The Undiscovered Chekhov

THE

CROSS

THE POET ENTERS THE drawing room filled with people.

“Well,” the hostess turns to him, “how did your dear little poem do? Did they print it? Was there an honorarium?” “Oh, don’t ask.... I got a cross!”

“You were awarded a cross? You, a poet? I didn’t know poets were awarded crosses.”

The host shakes his hand. “My sincerest congratulations! Is it a Stanislav cross or a St. Anne medal? I am so happy for you... so happy... is it a Stanislav?”

“No, a red cross!”

“Oh, you sacrificed your honorarium in aid of the Red Cross!”

“I didn’t sacrifice anything!”

“The medal will definitely suit you. Do show it to us!” The poet reaches into his side pocket and takes out his manuscript.

“Here it is!”

Everyone looks at the manuscript and sees a large red cross... but it’s not the kind of cross you can pin on your lapel.