Masha. Have you put down three? Eight. Eighty-one. Ten.
Shamraeff. Don’t go so fast.
Arkadina. Could you believe it? I am still dazed by the reception they gave me in Kharkoff.
Masha. Thirty-four.
Arkadina. The students gave me an ovation; they sent me three baskets of flowers, a wreath, and this thing here.
She unclasps a brooch from her breast and lays it on the table.
Shamraeff. There is something worth while!
Masha. Fifty.
Dorn. Fifty, did you say?
Arkadina. I wore a perfectly magnificent dress; I am no fool when it comes to clothes.
Paulina. Constantine is playing again; the poor boy is sad.
Shamraeff. He has been severely criticised in the papers.
Masha. Seventy-seven.
Arkadina. They want to attract attention to him.
Trigorin. He doesn’t seem able to make a success, he can’t somehow strike the right note. There is an odd vagueness about his writings that sometimes verges on delirium. He has never created a single living character.
Masha. Eleven.
Arkadina. Are you bored, Peter? [A pause] He is asleep.
Dorn. The Councillor is taking a nap.
Masha. Seven. Ninety.
Trigorin. Do you think I should write if I lived in such a place as this, on the shore of this lake? Never! I should overcome my passion, and give my life up to the catching of fish.
Masha. Twenty-eight.
