The Cherry Orchard

Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies only the five senses that we know perish with him, and the other ninety-five remain alive.

I should think I'm going to be a perpetual student.

We just philosophize, complain of boredom, or drink vodka. It's so clear, you see, that if we're to begin living in the present, we must first of all redeem our past and then be done with it forever. And the only way we can redeem our past is by suffering and by giving ourselves over to exceptional labor, to steadfast and endless labor.

A hungry dog believes in nothing but meat.

Going to see plays isn't what you people should do. Try looking at yourselves a little more often and see what gray lives you all lead. How much of what you say is unnecessary.

They are all very serious people with stern expressions on their faces. They discuss nothing but important matters and like to philosophize a great deal, while at the same time everyone can see that the workers are detestably fed, sleep without suitable bedding, thirty to forty in a room with bedbugs everywhere, the stench, the dampness, and the moral corruption... Obviously all our fine talk has gone on simply to hoodwink ourselves and other people as well. Show me the day nurseries that they're talking about so much about. And where are the libraries? Why, they just write about nurseries and libraries in novels, while in fact not a single one even exists. What does exist is nothing but dirt, vulgarity, and a barbarian way of life... I dislike these terribly serious faces, they frighten me, and I'm afraid of serious conversations, too. We'd be better off if we all would just shut up for a while!

What she can't get into her narrow mind is that we're above such things as love. Our whole aim - the whole sense of our life - is to avoid petty illusions that stop us being free and happy. On, on, on!

But if we reason it out simply and not try to be one bit fancy, then what sort of pride can you possibly take or what's the sense of ever having it, if man is poorly put together as a physiological type and if the enormous majority of the human race is brutal, stupid, and profoundly unhappy?

I am a man of cultivation; I have studied various remarkable books, but I cannot fathom the direction of my preferences; do I want to live or do I want to shoot myself, so to speak? But in order to be ready for all contingencies, I always carry a revolver in my pocket.

LUBOV. I'm quite sure there wasn't anything at all funny. You oughtn't to go and see plays, you ought to go and look at yourself. What a grey life you lead, what a lot you talk unnecessarily.

There is something mystical in the proud man in the sense in which you use the words. You may be right from your point of view, but, if we look at it simple-mindedly, what room is there for pride? Is there any sense in it, when man is so poorly constructed from the physiological point of view, when the vast majority of us are so gross and stupid and profoundly unhappy? We must give up admiring ourselves. The only thing to do is to work.

We shall die all the same.

I know exactly the potential of the people around here. They have the potential to lie. They have the potential to deceive. They have the potential to inveigle. They’ll change nothing. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I lie awake thinking, my God! We have so much. We have these huge forests. We have boundless open fields. We can see the deepest, furthest horizons. Look around you. Look. We should be giants. We really, really aren’t.

Life’s all done, just as if I never even lived it ...

Dã-mi, Doamne, ce n-am gîndit, sã mã mir ce m-a gãsit... Aşa şi cu mine. De îmbogãţit m-am îmbogãţit, am parale cu carul... Dar cînd stau sã chibzuiesc şi sã judec mai bine, tot ţãran am rãmas...

Rãsare luna. (Pauzã.) latã fericirea! Uite-o, vine, se apropie tot mai mult, tot mai mult, îi aud pasii. Si chiar dacã noi n-o vom vedea, n-o vom cunoaste, n-are nici o importanþã... Vor vedea-o altii!

E ca o piatră care-mi stă legată de gat şi mă trage la fund, dar vezi, eu iubesc piatra asta şi nu pot fără ea.

Noi filozofãm doar, ne plîngem de plictisealã si bem vodcã. Vezi, e atît de limpede cã pentru a începe sã trãiesti cu adevãrat trebuie mai întîi sã-þi rãscumperi trecutul, sã isprãveºti cu el! Si nu poþi sã-l rãscumperi decît prin suferinþã, printr-o muncã uriasã si neîntreruptã!

Dulapul a fost făcut exact acum o sută de ani. Ce spui? Am putea să-i serbăm jubileul! Fără îndoială, e un lucru neînsufletit, totusi, oricum ar fi, e un dulap de cărti. (…) (Pipãind dulapul.) Dulap scump si stimat! Salut existenta ta, care de o sutã de ani e destinatã idealului luminos al binelui si dreptãtii! Chemarea ta tãcutã pentru o muncã rodnicã n-a slãbit de-alungul unui veac întreg, susþinînd (printre lacrimi) în familia noastrã, din tatã în fiu, curajul si credina generatiilor într-un viitor mai bun, crescîndu-ne în spiritul idealurilor de bine si ale constiinþei sociale...

I love him, love him. He's a millstone round my neck - he'll take me to the bottom with him. But I love this millstone of mine - I can't live without it.