The Editors and Board of Trustees of the Russian Review

Reflections on Chekhov
Author(s): Marc Aldanov and Ida Estrin
Source: Russian Review, Vol. 14, No. 2 (Apr., 1955), pp. 83-92
Published by: Wiley on behalf of The Editors and Board of Trustees of the Russian Review
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 ReJlections on Chekhov
BY MARC ALDANOV

-T-HE present short essay is, of course, in no way intended as a

I biographical sketch. Biographies of Chekhov, in many lan-
guages, exist in profusion; the first one appeared in Russia some
forty years ago. The literature of reminiscences of him is immense;
so is the critical literature. His enormous talent as a creative artist
has long been beyond dispute. This writer would, without hesitation,
assign him fourth place in Russian prose (artificial and useless as
such a tabulation of ranks in art may be): Pushkin and Lermontov,
primarily great poets, however exquisite their prose writings, are
not included in this count; among the prose writers proper, Chekhov,
in my judgment, would come right after Tolstoy, Gogol, Dostoev-
sky, ahead even of Turgenev and Goncharov.
Both in the short story and the drama Chekhov has created his
own peculiar form, his own rhythm, his own idiom. Much has been
said about the influence of Maupassant on him; yet, if ever there
was any, it has been greatly exaggerated. It has also been repeat-
edly said that in Chekhov's writings "nothing ever happens." Not
so long ago, a similar view was expressed by Somerset Maugham,
whose generally perceptive and valuable comments on Chekhov are
still unknown to Russian readers. Russian critics have never made
reference to them. The famous British author, himself a past master
of the short story, quotes Chekhov's own words as evidence: "Why
write about a man getting into a submarine and going to the North
Pole to reconcile himself to the world, while his beloved throws her-
self with a hysterical shriek from a belfry? All this is untrue and
does not happen in real life. One must write about simple things:
how Piotr Semionovich married Maria Ivanovna. That is all." To
this Somerset Maugham adds: "I have little doubt that Chekhov
would have written stories with an ingenious, original and strong
plot if he had been able to. It was not in his temperament. Like all
good writers he made a merit of his limitations." Still one may ask
whether there is much factual truth in the allegation itself. Is there
really as little "plot" as that in Chekhov's stories and plays? Really
so much less than in the works of many other writers who have never
*Translated from the Russian by Ida Estrin [Ed.].

83

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84 The Russian Review

been the target of a similarcriticism?If it comes to that, one play

alone, "The Three Sisters," contains a disastrous fire and a duel
culminatingin murder. What more could one ask in the matter of
"plot"? Few modernplaywrights,in particularBritish, would dare
to make use of incidentssuch as these, which, after all, do not occur
every day in real life, though naturallymoreoften than a voyage to
the North Pole in a submarine.
Chekhov'sfate as a writer was, in a way, unusual. He was the
grandsonof a serf, grewup in poverty, in a remoteprovincialtown,
in a family utterly devoid of education. His fatherwas a coarseman
who broughthim up sternly and often thrashedhim. As a writerhe
had to endurethe preliminarycensorshipto whichRussianliterature
was subject in his day (thoughhe may have been less harassedby it
than some other writersof his time and certainlyless than his prede-
cessors). All this might have foreshadoweda difficult, slow, and
cheerlessliterary career. Moreover,literary criticismin old Russia
was not too kind; as a rule, it was less benevolent,at any rate, than
criticism in France or the United States. In this connection Som-
erset Maugham again quotes Chekhov (with some relish, it would
seem): "Critics are like horse-flieswhich prevent the horse from
ploughing. For over twenty years I have read criticisms of my
stories, and I do not remembera single remarkof any value or one
word of valuable advice. Only once Skabichevskywrote something
which made an impressionon me. He said I would die in a ditch,
drunk." Chekhov'sletters are usually facetious in tone, and this
facetiousness,to tell the truth, is sometimestiresomeand not always
as amusingas in the above passage. However,the wordsjust quoted
should be taken with a grainof salt: sometimeshe did pay attention
to criticismand now and then, to some extent, followedhis critics'
advice (whichmay be regrettedin some instances). Be it as it may,
despite all unfavorableomens, his literarycareerprovedexceptional
in its brilliance and the swift achievement of success. The most
importantperiodicalsof Moscow and Petersburgopened their doors
wide to the young writer. He was not yet twenty-eight when his
first play "Ivanov" was accepted and staged with outstandingsuc-
cess by the AlexandrinskyTheatre in Petersburg,one of the two
highest-rankingtheatres in Russia. At about the same time he was
awardedthe Pushkin prize of literature by the Academy. Grigor-
ovich, an old writer, of minor stature, saluted him with an enthu-
siastic letter. Some time later he was elected honorarymemberof
the ImperialAcademy. His literary earnings (he had no other in-

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 Reflections on Chekhov

come) soon allowed him to live comfortably, to support his parents,

to travel abroad, to undertake a long journey to Asia, to buy a
country estate, and to spend nearly a year in Nice. Finally, the
publisher, Marks, acquired the rights to his complete works and
paid him the net sum of seventy-five thousand rubles (thirty-seven
thousand dollars; yet considering the extremely low cost of living in
Russia at that time, this would be the equivalent of some one hun-
dred thousand present-day dollars, or even more). In continental
Europe, if not in the United States, then, and now, writers are rarely
found who could boast of a similarly successful career. What French
author, for instance, could have, in his twenties, a play staged by
the Comedie Fran?aise, or could sell his collected works on terms
even remotely as advantageous as these?
Outside Russia, Chekhov was little known in his lifetime. I
remember as a young boy, while traveling with my family abroad,
I learned of Chekhov's death from a German newspaper: "At
Badenweiler the Russian writer Anton Chekhov died of consump-
tion. .. ." The notice was brief, five or six lines, and quite
indifferent in tone. While he lived, little of what he wrote was
being translated. In one of his letters he mentions, obviously as
"an event," that one of his stories has been translated into the
Danish language and adds jokingly: "Now I feel easy in my mind
about Denmark." It is difficult to say just when his actual world
fame began. In Russia the opinion has been voiced that his high
reputation in England dates from the beginning of World War I,
when out of goodwill for a powerful ally "the Russian soul was dis-
covered." This is incorrect. As early as I909, Arnold Bennett notes
in his Journal (under February 26), plainly referring to Chekhov
as a well-known writer: "More and more struck by Chekhov, and
more and more inclined to write a lot of very short stories in the
same technique." Gradually Bennett falls completely under Chek-
hov's spell. In January, I921, after moving into a new flat, he notes
in his Journal: "I bought another complete Chekhov for this flat
yesterday. Couldn't do without it any longer." As time went on,
Chekhov was recognized in England, by the elite, of course, as a
writer of world stature. "No one's stock today stands higher with
the best critics than Chekhov's," writes Somerset Maugham in the
introduction to "Altogether." "In fact he has put every other
story-writer's nose out of joint. To admire him is a proof of good
taste; not to like him is to declare yourself a philistine."
Genuine connoisseurs of literature like Maugham or Bennett

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86 The Russian Review

appreciated the best in Chekhov. What it was that attracted the

general public to him I could not say. Most successful in the West
are his plays, on the whole inferior to his stories, and among the
plays the weakest one, "The Seagull," which, to my mind, does
not bear comparison with "Uncle Vania." As a matter of fact, an
utterly insignificant trifle by which Chekhov himself set no store,
"The Harmfulness of Tobacco," is quite a hit today in Paris. With
all his modesty, unusual in a writer, Chekhov could not but be
aware of his worth; nonetheless, he never expected his world fame
and surely would have been greatly surprised by it.
As to such real masterpieces as "Ward No. 6," "A Dreary Story,"
"The Bishop," "The Steppe," and "The Darling" (this last was
greatly admired by Tolstoy), they hardly could have earned him
any special popularity in the West. Like Moliere, like Cervantes,
and like Tolstoy, Chekhov is a writer both for the sophisticate and
for the public at large-a supreme achievement. Nevertheless, the
average Western reader may be expected to find both the setting
and the mood of these great stories rather outlandish. Somerset
Maugham, of course, is the cream of the elite; yet, still, I wonder he
was able to recognize so unerringly "The Bishop" as "one of the most
beautiful and touching" of Chekhov's stories.
There are no differences of opinion with regard to Chekhov's
moral personality. It is all too well known what kind of mutual
relationships are usually prevalent in the literary world, even among
distinguished writers; examples abound. Suffice it to call to mind
the feud between Turgenev and Dostoevsky and how the latter
ruthlessly lampooned Turgenev, transparently disguised as Kar-
masinov, in The Possessed. And what about the relationship be-
tween Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser? Probably only in
politics and the theatrical world is the hostility between prominent
people even more pronounced than in the world of letters. Chekhov
wrote about Russian critics and publicists: "Accusations of insanity,
of evil motives, and indeed of every kind of crime, are the habitual
adornment of even serious articles." He might have said the same
thing of a great many writers of fiction. Against this background
Chekhov himself stood out in a most admirable way. Whether in
literature or in his private life, he always remained "the perfect
gentleman." He was loved and respected by fellow-writers, and
fellow-men in general, as few people are. After his death, Chekhov
the man and the writer became the object of a deep national affec-
tion.

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 Reflections on Chekhov 87
And yet, a psychologically significant feature, Chekhov himself
was by no means very fond of people. Those he loved were few; and
even then his feelings lacked ardor. Even love with him was of a
"gentlemanly" kind. Letters in Russian often were concluded with
the formula: "At your service .. ." With Chekhov the willingness
to serve was much more than a ready-made polite formula; it was
one of the dominant traits of his character. Whenever he could,
he would do a good turn for some person, most often to a writer,
probably because he knew so many of them; for he certainly loved
writers no more than other people, rather less. He would advise
beginners and would carefully read their manuscripts, spending
much time on this task. Often he may have hoped that these begin-
ners would develop into writers of talent; yet he extended the same
kindness to writers who were manifestly hopeless. And that was
not all. He was a "good pal" almost in the schoolboy meaning of the
word. Out of a sense of fellowship he resigned his honorary member-
ship in the Academy because Maxim Gorky, for political reasons,
had not been confirmed as Academician. Today, to any discerning
person, there can be no comparison between the outstanding creative
talent of Chekhov and the rather modest and often vulgar literary
gift of Maxim Gorky. But at that time Gorky was Chekhov's chief
rival for success, fame and financial rewards (Tolstoy, of course, was
beyond competition; no one would have dreamed of challenging his
preeminence). It is hard to tell how Chekhov really felt about
Gorky. His letters and recorded remarks are rather ambiguous in
this respect, yet Chekhov by then must have been fully aware that
these letters inevitably would become public some day and probably
did not always reveal all he thought. Ivan Bunin, Russia's only
Nobel prize winner, a friend and favorite of Chekhov, once told me
that Chekhov literally could not stand Gorky. Some of his letters
contradict this; yet I believe that on the whole Bunin's testimony is
close to the truth. Be that as it may, for Chekhov's decision to resign
from the Academy it sufficed that Gorky was a fellow-writer and
that politics had become involved in a matter of academic elections.
None of Chekhov's critics and biographers (not even the die-hard
Bolsheviks among them) has claimed that he had ever "called to
revolution"; this would have been too silly. Chekhov died in 1904
at the age of forty-four. Were it not for tuberculosis, he might have
lived to witness the Soviet revolution. In that case he probably
would have joined the ranks of the expatriates, and his writings
would have appeared in the emigre press. Should he have stayed in

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88 The Russian Review

Russia, he probably would have stopped writing altogether. With

his principles,his profounddecency, his love of freedom-in par-
ticular, spiritual freedom-and with his unparalleledartistic in-
tegrity, he would have been unable, physically unable, to emulate
the Ehrenburgs and the Fadeevs. In all likelihood he would have
resumed his medical practice, both for a living and because he loved
medicine. Yet all this is crystal-gazing; we can speak with certainty
only of what he actually wrote. There is not the slightest hint of a
"call to revolution" in any of his literary works or personal letters,
just as there is no hint of it in the works of nearly all other Russian
classics. Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Tiutchev, Griboedov, Tur-
genev, Dostoevsky, Goncharov, Ostrovsky, and Bunin, whether
liberal or conservative, all were moderates in politics. Even Tol-
stoy's "revolution" was of a very personal kind, confined to the
spirit and quite unlike the actual Bolshevik upheaval.
Of course Chekhov wanted Russia to become a free country. I
remember how, before the Revolution, a famous actor, a star of the
Moscow Art Theatre, would interpret to me the meaning of certain
oft-quoted "visionary" sentences from Chekhov's plays: they meant
that Chekhov had been "craving for a constitution." Almost all the
Russian critics, in times past, used to read a similar meaning into
that famous passage from "A Dreary Story": "Every feeling and
every thought exists in me separately, and in all my judgments on
science, the theatre, literature, my pupils, and in all the pictures my
imagination draws, even the most skillful analyst would fail to find
what is called a general idea, or the god of living man.. And if
that is not there, then there is nothing." There can be no doubt that
Chekhov longed for political freedom, for the abolition of censorship,
for all that is implied in a constitutional system of government. It is
probable that like the professor Nikolai Stepanovich of "A Dreary
Story" he deplored his own lack of a definite philosophy of life. Even
so, all such interpretations contain a good measure of over-simplifica-
tion: in particular the assumption that had Russia in Chekhov's
time possessed a constitution, and had the professor possessed a
"general idea" (we can very well imagine him, a few years later, as a
member of the Cadet or the Octobrist party), then all that makes up
the essential meaning of "A Dreary Story" would have been non-
existent. Well, look at the Bolsheviks-they have a "general idea!"
It has been often said that Chekhov "denounced the evils of the
old regime." Indeed, while not actually "denouncing" those evils
(the term is utterly out of character), he certainly wrote a great deal

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 Reflections on Chekhov 89
about them, and his journey to Sakhalinhad no other purposethan
to exploresome of them. Such a shrewdcritic as ArnoldBennett in
this sense interpreted"WardNo. 6," which he rightly regardedas
one of the most extraordinaryand terrifyingstories ever written.
This story, as will be remembered,depicts the mental ward of a
squalid provincialhospital. The physician in charge of it is slowly
sucked in by ward No. 6 until he finally enters it himself as a
patient. "It is a most terrible story," writes Bennett, "and one of
the most violent instancesof Chekhov'spreoccupationwith Russian
slackness, inefficiency, and corruption." (Entry under April 27,
I92I.) It is probably true that neither in the United States nor in
Great Britain such an institution could exist today. I wonder what
the situation was sixty years ago. Bennett, after all, did not write
in Chekhov's lifetime. But this is not the point: what happened to
Chekhov's doctor cannot be wholly accounted for by social condi-
tions in Russia in the eighteen-nineties, nor can it be explained by
some peculiar (and rather doubtful) traits of the Russian national
character. And then, not even in old Russia did it happen every
day that doctors would end up as inmates of their own insane asy-
lums; this was just an instance of "going to the North Pole in a
submarine."
Both the desire for a constitution and the "denunciations" may
have touched at some point the main sphere of Chekhov's thought.
Yet it is very difficult to determine the actual contents of that
sphere. Some writers, like Father Sergey Bulgakov and, quite
recently, B. Zaitsev regarded Chekhov's innate disposition as essen-
tially religious. Others, like Evgeny Zamiatin, hold a directly
opposite view. It has been often pointed out that Chekhov possessed
"faith in the human being." Thus he wrote: "It is not difficult to
believe in God. In him believed even the inquisitors, and Biron, and
Arakcheev. No-it is in man that you should believe." And again:
"My holy of holies is the human body, health, intelligence, talent,
inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom." This is not easy
to understand. What, for instance, is meant by "the most absolute
freedom"? And why is the human body not just a fact, given good
health and the absence of deformities, a very fine thing indeed;-but
the "holy of holies"?
His interest in philosophical concepts was not much deeper than
that in political ideas. Intelligence, talent, and inspiration, all this
he possessed, as well as an extremely keen mind. His general culture
was considerable; he was always a great reader. He lacked, however,

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90 The Russian Review

that intense participation and interest in human thought that

characterizedPushkin, Turgenev, and Tolstoy, who were among
the most versatile and best-informedminds of their century. He
disliked discussing abstract ideas. It would be possible to quote
numerouspassagesscattered throughhis writings as evidence that
his was a religiousnature, and as many more to show that religion
was alien to him. No less convincinglycould it be shown that in-
stead of ideas he was swayed by moods. This writer is inclined to
support the latter view, without complete certainty, however, and
with reservations.As a matter of fact, most of our judgments re-
gardingChekhov'sthoughtsand feelingsrequirereservations.
It is unfair,of course,to hold a writeranswerablefor the opinions
expressedby this or that of his fictionalcharacters.Yet criticsoften
have recourseto this method, and sometimeswith reason. Evgeny
Zamiatin has made use of this passage from "An Artist's Story":
"If all of us, townspeopleand country people, all without exception
would agree to divide betweenus the labor mankindspends on the
satisfactionof physicalneeds,each of us wouldperhapsneed to work
only for two or three hours a day. Imagine that we all, rich and
poor, work only for three hours a day, and the rest of our time is
free. .. . All of us togetherwould devote our leisureto science and
art. Just as the peasants sometimes work, the whole community
together mending the roads, so all of us, as a community, would
search for truth and the meaningof life, and I am convinced that
the truth would be discoveredvery quickly;man wouldescape from
this continual,agonizing,oppressivedread of death, and even from
death itself."
Should we take these words as an intellectual proposition,we
should have to admit regretfully that it is neither very original,
being a reflection both of Tolstoy's philosophy and of some ele-
mentarysocialisttheories,nor,what is worse,in any way convincing.
How is it possibleto searchfor truth "all together,as a community"?
Whence the certainty ("I am convinced . . .") that the truth then
would be discoveredquickly? And how would that truth rid man-
kind of the dreadof death, and even of death itself? Chekhovhim-
self never did anything in his life together with others "as a com-
munity." There existed philosophicalsocieties in his time which
surelywouldhave welcomedhim with open armsas a most desirable
member. But difficult as it is to imagine him as a member of a
political party or of the ImperialDuma, it is utterly impossibleto
conjure up a vision of Chekhov on the rostrumof a philosophical

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 Reflections on Chekhov 9I

society holding forth in the vein of Solovyov or Merezhkovsky.

Whenever Merezhkovskymade an attempt to discuss some lofty
subject with him, Chekhovwould invariablyreact by suggesting a
drink of vodka. If he ever did "searchfor truth," he did it all by
himself. There is an entry in his notebook: "As I shall lie alone in
my grave, so, in reality, I live alone." And as to "discoveringthe
truth,"he seems to have discoveredvery little.
The Soviet critic Korney Chukovsky has published a book:
Chekhovand His Craftsmanship.I have not seen it and have read
only one chapterwhichappearedin the New York Russian-language
paper NovoyeRusskoyeSlovo(August 15, 1954). In this chapter he
has skillfully assembledall the facts bearing witness to Chekhov's
great "zest for living." "He loved to work with people and to roam
about with people, but most of all he loved to have fun with people.
So much of that youthful, undyingly joyful laughter had been
bestowedon the young Chekhov,that wheneverhe could snatch an
hour of leisure in the midst of his labors he would brim over with
high spirits, and it was impossiblenot to laugh with him. To push
into the hands of a Moscow policemana heavy melon wrappedin
thick paper,saying to him in a matter-of-factmanner:'A bomb! ...
Now take it to the police station, but look out, be careful!'-or to
try to convincea young woman-writerof almost saintly naivete that
his pigeons with the coffee-coloredplumagewere the result of a pi-
geon's mating with the cat that dwelt in the same yard, since the
cat's fur was exactly the same shade-he enjoyed that kind of thing
at all times."
This is true enough of Chekhov, especially the young Chekhov.
There is no need to refer to biographies.One has only to re-reada
story like "The Siren," for instance, in which the secretary of a
court of justice drives the membersof the court-and the readers-
crazy with his descriptionof various mouth-wateringdishes. This
story breathessuch joy of living, such delight in the simple earthly
pleasuresaccessibleto all, that it is apt to make an invalid forgethis
ailmentsand rushout to have dinner-which is just what the assist-
ant prosecutor in the story, afflicted with a stomach catarrh, is
doing. "Ward No. 6"-"a most terrible thing"-is a masterpiece,
but so is "The Siren,"on a quite differentlevel, of course. And yet
the foreign reader, who knows of Chekhov only his famous great
stories and plays, would be surprisedby this aspect of the man as
revealedby that chapterfrom Chukovsky'sbook; he probablycan-
not imaginesuch a Chekhov. Here is how even SomersetMaugham

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92 The Russian Review

sees him: "For Chekhov life is like a game of billiards in which you
never pot the red, bring off a losing hazard or make a cannon, and
should you by a miraculous chance get a fluke you will almost cer-
tainly cut the cloth. He sighs sadly because the futile do not suc-
ceed, the idle do not work, liars do not speak the truth and drunkards
are not sober." Maugham brilliantly contrasts Chekhov with
Maupassant who "was obsessed by the tiresome notion, common
then to his countrymen, that it was a duty a man owed himself to
hop into bed with every woman under forty that he met."
Chekhov certainly lacked a "system of ideas," a "definite phi-
losophy of life," and he did not care. "Unfortunately, I am not a
philosopher and not a theologian. I know perfectly well that I can-
not live more than another six months; it might be supposed that I
ought now to be chiefly concerned with the question of the shadowy
life beyond the grave, and the visions that will visit my slumbers in
the tomb. But for some reason my soul refuses to recognize these
questions, though my mind is fully alive to their importance." Not-
withstanding this last subordinate clause beginning with "though,"
Chekhov regarded these problems not only with indifference but also
with a kind of disdainful irony, just as he regarded the people who
wrote about them. To quote again Professor Nikolai Stepanovich
of "A Dreary Story": "As for serious treatises in Russian on sociol-
ogy, for instance, on art, and so on, I do not read them simply from
timidity. In my childhood and early youth I had for some reason a
terror of doorkeepers and attendants at the theatre, and that terror
has remained with me to this day. It is said that we are only afraid
of what we do not understand. And, indeed, it is very difficult to
understand why doorkeepers and theatre attendants are so dignified,
haughty, and majestically rude. I feel exactly the same terror when
I read serious articles. Their extraordinary dignity, their bantering
lordly tone, their familiar manner to foreign authors, their ability
to split straws with dignity-all that is beyond my understanding."
This is a witty passage. It is nonetheless true that not only fools
wrote "on sociology, on art, and so on" in Russia, and surely not all
serious writers indulged in "splitting straws."
If he had no "system of ideas," he had "moods," a great variety of
changing moods. And his zest for living was slowly ebbing away as
advancing consumption ravaged his body. Twelve years before his
death he wrote: "I have no particular desire to live. I do not wish
to die, but feel rather bored with life."

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