This is an extremely economical tale of a man who is so deeply troubled that his daughter became an actress that, even after her death, he cannot stop himself from referring to her as a “harlot.”
The man, a simple shopkeeper named Andrey Andreyitch, submits a note to his priest, asking that his daughter be remembered in a requiem service: “For the rest of the soul of the servant of God, the harlot Mariya.”
Mariya was not merely an actress; she was well-enough known to be written up in newspapers when she died. But Andrey Andreyitch, a parochial, unworldly man, a former serf (or “lackey,” as it is put in this translation) cannot get past his shame about her profession. Everything about her was a provocation: Her ladylike looks, her refined way of speaking, her habit of sleeping late, her smoking. He could barely look at her when she visited him. And now in death his image of her is fixed.
The priest, shocked that Andrey would use the word “harlot” to describe his dead daughter, scolds him before agreeing to offer up a prayer for Mariya. And yet, even having been lectured by the priest, Andrey cannot help himself. He mutters the phrase, “the harlot Mariya” under his breath as the prayer is offered.
Short as this story is, an incredible amount of information is packed into it: Andrey and Mariya’s life stories are expressed in a few economical sentences. But the economy of the story is also a weakness. The details are so sketchy that the true nature of their lives is unclear. Andrey once was a “favored lackey” in the service of a rich man; Mariya, “like all the children of favored lackeys,” had been raised as if she were a member of the master’s family. Andrey seems barely to have known her as she was growing up. And when he bought his own freedom, he appears not to have bought hers: All we know is that she ends up moving to Moscow with the master’s family. We have a vague outline of their lives but the largest questions are unanswered.
Similarly, when Mariya returns to visit her father (was this her one and only visit?), she exclaims about the beauty of a riverbank path, and then collapses in tears. Why? Nostalgia for her childhood? Bitterness about having been left by her father? Unhappiness with her career in Moscow? A broken heart? We have no idea.
So, I am of two minds about this story. On the one hand, it is powerful and sad and concise. It’s a model of Chekhovian sublety. It’s a great story!
On the other hand, there is so little detail, this story feels undeveloped and unfinished. It’s a failure!
In these cases, Chekhov gets the benefit of the doubt, in the same way that NBA stars get dubious calls from referees. It’s a great story!
READ THIS? READ THAT!
“The Requiem” reads like a more serious and thoughtful version of “A Tragic Actor.” In both, a father is ashamed of a daughter’s decision to act (or, in “A Tragic Actor,” to run off with an actor). But “A Tragic Actor” seems to play the dynamic for laughs, while “The Requiem” takes its characters quite seriously.
A Chekhov Circus 