Антон Чехов
Swan Song
The young doctor-writer is described at this time as modest and grave, with flashes of brilliant gaiety. A son of the people, there was in his face an expression that recalled the simple-hearted village lad; his eyes were blue, his glance full of intelligence and kindness, and his manners unaffected and simple. He was an untiring worker, and between his patients and his desk he led a life of ceaseless activity. His restless mind was dominated by a passion of energy and he thought continually and vividly. Often, while jesting and talking, he would seem suddenly to plunge into himself, and his look would grow fixed and deep, as if he were contemplating something important and strange. Then he would ask some unexpected question, which showed how far his mind had roamed.
Success was now rapidly overtaking the young author; his first collection of stories appeared in 1887, another one in the same year had immediate success, and both went through many editions; but, at the same time, the shadows that darkened his later works began to creep over his light-hearted humour.
His impressionable mind began to take on the grey tinge of his time, but much of his sadness may also be attributed to his ever-increasing ill health.
Weary and with an obstinate cough, he went south in 1888, took a little cottage on the banks of a little river “abounding in fish and crabs,” and surrendered himself to his touching love for nature, happy in his passion for fishing, in the quiet of the country, and in the music and gaiety of the peasants. “One would gladly sell one’s soul,” he writes, “for the pleasure of seeing the warm evening sky, and the streams and pools reflecting the darkly mournful sunset.” He described visits to his country neighbours and long drives in gay company, during which, he says, “we ate every half hour, and laughed to the verge of colic.”
His health, however, did not improve. In 1889 he began to have attacks of heart trouble, and the sensitive artist’s nature appears in a remark which he made after one of them. “I walked quickly across the terrace on which the guests were assembled,” he said, “with one idea in my mind, how awkward it would be to fall down and die in the presence of strangers.”
It was during this transition period of his life, when his youthful spirits were failing him, that the stage, for which he had always felt a fascination, tempted him to write “Ivanoff,” and also a dramatic sketch in one act entitled “The Swan Song,” though he often declared that he had no ambition to become a dramatist. “The Novel,” he wrote, “is a lawful wife, but the Stage is a noisy, flashy, and insolent mistress.” He has put his opinion of the stage of his day in the mouth of Treplieff, in “The Sea-Gull,” and he often refers to it in his letters as “an evil disease of the towns” and “the gallows on which dramatists are hanged.”
He wrote “Ivanoff” at white-heat in two and a half weeks, as a protest against a play he had seen at one of the Moscow theatres. Ivanoff (from Ivan, the commonest of Russian names) was by no means meant to be a hero, but a most ordinary, weak man oppressed by the “immortal commonplaces of life,” with his heart and soul aching in the grip of circumstance, one of the many “useless people” of Russia for whose sorrow Tchekoff felt such overwhelming pity. He saw nothing in their lives that could not be explained and pardoned, and he returns to his ill-fated, “useless people” again and again, not to preach any doctrine of pessimism, but simply because he thought that the world was the better for a certain fragile beauty of their natures and their touching faith in the ultimate salvation of humanity.
Both the writing and staging of “Ivanoff” gave Tchekoff great difficulty. The characters all being of almost equal importance, he found it hard to get enough good actors to take the parts, but it finally appeared in Moscow in 1889, a decided failure! The author had touched sharply several sensitive spots of Russian life – for instance, in his warning not to marry a Jewess or a blue-stocking – and the play was also marred by faults of inexperience, which, however, he later corrected. The critics were divided in condemning a certain novelty in it and in praising its freshness and originality. The character of Ivanoff was not understood, and the weakness of the man blinded many to the lifelike portrait. Tchekoff himself was far from pleased with what he called his “literary abortion,” and rewrote it before it was produced again in St. Petersburg. Here it was received with the wildest applause, and the morning after its performance the papers burst into unanimous praise. The author was enthusiastically feted, but the burden of his growing fame was beginning to be very irksome to him, and he wrote wearily at this time that he longed to be in the country, fishing in the lake, or lying in the hay.
His next play to appear was a farce entitled “The Boor,” which he wrote in a single evening and which had a great success. This was followed by “The Demon,” a failure, rewritten ten years later as “Uncle Vanya.”
All Russia now combined in urging Tchekoff to write some important work, and this, too, was the writer’s dream; but his only long story is “The Steppe,” which is, after all, but a series of sketches, exquisitely drawn, and strung together on the slenderest connecting thread. Tchekoff’s delicate and elusive descriptive power did not lend itself to painting on a large canvas, and his strange little tragicomedies of Russian life, his “Tedious Tales,” as he called them, were always to remain his masterpieces.
