Chekhov Short Story Thread

[Dark Muse]

How can it be beautiful and yet in this statement seems to evoke no passion in the occupants of the property? Of course, he finishes the idea with the following phrase, which I just love.

I think the reason why its beauty cannot rise passion in the owners is because for them it has become like background, they have become "immune" to it in a way because they do live among every day that it can no longer truly move them. As he references the summer visitor, one coming from the city would be much more affected by such a rare sight. They would still have the ability to be inspired by such beauty.

Good point and the one about the brother-in-law and the portrait and his ties to spirtutal ambitions. I find all the portraits on the wall of great interest. Reminds me of the "House of Seven Gables" for some reason. Ever read it, Dark Muse? The house, from the start echos death. Perhaps the humorous "Ach!", observed in the beginning, becomes almost a death echo by the end; a hollow echo through a lifeless chamber. That "Ach!" rather disturbed me; I could not quite figure out what that was all about. Quark, do you know? Does anyone really understand that part?

No I have not read House of Seven Gables yet, I have it, but I haven't read it yet. It is also kind of House of Usher like, another drab dark isolated house which becomes concerned with death.

I am not sure about Ach! I thought it was just an expression of the woman because she could not really find any words in which to express her since of joy in the moment. And perhaps the rather awkward sound as her expression of joy was meant as a bit of irony, considering the somberness of the house the word Ach! Does not seem as if it indeed would be particularly comforting. It is a rather harsh sound. In imagining someone saying it over and over, I think they would sound rather like a squawking bird quite unlike the beautiful melodious signing outside.

[Janine]

I think the reason why its beauty cannot rise passion in the owners is because for them it has become like background, they have become "immune" to it in a way because they do live among every day that it can no longer truly move them. As he references the summer visitor, one coming from the city would be much more affected by such a rare sight. They would still have the ability to be inspired by such beauty.

That makes sense; especially, with that last line in that paragraph; about not appreciating what one has. I didn't pick up, on the fact, that the narrator came from the city; I will check back to find that part of the text. I probably just forgot.

No I have not read House of Seven Gables yet, I have it, but I haven't read it yet. It is also kind of House of Usher like, another drab dark isolated house which becomes concerned with death.

Oh, I think you would like that book. It's not too long a read. I should read "The House of Usher"; think it's in one of my father's old books.

I am not sure about Ach! I thought it was just an expression of the woman because she could not really find any words in which to express her since of joy in the moment. And perhaps the rather awkward sound as her expression of joy was meant as a bit of irony, considering the somberness of the house the word Ach! Does not seem as if it indeed would be particularly comforting. It is a rather harsh sound. In imagining someone saying it over and over, I think they would sound rather like a squawking bird quite unlike the beautiful melodious signing outside.

One must admit it's a strange expression - wonder how it translates back into Russian. Does it have any significance in the Russian language that we might be overlooking? Indeed, I thought it sounded harsh and like a squawking bird myself. That's a good thought - it certainly does contrast with the beautiful melodious birdsong outside the house.

Did the mother envision the visitor as a potennial suitor to her daughter - thus this sound of glee or whatever? I wasn't quite sure it was joy; because they seemed like a very joyless family from the start.

[Dark Muse]

That makes sense; especially, with that last line in that paragraph; about not appreciating what one has. I didn't pick up, on the fact, that the narrator came from the city; I will check back to find that part of the text. I probably just forgot.

I did not mean that the narrator came from the city per sae, sorry if I was unclear. But the narrator references "Summer visitors" and usually it is people from the city who have places in the country to spend thier summers. But her did say he was on bussiness so that might indicate that he was from the city.

Did the mother envision the visitor as a potennial suitor to her daughter - thus this sound of glee or whatever? I wasn't quite sure it was joy; because they seemed like a very joyless family from the start.

I think her expression of joy is directly related to what was in the letter he brought her from her husband.

I introduced myself and explained why I had come. The alarm and amazement once succeeded by a shrill joyful "Ach!"

He tells the reader he went there to give her a letter from her husband, so perhaps she was just happy to hear from her husband, or the letter he sent bore good news.

[Quark]

I had a pretty good laugh at Barnes and Noble just now. I usually get my coffee and sit next to the health/fitness shelf of books--not because I'm drawn to them, but more because that's where there's a seat. And I see all the books that are filed under the big "Disease" sign. Most of them look pretty similar. The title are all variants of Living With X or Reversing Y, but one said Getting Pregnant and I had to laugh. I know that's it probably a book about fertility, but it just sounded like the bookstore was equating pregnancy with Cancer or Diabetes. I'd love to read the one called Living With Pregnancy or Reversing Pregnancy, although I would think it would be a pretty short book. Most likely, it would just be a one-liner reading "Wait nine months." While the few books on fertility issues probably don't deserve their own shelf, I still think it's a bit of misfile to put them under "Disease." Whatever, there's always something ridiculous going on there. The time before last I ran into a creative writing class pitching weak ideas to each other about bad Sci-Fi novels they want to write. I laughed openly a few times at them, and by the end I think they caught on to the fact that I was mocking them to the other people sitting around me. I suppose I deserved the glares I got.

Anyway, back to Chekhov and the steep hill I have to climb to catch up with everyone. Let me start with Janine's post since she brought up the class issue again, and I'd like to clear this up if I can before we go on.

I agree with Dark Muse on this one. Just curious, Quark, how you determined the family was aristocratic; was it stated in a criticism you read? Just curious. I agree, that so far, the indictions have shown decay to the house and other signs that they no longer had money; perhaps they did at one time? As, Dark Muse pointed out, the mother made direct remarks that they had to make the clothes themselves and not have them sent out for. I didn't quite get the sense, that they were poor, but neither did I think them well off. I guess I agree with DM, in that they seems more middle-class. Perhaps too, the mother exaggerates their family situation with the stranger. I got a sense she was a bit dramatic.

I imagine their income to be only middling, or even lower. You're right to pick up on their thriftiness with the fabric, and the disorder of the house. I don't remember the narrator seeing any servants, either. The mother meets the narrator herself and is doing the sewing with her daughter. Chekhov may have just avoided mentioning the servants to make the daughter and mother seem more secluded. If he told us about the bustle of attendants, the "we are all alone in the world" may have seemed a little disingenuous. They are certainly not well-attended, though, if the mother and daughter have to take up so much themselves, and this points to a certain impoverishment on the part of the family. If we're to estimate their wealth, I would say they're lower-middle class.

But the word class is used in many different senses. I could say that my old second grade teacher was lower-middle class in terms of income. That would be true since she probably made something just below the national median income. I could also say that she's middle-class in terms of her relationship to production. She isn't a worker, but she isn't an owner. As a service worker, she falls somewhere in between. She's just straight middle class in that sense--even though she's lower-middle class in terms of income. Now suppose that she reads a lot of Tolstoy and identifies herself with the aristocracy in War and Peace. Her idea and values would reflect a different class than the one she belongs to in terms of income or relationship to production. Instead of being middle or lower-middle class, she would be upper-class or aristocratic in values. That means there are at least three different ways to consider class.

1) in terms of wealth

2)values or ideas

3)relationship to production

For 19th C Russian Society it would break down like this:

I think the situation of the family in "The Trousseau" is similar to that of my old second grade teacher. They have a lower-middle class income, a middle-class relationship to production, and aristocratic values. We can see evidence of their aristocratic values in their skill with French--a language prized by the upper-class and intellectuals. We can also see it in the Victorian ideas that the family has about gender and marriage. The mother is very insistent about palming the daughter off on some man as quick as possible it seems like, and the daughter denies any interest in the scheme. This corresponds greatly with aristocratic idea of marriage in which to be a spinster was the worst fate, and girls were supposed to be demure and innocent. The mother, therefore, is extremely apprehensive about the daughter's future marriage, and the daughter has to act like she's oblivious to it all. It's a pose. One taken from an aristocracy which they don't belong to by wealth, but by ideas and values.

Okay, that's Part I of my response. It seems like everyone's moved onto the second paragraph of the story, and I'll try to get something up about that tonight. I'll let you people make fun of my misspellings in the diagram until then.

[Dark Muse]

I don't remember the narrator seeing any servants, either. The mother meets the narrator herself and is doing the sewing with her daughter. Chekhov may have just avoided mentioning the servants to make the daughter and mother seem more secluded. If he told us about the bustle of attendants, the "we are all alone in the world" may have seemed a little disingenuous. They are certainly not well-attended, though, if the mother and daughter have to take up so much themselves, and this points to a certain impoverishment on the part of the family. If we're to estimate their wealth, I would say they're lower-middle class.

I do not recall any servants, but in the begining there were two random old women that seemed to be there helping. At first I thought it was the mother and the daughter, but the daughter was not suppose to be old. So I was confussed by who they were, as the mother did not mention any other female relations in the house.

In the next room two alarmed and fluttered old women were hurriedly picking up similar patterns and peices of tailor's chalk from the floor.

[Janine]

I had a pretty good laugh at Barnes and Noble just now. I usually get my coffee and sit next to the health/fitness shelf of books--not because I'm drawn to them, but more because that's where there's a seat. And I see all the books that are filed under the big "Disease" sign. Most of them look pretty similar. The title are all variants of Living With X or Reversing Y, but one said Getting Pregnant and I had to laugh. I know that's it probably a book about fertility, but it just sounded like the bookstore was equating pregnancy with Cancer or Diabetes. I'd love to read the one called Living With Pregnancy or Reversing Pregnancy, although I would think it would be a pretty short book. Most likely, it would just be a one-liner reading "Wait nine months." While the few books on fertility issues probably don't deserve their own shelf, I still think it's a bit of misfile to put them under "Disease." Whatever, there's always something ridiculous going on there. The time before last I ran into a creative writing class pitching weak ideas to each other about bad Sci-Fi novels they want to write. I laughed openly a few times at them, and by the end I think they caught on to the fact that I was mocking them to the other people sitting around me. I suppose I deserved the glares I got.

Pretty funny story, Quark! I think you need a summer job there to sort out their books. By the way, didn't happen to spill coffee on any good ones did you? I was hoping for another handout.

Anyway, back to Chekhov and the steep hill I have to climb to catch up with everyone. Let me start with Janine's post since she brought up the class issue again, and I'd like to clear this up if I can before we go on.

Oh yeah, Chekhov, hummm...yes, now I see what you mean in your posts below. Aristocracy is more a state of mind and a way of acting.

I imagine their income to be only middling, or even lower. You're right to pick up on their thriftiness with the fabric, and the disorder of the house. I don't remember the narrator seeing any servants, either. The mother meets the narrator herself and is doing the sewing with her daughter. Chekhov may have just avoided mentioning the servants to make the daughter and mother seem more secluded. If he told us about the bustle of attendants, the "we are all alone in the world" may have seemed a little disingenuous. They are certainly not well-attended, though, if the mother and daughter have to take up so much themselves, and this points to a certain impoverishment on the part of the family. If we're to estimate their wealth, I would say they're lower-middle class.

Interesting that Dark Muse did pick up on two old ladies hanging about picking up patterns. Perhaps they were old servants from the previous generation and just stayed on in the house. I completely understand your idea about 'all alone in the world' and it's emphasis, Quark. If they were servants he would not put much regard on their presense. Still doesn't make them rich.

But the word class is used in many different senses. I could say that my old second grade teacher was lower-middle class in terms of income. That would be true since she probably made something just below the national median income. I could also say that she's middle-class in terms of her relationship to production. She isn't a worker, but she isn't an owner. As a service worker, she falls somewhere in between. She's just straight middle class in that sense--even though she's lower-middle class in terms of income. Now suppose that she reads a lot of Tolstoy and identifies herself with the aristocracy in War and Peace. Her idea and values would reflect a different class than the one she belongs to in terms of income or relationship to production. Instead of being middle or lower-middle class, she would be upper-class or aristocratic in values. That means there are at least three different ways to consider class.

1) in terms of wealth

2)values or ideas

3)relationship to production

For 19th C Russian Society it would break down like this:

OMG! I was quite hysterical (now who is laughing at whom or with whom?) when I saw "Quark's Official Diagram O' Classes"...and in various colors, too. One can't fall asleep in Quark's classes. Do you use colored chalk on the blackboard? I don't know about correcting your misspellings; I am beginning to think you should have become a doctor with that scrawl. Quark, you never fail to amuse me! Thanks! Your diagram was quite helpful!

I think the situation of the family in "The Trousseau" is similar to that of my old second grade teacher. They have a lower-middle class income, a middle-class relationship to production, and aristocratic values. We can see evidence of their aristocratic values in their skill with French--a language prized by the upper-class and intellectuals. We can also see it in the Victorian ideas that the family has about gender and marriage. The mother is very insistent about palming the daughter off on some man as quick as possible it seems like, and the daughter denies any interest in the scheme. This corresponds greatly with aristocratic idea of marriage in which to be a spinster was the worst fate, and girls were supposed to be demure and innocent. The mother, therefore, is extremely apprehensive about the daughter's future marriage, and the daughter has to act like she's oblivious to it all. It's a pose. One taken from an aristocracy which they don't belong to by wealth, but by ideas and values.

Did this teacher inspire you or something? I do get the drift of your explanation here though. I get the impression this family in the story was much better off at one time but lost money; not sure why I think that. Perhaps because, how else would they learn French, without some education, or did they simply learn it on their own at home?

Okay, that's Part I of my response. It seems like everyone's moved onto the second paragraph of the story, and I'll try to get something up about that tonight. I'll let you people make fun of my misspellings in the diagram until then.

Still on the portion you posted. I will chisel away at that and then you can post more text. I will also try and listen to the story a second time in the next few days.

[Quark]

The way in which it is referd to as an "earthly paradise" and the contrast to the green trees and happy birds that are outside of the house, opposed to the dead hot air in the house, really bout out the image of a tomb for me, which would refect on the house as being a place of connstant mourning and grief, as well as how all inside are decaying and so disconnected with the outside world.

In fact this one statement, the narrator nicely contrasts the inside of the house to the outer natural surroundings, which to the visitor's first sight, are quite lovely, a paradise. The inside 'dreariness' is like death itself...dry and hot...that could describe a tomb as you suggest. Yes, this is a good way of putting it - "a place of constant mourning and grief"...also, your mention of the decay inside, disconnecting it from the beautiful outside surroundings....that's so true and excellent writing I think. Outside the green is emphasised, inside the gray dreariness.

Yeah, I agree. In the second paragraph the living, beautiful verdure is contrasted with the dead, stifling environment of the house. This is a bit of a change from the first paragraph where it was the house that was alive, but the trees and shrubs were smothering it. The house was dilapidated--showing the weak state of the family--but it still symbolized their life, and the trees were the ones stifling it. Now, in this second paragraph, the positions have been reversed. The trees represent life--perhaps a life being ignored by the family--and the house represents the stifling environment. This opening description is rather complex.

the house and those within seem a part of an unearthly, otherworld, they have nothing to do with the life of the trees and the birds, but they are concerned only with death, and the brother in law has spiritual connections in his ambitions, as well when the narrator first visited he noticed a portrait of a bishop among images of dead anccestors.

For Chekhov, this is quite a lot of foreshadowing he's doing. I was talking to JacobF about two different kinds of short stories: those that hit the reader right away and those that develop into a powerful conclusion. This story is looking more like the former. At the very onset, Chekhov is telegraphing exactly what's going to happen in this story and what it all means. We know immediately this is not going to end well for the family. They're just too static, it seems, to achieve a happy ending. The house, the trees, and the brother all foretell tragedy. It's kind of funny at first, but it turns sad toward the end and only gets sadder after that.

How can it be beautiful and yet in this statement seems to evoke no passion in the occupants of the property? Of course, he finishes the idea with the following phrase, which I just love.

And this is, of course, part of the family's problem. Their lack of interest in life outside of their home makes it impossible for them to accomplish anything. It's one of--they probably have many--fatal flaws. The daughter never leaves the house, and so can never find a husband. She dies alone because they don't take an interest in anything beyond their own home.

I find all the portraits on the wall of great interest. Reminds me of the "House of Seven Gables" for some reason. Ever read it, Dark Muse?

That's a good comparison. Both families are overwhelmed by their past and their reputation. Right? It's been a while since I read The House of Seven Gables, actually. I think there is a parallel there, though.

The house, from the start echos death. Perhaps the humorous "Ach!", observed in the beginning, becomes almost a death echo by the end; a hollow echo through a lifeless chamber. That "Ach!" rather disturbed me; I could not quite figure out what that was all about. Quark, do you know? Does anyone really understand that part?

I didn't think the "Ach" was supposed to be that morbid. I think Dark Muse got it right when she said:

I am not sure about Ach! I thought it was just an expression of the woman because she could not really find any words in which to express her since of joy in the moment.

The mother is happy to receive news from her husband, and she's also pleased with a guest. At the same time, though, she's extremely surprised and nervous since she gets so few visitors. It's kind of like if someone--say a friend or a liked relative--suddenly showed up on your doorstep. You might exclaim something like "Oh!" That's what she doing here, except she's so surprised that she keeps saying it. It's a comical exaggeration on Chekhov's part to have her saying "Ach!" so many times and so loud that it echoes off the walls. Apparently, she does it so many times that it just becomes part of the background noise for the narrator. Hence the line: "Five minutes later I was sitting on a big, soft, warm lounge in the drawing-room listening to the 'Ach!' echoing all down the street." The narrator has had enough time to find himself a seat and the "Ach!" is still going. Humor. It might not have worked, though. I found it funny.

I will try to comment on the remainder of the section you posted later today. Please don't proceed on yet with the text postings, Quark; there is still much here to comment on.

Don't worry. I'm not even done with the second paragraph yet.

Does not seem as if it indeed would be particularly comforting. It is a rather harsh sound. In imagining someone saying it over and over, I think they would sound rather like a squawking bird quite unlike the beautiful melodious signing outside.

No, it wouldn't be very comforting. I don't think much of this experience would be. The mother does not make a great hostess. The narrator realizes that she's trying, but the woman is just too much of a weird shut in.

[Janine]

Yeah, I agree. In the second paragraph the living, beautiful verdure is contrasted with the dead, stifling environment of the house. This is a bit of a change from the first paragraph where it was the house that was alive, but the trees and shrubs were smothering it. The house was dilapidated--showing the weak state of the family--but it still symbolized their life, and the trees were the ones stifling it. Now, in this second paragraph, the positions have been reversed. The trees represent life--perhaps a life being ignored by the family--and the house represents the stifling environment. This opening description is rather complex.

Why do you suppose Chekhov has the trees and shrubs smothering the house? Is that reflecting the mother, smothering the daughter with her 'good intentions' for a possible future marriage? The daughter could be as the house; slowly becoming enveloped and dilapidated by her relatives and this 'closed in, shut up, airless, sunless' environment, which she is forced to reside in. Perhaps the mother relates to the overgrowth of the trees and shrubs. Just a thought on my part. This is strange to me though, because I would think the outside growth would relate to nature and the inside of the house to a very 'unnatural' place. One has light and air and greenery and the other has only a stiffled atmosphere.

For Chekhov, this is quite a lot of foreshadowing he's doing. I was talking to JacobF about two different kinds of short stories: those that hit the reader right away and those that develop into a powerful conclusion. This story is looking more like the former. At the very onset, Chekhov is telegraphing exactly what's going to happen in this story and what it all means. We know immediately this is not going to end well for the family. They're just too static, it seems, to achieve a happy ending. The house, the trees, and the brother all foretell tragedy. It's kind of funny at first, but it turns sad toward the end and only gets sadder after that.

I thought that also, about the foreshadowing, unless we just didn't pick up on this element in the previous stories we discussed. I can see things now, that I could not see orginally, when I started to read Chekhov and these short stories. I observed your previous posts to JacobF, about this very idea. The story does turn from slightly humorous or ironic to deep profound sadness/tragedy at the end. The last note is very downbeat, poignant, sad.

And this is, of course, part of the family's problem. Their lack of interest in life outside of their home makes it impossible for them to accomplish anything. It's one of--they probably have many--fatal flaws. The daughter never leaves the house, and so can never find a husband. She dies alone because they don't take an interest in anything beyond their own home.

Good point on this fatal flaw. I think you stated it precisely.

That's a good comparison. Both families are overwhelmed by their past and their reputation. Right? It's been a while since I read The House of Seven Gables, actually. I think there is a parallel there, though.

It's been awhile for me, too, Quark. But the dreariness and the 'shut-in stagnant' quality of the house and it's occupants, I can never forget from that novel - the whole atmosphere of blackness/gray/dreariness. I think also, I thought of the pictures, the portraits on the wall. If I recall correctly, they figure into the story quite prominently. This is probably what made me connect the two stories. Also, as long as the family resided in the house and were tied to the past, they could not thrive.

I didn't think the "Ach" was supposed to be that morbid. I think Dark Muse got it right when she said:

Oh, no...you are probably correct on this beginning "Ach". I think it was rather humorous really; amusing, the way the narrator describes it.

The mother is happy to receive news from her husband, and she's also pleased with a guest. At the same time, though, she's extremely surprised and nervous since she gets so few visitors. It's kind of like if someone--say a friend or a liked relative--suddenly showed up on your doorstep. You might exclaim something like "Oh!" That's what she doing here, except she's so surprised that she keeps saying it. It's a comical exaggeration on Chekhov's part to have her saying "Ach!" so many times and so loud that it echoes off the walls. Apparently, she does it so many times that it just becomes part of the background noise for the narrator. Hence the line: "Five minutes later I was sitting on a big, soft, warm lounge in the drawing-room listening to the 'Ach!' echoing all down the street." The narrator has had enough time to find himself a seat and the "Ach!" is still going. Humor. It might not have worked, though. I found it funny.

Oh, right...I simply forgot about that part with the good news and the letter. I need to read that whole section over again. Interesting, that it becomes part of the background noise or even part of the house. The echo is interesting - caves and tombs have such echos. It's particularly funny, when the narrator says "echoing all down the street".

Don't worry. I'm not even done with the second paragraph yet.

Oh good, it's fine to take this slowly....

No, it wouldn't be very comforting. I don't think much of this experience would be. The mother does not make a great hostess. The narrator realizes that she's trying, but the woman is just too much of a weird shut in.

True. All of these people in the house are a bit weird. The daugher comes the closest to being anyway normal; but she is trapped there by circumstance, I would imagine....sad....

[Quark]

But her did say he was on bussiness so that might indicate that he was from the city.

I get the idea that the narrator's background is decidedly more urban than the family's. He's certainly more urbane. The mother and daughter, while being having elitist sensibilities, do not appear to be well-traveled and their conversational skills are somewhat languished. The narrator finds himself in a situation much like the narrator of "The Wintry Peacock" does. He's a slightly more experience and traveled visitor who finds himself with a couple of rubes. This creates some humor at the beginning of both stories before turning tragic. Unlike in "The Wintry Peacock," however, Chekhov's story just keeps getting sadder. Lawrence returns the story to humor, but Chekhov goes for something more poignant here.

I think her expression of joy is directly related to what was in the letter he brought her from her husband.

A combination of that and her nervousness

I do not recall any servants, but in the begining there were two random old women that seemed to be there helping. At first I thought it was the mother and the daughter, but the daughter was not suppose to be old. So I was confussed by who they were, as the mother did not mention any other female relations in the house.

Good eye. I imagine they are servants, but--as Janine pointed out--their age makes it seem like they were hired long ago when the family may have been better off.

Why do you suppose Chekhov has the trees and shrubs smothering the house? Is that reflecting the mother smothering the daughter with her 'good intentions' for a possible future marriage?

No I was thinking that the trees were connected with the reputation of the family and its values that have been handed down from previous generations. Chekhov says "The cottage was lost to sight among the mulberry-trees, acacias, and poplars planted by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of its present occupants" (bold added). He's drawing a parallel between the way the plants smother the house to the way the family's past deprives the mother and daughter of life. Again, this goes back to the reading of the story as not just a tale about the ravages of time but also an indictment of aristocratic values. Aristocracies rely on their connections and ancestry a substitute for actual achievements and merit. They also try to maintain the traditions handed down to them by previous generations. One could feel smothered and deprived in this kind of life. The daughter certainly is. She clearly wants to marry (she blushes every time she brings it up), but she's overcome by this inherited idea that women should be modest and blithely innocent. She can't break through the restraint imposed on her, and ends up dying before she can marry. The picture on the wall don't just foreshadow the family's demise. They also remind the occupants of the house of the hold that the past has over them. They're controlled by the bishop on the wall, and the colonel. The daughter eventual joins them as another picture of virtue and a life unlived.

I may be harping too much on this, though. I think you can read the story also as just about one unfortunate family without the whole rant on class. It works as just a poignant story, too.

I thought that also, about the foreshadowing, unless we just didn't pick up this element in the previous stories we discussed. I can sort of see things now I could not see orginally when I started to read Chekhov and these short stories.

No, I don't think it was there. I mean in the other stories that we did. I'm remembering back to our discussion of "About Love" and "Dreams"--two of the recent ones--and I don't recall anything quite like this. "About Love" starts by declaring that love is mysterious which is what we're left with at the end. That's kind of foreshadowing, but it's a clever use of foreshadowing because we don't exactly know how we're going to get to the ending. In this story we know exactly how we're going to get to the ending. The daughter isn't going to get married, the uncle is going to fail at whatever profession he's involved in, and the mother's plans are going to fall through. Chekhov lets us in on this pretty early in the story in way that I didn't see with the others.

True. All of these people in the house are a bit weird. The daugher comes the closest to being anyway normal but she is trapped there by circumstance, I would imagine....sad....

Yeah, I would say the daughter is the least weird of the three family member living in the house. I think she's even supposed to attractive in her awkward way. The narrator gives her a pretty good look and describes her clothes and appearance.

[Janine]

Quark, not sure how much computer I will be able to partake of tonight - thunderstorms predicted all evening. Awhile ago, I was just writing back, a new entry on the idea of the trees enveloping the house, when a very loud and threatening clap of thunder resounded. I had to immediately shut down. I just heard some again, off in the distance. I unplug in thunderstorms always, since that one time my computer did get hit by a surge and it damaged my DSL modem. Thank heavens it was only that and didn't do harm to my actual computer (that was my old one), but I take no chances now, even at the slightest sound of thunder. As to your post above, I do agree with all that you wrote, so there is really no need to quote all separately and comment further.

The outside is described quite beautifully...this all I really wanted to add. I rethought the idea of the trees enveloping the house; but above I can see your point and the ties to long ago and ancestry. That's quite good; even the idea of a 'family tree'. I love this following passage:

The little house stands in an earthly paradise of green trees with happy birds nesting in them. But inside . . . alas . . . ! In summer, it is close and stifling within; in winter, hot as a Turkish bath, not one breath of air, and the dreariness!

Let me point out, that earlier on, he mentioned the "perfect sea of green", but he did use the word "drowned" preceeding that phrase. I find that very significant.

[Quark]

Quark, not sure how much computer I will be able to partake of tonight - thunderstorms predicted all evening.

By all means, power down. Don't risk it. If you lost a second computer that would be tragic, and I don't know if Lit Net people would help you out again. They might start to think it's a boy who cried wolf situation.

As to your post above, I do agree with all that you wrote, so there is really no need to quote all separately and comment further.

Tell me when you're ready for the next section of the text. I still want to comment a little more on the mother, but I'm ready to move on whenever anyone else is.

The outside is described quite beautifully...this all I really wanted to add. I rethought the idea of the trees enveloping the house; but above I can see your point and the ties to long ago and ancestry. That's quite good; even the idea of a 'family tree'. I love this following passage:

It's a good image, and it's one that can be appreciated as both a critical part of the story and as just a good image in itself.

Let me point out, that earlier on, he mentioned the "perfect sea of green", but he did use the word "drowned" preceeding that phrase. I find that very significant.

Wait, which part is significant? The "sea of green" or the word "drowned?"

[Quark]

I know I've already said quite a bit about the first chunk of text, but I'd like to say some things about the last couple paragraphs before we move on.

First, there's this line:

That first visit I remember very distinctly. It would be impossible, indeed, to forget it.

It's another mention of the uniqueness of the narrator's experience. I'm still not entirely sure what to make of this. He might just be pointing out how odd this particular episodes was, or he could be saying that the sadness of the entire story stayed with him a long time. Chekhov liked the idea of his stories being something that resonates with the reader for a long time. "The Student" was a story that made this point rather thoroughly. The students tells the story of Peter before betraying Christ, and his audience responds because the story itself is meaningful. It reaches through time to touch them in some way. It doesn't reach them because the student told the story well, but because the message is one that the audience can relate to. The narrator in "The Trousseau" might think he has a hold of something similar in this story.

Imagine a limp little woman of forty, gazing at you with alarm and astonishment while you walk from the passage into the parlour. You are a stranger, a visitor, "a young man"; that's enough to reduce her to a state of terror and bewilderment. Though you have no dagger, axe, or revolver in your hand, and though you smile affably, you are met with alarm.

I think we've covered the mother's character pretty well already, but I would point to the words "limp little woman." It seems like Chekhov is building a parallel between the woman's frumpy look and the appearance of the dilapidated house.

"Whom have I the honour and pleasure of addressing?" the little lady asks in a trembling voice.

And, of course, there's the nervousness and fear in her voice. Visitors apparently are very unnerving experience for her since she's not used to them.

That's all I have to say on this passage. I'll probably post the next chunk of the story tomorrow. If I'm going too fast, let me know.

[Janine]

Quark, I have been reading along. Now it's raining again; and more thunderstorms are predicted. I don't know how much longer I can be online. I think you did cover everything thoroughly; I think I and Dark Muse covered a few points you didn't, too. I only want to add this.

I almost think we have understated the mother's first reaction to the stranger, so I will quote this line:

Imagine a limp little woman of forty, gazing at you with alarm and astonishment while you walk from the passage into the parlour. You are a stranger, a visitor, "a young man"; that's enough to reduce her to a state of terror and bewilderment. Though you have no dagger, axe, or revolver in your hand, and though you smile affably, you are met with alarm.

I think that last statement is rather humorous and witty. Then I noticed how quickly her attitude changed when he gave her the letter...total relief, then joy.

So, now I think you can post more of the text. I am ready to move on. Just hope I can be online later tonight. I won't be on much tomorrow. I have an appointment and will be out most of the day into evening.

[Dark Muse]

Yes I think we have coverved the first part of the text well and I cannot think of anything more I can had to what has already been said.

[Quark]

I think that last statement is rather humorous and witty. Then I noticed how quickly her attitude changed when he gave her the letter...total relief, then joy.

There is a progression of emotions that she goes through on meeting the narrator. You're right that she's relieved when the narrator reveals his purpose, and then is quite pleased.

Here is another chunk of the story. This takes us just past the introduction of the daughter:

There was a smell of moth powder, and of goatskin shoes, a pair of which lay on a chair beside me wrapped in a handkerchief. In the windows were geraniums, and muslin curtains, and on the curtains were torpid flies. On the wall hung the portrait of some bishop, painted in oils, with the glass broken at one corner, and next to the bishop a row of ancestors with lemon-coloured faces of a gipsy type. On the table lay a thimble, a reel of cotton, and a half-knitted stocking, and paper patterns and a black blouse, tacked together, were lying on the floor. In the next room two alarmed and fluttered old women were hurriedly picking up similar patterns and pieces of tailor's chalk from the floor.

"You must, please, excuse us; we are dreadfully untidy," said the little lady.

While she talked to me, she stole embarrassed glances towards the other room where the patterns were still being picked up. The door, too, seemed embarrassed, opening an inch or two and then shutting again.

"What's the matter?" said the little lady, addressing the door.

"Où est mon cravatte lequel mon père m'avait envoyé de Koursk?" asked a female voice at the door.

"Ah, est-ce que, Marie . . . que. . . Really, it's impossible. . . . Nous avons donc chez nous un homme peu connu de nous. Ask Lukerya."

"How well we speak French, though!" I read in the eyes of the little lady, who was flushing with pleasure.

Soon afterwards the door opened and I saw a tall, thin girl of nineteen, in a long muslin dress with a gilt belt from which, I remember, hung a mother-of-pearl fan. She came in, dropped a curtsy, and flushed crimson. Her long nose, which was slightly pitted with smallpox, turned red first, and then the flush passed up to her eyes and her forehead.

"My daughter," chanted the little lady, "and, Manetchka, this is a young gentleman who has come," etc.

I was introduced, and expressed my surprise at the number of paper patterns. Mother and daughter dropped their eyes.

"We had a fair here at Ascension," said the mother; "we always buy materials at the fair, and then it keeps us busy with sewing till the next year's fair comes around again. We never put things out to be made. My husband's pay is not very ample, and we are not able to permit ourselves luxuries. So we have to make up everything ourselves."

"But who will ever wear such a number of things? There are only two of you?"

"Oh . . . as though we were thinking of wearing them! They are not to be worn; they are for the trousseau!"

"Ah, mamam, what are you saying?" said the daughter, and she crimsoned again. "Our visitor might suppose it was true. I don't intend to be married. Never!"

She said this, but at the very word "married" her eyes glowed.