Whatever happened to Madame Ranevsky?

1922: A farmhouse, fifty miles from Paris, France. The scene: An attic room sparsely furnished with a daybed, a table and two chairs. A small fire smoulders in the fireplace. Above the fireplace, there hangs a picture of Madame as a young woman. She is standing amid blossoming cherry trees, dressed in white muslin, carrying a white parasol. There is another painting on the wall, depicting playing cards fanned out on a table, two flutes of champagne, half-empty; a crystal bowl full of ripe cherries and a gold and amber necklace. Madame wears an artist’s smock and stand before her easel, paintbrush in hand. The half-finished painting depicts a cherry orchard in spring.

Madame: White, white, white. Can’t quite recapture that white denseness. Then came the years when I returned to Paris and the manic spending of Auntie’s money with Marcel’s help. The opera, the theatre, to say nothing of la ballet Russe, champagne, caviar, my gowns, my hats, my fans, my jewels and his gambling! It was when I discovered that he had pawned my amber necklace that I threw him out. Anya moved in with me; she was apprenticed to a Paris milliner and she trimmed my hats. At least, I looked fashionable from the neck up for my gowns were shabby.

Then, Pyotor turned up and he had come a long way from his student days. Those years on the Russian front had taken a toll on him. He told us how the new railway carried soldiers to their death in battle. The old house had served as a military hospital during the hostilities and was later taken over as headquarters for the Reds. He told us how Lopakhin had become wealthy through his dealings on the Black Market. Pyotor managed to scrape enough money together to buy this chicken farm. What a struggle it has been! I never realised that chickens were prone to so many diseases. Last year, we lost the entire flock and had to start again.

Anya is a good wife to him and a good mother to me. Although  she does have an obsession with making cherry pies. Unfortunately, she lacks that special touch that makes for flaky pastry. I never thought that I would end up in my daughter’s attic, putting up with her bad cooking.

Sad tales continued to flow out of Russia. Saddest of all was the news that the Czar and his family were executed by the Reds. I remembered charming pictures of the four daughters in their white dresses and shady hats. Then the heir to the throne—poor boy and is family’s fear of death from his haemophilia. It reminded me of my own little son who died early in life. The Czarina was desperate with anxiety. She was widely criticised for her association with Rasputin, known as the Rascal Monk. She was convinced that he possessed curative powers that would heal her son. She would do anything to save her child, the heir to the throne. Ah well, when the Czar and his family were murdered, we knew the old Russia was no more.

(The door opens and Anya appears. She is a stout woman, dressed in a dark dress covered by a white apron. She carries a dish of cherry preserves).

Anya: Mama, I have brought you a treat!

Madame: Anya, mydarling, the cherries have all gone sour. The recipe was lost when the trees were cut down.