On the evening I read this short story, I was also reading May Sarton’s 1938 novel Single Hound (more about that tomorrow), in which one character affectionately calls another a “gooseberry”. Even though there’s no such moment in Chekov’s short story and, indeed, the gooseberries themselves are a disappointment—I enjoyed this spark of connection.

But beyond the berries, there is a moment in the story, just as with “In the Cart” and “The Darling”, when we witness something magnificent, only briefly. If I think about it, there is a moment like this in each of these stories. What is it? Is it joy? No, that’s not it. Is it a glimpse of the sublime? (But “sublime” is one of those words I only vaguely understand.) Whatever it is, it’s both bitter and satisfying—and intense.

What we know, in “Gooseberries” however, is that it’s not happiness we are witnessing. We know this because we are told. But, then again, this is a narrative, a constructed thing—so it could be that the author does intend to reveal happiness, actually, but the character himself missed (or misunderstood) the point.

Now that we’ve read three Chekov stories in this project, I’m thinking it’s this elasticity in the story which piques my interest—this sense that you could reread this story ten times and find evidence for ten different interpretations. Although, actually, that alone would leave me disoriented: what I enjoy is the sense that he has laboured over the work so that this variety of interpretations (even some polarising ones) is intentionally displayed.

At the same time, this creates a quiet longing: I yearn to know exactly what the author found in this story, even while I admire and enjoy the many possibilities. It’s the same urge that comes over me at a bakery in a farmers’ market, ogling the array of choices, to ask which treat she chooses for herself when she takes a break. (I never asked if she’s found a nose. #ubiquitousGogoljoke)

So here we have two men, a vet and a schoolteacher, out for a walk when it begins to rain, so they head to a neighbouring house. One says to the other that he should finally tell that story about his brother he’d mentioned previously. When they arrive, the neighbour is sweaty and his clothing soiled from working so hard but, now that these two have arrived, and because it’s raining, they head to the river with the bathing cabin, which his father built but is largely unused.

All three take a dip (in the pond in the rain, which is the origin of Saunders’ title) and the storyteller has that glorious moment I described above. When they get back to the house, and they are clean and dry, finally the story is told, then all three men go to bed—but at least one of them can’t sleep.

In a Venn diagram with “In the Cart”, the bubbles overlap with schoolteacher and neighbour and rain. In such a diagram with “The Darling” there’s overlap with the dramatist who stages tales, and Olenka and her second fellow going to the baths.

There is talk of work and what that means, talk of dreaming and what that means, and talk of beauty and what that means. If any of that means anything. There is talk of telling a story, and the actual story telling—and we are left to wonder what stories mean, if anything (the former comprises about a quarter of the story, the latter about three-quarters).

This time I decided to note three elements of Saunders’ commentary (and, then, his commentary on the commentary) that really stood out for me. (Three because there are sets of threes in the exercise he presents that we can use to assess how our expectations as readers influence our experience of our reading).

First, his observation that Pelageya is so beautiful that, when the vet and schoolteacher lay eyes on her, they only stare at one another in silence—and Chekov never offers a description. Next, his footnote about the Russian word ‘plyos’ to describe the body of water in which the neighbour swims, and how variance in translation affects the visual. And, third, his outline of the rain being a side-character and its role in the story. Each of these articulated something that I sensed but hadn’t examined in that way.

In his commentary on his commentary, what stood out to me was the context he provides on his own development as a writer in which he pokes considerable fun at himself as a young and inexperienced student—that kind of vulnerability is a conscious choice and I think it indicates he’s a generous and kind teacher. Further, his consideration of how the methods by which he balances his own presence in a story have changed over time. And, third, how there’s evidence of this development in other artists’ work as well. He specifically references a Tolstoy story called “The Snowstorm”—which was written forty years before “Master and Man”, and two Charlie Chaplin sequences in film about boxing—one from “The Champion” and, sixteen years later, another in “City Lights”.

But I didn’t watch those sequences, and I didn’t rewatch “Bicycle Thieves” yet either; instead, I watched a film of Jovanka Bach’s play “Chekov and Maria” (2007). I found it unintentionally funny—with the kind of facial close-ups, moody interludes and melodramatic interactions with nature, that recall early Masterpiece Theatre productions and ‘80s biopics. (The NYT review points out some ironies about the play, too, but it’s interesting that Bach also wrote plays based on Olivia Manning’s Balkan trilogy—which I’m hoping to read before long.)

All larger-than-life because there are only two actors and an unheard voice on the telephone.  But, even so, the story—with its focus on Chekov’s recent marriage to an actress, Olga, which he’s not told his sister about yet, and on Gorky’s expulsion from the Academy, which he’s protesting—left me wanting to explore Russian literature more in the future. (As does Saunders’ recounting of how Chekov and Tolstoy met.)

But there is one more story left in our project—the shortest yet, at only six pages. After that, I think I might spend some time in the 19th century, before resuming with more Chekov in earnest.

Anton Chekhov “In the Cart” 1897 (February) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Ivan Turgenev “The Singers” 1852 (March) Trans. David Magarshack
Anton Chekhov “The Darling” 1899 (April) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Leo Tolstoy “Master and Man” 1895 (May) Trans. Louise Mude and Aylmer Maude
Nikolai Gogol “The Nose” 1836 (June) Trans. Mary Struve
Anton Chekhov “Gooseberries” 1898 (July) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Leo Tolstoy “Alyosha the Pot” 1905 (August) Trans. Clarence Brown