IV

The content of _The Tedious Story_ thus reduces to the fact that the

professor, expressing his 'new' thoughts, in essence declares that

he finds it impossible to acknowledge the power of the 'idea' over

himself, or conscientiously to fulfil that which men consider the

supreme purpose, and in the service whereof they see the mission, the

sacred mission of man. 'God be my judge, I haven't courage enough

to act according to my conscience,' such is the only answer which

Tchekhov finds in his soul to all demands for a 'conception.' This

attitude towards 'conceptions' becomes second nature with Tchekhov.

A conception makes demands; a man acknowledges the justice of these

demands and methodically satisfies none of them. Moreover, the justice

of the demands meets with less and less acknowledgment from him. In

_The Tedious Story_ the idea still judges the man and tortures him

with the mercilessness peculiar to all things inanimate. Exactly like

a splinter stuck into a living body, the idea, alien and hostile,

mercilessly performs its high mission, until at length the man firmly

resolves to draw the splinter out of his flesh, however painful that

difficult operation may be. In _Ivanov_ the rôle of the idea is

already changed. There not the idea persecutes Tchekhov, but Tchekhov

the idea, and with the subtlest division and contempt. The voice of

the living nature rises above the artificial habits of civilisation.

True, the struggle still continues, if you will, with alternating

fortunes. But the old humility is no more. More and more Tchekhov

emancipates himself from old prejudices and goes--he himself could

hardly say whither, were he asked. But he prefers to remain without

an answer, rather than to accept any of the traditional answers. 'I

know quite well I have no more than six months to live; and it would

seem that now I ought to be mainly occupied with questions of the

darkness beyond the grave, and the visions which will visit my sleep

in the earth. But somehow my soul is not curious of these questions,

though my mind grants every atom of their importance.' In contrast to

the habits of the past, reason is once more pushed out of the door

with all due respect, while its rights are handed over to the 'soul,'

to the dark, vague aspiration which Tchekhov by instinct trusts more

than the bright, clear consciousness which beforehand determines the

beyond, now that he stands before the fatal pale which divides man from

the eternal mystery. Is scientific philosophy indignant? Is Tchekhov

undermining its surest foundations? But he is an overstrained, abnormal

man. Certainly you are not bound to listen to him; but once you have

decided to do so then you must be prepared for anything. A normal

person, even though he be a metaphysician of the extremest ethereal

brand, always adjusts his theories to the requirements of the moment;

he destroys only to build up from the old material once more. This is

the reason why material never fails him. Obedient to the fundamental

law of human nature, long since noted and formulated by the wise, he

is content to confine himself to the modest part of a seeker after

forms. Out of iron, which he finds in nature ready to his hand, he

forges a sword or a plough, a lance or a sickle. The idea of creating

out of a void hardly even enters his mind. But Tchekhov's heroes,

persons abnormal _par excellence,_ are faced with this abnormal and

dreadful necessity. Before them always lies hopelessness, helplessness,

the utter impossibility of any action whatsoever. And yet they live

on, they do not die. A strange question, and one of extraordinary

moment, here suggests itself. I said that it was foreign to human

nature to create out of a void. Yet nature often deprives man of

ready material, while at the same time she demands imperatively that

he should create. Does this mean that nature contradicts herself,

or that she perverts her creatures? Is it not more correct to admit

that the conception of perversion is of purely human origin. Perhaps

nature is much more economical and wise than our wisdom, and maybe we

should discover much more if instead of dividing people into necessary

and superfluous, useful and noxious, good and bad, we suppressed

the tendency to subjective valuation in ourselves and endeavoured

with greater confidence to accept her creations? Otherwise you come

immediately--to 'the evil gleam,' 'treasure-digging,' sorcery and

black magic--and a wall is raised between men which neither logical

argument nor even a battery of artillery can break down. I hardly dare

hope that this consideration will appear convincing to those who are

used to maintaining the norm; and it is probably unnecessary that the

notion of the great opposition of good and bad which is alive among

men should die away, just as it is unnecessary that children should

be born with the experience of men, or that red cheeks and curly hair

should vanish from the earth. At any rate it is impossible. The world

has many centuries to its reckoning, many nations have lived and died

upon the earth, yet as far as we know from the books and traditions

that have survived to us, the dispute between good and evil was never

hushed. And it always so happened that good was not afraid of the light

of day, and good men lived a united, social life; while evil hid itself

in darkness, and the wicked always stood alone. Nor could it have been

otherwise.

All Tchekhov's heroes fear the light. They are lonely. They are ashamed

of their hopelessness, and they know that men cannot help them.

They go somewhere, perhaps even forward, but they call to no one to

follow. All things are taken from them: they must create everything

anew. Thence most probably is derived the unconcealed contempt with

which they behave to the most precious products of common human

creativeness. On whatever subject you begin to talk with a Tchekhov

hero he has one reply to everything: _Nobody can teach me anything._

You offer him a new conception of the world: already in your very

first words he feels that they all reduce to an attempt to lay the old

bricks and stones over again, and he turns from you with impatience,

and often with rudeness. Tchekhov is an extremely cautious writer.

He fears and takes into account public opinion. Yet how unconcealed

is the aversion he displays to accepted ideas and conceptions of the

world. In _The Tedious Story,_ he at any rate preserves the tone and

attitude of outward obedience. Later he throws aside all precautions,

and instead of reproaching himself for his inability to submit to the

general idea, openly rebels against it and jeers at it. In _Ivanov_ it

already is sufficiently expressed; there was reason for the outburst

of indignation which this play provoked in its day. Ivanov, I have

already said, is a dead man. The only thing the artist can do with

him is to bury him decently, that is, to praise his past, pity his

present, and then, in order to mitigate the cheerless impression

produced by death, to invite the general idea to the funeral. He might

recall the universal problems of humanity in any one of the many

stereotyped forms, and thus the difficult case which seemed insoluble

would be removed. Together with Ivanov's death he should portray a

bright young life, full of promise, and the impression of death and

destruction would lose all its sting and bitterness. Tchekhov does just

the opposite. Instead of endowing youth and ideals with power over

destruction and death, as all philosophical systems and many works of

art had done, he ostentatiously makes the good-for-nothing wreck Ivanov

the centre of all events. Side by side with Ivanov there are young

lives, and the idea is also given her representatives. But the young

Sasha, a wonderful and charming girl, who falls utterly in love with

the broken hero, not only does not save her lover, but herself perishes

under the burden of the impossible task. And the idea? It is enough

to recall the figure of Doctor Lvov alone, whom Tchekhov entrusted

with the responsible rôle of a representative of the all-powerful

idea, and you will at once perceive that he considers himself not as

subject and vassal, but as the bitterest enemy of the idea. The moment

Doctor Lvov opens his mouth, all the characters, as though acting on

a previous agreement, vie with each other in their haste to interrupt

him in the most insulting way, by jests, threats, and almost by smacks

in the face. But the doctor fulfils his duties as a representative

of the great power with no less skill and conscientiousness than his

predecessors--Starodoum[1] and the other reputable heroes of the old

drama. He champions the wronged, seeks to restore rights that have been

trodden underfoot, sets himself dead against injustice. Has he stepped

beyond the limits of his plenipotentiary powers? Of course not; but

where Ivanovs and hopelessness reign there is not and cannot be room

for the idea.

They cannot possibly live together. And the eyes of the reader, who

is accustomed to think that every kingdom may fall and perish, yet

the kingdom of the idea stands firm _in saecula saeculorum,_ behold

a spectacle unheard of: the idea dethroned by a helpless, broken,

good-for-nothing man! What is there that Ivanov does not say? In the

very first act he fires off a tremendous tirade, not at a chance

comer, but at the incarnate idea--Starodoum-Lvov. 'I have the right

to give you advice. Don't you marry a Jewess, or an abnormal, or a

blue-stocking. Choose something ordinary, greyish, without any bright

colours or superfluous shades. Make it a principle to build your

life of _clichés._ The more grey and monotonous the background, the

better. My dear man, don't fight thousands single-handed, don't tilt

at windmills, don't run your head against the wall. God save you from

all kinds of Back-to-the-Landers' advanced doctrines, passionate

speeches.... Shut yourself tight in your own shell, and do the tiny

little work set you by God.... It's cosier, honester, and healthier.'

Doctor Lvov, the representative of the all-powerful, sovereign idea,

feels that his sovereign's majesty is injured, that to suffer such

an offence really means to abdicate the throne. Surely Ivanov was a

vassal, and so he must remain. How dare he let his tongue advise, how

dare he raise his voice when it is his part to listen reverently, and

to obey in silent resignation? This is rank rebellion! Lvov attempts to

draw himself up to his full height and answer the arrogant rebel with

dignity. Nothing comes of it. In a weak, trembling voice he mutters the

accustomed words, which but lately had invincible power. But they do

not produce their customary effect. Their virtue is departed. Whither?

Lvov dares not own it even to himself. But it is no longer a secret

to any one. Whatever mean and ugly things Ivanov may have done--Tchekhov

is not close-fisted in this matter: in his hero's conduct-book

are written all manner of offences; almost to the deliberate murder

of a woman devoted to him--it is to him and not to Lvov that public

opinion bows. Ivanov is the spirit of destruction, rude, violent,

pitiless, sticking at nothing: yet the word 'scoundrel,' which the

doctor tears out of himself with a painful effort and hurls at him,

does not stick to him. He is somehow right, with his own peculiar

right, to others inconceivable, yet still, if we may believe Tchekhov,

incontestable. Sasha, a creature of youth and insight and talent,

passes by the honest Starodoum-Lvov unheeding, on her way to render

worship to him. The whole play is based on that. It is true, Ivanov in

the end shoots himself, and that may, if you like, give you a formal

ground for believing that the final victory remained with Lvov. And

Tchekhov did well to end the drama in this way--it could not be spun

out to infinity. It would have been no easy matter to tell the whole of

Ivanov's history. Tchekhov went on writing for fifteen years after, all

the time telling the unfinished story, yet even then he had to break it

off without reaching the end....

It would show small understanding of Tchekhov to take it into one's

head to interpret Ivanov's words to Lvov as meaning that Tchekhov,

like the Tolstoi of the _War and Peace_ period, saw his ideal in the

everyday arrangement of life. Tchekhov was only fighting against

the idea, and he said to it the most abusive thing that entered his

head. For what can be more insulting to the idea than to be forced

to listen to the praise of everyday life? But when the opportunity

came his way, Tchekhov could describe everyday life with equal venom.

The story, _The Teacher of Literature,_ may serve as an example. The

teacher lives entirely by Ivanov's prescription. He has his job, and

his wife--neither Jewess nor abnormal, nor blue-stocking--and a home

that fits like a shell...; but all this does not prevent Tchekhov

from driving the poor teacher by slow degrees into the usual trap, and

bringing him to a condition wherein it is left to him only 'to fall

down and weep, and beat his head against the floor.' Tchekhov had no

'ideal,' not even the ideal of 'everyday life' which Tolstoi glorified

with such inimitable and incomparable mastery in his early works. An

ideal presupposes submission, the voluntary denial of one's own right

to independence, freedom and power; and demands of this kind, even a

hint of such demands, roused in Tchekhov all that force of disgust and

repulsion of which he alone was capable.

[Footnote 1: A hero from Fon-Vizin's play _The Minor._ Starodoum is a

_raisonneur,_ a 'positive' type, always uttering truisms.]

V

Thus the real, the only hero of Tchekhov, is the hopeless man. He

has absolutely no _action_ left for him in life, save to beat his

head against the stones. It is not surprising that such a man should

be intolerable to his neighbours. Everywhere he brings death and

destruction with him. He himself is aware of it, but he has not the

power to go apart from men. With all his soul he endeavours to tear

himself out of his horrible condition. Above all he is attracted to

fresh, young, untouched beings; with their help he hopes to recover his

right to life which he has lost. The hope is vain. The beginning of

decay always appears, all-conquering, and at the end Tchekhov's hero

is left to himself alone. He has nothing, he must create everything

for himself. And this 'creation out of the void,' or more truly the

possibility of this creation, is the only problem which can occupy and

inspire Tchekhov. When he has stripped his hero of the last shred, when

nothing is left for him but to beat his head against the wall, Tchekhov

begins to feel something like satisfaction, a strange fire lights in

his burnt-out eyes, a fire which Mihailovsky did not call 'evil' in

vain.

Creation out of the void! Is not this task beyond the limit of human

powers, of human _rights_? Mihailovsky obviously had one straight

answer to the question.... As for Tchekhov himself, if the question

were put to him in such a deliberately definite form, he would probably

be unable to answer, although he was continually engaged in the

activity, or more properly, because he was continually so engaged.

Without fear of mistake, one may say that the people who answer the

question without hesitation in either sense have never come near to

it, or to any of the so-called ultimate questions of life. Hesitation

is a necessary and integral element in the judgment of those men

whom Fate has brought near to false problems. How Tchekhov's hand

trembled while he wrote the concluding lines of his _Tedious Story_!

The professor's pupil--the being nearest and dearest to him, but like

himself, for all her youth, overstrained and bereft of all hope--has

come to Kharkov to seek his advice. The following conversation takes

place:

"Nicolai Stepanich!" she says, growing pale and pressing her hands to

her breast. "Nicolai Stepanich! I can't go on like this any longer. For

God's sake tell me now, immediately. What shall I do? Tell me, what

shall I do?"

"What can I say? I am beaten. I can say nothing."

"But tell me, I implore you," she continues, out of breath and

trembling all over her body. "I swear to you, I can't go on like this

any longer. I haven't the strength."

She drops into a chair and begins to sob. She throws her head back,

wrings her hands, stamps with her feet; her hat falls from her head and

dangles by its string, her hair is loosened.

"Help me, help," she implores. "I can't bear it any more."

"There's nothing that I can say to you, Katy," I say.

"Help me," she sobs, seizing my hand and kissing it. "You 're my

father, my only friend. You're wise and learned, and you've lived long

I You were a teacher. Tell me what to do."

'"Upon my conscience, Katy, I do not know."

'I am bewildered and surprised, stirred by her sobbing, and I can

hardly stand upright.

'"Let's have some breakfast, Katy," I say with a constrained smile.

'Instantly I add in a sinking voice: "I shall be dead soon, Katy...."

'"Only one word, only one word," she weeps and stretches out her hands

to me. "What shall I do?..."'

But the professor has not the word to give. He turns the conversation

to the weather, Kharkov and other indifferent matters. Katy gets up and

holds out her hand to him, without looking at him. 'I want to ask her,'

he concludes his story. '"So it means you won't be at my funeral?" But

she does not look at me; her hand is cold and like a stranger's ... I

escort her to the door in silence.... She goes out of my room and walks

down the long passage, without looking back. She knows that my eyes are

following her, and probably on the landing she will look back. No, she

did not look back. The black dress showed for the last time, her steps

were stilled.... Good-bye, my treasure!...'

The only answer which the wise, educated, long-lived Nicolai

Stepanovich, a teacher all his life, can give to Katy's question is,

'I don't know.' There is not, in all his great experience of the

past, a single method, rule, or suggestion, which might apply, even in

the smallest degree, to the wild incongruity of the new conditions of

Katy's life and his own. Katy can live thus no longer; neither can he

himself continue to endure his disgusting and shameful helplessness.

They both, old and young, with their whole hearts desire to support

each other; they can between them find no way. To her question: 'What

shall I do?' he replied: 'I shall soon be dead.' To his 'I shall

soon be dead' she answers with wild sobbing, wringing her hands, and

absurdly repeating the same words over and over again. It would have

been better to have asked no question, not to have begun that frank

conversation of souls. But they do not yet understand that. In their

old life talk would bring them relief and frank confession, intimacy.

But now, after such a meeting they can suffer each other no longer.

Katy leaves the old professor, her foster-father, her true father and

friend, in the knowledge that he has become a stranger to her. She

did not even turn round towards him as she went away. Both felt that

nothing remained save to beat their heads against the wall. Therein

each acts at his own peril, and there can be no dreaming of a consoling

union of souls.