The Undiscovered Chekhov

A

SERIOUS

STEP

ALEKSEI BORISITCH HAS just a risen from a deep after-lunch slumber. He is sitting by the window with his wife, Martha Afanasevna, and is grumbling. He is not pleased that his daughter Lidochka has gone for a walk in the garden with young Fyodor Petrovitch.

“I can’t stand it,” the old man mutters, “when young girls get so carried away that they lose all sense of bashfulness! Loafing about in the garden like this, wandering down dark paths! Depravity and dissipation, that’s what it is! You, Mother, are completely blind to it all!... And anyway, as far as you’re concerned, it’s perfecdy fine for the girl to act like a fool... as far as you’re concerned, the two of them can go ahead and flirt all they want down there! Why, given half a chance you too, old as you are, would gladly throw all shame to the winds and rush off for a secret rendezvous of your own!”

“Stop bothering me!” the old woman says angrily. “Look at him, he’s rambling on, and doesn’t even know what he’s rambling about! Bald numskull!”

“Ha! Fine! Have it your way then! Let them kiss and hug all they want! Fine! Let them! I won’t be the one called to answer before the Lord Almighty once the girl’s head has been turned! Go ahead my children, kiss—court away all you want!”

“Stop gloating! Maybe nothing will come of it!”

“Let us pray that nothing will come of it!” Aleksei Borisitch sighs.

“You have always been your own daughter’s worst enemy! Ill will, that’s all she’s ever had from you! You should pray, Aleksei, that the Lord will not punish you for your cruelty! I fear for you! And we do not have all that long to live!”

“That’s all fine and good, but I still can’t allow this! He’s not a good enough match for her, and besides, what’s the rush? With our social status and her looks, she can find herself much better fiancés. And anyway, why am I even talking to you? Ha! That’s all I need now, a talk with you! We have to throw him out and lock Lidochka in her room, it’s as simple as that! And that’s exacdy what I’m going to do!”

The old man yawns, and his words stretch like rubber. It is clear that he is only grumbling because he feels a weight in the pit of his stomach, and that he’s wagging his tongue just to wag it. But the old woman takes each of his words to heart. She wrings her hands and snaps back at him, clucking like a hen. Tyrant, monster, Mohammedan, effigy, and a string of other special curses fly from her mouth straight at Aleksei Borisitch’s ugly mug. The matter would have ended as always with a momentous spit, and tears, but suddenly their eye catches something unusual: Lidochka, their daughter, her hair disheveled, comes rushing up the garden path toward the house. At the same instant, far down in the garden where the path bends, Fyodor Petrovitch’s straw hat bobs up from behind the bushes. The young man is strikingly pale. Hesitating, he takes two steps forward, waves, and quickly walks off. Then they hear Lidochka running into the house, rushing through the halls, and noisily locking herself in her room.

The old man and the old woman stare at each other with stunned surprise, cast down their eyes, and turn slightly pale. Both remain silent, not knowing what to say. To them, the meaning behind the fray is as clear as rain. Without a word, both of them understand and feel that while they were busy hissing and growling at each other, their daughters fate had been decided. The plainest human sensibility, not to mention a parent s heart, can comprehend what minutes of agony Lidochka, locked in her room, was living through, and what an important, fateful role the retreating straw hat played in her life.

Aleksei Borisitch gets up with a grunt and starts marching up and down the room. The old woman follows his every move, waiting with bated breath for him to say something.

“What strange weather we’ve been having these past few days,” the old man suddenly says. “At night it’s cold, then during the day the heat’s unbearable.”

The cook brings in the samovar. Martha Afanasevna warms the cups with hot water and then pours the tea. But no one touches it.

“We should... we should call her... Lidochka... so she can drink her tea...” Aleksei Borisitch mumbles. “Otherwise we’ll have to put a fresh samovar on for her... I can’t stand disorder!”

Martha Afanasevna wants to say something but cannot. Her lips twitch, her tongue does not obey, and her eyes cloud over. A few moments pass, and she bursts into tears. Aleksei Borisitch, himself teetering on the verge of tears, badly wants to pat the sobbing old woman on the back, but he is too proud. He must stand firm.

“This is all nice and fine,” he grumbles. “It’s just that he should have spoken to us first... yes... first of all he should have, properly, asked for Lidochka’s hand!... After all, we might not want to give it to him!”

The old woman waves her hands in the air, moans loud-ly, and rushes off to her room.

“This is a serious step...” Aleksei Borisitch thinks to himself. “One can’t just decide willy-nilly... one has to seriously... from all sides... I’ll go question her... find out all the whys and wherefores! I’ll talk to her, and then I’ll decide... This won’t do!”

The old man wraps his dressing gown tighdy around himself and slinks to Lidochka’s door.

“Lidochka!” he calls, timidly tugging at the doorknob. “Um, are you... um? Are you feeling ill or something?”

No answer. Aleksei Borisitch sighs, shrugs his shoulders for some reason, and walks away from the door.

“This won’t do!” he thinks to himself, shuffling in his slippers through the halls. “One has to look at it... from all sides, to chat, discuss... the holy sacrament of marriage, one can’t just approach it with frivolity... I’ll go and talk to the old woman...”

He shuffles into his wife’s room. Martha Afanasevna is standing before an open trunk, rummaging through heaps of linen with trembling hands.

“There’s not a single nightshirt here...,” she mumbles. “Good, serious parents will even throw in some baby clothes for the dowry! And us, we’re not even doing handkerchiefs and towels... you’d think she wasn’t our flesh and blood, but some orphan...”

“We have to talk about serious matters, and you’re nattering on about bits of cloth... I can’t even bear to look at this... our daughter’s future is at stake, and she’s standing here like some market woman, counting bits of cloth!... This won’t do!”

“And what are we supposed to do?”

“We have to think, we have to look at it from all sides... have a serious talk...”

They hear Lidochka unlock her door, tell the maid to take a letter to Fyodor Petrovitch, and then lock the door again.

“She is sending him a definite answer,” Aleksei Borisitch whispers. “Ha, the simpleminded fools! They don’t have the wherewithal to turn to their elders for advice! So this is what the world has come to!”

“Oh! I suddenly realized, Aleksei!” the old woman gasps, wringing her hands. “We’re going to have to look for a new apartment in town! If Lidochka will not be living with us, then what do we need eight rooms for?”

“This is all foolish... balderdash... what we have to do now is to seriously...”

Until dinnertime they scurry about the house like shad-ows, unable to find a place for themselves. Martha Afana- sevna rummages aimlessly through the linen, whispers things to the cook, and suddenly breaks into sobs, while Aleksei Borisitch grumbles, wants to discuss serious matters, and talks nonsense. Lidochka appears at dinnertime. Her face is pink and her eyes slightly swollen.

“So here she is!” the old man says, without looking at her.

They sit down to eat silendy for the first two courses. Their faces, their movements, the cooks walk—everything is touched by a kind of shy solemnity.

“We should, Lidochka, you know,” the old man begins, “have a serious talk... from all sides... Well, yes!... Um, shall we have some liqueur, huh? Glafira! Bring over the liqueur! Champagne wouldn’t be bad either, though, well, if we don’t have any... well, forget it... well, yes... this won’t do!”

The liqueur arrives. The old man drinks one glass after another.

“Um, so let’s discuss things,” he says. “This is a serious matter... your future... This won’t do!”

“It’s simply awful, Daddy, how you just love to talk nonstop!” Lidochka sighs.

“Well, yes,” the old man says, startled. “No, you see, I was just... pour se twaddler... don’t be angry....”

After dinner, the mother has a long whispered conversa-tion with her daughter.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re talking pure balderdash!” the old man thinks, pacing through the house. They don’t realize, the silly things, that this is serious... important... This won’t do! No!”

Night falls. Lidochka is lying on her bed awake. The old couple is not sleeping either, whispering to each other till dawn.

“Those damn flies don’t let one sleep!” Aleksei Borisitch grumbles. Yet it is not the flies that keep him awake, but happiness.