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[Chekov, currently outside in the snowy, picturesque City, is very pleased with his lot in life. He might not be home, but home is no place he wants to be. This place is superior in all ways, and he has learned so much more about quantum physics than he had ever thought possible thanks to the scientific advances made since his time (and far beyond).
Still, the snowy evening evokes memories of Saint Petersburg before the start of the war. Perhaps it's nostalgia that prompts him to make a post to the network. Naturally, he addresses the network in Russian. It's the only language he knows, after all, and the various translation devices in the City haven't made the language barrier insurmountable in the two years he has been here.]
This is the first time I have been reminded of home in some time--not that that is something to complain about. Christmastime has been joyless there for years now, but, when I was a boy [as if he isn't still a boy] and my mother was still with us, we had very pleasant celebrations. Small, of course, but even borscht and pagach is a feast when served with enough pomp.
As my father is fond of saying, "Although there’s nothing to eat, life is fun."
My favorite thing about Christmas was the stories that my mother would tell. They were the same stories every year--I could have told them to myself, but they would not have been as good--and still I could never hear them enough. My favorite was about Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. It is a long story and I wouldn't want to bore anyone by telling it. My mother teased me sometimes, saying that I was made out of snow and magic and given to her and my father as a gift the same as the snow maiden was. That is nonsense, of course, and I told her that, but she knew that I liked to hear the story anyway.
The ending is sad, and that is no surprise. The Snow Maiden falls in love and the warmth of her heart melts her into a puddle. I suppose this only proves that Russians celebrations are melancholy even when life is not unpleasant. I prefer to think of it as deep, philosophical introspection rather than inherent sadness and an acceptance of futility. I think that is what the novelists talk about when they write about the Russian soul.
Anyway, there is no Christmas at home any longer. The Bolsheviks have done away with it. That will not stop families from pretending that borscht and pagach are a feast, or mothers from telling their children stories.
[He shifts and brushes some snow out of his curly hair.]
My apologies for rambling. This is a good time of year for nostalgia--a good time to remember what we have lost, and maybe to feel the echoes of joy still left from good memories.
[And off goes the video! Chekov lingers in the snow a little longer before going home.]
[COMMENTS]
Still, the snowy evening evokes memories of Saint Petersburg before the start of the war. Perhaps it's nostalgia that prompts him to make a post to the network. Naturally, he addresses the network in Russian. It's the only language he knows, after all, and the various translation devices in the City haven't made the language barrier insurmountable in the two years he has been here.]
This is the first time I have been reminded of home in some time--not that that is something to complain about. Christmastime has been joyless there for years now, but, when I was a boy [as if he isn't still a boy] and my mother was still with us, we had very pleasant celebrations. Small, of course, but even borscht and pagach is a feast when served with enough pomp.
As my father is fond of saying, "Although there’s nothing to eat, life is fun."
My favorite thing about Christmas was the stories that my mother would tell. They were the same stories every year--I could have told them to myself, but they would not have been as good--and still I could never hear them enough. My favorite was about Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. It is a long story and I wouldn't want to bore anyone by telling it. My mother teased me sometimes, saying that I was made out of snow and magic and given to her and my father as a gift the same as the snow maiden was. That is nonsense, of course, and I told her that, but she knew that I liked to hear the story anyway.
The ending is sad, and that is no surprise. The Snow Maiden falls in love and the warmth of her heart melts her into a puddle. I suppose this only proves that Russians celebrations are melancholy even when life is not unpleasant. I prefer to think of it as deep, philosophical introspection rather than inherent sadness and an acceptance of futility. I think that is what the novelists talk about when they write about the Russian soul.
Anyway, there is no Christmas at home any longer. The Bolsheviks have done away with it. That will not stop families from pretending that borscht and pagach are a feast, or mothers from telling their children stories.
[He shifts and brushes some snow out of his curly hair.]
My apologies for rambling. This is a good time of year for nostalgia--a good time to remember what we have lost, and maybe to feel the echoes of joy still left from good memories.
[And off goes the video! Chekov lingers in the snow a little longer before going home.]
[COMMENTS]