I have kvetched here and there about the bland, lazy titles Chekhov gave his stories. He just seemed to slap a single word at the top of the page and let it stand – “Love,” “Boys,” “Home,” “Ladies,” “Boots,” “Drunk,” “A Mystery,” etc etc. etc. It’s as if the guy were using a Dymo labeler.
Anyway, if you are expecting “Love” to be a deep, nuanced, beautiful tale that delves into the mysteries of human attraction, you will be disappointed. It’s a satire.
“Love” is narrated by a young man who has, yes, fallen in love. The object of his ardor is a young woman named Sasha. He composes a love letter – an overheated, poetic love letter. “My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling,” he rhapsodizes. He pauses to add that he can’t quite understand that feeling. But he doesn’t have time to analyze it – he’s in love! He must see her!
The next day, he receives a reply from Sasha, and it is anything but feverish or poetic. In fact, she basically says, “Thanks, sure, come on over.” Except that she wouldn’t include a comma in her note. She can barely write a proper sentence.
The lack of poetry in her response bothers the narrator. It bothers him quite a bit. So does the lack of punctuation and proper spelling. But whatever, he goes off to see her.
On their first date, Sasha is completely zoned out. She pokes around his apartment in the manner of a wild animal, sniffing at things, peeling stamps off envelopes, and even eating a nut that she finds on a windowsill, chomping on it noisily.
(This is one of those Chekhov stories where I was deeply distracted by odd details. Why is there a nut on a windowsill??? Is this some kind of Russian thing, leaving nuts around in odd places? If it’s a random nut, wouldn’t someone comment about it? “There’s a nut on your windowsill, what’s it doing there? Can I eat it?”)
After this tremendously unpromising date, the young couple are engaged. (This also would qualify as a mystifying detail, like the nut on the windowsill. Wait, they got engaged after the one visit? After the windowsill nut?) And just as the narrator complained of Sasha’s poor writing ability, so too does he complain about the state of being engaged. He hates the constant talk and activity around building up Sasha’s trousseau. It’s all a great bore (to him and to be honest, to me as the reader.)
And then of course, because this is satire, he marries her. And she remains every bit as objectionable to him: She is disorganized and unable to complete simple tasks. She moves her lips when she reads. She tells long, boring stories.
In short, she annoys the crap out of her husband. Just as she did when they met and when they got engaged.
And now, to complete the tale, the narrator returns the question of the mysteries of love: He wonders how he can forgive everything in Sasha. How is it that he loves her nevertheless?
Of course, he doesn’t love her at all. He hates her. He detests her. She drives him crazy. And he’s distinctly mean to her – cutting her off mid-sentence and telling her to shut up and read a book.
Hahaha?
So that’s the problem. This story is meant to be funny, and it’s just not.
READ THIS? READ THAT!
For a better, shorter, funnier, and truly more perceptive story about a misbegotten marriage, read “From the Diary of a Violent-Tempered Man.”
A Chekhov Circus 