The Undiscovered Chekhov

MY

LOVE

SHE, AS MY PARENTS and my bosses authoritatively affirm, had been born before me. Whether this is true or not, all I know is that I don’t remember a single day in my life when I didn’t belong to her, when I didn’t feel under her power. She doesn’t leave my side night or day, and I myself would never think of walking out on her—our bond, you might say, is powerful, lasting. But do not be jealous, young girls reading these words! This touching bond brings me nothing but misery! First of all, in not leaving my side night or day, she will not let me do the things I need to do. She won’t let me read, write, go for walks, enjoy nature. Now, as I write these lines, she pulls me by the elbow and, like Cleopatra of ancient times, tries to drag me, her Antony, toward the bed. Secondly, she ruins me like a French courtesan. For her affections I have sacrificed everything: career, glory, and comfort. Because of her I go about dressed in rags, live in poor lodgings, eat meager scraps of food, write in pale ink. She consumes everything, everything—she is insatiable! I detest her, despise her! I should have sought a divorce long ago, but until now I haven’t done so—and not because Moscow lawyers charge four thousand for a divorce, either. We don’t have children so far. Oh, you would like to know her name? With pleasure. It is a name that begins with an L, as in Lily, Lizzy, Lalya.

Her name is: LAZINESS.