I sat down, closed my eyes — like this — and thought: will those who will be living a hundred, two hundred years from now, those for whom we are now laying down the road to the future, will they remember us in their prayers? Nyanya, they won’t!
I still love her and am faithful to her, I help with what I can and have given up my property for the education of the children she had by the man she loved. I lost my happiness but kept my pride. And what became of her? Her youth has now gone, by the laws of nature her beauty has faded, the man she loved has passed on… What has she left?
I am now forty-seven. Till last year, like you, I deliberately tried to cloud my eyes with your learned talk, so as not to see real life — and I thought I was doing right. And now if you only knew! At nights I don’t sleep from vexation, from anger that I so foolishly lost the time when I could have had everything that my age now denies me!
…And perhaps this really is just craziness, but when I go past the peasant’s woods, which I saved from destruction, or when I hear the hum of my young trees, which I planted with my own hands, I know the climate is a little in my control and that if in a thousand years man is happy, the responsibility for that will in a small way be mine. When I plant a birch and then watch it come into leaf and sway in the wind, my spirit fills with pride…
I work all my life for learning, and I’m used to my study, the lecture hall, the colleagues I esteem — and then, I end up for no good reason in this tomb, see fools here every day, listen to worthless conversations… I want to live, I like success, I like fame, making a noise, and here it’s like being in exile. To pine every minute for the past, to watch the success of others, to be afraid of death… I can’t! I haven’t the strength! And they won’t even excuse me my age here!
You have here my life and my love; where am I to put them, what am I to do with them? My feelings are going to waste, like a ray of sunshine falling into a chasm, and I myself am going to waste.
She is beautiful, no question about that, but… she just eats, sleeps, walks, enchants us all with her beauty — and that’s all. She has no responsibilities, others work for her… It’s true, isn’t it? And an idle life can’t be a virtuous one.
His voice trembles, caresses… I can feel it in the air. But when I talked to him about a younger sister, he didn’t understand. Oh how I hate being plain! It’s dreadful! And I know I’m plain, I know it, I know it… Last Sunday when we were leaving church, I heard people talking about me, and one woman said, ‘She’s kind and generous, but it’s a pity that she’s so plain.’ Plain…
You’re bored, you can’t find a role for yourself, and boredom and inactivity are infectious. Look: Uncle Vanya does nothing and just follows you round like a shadow, I’ve left my work and come running to you to talk. I’ve got lazy, I can’t do it! Doctor Mikhail Lvovich used to visit us very seldom, once a month, it was difficult to persuade him, but now he drives over here every day, he’s left his woods and his practice. You must be a sorceress.
No, uncertainty is better… There’s still hope…
We have here a decline which is the consequence of an impossible struggle for existence; a degeneration arising from stagnation, ignorance, a total lack of self-awareness, when a frozen, hungry, sick man, in order to preserve the remnants of life, to protect his children, instinctively, unconsciously grasps at anything to relieve his hunger and get warm, and destroys everything around without a thought for tomorrow. Now almost everything is destroyed, but nothing has yet been created to take its place.
I will not be silent! Stay here, I haven’t finished! You have destroyed my life! I haven’t lived, I haven’t lived! Thanks to you I wasted, I destroyed the best years of my life! You are my worst enemy!
Those who will live after us in a hundred or two hundred years’ time and who will despise us for living our lives so foolishly and with such a lack of taste — they may find a way of being happy, but we… You and I have only one hope. The hope that when we lie in our coffins we’ll be visited by visions, perhaps even agreeable ones.
I think you are a good, sincere person but there’s also something strange in your whole being. You came here with your husband and everyone who was busily working here and creating something had to drop what they were doing and devote the whole summer to looking after your husband’s gout and you yourself. Both of you — he and you — infected all of us with your idleness… I’m joking of course, but still… it’s strange, and I’m convinced that if you had stayed, the devastation would have been enormous.
…But let an old man include just one observation in his farewell greetings: my friends, one must do a job of work! One must do a job of work!
We shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live out many, many days and long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials fate sends us; we shall labour for others both now and in our old age, knowing no rest, and when our time comes, we shall meekly die, and there beyond the grave we shall say that we suffered, that we wept, that we were sorrowful, and God will have pity on us, and you and I, dear Uncle, shall see a life that is bright and beautiful and full of grace, we shall rejoice and look back on our present woes with tenderness, with a smile — and we shall rest.
