[Chekhov]
IRINA: Everyone has to put ten kopeks in the pot. Put mine in for me, doctor.
DORN: Certainly.
(They start playing lotto.)
MASHA: Is everybody in? I'll start . . . twenty-two!
IRINA: Here.
MASHA: Three!
DORN: Got it.
MASHA: Did you put three down? Eight. Eighty-one. Ten.
ILYA: You're going too fast.
IRINA: They loved me in Kharkov! My head's still spinning from all the adoration.
MASHA: Thirty-four.
(A melancholy waltz is heard in the distance.)
IRINA: The students gave me an ovation and showered me with flowers. And look what they gave me . . . (she takes off a brooch and tosses it onto the table.)
ILYA: Very nice!
MASHA: Fifty!
DORN: You said fifty?
IRINA: I was dressed to the teeth. Whatever else you say about me, my taste is exquisite.
POLINA: Konstantin is playing that song again. He's so unhappy.
ILYA: The critics in the paper have been going after him again.
MASHA: Seventy-seven!
IRINA: He shouldn't worry about critics.
TRIGORIN: He's had no luck. And he can't find his style. There's something strange and vague about his style - sometimes he seems delirious. His characters never come to life.
MASHA: Eleven!
IRINA: (glancing at Sorin) Petrusha, are you bored? He's asleep.
DORN: That he is.
MASHA: Seven! Ninety!
TRIGORIN: If I lived here by the lake, do you think I'd get much writing done? I'd forget my passion for literature and do nothing but fish.
MASHA: Twenty-eight!
TRIGORIN: Catching perch all day - I'd be in heaven.
DORN: Well, I like Konstantin's writing. There's something special about it. He thinks in images and his stories are quite vivid, they move me a good deal. The pity is, he has no clear purpose. He creates an impression but nothing more. Irina, are you glad your son is a writer?
IRINA: To be honest, I haven't read a word he's written. There's never any time.
MASHA: Twenty-six!
(Treplev enters and goes to his desk.)