Chocolates

I have finished off my valentine's chocolates, which were Godiva and came in a heart-shaped box, a gift from my one true love. They came with a chart showing labeled pictures of each kind, but that got separated from the box, so each one was a surprise. The kids have finished off most of their chocolates, too, since we've been home for most of the past two weeks while it snows and re-freezes and snows outside.

In between snows we went to see a production of Three Sisters at the local college, which was a very strange experience. When I was in college I played Olga, the oldest sister, and hearing the familiar lines made me realize how long ago that was, and at the same time how little I'd changed.

And then I re-discovered this poem, by Louis Simpson:

Once some people were visiting Chekhov.
While they made remarks about his genius
the Master fidgeted. Finally
he said, 'Do you like chocolates?'

They were astonished, and silent.
He repeated the question,
whereupon one lady plucked up her courage
and murmured shyly, 'Yes.'

'Tell me,' he said, leaning forward,
light glinting from his spectacles,
'what kind? The light, sweet chocolate
or the dark, bitter kind?'

The conversation became general.
They spoke of cherry centers,
of almonds and Brazil nuts.
Losing their inhibitions
they interrupted one another.
For people may not know what they think
about politics in the Balkans,
or the vexed question of men and women,
but everyone has a definite opinion
about the flavor of shredded coconut.
Finally someone spoke of chocolates filled with liqueur,
and everyone, even the author of Uncle Vanya,
was at a loss for words.

As they were leaving, he stood by the door
and took their hands. In the coach returning to Petersburg
they agreed that it had been a most
unusual conversation.

What I love about Three Sisters, when it's done well, is the sense that your suffering can be amusing to me, and of course vice-versa, that suffering can be merely a matter of perspective and timing. The local college production had way too much sobbing in the second and third acts. I think Chekhov would have suggested that the young actresses lighten up a bit. Maybe do something absurd, like picture themselves middle-aged and shaped by years of love and chocolates.