Trigorin.  Some one might come in. [He helps her to rise.]

Arkadina.  Let them come!  I am not ashamed of my love. [She kisses his hands] My jewel!  My despair!  You want to do a foolish thing, but I don’t want you to do it.  I shan’t let you do it! [She laughs] You are mine, you are mine!  This forehead is mine, these eyes are mine, this silky hair is mine.  All your being is mine.  You are so clever, so wise, the first of all living writers; you are the only hope of your country.  You are so fresh, so simple, so deeply humourous.  You can bring out every feature of a man or of a landscape in a single line, and your characters live and breathe.  Do you think that these words are but the incense of flattery?  Do you think I am not speaking the truth?  Come, look into my eyes; look deep; do you find lies there?  No, you see that I alone know how to treasure you.  I alone tell you the truth.  Oh, my very dear, you will go with me?  You will?  You will not forsake me?

Trigorin.  I have no will of my own; I never had.  I am too indolent, too submissive, too phlegmatic, to have any.  Is it possible that women like that?  Take me.  Take me away with you, but do not let me stir a step from your side.

Arkadina. [To herself] Now he is mine! [Carelessly, as if nothing unusual had happened] Of course you must stay here if you really want to.  I shall go, and you can follow in a week’s time.  Yes, really, why should you hurry away?

Trigorin.  Let us go together.

Arkadina.  As you like.  Let us go together then. [A pause.  Trigorin writes something in his note-book] What are you writing?

Trigorin.  A happy expression I heard this morning:  “A grove of maiden pines.”  It may be useful. [He yawns] So we are really off again, condemned once more to railway carriages, to stations and restaurants, to Hamburger steaks and endless arguments!

Shamraeff comes in.

Shamraeff.  I am sorry to have to inform you that your carriage is at the door.  It is time to start, honoured madam, the train leaves at two-five.  Would you be kind enough, madam, to remember to inquire for me where Suzdaltzeff the actor is now?  Is he still alive, I wonder?  Is he well?  He and I have had many a jolly time together.  He was inimitable in “The Stolen Mail.”  A tragedian called Izmailoff was in the same company, I remember, who was also quite remarkable.  Don’t hurry, madam, you still have five minutes.  They were both of them conspirators once, in the same melodrama, and one night when in the course of the play they were suddenly discovered, instead of saying “We have been trapped!” Izmailoff cried out:  “We have been rapped!” [He laughs] Rapped!

While he has been talking Jacob has been busy with the trunks, and the maid has brought Arkadina her hat, coat, parasol, and gloves.  The cook looks hesitatingly through the door on the right, and finally comes into the room.  Paulina comes in.  Medviedenko comes in.