{"id":24051,"date":"2025-09-14T17:34:09","date_gmt":"2025-09-14T21:34:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=24051"},"modified":"2025-09-14T17:34:11","modified_gmt":"2025-09-14T21:34:11","slug":"raymond-carver-errand","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/raymond-carver-errand\/24051\/","title":{"rendered":"Raymond Carver: Errand"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: \u201cErrand\u201d<\/em> (\u201cTres rosas amarillas\u201d<\/em>) is a short story by Raymond Carver, published in The New Yorker on June 1, 1987, and later included in the book Where I\u2019m Calling From<\/em> (1988). With a sober and deeply emotional prose, Carver reconstructs the final stretch of Anton Chekhov\u2019s life, from a dinner in Moscow to his death at a German spa, consumed by tuberculosis. Unfolding with delicate attention to every gesture and detail, the story becomes a lucid and profoundly human meditation on dignity in the face of death. Paradoxically, it was also Carver\u2019s own farewell, as he would die shortly after its publication.<\/p>\n\n\n

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\"Raymond<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Errand<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

By Raymond Carver
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

CHEKHOV. On the evening of March 22, 1897, he went to dinner in Moscow with his friend and confidant Alexei Suvorin. This Suvorin was a very rich newspaper and book publisher, a reactionary, a self-made man whose father was a private at the battle of Borodino. Like Chekhov, he was the grandson of a serf. They had that in common: each had peasant\u2019s blood in his veins. Otherwise, politically and temperamentally, they were miles apart. Nevertheless, Suvorin was one of Chekhov\u2019s few intimates, and Chekhov enjoyed his company.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Naturally, they went to the best restaurant in the city, a former town house called the Hermitage\u2014a place where it could take hours, half the night even, to get through a ten-course meal that would, of course, include several wines, liqueurs, and coffee. Chekhov was impeccably dressed, as always\u2014a dark suit and waistcoat, his usual pince-nez. He looked that night very much as he looks in the photographs taken of him during this period. He was relaxed, jovial. He shook hands with the maitre d\u2019, and with a glance took in the large dining room. It was brilliantly illuminated by ornate chandeliers, the tables occupied by elegantly dressed men and women. Waiters came and went ceaselessly. He had just been seated across the table from Suvorin when suddenly, without warning, blood began gushing from his mouth. Suvorin and two waiters helped him to the gentlemen\u2019s room and tried to stanch the flow of blood with ice packs. Suvorin saw him back to his own hotel and had a bed prepared for Chekhov in one of the rooms of the suite. Later, after another hemorrhage, Chekhov allowed himself to be moved to a clinic that specialized in the treatment of tuberculosis and related respiratory infections. When Suvorin visited him there, Chekhov apologized for the \u201cscandal\u201d at the restaurant three nights earlier but continued to insist there was nothing seriously wrong. \u201cHe laughed and jested as usual,\u201d Suvorin noted in his diary, \u201cwhile spitting blood into a large vessel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maria Chekhov, his younger sister, visited Chekhov in the clinic during the last days of March. The weather was miserable; a sleet storm was in progress, and frozen heaps of snow lay everywhere. It was hard for her to wave down a carriage to take her to the hospital. By the time she arrived she was filled with dread and anxiety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnton Pavlovich lay on his back,\u201d Maria wrote in her Memoirs<\/em>. \u201cHe was not allowed to speak. After greeting him, I went over to the table to hide my emotions.\u201d There, among bottles of champagne, jars of caviar, bouquets of flowers from well-wishers, she saw something that terrified her: a freehand drawing, obviously done by a specialist in these matters, of Chekhov\u2019s lungs. It was the kind of sketch a doctor often makes in order to show his patient what he thinks is taking place. The lungs were outlined in blue, but the upper parts were filled in with red. \u201cI realized they were diseased,\u201d Maria wrote.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Leo Tolstoy was another visitor. The hospital staff were awed to find themselves in the presence of the country\u2019s greatest writer. The most famous man in Russia? Of course they had to let him in to see Chekhov, even though \u201cnonessential\u201d visitors were forbidden. With much obsequiousness on the part of the nurses and resident doctors, the bearded, fierce-looking old man was shown into Chekhov\u2019s room. Despite his low opinion of Chekhov\u2019s abilities as a playwright (Tolstoy felt the plays were static and lacking in any moral vision. \u201cWhere do your characters take you?\u201d he once demanded of Chekhov. \u201cFrom the sofa to the junk room and back\u201d), Tolstoy liked Chekhov\u2019s short stories. Furthermore, and quite simply, he loved the man. He told Gorky, \u201cWhat a beautiful, magnificent man: modest and quiet, like a girl. He even walks like a girl. He\u2019s simply wonderful.\u201d And Tolstoy wrote in his journal (everyone kept a journal or a diary in those days), \u201cI am glad I love . . . Chekhov.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tolstoy removed his woollen scarf and bearskin coat, then lowered himself into a chair next to Chekhov\u2019s bed. Never mind that Chekhov was taking medication and not permitted to talk, much less carry on a conversation. He had to listen, amazedly, as the Count began to discourse on his theories of the immortality of the soul. Concerning that visit, Chekhov later wrote, \u201cTolstoy assumes that all of us (humans and animals alike) will live on in a principle (such as reason or love) the essence and goals of which are a mystery to us. … I have no use for that kind of immortality. I don\u2019t understand it, and Lev Nikolayevich was astonished I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nevertheless, Chekhov was impressed with the solicitude shown by Tolstoy\u2019s visit. But, unlike Tolstoy, Chekhov didn\u2019t believe in an afterlife and never had. He didn\u2019t believe in anything that couldn\u2019t be apprehended by one or more of his five senses. And as far as his outlook on life and writing went, he once told someone that he lacked \u201ca political, religious, and philosophical world view. I change it every month, so I\u2019ll have to limit myself to the description of how my heroes love, marry, give birth, die, and how they speak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Earlier, before his t.b. was diagnosed, Chekhov had remarked, \u201cWhen a peasant has consumption, he says, There\u2019s nothing I can do. I\u2019ll go off in the spring with the melting of the snows.\u2019 \u201d (Chekhov himself died in the summer, during a heat wave.) But once Chekhov\u2019s own tuberculosis was discovered he continually tried to minimize the seriousness of his condition. To all appearances, it was as if he felt, right up to the end, that he might be able to throw off the disease as he would a lingering catarrh. Well into his final days, he spoke with seeming conviction of the possibility of an improvement. In fact, in a letter written shortly before his end, he went so far as to tell his sister that he was \u201cgetting fat\u201d and felt much better now that he was in Badenweiler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Badenweiler is a spa and resort city in the western area of the Black Forest, not far from Basel. The Vosges are visible from nearly anywhere in the city, and in those days the air was pure and invigorating. Russians had been going there for years to soak in the hot mineral baths and promenade on the boulevards. In June, 1904, Chekhov went there to die.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Earlier that month, he\u2019d made a difficult journey by train from Moscow to Berlin. He traveled with his wife, the actress Olga Knipper, a woman he\u2019d met in 1898 during rehearsals for \u201cThe Seagull.\u201d Her contemporaries describe her as an excellent actress. She was talented, pretty, and almost ten years younger than the playwright. Chekhov had been immediately attracted to her, but was slow to act on his feelings. As always, he preferred a flirtation to marriage. Finally, after a three-year courtship involving many separations, letters, and the inevitable misunderstandings, they were at last married, in a private ceremony in Moscow, on May 25, 1901. Chekhov was enormously happy. He called Olga his \u201cpony,\u201d and sometimes \u201cdog\u201d or \u201cpuppy.\u201d He was also fond of addressing her as \u201clittle turkey\u201d or simply as \u201cmy joy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Berlin, Chekhov consulted with a renowned specialist in pulmonary disorders, a Dr. Karl Ewald. But, according to an eyewitness, after the doctor examined Chekhov he threw up his hands and left the room without a word. Chekhov was too far gone for help: this Dr. Ewald was furious with himself for not being able to work miracles, and with Chekhov for being so ill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A Russian journalist happened to visit the Chekhovs at their hotel and sent back this dispatch to his editor: \u201cChekhov\u2019s days are numbered. He seems mortally ill, is terribly thin, coughs all the time, gasps for breath at the slightest movement, and is running a high temperature.\u201d This same journalist saw the Chekhovs off at Potsdam Station when they boarded their train for Badenweiler. According to his account, \u201cChekhov had trouble making his way up the small staircase at the station. He had to sit down for several minutes to catch his breath.\u201d In fact, it was painful for Chekhov to move: his legs ached continually and his insides hurt. The disease had attacked his intestines and spinal cord. At this point he had less than a month to live. When Chekhov spoke of his condition now, it was, according to Olga, \u201cwith an almost reckless indifference.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer was one of the many Badenweiler physicians who earned a good living by treating the well-to-do who came to the spa seeking relief from various maladies. Some of his patients were ill and infirm, others simply old and hypochondriacal. But Chekhov\u2019s was a special case: he was clearly beyond help and in his last days. He was also very famous. Even Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer knew his name: he\u2019d read some of Chekhov\u2019s stories in a German magazine. When he examined the writer early in June, he voiced his appreciation of Chekhov\u2019s art but kept his medical opinions to himself. Instead, he prescribed a diet of cocoa, oatmeal drenched in butter, and strawberry tea. This last was supposed to help Chekhov sleep at night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On June 13, less than three weeks before he died, Chekhov wrote a letter to his mother in which he told her his health was on the mend. In it he said, \u201cIt\u2019s likely that I\u2019ll be completely cured in a week.\u201d Who knows why he said this? What could he have been thinking? He was a doctor himself, and he knew better. He was dying, it was as simple and as unavoidable as that. Nevertheless, he sat out on the balcony of his hotel room and read railway timetables. He asked for information on sailings of boats bound for Odessa from Marseilles. But he knew. At this stage he had to have known. Yet in one of the last letters he ever wrote he told his sister he was growing stronger by the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He no longer had any appetite for literary work, and hadn\u2019t for a long time. In fact, he had very nearly failed to complete The Cherry Orchard<\/em> the year before. Writing that play was the hardest thing he\u2019d ever done in his life. Toward the end, he was able to manage only six or seven lines a day. \u201cI\u2019ve started losing heart,\u201d he wrote Olga. I feel I\u2019m finished as a writer, and every sentence strikes me as worthless and of no use whatever.\u201d But he didn\u2019t stop. He finished his play in October, 1903. It was the last thing he ever wrote, except for letters and a few entries in his notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A little after midnight on July 2,1904, Olga sent someone to fetch Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer. It was an emergency: Chekhov was delirious. Two young Russians on holiday happened to have the adjacent room, and Olga hurried next door to explain what was happening. One of the youths was in his bed asleep, but the other was still awake, smoking and reading. He left the hotel at a run to find Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer. \u201cI can still hear the sound of the gravel under his shoes in the silence of that stifling July night,\u201d Olga wrote later on in her memoirs. Chekhov was hallucinating, talking about sailors, and there were snatches of something about the Japanese. \u201cYou don\u2019t put ice on an empty stomach,\u201d he said when she tried to place an ice pack on his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer arrived and unpacked his bag, all the while keeping his gaze fastened on Chekhov, who lay gasping in the bed. The sick man\u2019s pupils were dilated and his temples glistened with sweat. Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer\u2019s face didn\u2019t register anything. He was not an emotional man, but he knew Chekhov\u2019s end was near. Still, he was a doctor, sworn to do his utmost, and Chekhov held on to life, however tenuously. Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer prepared a hypodermic and administered an injection of camphor, something that was supposed to speed up the heart. But the injection didn\u2019t help\u2014nothing, of course, could have helped. Nevertheless, the doctor made known to Olga his intention of sending for oxygen. Suddenly, Chekhov roused himself, became lucid, and said quietly, \u201cWhat\u2019s the use? Before it arrives I\u2019ll be a corpse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer pulled on his big moustache and stared at Chekhov. The writer\u2019s cheeks were sunken and gray, his complexion waxen; his breath was raspy. Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer knew the time could be reckoned in minutes. Without a word, without conferring with Olga, he went over to an alcove where there was a telephone on the wall. He read the instructions for using the device. If he activated it by holding his finger on a button and turning a handle on the side of the phone, he could reach the lower regions of the hotel\u2014the kitchen. He picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, and did as the instructions told him. When someone finally answered, Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer ordered a bottle of the hotel\u2019s best champagne. \u201cHow many glasses?\u201d he was asked. \u201cThree glasses!\u201d the doctor shouted into the mouthpiece. \u201cAnd hurry, do you hear?\u201d It was one of those rare moments of inspiration that can easily enough be overlooked later on, because the action is so entirely appropriate it seems inevitable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The champagne was brought to the door by a tired-looking young man whose blond hair was standing up. The trousers of his uniform were wrinkled, the creases gone, and in his haste he\u2019d missed a loop while buttoning his jacket. His appearance was that of someone who\u2019d been resting (slumped in a chair, say, dozing a little), when off in the distance the phone had clamored in the early-morning hours\u2014great God in Heaven!\u2014and the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake by a superior and told to deliver a bottle of Moet to Room 211. \u201cAnd hurry, do you hear?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The young man entered the room carrying a silver ice bucket with the champagne in it and a silver tray with three cut-crystal glasses. He found a place on the table for the bucket and glasses, all the while craning his neck, trying to see into the other room, where someone panted ferociously for breath. It was a dreadful, harrowing sound, and the young man lowered his chin into his collar and turned away as the ratchety breathing worsened. Forgetting himself, he stared out the open window toward the darkened city. Then this big imposing man with a thick moustache pressed some coins into his hand\u2014a large tip, by the feel of it\u2014and suddenly the young man saw the door open. He took some steps and found himself on the landing, where he opened his hand and looked at the coins in amazement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Methodically, the way he did everything, the doctor went about the business of working the cork out of the bottle. He did it in such a way as to minimize, as much as possible, the festive explosion. He poured three glasses and, out of habit, pushed the cork back into the neck of the bottle. He then took the glasses of champagne over to the bed. Olga momentarily released her grip on Chekhov\u2019s hand\u2014a hand, she said later, that burned her fingers. She arranged another pillow behind his head. Then she put the cool glass of champagne against Chekhov\u2019s palm and made sure his fingers closed around the stem. They exchanged looks\u2014Chekhov, Olga, Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer. They didn\u2019t touch glasses. There was no toast. What on earth was there to drink to? To death? Chekhov summoned his remaining strength and said, \u201cIt\u2019s been so long since I\u2019ve had champagne.\u201d He brought the glass to his lips and drank. In a minute or two Olga took the empty glass from his hand and set it on the nightstand. Then Chekhov turned onto his side. He closed his eyes and sighed. A minute later, his breathing stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer picked up Chekhov\u2019s hand from the bed-sheet. He held his fingers to Chekhov\u2019s wrist and drew a gold watch from his vest pocket, opening the lid of the watch as he did so. The second hand on the watch moved slowly, very slowly. He let it move around the face of the watch three times while he waited for signs of a pulse. It was three o\u2019clock in the morning and still sultry in the room. Badenweiler was in the grip of its worst heat wave in years. All the windows in both rooms stood open, but there was no sign of a breeze. A large, blackwinged moth flew through a window and banged wildly against the electric lamp. Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer let go of Chekhov\u2019s wrist. \u201cIt\u2019s over,\u201d he said. He closed the lid of his watch and returned it to his vest pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At once Olga dried her eyes and set about composing herself. She thanked the doctor for coming. He asked if she wanted some medication\u2014laudanum, perhaps, or a few drops of valerian. She shook her head. She did have one request, though: before the authorities were notified and the newspapers found out, before the time came when Chekhov was no longer in her keeping, she wanted to be alone with him for a while. Could the doctor help with this? Could he withhold, for a while anyway, news of what had just occurred?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer stroked his moustache with the back of a finger. Why not? After all, what difference would it make to anyone whether this matter became known now or a few hours from now? The only detail that remained was to fill out a death certificate, and this could be done at his office later on in the morning, after he\u2019d slept a few hours. Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer nodded his agreement and prepared to leave. He murmured a few words of condolence. Olga inclined her head. \u201cAn honor,\u201d Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer said. He picked up his bag and left the room and, for that matter, history.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was at this moment that the cork popped out of the champagne bottle; foam spilled down onto the table. Olga went back to Chekhov\u2019s bedside. She sat on a footstool, holding his hand, from time to time stroking his face. \u201cThere were no human voices, no everyday sounds,\u201d she wrote. \u201cThere was only beauty, peace, and the grandeur of death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


She stayed with Chekhov until daybreak, when thrushes began to call from the garden below. Then came the sound of tables and chairs being moved about down there. Before long, voices carried up to her. It was then a knock sounded at the door. Of course she thought it must be an official of some sort\u2014the medical examiner, say, or someone from the police who had questions to ask and forms for her to fill out, or maybe, just maybe, it could be Dr. Schw\u00f6hrer returning with a mortician to render assistance in embalming and transporting Chekhov\u2019s remains back to Russia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But, instead, it was the same blond young man who\u2019d brought the champagne a few hours earlier. This time, however, his uniform trousers were neatly pressed, with stiff creases in front, and every button on his snug green jacket was fastened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He seemed quite another person. Not only was he wide awake but his plump cheeks were smooth-shaven, his hair was in place, and he appeared anxious to please. He was holding a porcelain vase with three long-stemmed yellow roses. He presented these to Olga with a smart click of his heels. She stepped back and let him into the room. He was there, he said, to collect the glasses, ice bucket, and tray, yes. But he also wanted to say that, because of the extreme heat, breakfast would be served in the garden this morning. He hoped this weather wasn\u2019t too bothersome; he apologized for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman seemed distracted. While he talked, she turned her eyes away and looked down at something in the carpet. She crossed her arms and held her elbows. Meanwhile, still holding his vase, waiting for a sign, the young man took in the details of the room. Bright sunlight flooded through the open windows. The room was tidy and seemed undisturbed, almost untouched. No garments were flung over chairs, no shoes, stockings, braces, or stays were in evidence, no open suitcases. In short, there was no clutter, nothing but the usual heavy pieces of hotel-room furniture. Then, because the woman was still looking down, he looked down, too, and at once spied a cork near the toe of his shoe. The woman did not see it\u2014she was looking somewhere else. The young man wanted to bend over and pick up the cork, but he was still holding the roses and was afraid of seeming to intrude even more by drawing any further attention to himself. Reluctantly, he left the cork where it was and raised his eyes. Everything was in order except for the uncorked, half-empty bottle of champagne that stood alongside two crystal glasses over on the little table. He cast his gaze about once more. Through an open door he saw that the third glass was in the bedroom, on the nightstand. But someone still occupied the bed! He couldn\u2019t see a face, but the figure under the covers lay perfectly motionless and quiet. He noted the figure and looked elsewhere. Then, for a reason he couldn\u2019t understand, a feeling of uneasiness took hold of him. He cleared his throat and moved his weight to the other leg. The woman still didn\u2019t look up or break her silence. The young man felt his cheeks grow warm. It occurred to him, quite without his having thought it through, that he should perhaps suggest an alternative to breakfast in the garden. He coughed, hoping to focus the woman\u2019s attention, but she didn\u2019t look at him. The distinguished foreign guests could, he said, take breakfast in their rooms this morning if they wished. The young man (his name hasn\u2019t survived, and it\u2019s likely he perished in the Great War) said he would be happy to bring up a tray. Two trays, he added, glancing uncertainly once again in the direction of the bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He fell silent and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He didn\u2019t understand. He wasn\u2019t even sure the woman had been listening. He didn\u2019t know what else to do now; he was still holding the vase. The sweet odor of the roses filled his nostrils and inexplicably caused a pang of regret. The entire time he\u2019d been waiting, the woman had apparently been lost in thought. It was as if all the while he\u2019d been standing there, talking, shifting his weight, holding his flowers, she had been someplace else, somewhere far from Badenweiler. But now she came back to herself, and her face assumed another expression. She raised her eyes, looked at him, and then shook her head. She seemed to be struggling to understand what on earth this young man could be doing there in the room holding a vase with three yellow roses. Flowers? She hadn\u2019t ordered flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The moment passed. She went over to her handbag and scooped up some coins. She drew out a number of banknotes as well. The young man touched his lips with his tongue; another large tip was forthcoming, but for what? What did she want him to do? He\u2019d never before waited on such guests. He cleared his throat once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No breakfast, the woman said. Not yet, at any rate. Breakfast wasn\u2019t the important thing this morning. She required something else. She needed him to go out and bring back a mortician. Did he understand her? Herr Chekhov was dead, you see. Comprmez-vous?<\/em> Young man? Anton Chekhov was dead. Now listen carefully to me, she said. She wanted him to go downstairs and ask someone at the front desk where he could go to find the most respected mortician in the city. Someone reliable, who took great pains in his work and whose manner was appropriately reserved. A mortician, in short, worthy of a great artist. Here, she said, and pressed the money on him. Tell them downstairs that I have specifically requested you to perform this duty for me. Are you listening? Do you understand what I\u2019m saying to you?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young man grappled to take in what she was saying. He chose not to look again in the direction of the other room. He had sensed that something was not right. He became aware of his heart beating rapidly under his jacket, and he felt perspiration break out on his forehead. He didn\u2019t know where he should turn his eyes. He wanted to put the vase down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Please do this for me, the woman said. I\u2019ll remember you with gratitude. Tell them downstairs that I insist. Say that. But don\u2019t call any unnecessary attention to yourself or to the situation. Just say that this is necessary, that I request it\u2014and that\u2019s all. Do you hear me? Nod if you understand. Above all, don\u2019t raise an alarm. Everything else, all the rest, the commotion\u2014that\u2019ll come soon enough. The worst is over. Do we understand each other?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young man\u2019s face had grown pale. He stood rigid, clasping the vase. He managed to nod his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After securing permission to leave the hotel he was to proceed quietly and resolutely, though without any unbecoming haste, to the mortician\u2019s. He was to behave exactly as if he were engaged on a very important errand, nothing more. He was engaged on an important errand, she said. And if it would help keep his movements purposeful he should imagine himself as someone moving down the busy sidewalk carrying in his arms a porcelain vase of roses that he had to deliver to an important man. (She spoke quietly, almost confidentially, as if to a relative or a friend.) He could even tell himself that the man he was going to see was expecting him, was perhaps impatient for him to arrive with his flowers. Nevertheless, the young man was not to become excited and run, or otherwise break his stride. Remember the vase he was carrying! He was to walk briskly, comporting himself at all times in as dignified a manner as possible. He should keep walking until he came to the mortician\u2019s house and stood before the door. He would then raise the brass knocker and let it fall, once, twice, three times. In a minute the mortician himself would answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This mortician would be in his forties, no doubt, or maybe early fifties\u2014bald, solidly built, wearing steel-frame spectacles set very low on his nose. He would be modest, unassuming, a man who would ask only the most direct and necessary questions. An apron. Probably he would be wearing an apron. He might even be wiping his hands on a dark towel while he listened to what was being said. There\u2019d be a faint whiff of formaldehyde on his clothes. But it was all right, and the young man shouldn\u2019t worry. He was nearly a grown-up now and shouldn\u2019t be frightened or repelled by any of this. The mortician would hear him out. He was a man of restraint and bearing, this mortician, someone who could help allay people\u2019s fears in this situation, not increase them. Long ago he\u2019d acquainted himself with death in all its various guises and forms; death held no surprises for him any longer, no hidden secrets. It was this man whose services were required this morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mortician takes the vase of roses. Only once while the young man is speaking does the mortician betray the least flicker of interest, or indicate that he\u2019s heard anything out of the ordinary. But the one time the young man mentions the name of the deceased, the mortician\u2019s eyebrows rise just a little. Chekhov, you say? Just a minute, and I\u2019ll be with you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Do you understand what I\u2019m saying, Olga said to the young man. Leave the glasses. Don\u2019t worry about them. Forget about crystal wine-glasses and such. Leave the room as it is. Everything is ready now. We\u2019re ready. Will you go?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But at that moment the young man was thinking of the cork still resting near the toe of his shoe. To retrieve it he would have to bend over, still gripping the vase. He would do this. He leaned over. Without looking down, he reached out and closed it into his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cErrand\u201d (\u201cTres rosas amarillas\u201d) is a short story by Raymond Carver, published in The New Yorker on June 1, 1987, and later included in the book Where I\u2019m Calling From (1988). With a sober and deeply emotional prose, Carver reconstructs the final stretch of Anton Chekhov\u2019s life, from a dinner in Moscow to his death at a German spa, consumed by tuberculosis. Unfolding with delicate attention to every gesture and detail, the story becomes a lucid and profoundly human meditation on dignity in the face of death. Paradoxically, it was also Carver\u2019s own farewell, as he would die shortly after its publication.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":24025,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[575,570],"class_list":["post-24051","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-raymond-carver-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":575,"label":"Raymond Carver"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/09\/Raymond-Carver-Tres-rosas-amarillas.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":417,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":417,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":575,"name":"Raymond Carver","slug":"raymond-carver-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":575,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":2,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":292,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24051","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24051"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24051\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24025"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24051"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24051"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24051"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}