Chekhov: The Essential Plays: The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters & The Cherry Orchard (Modern Library Classics) - Softcover

Chekhov, Anton

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0375761349 ISBN 13: 9780375761348

Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

Because Chekhov’s plays convey the universally recognizable, sometimes comic, sometimes dramatic, frustrations of decent people trying to make sense of their lives, they remain as fresh and vigorous as when they were written a century ago. Gathered here in superb new renderings by one of the most highly regarded translators of our time—versions that have been staged throughout the United States, Canada, and Great Britain—are Chekhov’s four essential masterpieces for the theater.

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Michael Henry Heim is professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures and Comparative Literature at the University of California, Los Angeles. His previous translations include Anton Chekhov’s Life and Thought: Selected Letters and Commentary (with Simon Karlinsky); The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera; and My Century, by Günter Grass. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

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characters

Irína Nikoláevna Arkádina (Trépleva by marriage). An actress.

Konstantín Gavrílovich Tréplev (Kóstya). Her son, a young man.

Pyotr Nikoláevich Sórin. Her brother.

Nína Mikháilovna Zaréchnaya. A young girl, the daughter of a rich landowner.

Ilyá Afanásyevich Shamráev. A retired lieutenant, the manager of Sorin’s estate.

Polína Andréevna. His wife.

María Ilyínichna (Másha). His daughter.

Borís Alexéevich Trigórin. A writer.

Yevgény Sergéevich Dorn. A doctor.

Semyón Sergéevich Medvedénko. A schoolmaster.

Yákov. A workman.

A Male Cook.

A Housemaid.

The action takes place on Sorin’s estate. Two years pass between Acts Three and Four.


Act One

The grounds of Sorin’s estate. A broad tree-lined path leading away from the audience to a lake is cut off by a makeshift stage for an amateur performance. The lake is hidden from view. Bushes to the left and right of the stage. Several chairs, a small table.

The sun has just set. On the stage behind a lowered curtain Yakov and other Workmen are heard coughing and hammering. Enter Masha and Medvedenko, left, on their way back from a walk.

Medvedenko. Why is it you always wear black?

Masha. I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.

Medvedenko. But why? (Thinking hard.) I can’t understand it . . . You’re healthy. Your father may not be rich, but he has a comfortable life. My life’s much harder than yours—I make only twenty-three rubles a month minus pension-fund deductions—and I don’t wear mourning. (They sit down.)

Masha. Money doesn’t matter. Even a pauper can be happy.

Medvedenko. In theory perhaps, but not in practice. I’ve got myself, my mother, my two sisters, and my little brother to support—and all on twenty-three rubles. We need to eat and drink, don’t we? We need tea and sugar. We need tobacco. Just try and make ends meet.

Masha (looking at the stage). The play’s starting soon.

Medvedenko. Yes. Nina Zarechnaya in a play by Konstantin Gavrilovich. They’re in love, and today their souls will merge in the desire to create a unified artistic image. But my soul and yours have no points of contact. I love you. I miss you so much I can’t keep away. Every day I walk four miles here and four miles home, and what do I get? Utter indifference. And no wonder. I have no private means and a large family to support . . . Who wants to marry a man with nothing to eat?

Masha. Ridiculous. (She takes snuff.) I’m touched by your love. I can’t return it, that’s all. (She holds out the snuffbox to him.) Snuff?

Medvedenko. No, none for me. (Pause.)

Masha. What a muggy day. We’re in for a storm tonight. All you do is philosophize or talk about money. You think there’s nothing worse than poverty. Well, I think it’s a thousand times easier to go begging in rags than to . . . But you wouldn’t understand . . .

(Enter Sorin and Treplev, right.)

Sorin (leaning on his cane). I’m just not myself in the country, my boy. Never will be either, you can be sure of that. I went to bed at ten last night, and this morning at nine I woke up feeling my brain was stuck to my skull. From all that sleep and such. (He laughs.) I dropped off again this afternoon, and now I’m a complete wreck. It’s a living nightmare, if you know what I mean.

Treplev. You’re right. You ought to be living in town. (Seeing Masha and Medvedenko.) Sorry, but you’ll be called when it starts. You can’t stay here now. Please go.

Sorin (to Masha). Maria Ilyinichna, do you think you could ask your father to let the dog off the chain? It’s always howling. My sister was up again all night.

Masha. Ask him yourself. I refuse. I don’t want any part of it, thank you. (To Medvedenko.) Come on.

Medvedenko (to Treplev). You’ll let us know in time, won’t you?  (They exit.)

Sorin. So that dog will howl all night again. You see? I never get my way in the country. I used to take a month off and come here to relax and such, but there was always so much fuss and bother I was ready to leave the day I came. (He laughs.) I was always glad to get away from here . . . Now that I’m retired, I have nowhere else to go, if you know what I mean. Like it or not, this is home . . .

Yakov (to Treplev). We’re going down for a swim, Konstantin Gavrilovich.

Treplev. All right. Just make sure you’re back in ten minutes. (He glances at his watch.) We’ll be starting soon.

Yakov. Yes, sir. (He exits.)

Treplev (looking over the stage). How’s that for a stage: curtain, one wing, another, then empty space. No set. You look straight out on the lake and the horizon. Curtain’s going up at eight-thirty on the dot, just as the moon starts to rise.

Sorin. Splendid.

Treplev. Of course the effect will be lost if Nina’s late. She should be here by now. Her father and stepmother never let her out of their sight. Getting away from that house is like breaking out of prison. (He adjusts Sorin’s tie.) Your hair and beard are a mess. Why don’t you keep them trimmed? . . .

Sorin (combing his beard). The tragedy of my life. I look drunk all the time. Even when I was young, I looked like a drunkard and all. Never had luck with the ladies. (Sitting down.) I wonder why my sister’s in such a bad mood.

Treplev. Why do you think? She’s bored. (Sitting next to him.) And jealous. She’s dead set against me, my play, and the performance, because her novelist might find Nina attractive. She doesn’t know the first thing about the play, but she hates it.

Sorin (laughing). You’re imagining things. Really . . .

Treplev. It galls her to think that Nina will get all the applause. Even on that tiny stage. (Glancing at his watch.) She’s a psychological oddity, my mother: unquestionably talented and intelligent, capable of weeping over a novel, reeling off all Nekrasov by heart, nursing the sick like an angel—but try praising Duse in her presence.2 No! She’s the only one you can praise; she’s the only one you can write about, shout about, rave about in Camille or The Fumes of Life.3 But here in the country there aren’t any opiates, so she’s bored and edgy and thinks we’re all her enemies, we’re the ones to blame. She’s superstitious too: afraid of three candles, of the number thirteen. She’s a miser: she’s got seventy thousand in a bank in Odessa—I know it for a fact—but try and get a loan out of her. She’ll burst into tears.

Sorin. You’re so convinced she’s against the play you can’t think straight and all. Calm down. Your mother worships you.

Treplev (pulling the petals off a flower). She loves me, she loves me not; she loves me, she loves me not; she loves me, she loves me not. (He laughs.) See? My mother doesn’t love me. Why should she? What she wants is to live, love, wear bright blouses. And here I am, twenty-five—a constant reminder she’s not so young as she used to be. When I’m not around, she’s thirty-two; when I am, she’s forty-three. That’s why she hates me. Besides, she knows I don’t accept her theater, the theater she loves. She thinks she’s serving mankind, a sacred art, but as far as I’m concerned the theater today is all rote and delusion. When the curtain goes up on an artificially lit room...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2003
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0375761349
• ISBN 13: 9780375761348
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 288
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Purmerul LTD; https://strengholt.nl/en/; ; 22 Liuleburgaz Str., floor 4, app. 9; Plovdiv; Bulgarien