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Три сестры

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Великий русский писатель А. П. Чехов (1860-1904) на Западе известен прежде всего как автор пьес. Такие его драматические произведения, как «Чайка», «Вишневый сад», «Дядя Ваня» и другие, ставятся на сценах разных стран и неизменно пользуются успехом. Предлагаем вниманию англоязычных читателей одну из самых известных пьес Чехова «Три сестры», написанную в 1901 году.
Чехов, А.П. Три сестры : худож. литература / А. П. Чехов ; [пер. с рус. Дж. Веста]. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2017. - 128 с. - (Русская классическая литература на иностранных языках). - ISBN 978-5-9925-1228-1. - Текст : электронный. - URL: https://znanium.com/catalog/product/1046114 (дата обращения: 22.11.2024). – Режим доступа: по подписке.
Фрагмент текстового слоя документа размещен для индексирующих роботов
THE THrEE sisTErs

Translated by Julius West

Anton CHEKHOV

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ-93
 
Ч56

ISBN 978-5-9925-1228-1

 
Чехов, Антон Павлович.
Ч56 
Три сестры / пер. с рус. Дж. Веста. — СанктПетербург : КАРО, 2017. — 128 с. — (Русская классическая литература на иностранных языках).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1228-1.

Великий русский писатель А. П. Чехов (1860–1904) на 
Западе известен прежде всего как автор пьес. Такие его драматические произведения, как «Чайка», «Вишневый сад», «Дядя 
Ваня» и другие, ставятся на сценах разных стран и неизменно 
пользуются успехом. Предлагаем вниманию англоязычных 
читателей одну из самых известных пьес Чехова «Три сестры», 
написанную в 1901 году.

УДК 372.8 
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2017

Characters

A n d r e y  S e r g e y e v i t c h  P r o s o r o v

N a t a l i a  I v a n o v n a  (N a t a s h a), his fiancee, 
later his wife (28)

O l g a
M a s h a  
His sisters
I r i n a

F e o d o r  I l i t c h  K u l i g i n, high school teacher, 
married to Masha (20)

A l e x a n d e r  I g n a t e y e v i t c h  V e r s h i n i n, 
lieutenant-colonel in charge of a battery (42)

N i c o l a i  
L v o v i t c h  
T u z e n b a c h, baron, 
lieutenant in the army (30)

V a s s i l i  V a s s i l e v i t c h  S o l e n i, captain

I v a n  R o m a n o v i t c h  C h e b u t i k i n, army 
doctor (60)

A l e x e y  P e t r o v i t c h  F e d o t i k, sub-lieutenant

V l a d i m i r  C a r l o v i t c h  R o d e, sub-lieutenant

F e r a p o n t, door-keeper at local council offices, an old 
man

A n f i s a, nurse (80)

The action takes place in a provincial town.

[Ages are stated in brackets.]

    


                                    
ACt I

[In Prosorov’s house. A sitting-room with pillars; behind 
is seen a large dining-room. It is midday, the sun is shining 
brightly outside. In the dining-room the table is being laid for 
lunch.]

[Olga, in the regulation blue dress of a teacher at a girl’s high 
school, is walking about correcting exercise books; Masha, in 
a black dress, with a hat on her knees, sits and reads a book; 
Irina, in white, stands about, with a thoughtful expression.]

O l g a. It’s just a year since father died last 
May the fifth, on your name-day, Irina. It was 
very cold then, and snowing. I thought I would 
never survive it, and you were in a dead faint. 
And now a year has gone by and we are already 
thinking about it without pain, and you are 
wearing a white dress and your face is happy. 

[Clock strikes twelve] And the clock struck just the 
same way then. [Pause] I remember that there 
was music at the funeral, and they fired a volley 
in the cemetery. He was a general in command 
of a brigade but there were few people present. 

Of course, it was raining then, raining hard, and 
snowing.

I r i n a. Why think about it!

[Baron Tuzenbach, Chebutikin and Soleni appear by the table 
in the dining-room, behind the pillars.]

O l g a. It’s so warm today that we can keep 
the windows open, though the birches are not 
yet in flower. Father was put in command of 
a brigade, and he rode out of Moscow with us 
eleven years ago. I remember perfectly that it 
was early in May and that everything in Moscow 
was flowering then. It was warm too, everything 
was bathed in sunshine. Eleven years have gone, 
and I remember everything as if we rode out only 
yesterday. Oh, God! When I awoke this morning 
and saw all the light and the spring, joy entered 
my heart, and I longed passionately to go home.

C h e b u t i k i n. Will you take a bet on it?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, nonsense.

[Masha, lost in a reverie over her book, whistles softly.]

O l g a. Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! 

[Pause] I’m always having headaches from having 
to go to the High School every day and then teach 

till evening. Strange thoughts come to me, as if 
I were already an old woman. And really, during 
these four years that I have been working here, 
I have been feeling as if every day my strength 
and youth have been squeezed out of me, drop 
by drop. And only one desire grows and gains in 
strength …

I r i n a. To go away to Moscow. To sell the 
house, drop everything here, and go to Moscow …

O l g a. Yes! To Moscow, and as soon as possible.

[Chebutikin and Tuzenbach laugh.]

I r i n a. I expect Andrey will become a professor, but still, he won’t want to live here. Only 
poor Masha must go on living here.

O l g a. Masha can come to Moscow every 
year, for the whole summer.

[Masha is whistling gently.]

I r i n a. Everything will be arranged, please 
God. [Looks out of the window] It’s nice out today. 
I don’t know why I’m so happy: I remembered 

this morning that it was my name-day, and I suddenly felt glad and remembered my childhood, 
when mother was still with us. What beautiful 
thoughts I had, what thoughts!

O l g a. You’re all radiance today, I’ve never 
seen you look so lovely. And Masha is pretty, too. 
Andrey wouldn’t be bad-looking, if he wasn’t 
so stout; it does spoil his appearance. But I’ve 
grown old and very thin, I suppose it’s because 
I get angry with the girls at school. Today I’m 
free. I’m at home. I haven’t got a headache, and 
I feel younger than I was yesterday. I’m only 
twenty-eight. … All’s well, God is everywhere, 
but it seems to me that if only I were married 
and could stay at home all day, it would be even 
better. [Pause] I should love my husband.

T u z e n b a c h. [To Soleni] I’m tired of listening 
to the rot you talk. [Entering the sitting-room] I forgot 
to say that Vershinin, our new lieutenant-colonel 
of artillery, is coming to see us to-day. [Sits down 

to the piano.]

O l g a. That’s good. I’m glad.

I r i n a. Is he old?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, no. Forty or forty-five, 
at the very outside. [Plays softly] He seems rather 
a good sort. He’s certainly no fool, only he likes 
to hear himself speak.

I r i n a. Is he interesting?

T u z e n b a c h. Oh, he’s all right, but there’s 
his wife, his mother-in-law, and two daughters. 
This is his second wife. He pays calls and tells 
everybody that he’s got a wife and two daughters. 
He’ll tell you so here. The wife isn’t all there, she 
does her hair like a flapper and gushes extremely. 
She talks philosophy and tries to commit suicide 
every now and again, apparently in order to annoy her husband. I should have left her long ago, 
but he bears up patiently, and just grumbles.

S o l e n i. [Enters with Chebutikin from the dining
room] With one hand I can only lift fifty-four 
pounds, but with both hands I can lift 180, or 
even 200 pounds. From this I conclude that two 
men are not twice as strong as one, but three 
times, perhaps even more. …

C h e b u t i k i n. [Reads a newspaper as he walks] 
If your hair is coming out … take an ounce of 
naphthaline and hail a bottle of spirit … dissolve 

and use daily. … [Makes a note in his pocket diary] 
When found make a note of! Not that I want it 
though. … [Crosses it out] It doesn’t matter.

I r i n a. Ivan Romanovitch, dear Ivan Romanovitch!

C h e b u t i k i n. What does my own little girl 
want?

I r i n a. Ivan Romanovitch, dear Ivan Romanovitch! I feel as if I were sailing under the 
broad blue sky with great white birds around 
me. Why is that? Why?

C h e b u t i k i n. [Kisses her hands, tenderly] My 
white bird. …

I r i n a. When I woke up today and got up 
and dressed myself, I suddenly began to feel as 
if everything in this life was open to me, and that 
I knew how I must live. Dear Ivan Romanovitch, 
I know everything. A man must work, toil in the 
sweat of his brow, whoever he may be, for that is 
the meaning and object of his life, his happiness, 
his enthusiasm. How fine it is to be a workman 
who gets up at daybreak and breaks stones in 
the street, or a shepherd, or a schoolmaster, who 
teaches children, or an engine-driver on the 

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