sit in a corner of the room): And me, I am the King of
Fools.
 54

MASHA: I am sure that he can hear us... You're listening aren't you, Anton
Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV (without opening his eyes): Why this military music? I'm not dead yet.

IRINA: Oh you're play-acting, Anton Pavlovitch. May I embrace you?

CHEKHOV: Is that you, Irina?

IRINA: Yes.

CHEKHOV: Have you come to say goodbye to me?

IRINA: Yes. And here are my sisters, Masha and Olga.

LVOV (before IRINA): Dear Irena Sergeyevitch, allow me to present myself Yevgeny
Konstantinovitch Lvov, doctor of Zemstvo.

CHEKHOV: But what day is it?

LVOV: And this is my colleague, Mikhail Lvovitch Astrov...

OLGA: It's the second of July.

CHEKHOV: Already?

OLGA: Yes

CHEKHOV: And yet I didn’t expect you... No, Irina, it's better if you don't embrace
me. I must smell something awful... Someone make me an injection of
camphor… and this heat is so suffocating... but come to me a little, Irina…
because you, you smell so good...

Irina seats herself on Chekhov's bed and rubs his temples. In his
corner, CHEBUTKIN strums softly on a guitar.

CHEBUTKIN: Never, never. The past never returns... It's crazy. This thinking is
idiotic.

OLGA: Anton Pavlovitch, we have some great news.

 55

CHEKHOV: You are going to Moscow!

MASHA: Ah, yes! How did you know?

CHEKHOV: I just knew it, Masha, Come, Masha, give me your warm hand... That
makes 10 years that all three of you have wanted to go to Moscow... And you
have always “not gone”... This was a great time to take the plunge.

LVOV (before OLGA): Dear, Masha Sergeyevitch, allow me to present myself

Yevgeny Konstantinovitch Lvov, doctor of Zemstvo.

IRINA: Yes, we are leaving, we are leaving!

LVOV: And this is my colleague, Mikhail Lvovitch Astrov...

CHEKHOV: When you get to Moscow, say hello for me to Princess Baryatinsakaya...
(He coughs. During this coughing fit. CHEKHOV gives the impression of
becoming detached bit by bit from reality.) Yes, is that you, Princess
Barayatinskaya... Good evening, Princess. It's kind of you to have come. I am
sorry to receive you in this condition but...

IRINA: I am not the Princess Baryatinskaya. I am Irina.

CHEKHOV: Olga, you can embrace me. You. You have always been so filled with a
sense of duty. You can embrace me, my dear Olga... You are accustomed to
human misery… Your school must reek of it as strongly as my room does.

OLGA (at CHEKHOV's side): Calm yourself, Anton Pavlovitch... Your room is full of
flowers... All the rosebushes that you have planted in your garden are in
bloom... And Anfisa has put flowers everywhere...

CHEKHOV: Masha...

MASHA: Yes...

CHEKHOV: Will you take my pulse? Is it normal? It ought to be normal. They gave
me a shot of morphine and I've been taking oxygen...

MASHA: Yes, it's normal.

 56
CHEKHOV: Then, can we have a bit of music... (IRINA gets up and goes to the
gramophone.) Olga, Masha, Irina... It's so wonderful to have all three of you
here. Sit down, Irina. And Masha, you sit her... Olga.. take the chair over there.
Throw these papers on the floor... Goltsev is forever sending me manuscripts,
hundreds of manuscripts... It's crazy as if everyone in Russia is a writer... but I
don’t have the strength to read them all any more... Well, so you are leaving for
Moscow, bravo!

MASHA: Yes, this time it's for real. If you knew, Anton Pavlovitch, how gloomy our
little town has become since the regiment went away. A real nowhere. It rains
more than ever... And the dust penetrates everything everywhere... At home we
dust three times a day and that still isn't enough... All our dresses are infested
with dust you could say that the dust has even entered our souls.

PASSERBY (approaches MASHA timidly): If you permit me, I believe I saw you at
Nicholas Station when I was failing to find the right funeral... after journeying
more than 15 versts on foot...

CHEKHOV: Have you had any news from Veshinin, Masha?

MASHA (bursting into tears): No. Why are you always so cruel, Anton Pavlovitch
Why do you make me suffer, even now on your deathbed. Why do you
condemn us right up to the end.?

ASTROV (goes up to MASHA, clicking his heels in military style): Dear Masha
Sergeyevitch, will you allow me this dance?

The couple dances around an armchair in which CHEKHOV is

perched. CHEBUTKIN, who seems to be much affected by the presence
of the three women, continues to strum his guitar without actually
playing.

CHEKHOV: The end! The end! What end! How could I condemn someone? Can't
you see that I am gravely ill? That I can barely breathe? Leave me in peace.
There is a servant in this house who smokes all night in his bedroom. And the
smoke comes in here. Every night, he gets up at two in the morning and
smokes in his room... and all the smoke ends up in here... Here, one is
supposed to be breathing pure air and there is a crazy man polluting it with
smoke all night...

LVOV goes up to IRINA and clicks his heel in military style.

 57

LVOV: Dear, Irina Sergeyevitch, will you allow me this dance?

The second couple dances around CHEKHOV's armchair.

PASSERBY (goes up to OLGA): If you permit me, I believe I saw you at Nicholas
Station… where I failed to find the right funeral... it seems that General Keller
also died... killed in Manchuria... That’s Russia for you…

IRINA (dancing with LVOV): Anton Pavlovitch...

CHEKHOV: Yes?

IRINA: I put on some music. Do you hear it?

CHEKHOV: What? Get out, get out, get...

OLGA: Anton Pavlovitch, oh Anton Pavlovitch... in what delirium have you put us…
Do you want to spit?

CHEKHOV (choking): Yes... yes...

OLGA: And the cuspidor? Where is it?

CHEKHOV (panicked, his mouth filled with blood which begins to overflow):
There... there...

The three sisters, ASTROV and LVOV start to search for the spittoon
around the bed.

MASHA: Where? Where is it?

CHEBUTKIN: There... there...

Finally they find the spittoon and help the invalid in this atrocious
operation. After having spit up the blood, CHEKHOV puts on a
display of good humor. He sits up in bed.

CHEBUTKIN goes up to OLGA discretely.

CHEBUTKIN (in a low voice): You are the spitting image of your mother... Oh, how I
 58
loved her, your mother... All my life I loved her madly... What an idiot!

CHEKHOV: Ha, that makes me laugh. Ha, ha! This is military music, yes? That's
funny, military music is fading away in the street and I am fading away in here.
ICH STERBE... ICH STERBE... I would never have left Moscow... Look
they give me pajamas that are way too large. The sleeves weigh me down...
This is impossible... And my bathrobe… It's way too big... Why? Since when
are they giving me clothes that don’t fit.

MASHA: Would you like to dance with me, Anton Pavlovitch?

CHEKHOV gets off the bed, in his oversize robe he has the air of a
bird made comic and awkward trying to walk on the earth. He dances
with MASHA.

ASTROV goes to IRINA.

ASTROV: Allow me to present myself... (She extends her hand to him. He takes it
and kisses it.) Mikhail Lvovitch Astrov...

CHEBUTKIN: And this is my colleague, Evgeny Konstantinovitch Lvov... .

ASTROV (furious): Stop it, Ivan Romanovitch!

CHEBUTKIN (in a low voice, discretely to MASHA, watching how she dances with
CHEKHOV): Oh Masha, Masha, You are the spitting image of your mother...

CHEKHOV: My dear Masha... Nothing is ever lost, my dear Masha… I am going to

tell you a secret... Before February, I will go to France...
(To IRINA.)
Irina, open the armoire, there... There is a bottle of champagne in the armoire...

CHEBUTKIN: (still to MASHA) Oh how I loved her, your mother... All my life I
loved her... It’s not easy for me seeing the three of you here together.

IRINA opens the armoire and takes out an empty bottle. THE
PASSERBY fans himself from time to time with his hat and after a bit
takes out his handkerchief and wipes his forehead and neck.

CHEKHOV: Come, let's drink some champagne. Irina, you can open the bottle. Olga
there are some glasses in the pantry... there. .
 59

OLGA brings the glasses. CHEKHOV and MASHA stop dancing. Each
takes a glass.

IRINA: To you, Anton Pavlovitch!

Everyone is frozen glasses in hand.

CHEKHOV: It's good isn't it? You won’t believe it but the doctor recommended I
drink champagne. I’m not lying Because I have trouble breathing, I have to
drink champagne. And do you know why? Because champagne has bubbles.
They help me breathe better, champagne makes me swallow fresh air. It's
nice…

OLGA sets down her glass and stops the music. All the characters stay
frozen.

CHEKHOV (collapsing into an armchair): They've always accused me of never

having had a true passion, strong, intense, mad, irrational... And nevertheless I
have loved all my life. What is that, if not an irrational passion. They
reproached me for not having been blinded by love... But they forget that all
my life I have been sick. I am sick and I will be sick all my life. As a baby, I
was sick... I had everything… cough, hemorrhoids, peritonitis, migraines, heart
trouble, bad eyesight, brain fever. But my great specialty, my dear ladies, that
has been the spitting of blood. There are those who spit fire... That is surely a
lot more beautiful... It's also very romantic... But me, all my life I have spit
blood. I started at 24 and never stopped. I’ve been spitting blood for twenty
years... So you are all three going to Moscow?

IRINA: Yes. We are going to rent a house on Bazmania Street... On the same side of
the street as the house where we were born...

MASHA: And we are going to live. We are going to live, Anton Pavlovitch, we are
going to live

IRINA: And I... I am going to spend a night at the Hotel Europa. All my life I've
dreamed of spending a night at the Hotel Europa. Have you ever slept there at
the Hotel Europa?

CHEKHOV (without responding to IRINA, he turns towards OLGA): Is this true

Olga?
 60

OLGA: Yes!

CHEKHOV: You have made the big decision?

OLGA: Yes! Yes!

CHEKHOV: You are leaving everything to go to Moscow?

OLGA: Yes! Yes! Yes!

The three sisters embrace each other on the edge of a nervous

breakdown. CHEBUTKIN strums his guitar.

CHEKHOV: And when? When are you going? Because now it's a little late. The
month of July, everything is already rented... And what’s more, I have heard
that the typhus is raging at this moment in Moscow...

OLGA (who wipes away a few tears): We are going to go... next year...

MASHA: Yes, next year...

IRINA: In the spring...

OLGA: Next year, in the spring, it's decided...

CHEBUTKIN: That's enough. I believe that will do... in spite of everything ...it’s
enough.

CHEKHOV (who abruptly takes a newspaper from the pocket of his bathrobe): Why
is he such an idiot, this Skabitchevski? How could anyone be so stupid? A
buffoon who calls me a clown... Have you read this paper? He calls me a
clown... "Chekhov one of the clowns of the newspapers, destined to die
forgotten at the bottom of a cliff..." And here it is, I don't die at the foot of a
cliff... I die surrounded by women, by very beautiful women. Thank you for
coming, Olga...
(He coughs again.)
Olga where are you? Irina... Masha... .

The three sisters no longer respond to CHEKHOV. They stand still.

frozen in the room, like three ghosts. CHEKHOV looks for them but he
 61
no longer sees them.

CHEKHOV: In fact, what I loved the most in my love stories was the preliminaries...
The gallant exchange... Olga, Masha, Irina... Where are you? Why is one
tempted to hold the universe entirely responsible for our own deceptions?
Hunh? Masha? My dear Irina? How gay you are, how spontaneous you are,
how you burn with the desire of your dedication and belief... Go Irina, go to
Moscow... Moscow, that is life...

CHEKHOV starts to laugh in a cynical manner. His laugh becomes a cough.

Disgusted with himself. He coughs again in his spittoon but with a quick
move.

CHEKHOV: I should never have come here... First, they counseled me against the
winters of Yalta and recommended the outskirts of Moscow. And then, they
told me to go to Germany. Make of it what you can! Anfissa! Anfissa! Bring
me some hot water... Bring me my hat and my coat... I have an errand to run...
I've forgotten something...
(To himself.)
How stupid I am... I have forgotten something...

PASSERBY (goes to MASHA): Imagine that I failed to find the right procession... I
arrived a little late at Nicholas Station and already there was the wrong
procession beginning to form, the one for General Keller, who was killed in
Manchuria… whose coffin arrived at the same moment as that of Chekhov’s
which had come from Germany. That's our Russia, for you... And then I ran to
catch the right funeral procession and here I am covered with sweat...

All their looks plunge into the void.

 62

SCENE 11

The same as the preceding scene with BOBIK.

BOBIK wears the dress of a doorman of the 70s. He behaves as if the

action is taking place in the villa (now museum) of CHEKHOV at Yalta.

Early morning. One hears the cock crow.

CHEKHOV is seated in the shadows. All the other characters are

frozen like statues of wax.

BOBIK: Good day, Anton Pavlovitch.

CHEKHOV: Good day.

BOBIK: You don't recognize me, do you?

CHEKHOV: No.

BOBIK: It's been a while since you passed by here

CHEKHOV: Yes, that 's true.

BOBIK: I am the attendant slash gardener. I’ve been waiting for you for 30 years. But
perhaps I ought to begin by introducing myself. My name is Bobik.

CHEKHOV: Bobik.

BOBIK: Bobik.

CHEKHOV: Bobik who?

BOBIK: Let's just say... Bobik. That's enough. The name means nothing to you?

CHEKHOV: No. I'm terribly sorry.

 63

BOBIK: It's true that I've never been an actual character. And then, you never
expected that I would grow up let alone get older... Ah well, fiction is like
that…. It's like life... Characters get old, sometimes they fade away, sometimes
they die and disappear completely at birth. They're not all like Mademoiselle
Nina Mikhilovna who stays forever young in spite of her unhappiness. Or like
Monsieur Nikolai Aleksyevitch Ivanov who doesn't grow old and who never
dies in spite of the fact that he shoots a bullet into his head every night.

CHEKHOV: I don't understand what your babbling about Mr. Bobik.

BOBIK: Oh yes you do. You understand very well. And you remember me very well.
Everyone breaks into hilarious laughter when I am mentioned. You remember
Solyony's reply in the second act of THREE SISTERS… "If this child was
mine, I would let it fry in the frying pan and eat it". That's funny, that's really
very funny. It's the best laugh in all of your plays. Millions of audience
members have burst into laughter at this line... It is so unexpected, so well
placed in the midst of total unhappiness... and well, that's me, the infant who
you would have fried in the frying pan… it's me, Bobik, the son of Natasha and
Andrei...

CHEKHOV: You are delirious, sir, How long have you worked at this villa?

BOBIK: For thirty years.

CHEKHOV: That explains everything.

BOBIK: No, Mr. Chekhov, it explains nothing. You know something about
psychology. It explains nothing at all.

CHEKHOV: Nevertheless thirty years is a long time...

BOBIK: Do you want to know how I knew that you used to come prowling around
the house from time to time.

CHEKHOV: But I don't prowl around the house.

BOBIK: Oh yes. Every so often you come here, to see your dear villa at Yalta once
again. Every five or six years you come by. Discretely, silently... Each time you
blend in with some tourists who have come to visit the villa... It's really very
amusing for me, to pick you out each time in the crowd.
 64

BOBIK starts to arrange the stage. One might say that he is preparing
it for the opening of the museum.

BOBIK: I don't know where the time has gone to. I must be very old. My grandfather
was a general with a brigade in a county seat of the government. Where did she
go, Mother Russia? Who would have believed that all this would happen to us
someday. My father was named Andre Sergeyevitch Prozorov. But me, I'm
Bobik. All my life, everyone has called me Bobik. I don't know who chose this
name for me. Bobik. My mother, who died only a few years ago, was called
Natalia Ivanovna. But everyone called her Natasha. It was pretty, the house of
my parents. Two of my aunts, lived with us, Olga and Irina, sisters of my father.
And there was a third sister too, Masha, but she lived with her husband
outside the town. Then one day, Irina left for Moscow, And then there was a
war. I don't know how all this happened. First a war, then a revolution... And
the old Russia disappeared. That’s the part I have never really understood…
How could you kill the old Russia. But the Russian soul, poor thing, that has
survived. And it’s because of that, that the Bolsheviks did not succeed with
their so-called revolution. The problem with us Russians is that we are
drowning in the vastness of our own country like quicksand. Our clothes are
way too large for us. They drag along the ground... and that keeps us from
walking... The Russian soul is like that... Drowning in a space without end.
That's why the Bolsheviks drowned themselves with their revolution. They too
drowned in the space without end.

Pause. BOBIK gives the impression that he is no longer talking for the
sake of CHEKHOV. He examines with attention the wax statues. For a
full 30 or 40 seconds. CHEBUTKIN strums his guitar.

BOBIK: For reasons I never really understood, my mother wanted me to go into the
military. So I began a military career. She wanted me to become a general at 24
just like Napoleon. But at 24 I was only a lieutenant. And then the war began
and my mother fixed it so that I got out of the army for reasons of health.
Abruptly she sent me to school in Switzerland. She wrote me a letter in
Geneva: "Above all, don't return to Russia." And then the Bolsheviks came to
power.

Pause. A new moment of stillness. BOBIK looks out into the emptiness
for a few minutes and then starts again to arrange the stage, to
examine the wax statues, etc.
 65
BOBIK: I remember the long autumns of my childhood, in the town of my birth...
How beautiful it was, how vast, how beautiful the river was. In the evening it
was cold and we were invaded by mosquitoes. But in general, the climate was
healthy. There was the forest two steps from the house... And also the
birches… They were so supple, so tender, the birches... My whole childhood I
played around the birches... They were like my guardian angels... And then,
there was the railway station… Because every summer we went to Moscow,
my mother and I. And we stayed in a house on the rue Allemande. But more
than Moscow, I loved the trip to Moscow. First there were the endless
preparations which began two weeks before our departure. And then finally, the
day came to leave for the station which was far removed from the town about
20 versts… And then there was the train, the long trip in the train with the
interminable stops in every little station... Once arrived in Moscow, at Nicholas
Station, we took a car to German Street and my mother always bargained the
price with the driver.

CHEKHOV swings on the swing. BOBIK looks in the emptiness, stays

still a moment then he starts to dust the "wax statues"

BOBIK: Each time that my mother spoke to me of my future military career, she gave
me a single and bizarre argument to justify her choice: "At least, in this way
you won't be like your father." It's true that my father was a peculiar individual.
Until the end of his life, he did not stop getting fatter. The less one gave him to
eat, the fatter he became... My mother had taken to offering him only some
curdled milk at table… "So you’ll lose weight" she said... But he didn't lose
weight. Just the opposite... And on top of that, he began hiding out in his
room... One saw him less and less. Every day after lunch, he closed himself up
in his study. "Psst your father is working, my mother told me.” All the family
and all the servants of the house were ordered not to make any noise outside
my father's room and especially in the courtyard under his windows. What my
father did, closed up in there sometimes until midnight, we never knew.
Evenings he rarely ate with us, because he always had "something to finish
up.” When my father died, we found 6,000 almanacs and illustrated magazines
in his room, mostly Russian but also German and French...

Pause. Staring into the emptiness. CHEKHOV stops swinging in his

chair. BOBIK starts again to clear, to brush and wipe the "wax statues"
From time to time, he repositions an arm, a leg, a head, etc...

BOBIK: In her last letter before her death, my mother wrote me, "Never return to
Russia". The bolsheviks had taken everything from us...the lands, the forest, the
 66
house... That's how I became a maître d’hôtel in Nice. For years, almost 600
times a day, I opened and closed the front doors of the Hotel Pallady. "Bonjour
monsieur, bonjour madame, oui monsieur, oui madame, bien sur
mademoiselle, tout de suite monsieur, voilà votre voiture monsieur... " These
are the words I pronounced several hundred times a day, every day. They kept
me employed because the owner of the hotel wanted his doorman to be a white
Russian dressed in an authentic officer's uniform. When I accepted the position,
I thought I would stay for only a few months, enough to save up a little
money... And then something strange happened. I lost track of the time. For
years it seems. Well, the weather in Nice is very nice... But everyday, I thought
of the unhappiness of my country, the Sainted Russia. And when I saw that
Gorki went back, I went back also... And then Gorki died and I, I was sent to
the camps... But I had the good luck to be sent to Kazakhistan to do
agricultural work... The fields... it was good... Luckily, I was not sent to work
the nickel mines in Norilsk... At Norillsk they had six times as many deaths...
And at Kolyma it was worse still, if you were sent to Kolyma, you had very
little chance of making it... But why am I telling you all this? You have missed
two wars, a revolution, two famines and the great Terror… You had the
wisdom to bow out before all that began... And anyway that would never have
been your cup of tea. Go now, Anton Pavlovitch... It’s time for you to leave...
Some school groups are about to arrive... Next time you visit, I will tell you
how I came to Yalta...

BOBIK coughs.

The other characters stay unmoving. BOBIK contemplates for several tenths
of a second, the wax statue collection. He seems to be content. But his
attention is pulled sharply by a spot of dust on CHEKHOV's vest, He dusts a
grain of dust off CHEKOV's vest who has also become a wax statue.

Very satisfied. BOBIK coughs. One hears the whistling of a train. BOBIK
hands to CHEKHOV his things, a suitcase, his cane, his hat, etc.

BOBIK: Well, farewell, Mr. Chekhov... Have you got something to read on the train
something to eat? In any case, you like trains. As soon as you settle down, you
are discontent, in Moscow you are unhappy, in Yalta you are bored, but when
you are riding on a train everything is just right.

Having said that, BOBIK approaches the glass door at the back which
becomes by means of a play of light the door of a train car. He sets up a few
portable steps as was done before first class trains of another time.
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CHEKHOV gets on the train. The characters turn their looks towards
CHEKHOV. It’s their way of saying good bye. It’s only THE PASSERBY who
makes a nervous gesture with his arm as if saying “Damn, I missed the train
again”.

The train leaves carrying CHEKHOV.

CHEBUTKIN strums one time more on the guitar.

The lights go down. Black.

CURTAIN
 68

Why a play about Chekhov with Chekhov as a character?

Because Chekhov is an essential author for all actors of the modern theatre.
Because I am convinced that Chekhov is the precursor of the Theatre of the
Absurd. (Before Beckett’s waiting, there was the wait of the three sisters who
never leave for Moscow... A secondary character like “the passerby” in The
Cherry Orchard opens the way to the metaphysical vagabondage of Estragon
and Vladimir...

It is Chekhov who was the first to set off dynamite beneath the theatrical
language of the 19th century. Chekhov’s work is not only the theatre of
atmosphere, the theatre of the fin de siècle (which century the 19th? The 20th?),
but also the polyphonic theatre where characters seem to speak to each other,
but in reality, don’t, because they don’t listen to each other. Very often, in
Chekhov, the subject is the impossibility of communication: the characters
evolve in a logic of parallel monologues.

Why “The Chekhov Machine”?

Because his theatre is a machine to crush destiny. I propose a look at this
machine, a modest guided tour into the entrails of the beast in order to see
how it works, why it never stops, why its victims protest so rarely, why
Chekhov himself allows himself to be devoured by this machine.
I also propose a dialogue with Chekhov as a way of making “contact” with
his writing techniques... Once one enters into the Chekhov machine, one can
almost “communicate” directly with Chekhov because he is its principal
character.

Inevitably my play revolves around Chekhov the man and Death, because the
theatre of Chekhov is also a rich and subtle reflection about death. Chekhov
had, lodged in him, throughout his life, two characters who indulged
themselves in a fierce battle: THE PATIENT and THE DOCTOR. It is this
dramatic situation that I wanted to explore, it is the intensity of that struggle
which helped me construct the whole.

It is a play where Chekhov meets certain of his characters, a play where

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some of the characters belonging to different Chekhov plays meet and speak
with one another. In the end, all the characters of Chekhov come from the
same family. They all revolve together on the stage of the same carousel.

Some characters make the pilgrimage to the bedside of the dying Chekhov,
but all are captured, (I dare to believe) in a poetic medium which is, at the
same time, comic. These final meetings between certain characters (Treplev,
Firs, the three sisters, Sarah, who also died of tuberculosis, etc.) and the
author offer us many keys to understanding the mechanism which gives birth
to the singularity and the mystery of the universe of Chekhov.

Above all, I have had the desire to write a play which stands on its own, a
play which can move even an audience which is not well acquainted with the
plays of Chekhov.

“The Chekhov Machine” is at once an homage to an author who has affected

me as strongly as the theatre of the absurd and the grotesque , and an almost
desperate effort of the author, Visniec, to understand something of the mystery
of writing.

Matéi Visniec
 70
Matéi Visniec
10, rue Watteau 75013 Paris France
E-mail : visniec@yahoo.fr Tel. fax. 0033 – (0)1 47 07 31 89

MATEI VISNIEC

Born in Romania in 1956. From an early age, he discovered literature as a space dedicated to
freedom. He draws his strengths from Kafka, Dostoevsky, Poe, Lautréamont. He loves the
Surrealists, the Dadaists, absurd and grotesque theatre, surrealist poetry, fantastic literature,
magical realism, even the realist Anglo-Saxon theatre. He loves everything except Socialist
Realism.

Visniec studied philosophy at Bucharest University and became an active member of the so-called
Eighties Generation, who left a clear stamp on the Romanian literature. He believes in cultural
resistance, and in literature’s capacity to demolish totalitarianism. Above all, Matéi Visniec
believes that theatre and poetry can denounce manipulation through "great ideas", as well as
brainwashing through ideology.

Before 1987 Matéi Visniec had made a name for himself in Romania by his clear, lucid, bitter
poetry. Starting with 1977, he wrote drama; the plays were much circulated in the literary milieus
but were barred from staging. In September 1987, Visniec left Romania for France, where he was
granted political asylum. He started writing in French and began working for Radio France
Internationale. At the present time, Visniec has had many of his works staged in France, and some
twenty of his plays written in French are published (Actes Sud - Papiers, L'Harmattan, Lansman).
His plays have been staged in more than 30 countries. In Romania, after the fall of Communism,
Matéi Visniec has become one of the most frequently performed authors.

The work of Matéi Visniec has been represented in London by the performance "The Body of a
Woman as a Battlefield in the Bosnian War", staged at the Young Vic Theatre, in November
2000. The play received rave reviews in the British newspapers and magazines, including The
Guardian. "The Story of the Panda Bears told by a Saxophonist who has a Girlfriend in
Frankfurt" has been performed at the Edinburgh Festival (August 2005). The production is by
Rouge28 Theatre, London.

In Unites States, the work of Matéi Visniec has been represented in New York, Chicago, New
Jersey and Hollywood.

"Old clown wanted" was first produced in 1994 at the 29 Street Theatre in New York, directed
by Moshe Yassur. The play was produced as well in 2004 by The New Jersey Repertory Company,
and in 2005 by Trap Door Theatre in Chicago, both productions directed by Gregory Fortner.
"How to explain the History of Communism to mental Patients" was first produced in March
2000 at The Open Fist Theatre Company, Hollywood, directed by Florinel Fatulescu. The same
play was produced in October 2004 by the Wing & Groove Theatre Company, directed by Bryan
White, and presented at the Chopin Theatre in Chicago during the "Playing French" Festival.
"The Chekhov Machine" was produced in February 2005 at The Open Fist Theatre Company,
directed by Florinel Fatulescu.
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"Paparazzi or Chronicle of an aborted Sunrise" had a public reading at the Actor's Studio in
New York, in March 2005, directed by Cosmin Chivu.
"The Body of a Woman as a Battlefield in the Bosnia War" had a public reading at the
Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago, October 2005, during the "Playing French" Festival.
"Horses at the window" was produced in April 2009 at Trap Door Theatre, Chicago,directed by
Radu Alexandru Nica.

Plays by Matéi Visniec available in English

- Old Clown wanted (3 men)

translated from the French by Alison Sinclair

- Horses at the Window (at least 1 men and 1 woman)

translated from the French by Alison Sinclair

- Pockets full of Bread (a play for two, women or men)

translated from the Romanian by Flora Papastavru

- Three Nights with Madox (1 woman, 4 men)

translated from the French by Mark Bromilow

- The History of Pandas told by a Saxophonist who has a Girlfriend in Frankfurt (1 woman, 1
man)
translated from the French by Marella Oppenheim

- The Body of a Woman as a Battlefield in the Bosnian War (2 women)

translated from the French by Joyce Nettles

- How to explain the History of Communism to Mental Patients (at least 8 actors, women and
men)
translated from the French by Jeremy Lawrence et Catherine Popesco

- The Chekhov Machine (at least 6 actors, women and men)

translated from the French by Jeremy Lawrence

- The King, the Rat and the King's Fool (2 men)

translated from the French by Joyce Nettles

- The word progress on my mother's lips doesn't ring true (at least 6 actors, women and men)
translated from the French by Joyce Nettles

- A Paris Attic overlooking Death (at least 6 actors, women and men)
translated from the French by Joyce Nettles
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- Paparazzi, or Chronicle of an aborted Sunrise (at least 5 actors, women and men)
translated from the French by Maria Vail

- But what shell we do with the Cello? (1 musician, 1 woman, 2 men)

translated from the Romanian by Mioara Tarzioru

- The human Trashcan (as many actors as the director wants)

translated from the French by by Sharon E. Gerstenberger

- Richard III will not take place, or scenes from the life of Meyerhold
(at least 6 actors, women and men)
translated from the French by Jeremy Lawrence