I must remind my reader, though it is a matter of general knowledge,
that in his earlier work Tchekhov is most unlike the Tchekhov to whom
we became accustomed in late years. The young Tchekhov is gay and
careless, perhaps even like a flying bird. He published his work in
the comic papers. But in 1888 and 1889, when he was only twenty-seven
and twenty-eight years old, there appeared _The Tedious Story_ and the
drama _Ivanov,_ two pieces of work which laid the foundations of a
new creation. Obviously a sharp and sudden change had taken place in
him, which was completely reflected in his works. There is no detailed
biography of Tchekhov, and probably will never be, because there is no
such thing as a full biography--I, at all events, cannot name one.
Generally biographies tell us everything except what it is important
to know. Perhaps in the future it will be revealed to us with the
fullest details who was Tchekhov's tailor; but we shall never know what
happened to Tchekhov in the time which elapsed between the completion
of his story _The Steppe_ and the appearance of his first drama. If we
would know, we must rely upon his works and our own insight.
_Ivanov_ and _The Tedious Story_ seem to me the most autobiographical
of all his works. In them almost every line is a sob; and it is hard to
suppose that a man could sob so, looking only at another's grief. And
it is plain that his grief is a new one, unexpected as though it had
fallen from the sky. Here it is, it will endure for ever, and he does
not know how to fight against it.
In _Ivanov_ the hero compares himself to an overstrained labourer. I
do not believe we shall be mistaken if we apply this comparison to the
author of the drama as well. There can be practically no doubt that
Tchekhov had overstrained himself. And the overstrain came not from
hard and heavy labour; no mighty overpowering exploit broke him: he
stumbled and fell, he slipped. There comes this nonsensical, stupid,
all but invisible accident, and the old Tchekhov of gaiety and mirth
is no more. No more stories for _The Alarm Clock._ Instead, a morose
and overshadowed man, a 'criminal' whose words frighten even the
experienced and the omniscient.
If you desire it, you can easily be rid of Tchekhov and his work as
well. Our language contains two magic words: 'pathological,' and its
brother 'abnormal.' Once Tchekhov had overstrained himself, you have a
perfectly legal right, sanctified by science and every tradition, to
leave him out of all account, particularly seeing that he is already
dead, and therefore cannot be hurt by your neglect. That is if you
desire to be rid of Tchekhov. But if the desire is for some reason
absent, the words 'pathological' and 'abnormal' will have no effect
upon you. Perhaps you will go further and attempt to find in Tchekhov's
experiences a criterion of the most irrefragable truths and axioms of
this consciousness of ours. There is no third way: you must either
renounce Tchekhov, or become his accomplice.
The hero of _The Tedious Story_ is an old professor; the hero of
_Ivanov_ a young landlord. But the theme of both works is the same.
The professor had overstrained himself, and thereby cut himself off
from his past life and from the possibility of taking an active part
in human affairs. Ivanov also had overstrained himself and become a
superfluous, useless person. Had life been so arranged that death
should supervene simultaneously with the loss of health, strength and
capacity, then the old professor and young Ivanov could not have lived
for one single hour. Even a blind man could see that they are both
broken and are unfit for life. But for reasons unknown to us, wise
nature has rejected coincidence of this kind. A man very often goes on
living after he has completely lost the capacity of taking from life
that wherein we are wont to see its essence and meaning. More striking
still, a broken man is generally deprived of everything except the
ability to acknowledge and feel his position. Nay, for the most part
in such cases the intellectual abilities are refined and sharpened
and increased to colossal proportions. It frequently happens that an
average man, banal and mediocre, is changed beyond all recognition when
he falls into the exceptional situation of Ivanov or the old professor.
In him appear signs of a gift, a talent, even of genius. Nietzsche once
asked: 'Can an ass be tragical?' He left his question unanswered, but
Tolstoi answered for him in _The Death of Ivan Ilyich._ Ivan Ilyich,
it is evident from Tolstoi's description of his life, is a mediocre,
average character, one of those men who pass through life avoiding
anything that is difficult or problematical, caring exclusively for the
calm and pleasantness of earthly existence. Hardly had the cold wind of
tragedy blown upon him, than he was utterly transformed. The story of
Ivan Ilyich in his last days is as deeply interesting as the life-story
of Socrates or Pascal.
In passing I would point out a fact which I consider of great
importance. In his work Tchekhov was influenced by Tolstoi, and
particularly by Tolstoi's later writings. It is important, because thus
a part of Tchekhov's 'guilt' falls upon the great writer of the Russian
land. I think that had there been no _Death of Ivan Ilyich,_ there
would have been no _Ivanov,_ and no _Tedious Story,_ nor many others
of Tchekhov's most remarkable works. But this by no means implies that
Tchekhov borrowed a single word from his great predecessor. Tchekhov
had enough material of his own: in that respect he needed no help. But
a young writer would hardly dare to come forward at his own risk with
the thoughts that make the content of _The Tedious Story._ When Tolstoi
wrote _The Death of Ivan Ilyich,_ he had behind him _War and Peace,
Anna Karenina,_ and the firmly established reputation of an artist of
the highest rank. All things were permitted to him. But Tchekhov was
a young man, whose literary baggage amounted in all to a few dozen
tiny stories, hidden in the pages of little known and uninfluential
papers. Had Tolstoi not paved the way, had Tolstoi not shown by his
example, that in literature it was permitted to tell the truth, to
tell everything, then perhaps Tchekhov would have had to struggle long
with himself before finding the courage of a public confession, even
though it took the form of stories. And even with Tolstoi before him,
how terribly did Tchekhov have to struggle with public opinion. 'Why
does he write his horrible stories and plays?' every one asked himself.
'Why does the writer systematically choose for his heroes situations
from which there is not, and cannot possibly be, any escape?' What
can be said in answer to the endless complaints of the old professor
and Katy, his pupil? This means that there is, essentially, something
to be said. From times immemorial, literature has accumulated a large
and varied store of all kinds of general ideas and conceptions,
material and metaphysical, to which the masters have recourse the
moment the over-exacting and over-restless human voice begins to be
heard. This is exactly the point. Tchekhov himself, a writer and an
educated man, refused in advance every possible consolation, material
or metaphysical. Not even in Tolstoi, who set no great store by
philosophical systems, will you find such keenly expressed disgust for
every kind of conceptions and ideas as in Tchekhov. He is well aware
that conceptions ought to be esteemed and respected, and he reckons his
inability to bend the knee before that which educated people consider
holy as a defect against which he must struggle with all his strength.
And he does struggle with all his strength against this defect. But
not only is the struggle unavailing; the longer Tchekhov lives, the
weaker grows the power of lofty words over him, in spite of his own
reason and his conscious will. Finally, he frees himself entirely
from ideas of every kind, and loses even the notion of connection
between the happenings of life. Herein lies the most important and
original characteristic of his creation. Anticipating a little, I would
here point to his comedy, _The Sea-Gull,_ where, in defiance of all
literary principles, the basis of action appears to be not the logical
development of passions, or the inevitable connection between cause and
effect, but naked accident, ostentatiously nude. As one reads the play,
it seems at times that one has before one a copy of a newspaper with
an endless series of news paragraphs, heaped upon one another, without
order and without previous plan. Sovereign accident reigns everywhere
and in everything, this time boldly throwing the gauntlet to all
conceptions. In this, I repeat, is Tchekhov's greatest originality, and
this, strangely enough, is the source of his most bitter experiences.
He did not want to be original; he made super-human efforts to be
like everybody else: but there is no escaping one's destiny. How
many men, above all among writers, wear their fingers to the bone in
the effort to be unlike others, and yet they cannot shake themselves
free of _cliché_--yet Tchekhov was original against his will!
Evidently originality does not depend upon the readiness to proclaim
revolutionary opinions at all costs. The newest and boldest idea may
and often does appear tedious and vulgar. In order to become original,
instead of inventing an idea, one must achieve a difficult and painful
labour; and, since men avoid labour and suffering, the really new is
for the most part born in man against his will.