This is an odd, creepy little story that I have to assume Chekhov did not intend to be either odd or creepy… but what his intentions were I am less certain.
The plot, in a nutshell: A young man takes a young woman sledding, and as they hurtle down the hill, he whispers “I love you, Nadya” in her ear. She doesn’t quite hear it, but the whispering has a sort of Pavlovian effect on her. Initially afraid of sledding, now she wants to do it again and again, and each time she slides down the hill, the young man whispers the phrase. In the spring, he plays the trick one last time, whispering the phrase in the wind, which causes Nadya to hold her arms up in joy.
Fast forward X years. In a two-paragraph conclusion, the narrator announces that Nadya has married – the narrator doesn’t know who or why she married the man – and has had three children. The days of tobogganing together, when she heard the words “I love you” in the wind, are Nadya’s most cherished memory. Or so he claims.
Yes, the narrator, who doesn’t know much of anything about Nadya’s marriage and family, nevertheless somehow knows that he was, in essence, the best thing that ever happened to her.
If the narrator were a self-evidently comical bloviator, I suppose this might somehow come off as funny. Conversely, if the narrator seemed to rue the joke (and letting the girl get away), the tale might merit its melancholy, wistful ending.
But as it is, Chekhov leaves it unclear. The man played a joke. Maybe he’s too arrogant or narcissistic to realize that he actually did love Nadya. But it really doesn’t seem that way; it seems like he was a creep.
I could probably mount an argument that this is a tale of singular brilliance, a portrait of a benighted man so hopelessly self-involved that he doesn’t realize that he loved a young woman and failed to try to win her heart–all executed with breathtaking economy, a whole life of regret sketched in a few pages.
Eh… More likely it’s a little bagatelle, shucked off by a young writer in a hurry, with a deep need to earn a few kopecks while getting started as a doctor.
In any case, the modern reader is glad that Nadya managed to give this creep a miss!
READ THIS? READ THAT!
The narrator-as-creep is unusual for Chekhov. Normally, his first-person narrators are essentially reporters, observing the story that is being told–for instance, “Ariadne,” or “A Trivial Incident.” Very occasionally Chekhov fashions a more theatrical narrator, such as the overwrought boob in “From the Diary of a Violent-Tempered Man.” There’s only one other tale I can think of that is narrated by a man of low character, “Champagne.” It’s an awfully good story, with a clearer sense of itself, unlike this muddled tale.
A Chekhov Circus 