By the Russian mentality, spring has arrived. It is hard to muster up support for this concept when the temperature hovers around -10 degrees Celsius in mid-March. I consider this on my early morning walk to the bus stop. As I wonder whether or not I will still have toes attached to my feet when I take off my shoes, the bright blue sky suddenly seems to surround me as cold, sharp pain drills through my hipbone. The slip happened so quickly and with such little warning that I don’t realize what has happened until the ice beneath me begins to melt just enough to leave a dark wet spot of shame on my jeans. The following seconds are humiliating; I resemble a newborn deer that hasn’t yet learned where its feet are. When I finally pick myself up off the ground, hands gritty with sand and salt, I turn my brave eyes to the front and walk with feigned shamelessness to the very edge of the curb. I become painfully aware of the judging stares of my comrades, but forget to remember that these eyes burning holes through the back of my coat are just a figment of my imagination. Even the most graceful among us has fallen at some point or another. It happens to everyone. It is almost always sudden, and it is almost always followed by the sting of embarrassment. This little happening this morning reminded me of a lesser-known short story by Anton Chekhov, entitled “The Death of a Bureaucrat”. In this piece, Chekhov explores how, in his last days, the protagonist (Ivan Dmitrievich Chervyakov) becomes completely consumed by the fear that his superior is judging him unfavorable for accidentally sneezing on him at the theater. In addition to satirically handling the subject of social norms and standards in late-19th century Imperial Russia, it more importantly serves as a hyperbolic example of our tendency to attribute more than the proper amount of significance to certain unavoidable details of life. Chekhov makes this point in two important ways—by commenting on the suddenness of the sneeze, and the fact that sneezing is universal.
Just before the sneeze occurs in the first paragraph of the story, Chekhov says “But suddenly…in stories you often come across the phrase “but suddenly”. Authors are right: life is full of such unexpected events” (Chekhov, 1). Emphasizing the fact that life is full of surprises, and especially underlining the suddenness of the sneeze serves to make the distinction between what is within our control, and what is out of our control. When something happens suddenly, the only thing that we can control is our reaction to the event. As any sufferer of hay fever will tell you, sneezing is out of our control; therefore, it must have been Chervyakov himself rather than his sneeze that determined the direction of the end of his life. Chekhov contrasts Chervyakov’s death in the last paragraph of the story with the suddenness of the sneeze. Using words like “dragged himself along” and “mechanically came home”, Chekhov tries to show the reader that death is not sudden or surprising, but mechanical and imminent (Chekhov, 19). While death is not sudden, it is also something that we have no control over. Chekhov uses the imminence of death to further his point that it is not the uncontrollable things that happen to us that define our lives, but our reactions to those events.
After the protagonist sneezes but before he realizes that he has “splattered” on someone, he thinks to himself “Sneezing is not forbidden to anyone anywhere” (Chekhov 1). He goes on to list by job title people from all levels of society who, like the rest of us, sneeze. The character’s personal argument seems to be that, because sneezing is universal and uncontrollable, it is insignificant. Chekhov, however, uses this moment to show the reader that Chervyakov’s reaction—his extended analysis of the event—is what makes it significant. He further proves this through the character of Brizhalov (the “sneezed-upon”). Chervyakov spends his last days trying again and again to apologize and explain himself to Brizhalov, a socially superior stranger. Brizhalov realizes the insignificance of the sneeze and would prefer just to forget about it, but Chervyakov again and again misinterprets his forgiveness for hidden anger and eventually becomes frustrated with Brizhalov’s refusal to discuss it further. If Chervyakov had just let it go after he apologized the first time, perhaps he could have done something more meaningful in his last days.
As I step aboard bus number 54 and shove myself between two big Russian men who smell like cigarettes, sausages, and garlic, I decide to forget about my embarrassing display on the ice since it was out of my control and not worth the overreaction. For the rest of the bus ride to the university, my thoughts drift between being grateful to the big garlic-y men for keeping the vampires at bay and being grateful that I have had the opportunity to live in Russia for long enough that I don’t always worry about what others are thinking about me.
-Abby
