A monologue from the play by Anton Chekhov
NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Two Plays of Tchekhof. Trans. George Calderon. London: Grant Richards Ltd., 1912.
[Deeply agitated] Why doesn’t Leoníd come? Oh, if only I knew whether the property’s sold or not! It seems such an impossible disaster, that I don’t know what to think. . . . I’m bewildered . . .
I shall burst out screaming, I shall do something idiotic. Save me, Peter; say something to me, say something. You can see what’s truth and untruth, but I seem to have lost the power of vision;
I see nothing. You settle every important question so boldly; but tell me, Peter, isn’t that because you’re young, because you have never solved any question of your own as yet by suffering?
You look boldly ahead; isn’t it only that you don’t see or divine anything terrible in the future; because life is still hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, honester, deeper than we are,
but reflect, show me just a finger’s breadth of consideration, take pity on me. Don’t you see? I was born here, my father and mother lived here, and my grandfather; I loved this house;
without the cherry orchard my life has no meaning for me, and if it must be sold, then for heaven’s sake sell me too! My little boy was drowned here. Be gentle with me, dear, kind Peter.
I am so wretched today, you can’t imagine! All this noise jars on me, my heart jumps at every sound. I tremble all over; but I can’t shut myself up; I am afraid of the silence when I’m alone.
Don’t be hard on me, Peter; I love you like a son. I would gladly let Anya marry you, I swear it; but you must work, Peter; you must get your degree. You do nothing; Fate tosses you about from place to place; and that’s not right.
It’s true what I say, isn’t it? And you must do something to your beard to make it grow better. I can’t help laughing at you. [Showing him a telegraph] It’s a telegram from Paris. I get them every day.
One came yesterday, another today. That savage is ill again; he’s in a bad way. . . . He asks me to forgive him, he begs me to come; and I really ought to go to Paris and be with him. You look at me sternly;
but what am I to do, Peter? What am I to do? He’s ill, he’s lonely, he’s unhappy. Who is to look after him? Who is to keep him from doing stupid things? Who is to give him his medicine when it’s time?
After all, why should I be ashamed to say it? I love him, that’s plain. I love him, I love him. . . . My love is like a stone tied round my neck; it’s dragging me down to the bottom; but I love my stone.
I can’t live without it. Don’t think ill of me, Peter; don’t say anything! Don’t say anything!