ANYA. We went to Paris; it’s cold there and snowing. I talk French perfectly horribly. My mother lives on the fifth floor. I go to her, and find her there with various Frenchmen, women, an old abbé with a book, and everything in tobacco smoke and with no comfort at all. I suddenly became very sorry for mother—so sorry that I took her head in my arms and hugged her and wouldn’t let her go. Then mother started hugging me and crying....
VARYA. [Weeping] Don’t say any more, don’t say any more....
ANYA. She’s already sold her villa near Mentone; she’s nothing left, nothing. And I haven’t a copeck left either; we only just managed to get here. And mother won’t understand! We had dinner at a station; she asked for all the expensive things, and tipped the waiters one rouble each. And Charlotta too. Yasha wants his share too—it’s too bad. Mother’s got a footman now, Yasha; we’ve brought him here.
VARYA. I saw the wretch.
ANYA. How’s business? Has the interest been paid?
VARYA. Not much chance of that.
ANYA. Oh God, oh God...
VARYA. The place will be sold in August.
ANYA. O God....
LOPAKHIN. [Looks in at the door and moos] Moo!... [Exit.]