If by very rare chance you are reading the entire shelf of Constance Garnett’s Chekhov translations, this is the 12th story in Volume 12, which is to say it is the 12th consecutive story about children, and by now, for this reader at least, that’s a little (lot) too much.
It’s not terribly exciting, either, to read 11 stories in a row about children and then come to a story that has been (lazily) titled “Boys.” I mean, haven’t we just read about boys numerous times? Will we next get a story called “Girls?” (No, blessedly.)
At any rate, in “Boys,” young Volodya has just come home from boarding school to his loving family, bringing along an unexpected visitor, Lentilov, a friend from school. Lentilov, as it turns out, is one of those dreamy boys who fantasizes about life in the wild, specifically the Wild West of America. He gives himself what he imagines is an Indian name (“Montehomo,” which is either a sly joke on Chekhov’s part, or more likely just laughable to a modern reader) and refers to Volodya as his pale-face brother.
Lentilov hatches a plan for the boys to run away to California, where one can get a living “by hunting and plunder.” Volodya, at first excited, grows anxious as Lentilov plans out their absurd route, which includes a crossing of the Bering Straits in a boat.
In the end, the boys only get so far as town, where they arouse suspicion by asking around about acquiring gunpowder. They are returned to their parents no worse for wear.
If it’s not abundantly obvious already, this isn’t a tale that has worn particularly well. The boys’ plans are meant to be charming and even funny, but humor rarely ages well, and in particular the faux Indian talk just doesn’t go down well in the modern era. Lentilov, meanwhile, seems vaguely disturbed, the kind of kid you might worry about if he turned up at school in a long black overcoat.
In all, it’s just a lumpy story of boyhood that, had it been written by anyone else, wouldn’t be in circulation any longer.
READ THIS? READ THAT!
“Boys,” like some of Mark Twain’s writing, is slightly discomfiting to read in the modern era. I had a similar reaction to the story “An Adventure,” which I think is meant to be an entertaining adventure story but is really, to modern eyes, a hellish nightmare. I’m not, to be clear, recommending reading either one of these stories, but they could make an interesting comparison, at least from the perspective of being outdated.
A Chekhov Circus 