life that Tchekoff shows us, but Russian life and character in general, in which the old order is giving place to the new, and we see the practical, modern spirit invading the vague, aimless existence so dear to the owners of the cherry orchard. A new epoch was beginning, and at its dawn the singer of old, dim Russia was silenced.
In the year that saw the production of "The Cherry Orchard," Tchekoff, the favourite of the Russian people, whom Tolstoi declared to be comparable as a writer of stories only to Maupassant, died suddenly in a little village of the Black Forest, whither he had gone a few weeks before in the hope of recovering his lost health.
Tchekoff, with an art peculiar to himself, in scattered scenes, in haphazard glimpses into the lives of his characters, in seemingly trivial conversations, has succeeded in so concentrating the atmosphere of the Russia of his day that we feel it in every line we read, oppressive as the mists that hang over a lake at dawn, and, like those mists, made visible to us by the light of an approaching day.
Plays:
ON THE HIGH ROAD
A DRAMATIC STUDY
CHARACTERS
TIHON EVSTIGNEYEV, the proprietor of a inn on the main road
SEMYON SERGEYEVITCH BORTSOV, a ruined landowner
MARIA EGOROVNA, his wife
SAVVA, an aged pilgrim
NAZAROVNA and EFIMOVNA, women pilgrims
FEDYA, a labourer
EGOR MERIK, a tramp
KUSMA, a driver
POSTMAN
BORTSOV’S WIFE’S COACHMAN
PILGRIMS, CATTLE-DEALERS, ETC.
The action takes place in one of the provinces of Southern Russia
[The scene is laid in TIHON’S bar. On the right is the bar-counter and shelves with bottles. At the back is a door leading out of the house. Over it, on the outside, hangs a dirty red lantern. The floor and the forms, which stand against the wall, are closely occupied by pilgrims and passersby. Many of them, for lack of space, are sleeping as they sit. It is late at night. As the curtain rises thunder is heard, and lightning is seen through the door.]
[TIHON is behind the counter. FEDYA is half-lying in a heap on one of the forms, and is quietly playing on a concertina. Next to him is BORTSOV, wearing a shabby summer overcoat. SAVVA, NAZAROVNA, and EFIMOVNA are stretched out on the floor by the benches.]
EFIMOVNA. [To NAZAROVNA] Give the old man a nudge dear! Can’t get any answer out of him.
NAZAROVNA. [Lifting the corner of a cloth covering of SAVVA’S face] Are you alive or are you dead, you holy man?
SAVVA. Why should I be dead? I’m alive, mother! [Raises himself on his elbow] Cover up my feet, there’s a saint! That’s it. A bit more on the right one. That’s it, mother. God be good to us.
NAZAROVNA. [Wrapping up SAVVA’S feet] Sleep, little father.
SAVVA. What sleep can I have? If only I had the patience to endure this pain, mother; sleep’s quite another matter. A sinner doesn’t deserve to be given rest. What’s that noise, pilgrim-woman?
NAZAROVNA. God is sending a storm. The wind is wailing, and the rain is pouring down, pouring down. All down the roof and into the windows like dried peas. Do you hear? The windows of heaven are opened… [Thunder] Holy, holy, holy…
FEDYA. And it roars and thunders, and rages, sad there’s no end to it! Hoooo… it’s like the noise of a forest…. Hoooo…. The wind is wailing like a dog…. [Shrinking back] It’s cold! My clothes are wet, it’s all coming in through the open door… you might put me through a wringer…. [Plays softly] My concertina’s damp, and so there’s no music for you, my Orthodox brethren, or else I’d give you such a concert, my word! — Something marvellous! You can have a quadrille, or a polka, if you like, or some Russian dance for two…. I can do them all. In the town, where I was an attendant at the Grand Hotel, I couldn’t make any money, but I did wonders on my concertina. And, I can play the guitar.
A VOICE FROM THE CORNER. A silly speech from a silly fool.
FEDYA. I can hear another of them. [Pause.]
NAZAROVNA. [To SAVVA] If you’d only lie where it was warm now, old man, and warm your feet. [Pause.] Old man! Man of God! [Shakes SAVVA] Are you going to die?
FEDYA. You ought to drink a little vodka, grandfather. Drink, and it’ll burn, burn in your stomach, and warm up your heart. Drink, do!
NAZAROVNA. Don’t swank, young man! Perhaps the old man is giving back his soul to God, or repenting for his sins, and you talk like that, and play your concertina…. Put it down! You’ve no shame!
FEDYA. And what are you sticking to him for? He can’t do anything and you… with your old women’s talk… He can’t say a word in reply, and you’re glad, and happy because he’s listening to your nonsense…. You go on sleeping, grandfather; never mind her! Let her talk, don’t you take any notice of her. A woman’s tongue is the devil’s broom — it will sweep the good man and the clever man both out of the house. Don’t you mind…. [Waves his hands] But it’s thin you are, brother of mine! Terrible! Like a dead skeleton! No life in you! Are you really dying?
SAVVA. Why should I die? Save me, O Lord, from dying in vain…. I’ll suffer a little, and then get up with God’s help…. The Mother of God won’t let me die in a strange land…. I’ll die at home.
FEDYA. Are you from far off?
SAVVA. From Vologda. The town itself…. I live there.
FEDYA. And where is this Vologda?
TIHON. The other side of Moscow….
FEDYA. Well, well, well…. You have come a long way, old man! On foot?
SAVVA. On foot, young man. I’ve been to Tihon of the Don, and I’m going to the Holy Hills. [Note: On the Donetz, south-east of Kharkov; a monastery containing a miraculous ikon.]… From there, if God wills it, to Odessa…. They say you can get to Jerusalem cheap from there, for twenty-ones roubles, they say….
FEDYA. And have you been to Moscow?
SAVVA. Rather! Five times….
FEDYA. Is it a good town? [Smokes] Well-standing?
Sews. There are many holy places there, young man…. Where there are many holy places it’s always
