February 21st.
I saw Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" acted by the cast of the Art
Theatre in the First Studio. This is a little theatre holding
just over 200 people. It was of course full. It was curious to
see how complete the revolution had been in a social sense.
It was impossible to tell to what class in pre-revolutionary
days any particular member of the audience had belonged. I
was struck by the new smartness of the boy officers of the
Red Army, of whom a fair number were present. As we
waited for the curtain to rise, I thought how the mental
attitude of the people had changed. A year ago, we lived
with exhilaration or despair on a volcano which might any
day erupt and sweep away the new life before any one had
become accustomed to live it. Now the danger to the
revolution was a thousand miles away on the
various fronts. Here, in the centre, the revolution was
an established fact. People had ceased to wonder when it
would end, were settling into their places in the new social
order, and took their pleasures not as if they were plucking
flowers on their way to execution, but in the ordinary routine
of life.
The play is well known, a drama of bourgeois society in a
small country place. A poor landowner scraping money for
an elder brother in the town, realizing at last that the brother
was not the genius for whom such sacrifice was worth while;
a doctor with a love for forestry and dreams of the future;
the old mock-genius's young wife; his sister; his adoring
mother; the old nurse and the ancient dependent adopted, as
it were, with the estate; all these people in their own way
make each other suffer. Chekhov's irony places before us
wasted lives, hopelessness, exaggerated interest in
personalities, vain strugglings after some better outlet for the
expression of selves not worth expressing.
That play, acted to-day, seemed as remote as a play of the
old regime in France would have seemed five years
ago. A gulf seemed to have passed. The play had become a
play of historical interest; the life it represented had gone for
ever. People in Russia no longer have time for private lives
of such a character. Such people no longer exist; some of
them have been swept into the flood-tide of revolution and
are working as they never hoped to have the chance to work;
others, less generous, have been broken and thrown aside.
The revolution has been hard on some, and has given new
life to others. It has swept away that old life so absolutely
that, come what may, it will be a hundred years at least
before anywhere in Russia people will be able to be unhappy
in that particular way again.
The subject of "Uncle Vanya" was a great deal more remote
from the Russian audience of today than was the opera of
"Samson and Delilah" which I heard last week. And, if I
realized that the revolution had come to stay, if I realized
that Chekhov's play had become a play of historical interest,
I realized also that Chekhov was a great master in that his
work carried across the gulf between the old life and the
new, and affected a revolutionary audience of to-day
as strongly as it affected that very different audience of a
few years ago. Indeed, the play seemed almost to have
gained by the revolution, which had lent it, perhaps, more
irony than was in Chekhov's mind as he wrote. Was this the
old life? I thought, as I stepped out into the snow. If so,
then thank God it has gone!