The levity with which Chekhov regarded Avilova's gift of the watch- chain pendant is suggested by an amusing letter he wrote, shortly after the performance of The Sea Gull, to Lika, who no doubt knew of the
gift and perhaps also of the double use he had made of it in the play. After asking her to postpone for two or three years the bliss she plans for them, he adds: "With this I send you a design for a medal which I wish to offer you. If you like it, then write and I'll order one. . . ." And on the face of the. medal which he drew, he placed the inscription: "Catalogue of the Plays of Members of the Society of Russian Dramatic Writers, 1890. Page 73, Line 1." When Lika checked the reference in the Catalogue, it turned out to be the title of the farce of a little- known writer: Ignasha the Fool, or Unexpected Lunacy — an obvious allusion to her affair with Ignati Potapenko.10
As a matter of fact, while Lidiya Avilova at the play was drawing her rapturous conclusions of the hallowed significance of her gift to Chekhov, she was unaware that he had already presented the watch- chain pendant to another woman — Vera Kommissarzhevskaya, the Nina who, on the stage, had given Trigorin a similar object, urging him to come and take her life if he wanted it! Perhaps it was a symbolic gesture on Chekhov's part, or just a thoughtless tribute to Kommissarz- hevskaya's acting which had so thrilled him at that miraculous rehearsal. He had met her in the wings of the Alexandrinsky Theater and told her in his deep harmonious voice that his Nina, a role which she ultimately made famous all over Russia, had eyes like hers. And he presented her Avilova's watch-chain pendant. She was more than impressed, almost ready for sacrifice. But as events turned out, she too, like Lidiya Avilova and Lika, was unable to comprehend that all Chekhov desired from the women he liked was that they be beautiful, charming, and gay and not demand too much in return for the little bit of their hearts that he claimed. When Vera Kommissarzhevskaya returned after that night of terrible failure, she threw herself in her mother's arms, weeping for The Sea Gull, for herself, and for Chekhov.
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Back at Melikhovo, after the disaster of The Sea Gull, Chekhov at first was extremely reluctant to talk with anyone about the play. He had been deeply hurt. This was no ordinary failure. He could not expunge from his mind the image of that audience with its derisive, roaring laughter ridiculing personal expressions of his faith in art and life. He frankly doubted the sincerity of admirers who sent him comfort-.
10 This letter, which appeared for the first time only in the recent Soviet edition of Chekhov's works, was unknown to Lidiya Avilova.
ing Ictteis. Rather unfairly, he placed the blame on the actors, complained that he had no say in their selection, which was untrue, and even misrepresented the number of rehearsals, claiming that they were fewer than were actually held. He was particularly offended by the practical-minded Suvorin, who called him "an old woman" and "a coward" for running away. It would have been cowardly of him, Chekhov replied, if he had remained behind, dashing from one editor to another, from one actor to another, begging their condesccnsion and nervously introducing useless changes. "I actcd just as reasonably and coolly as a man who has proposed, received a rejection, and has nothing left to do but to clear out. Yes, my vanity was wounded, but the thing was not a bolt from heaven; I expected failure and had prepared myself for it as I forewarned you in all sincerity." (October 22, 1896.)
The reviews, those which he saw, and those which were mentioned in letters to him, were devastating and increased his depression. The News dismissed the play as "entirely absurd" from every point of view — in ideas, as a piece of literature, and as a vehicle for the theater. In the Bourse News, Chekhov's fair-weather friend Yasinsky wrote that the general impression created by the performance was "confused and wild," and that the play was not "The Sea Gull but simply a wild fowl." The Petersburg Leaflet declared: "This play is badly conccivcd and unskill- fully put together, and its contents arc very improbable, or, it would be better to say, there are no contents. Every act reeks with despairing, dull, false, incomprehensible life and people. . . ."
Suvorin alone, in New Times, wrote a favorable review of The Sea Gull. Only a sinccrc dramatic talent, he said, could have written such an original play, one filled with the bitter truths of life, and he ascribed its failure to inadequate rehearsing, badly assigned roles, and poor staging. And a letter in defense of the play appeared in the Petersburg Gazette, signed by the initials of Lidiya Avilova.
The second and following performances of The Sea Gull in the Alexandrinsky Theater, which incorporated some production changes suggested by Suvorin, ought to have assuaged Chekhov's feelings, as well as brought home to him that the special character of the benefit audience on that first night had been the principal reason for the dcbaclc.11 Now the theater's customary audience paid close and curious attention to this new type of play and even the actors had begun to respond to its
11 After the fifth performance, The Sea Gull was dropped from the repertory- of the Alexandrinsky Theater.
peculiar values. Vera Kommissarzhevskaya wrote him after the second performance: "I've just returned from the theater. Anton Pavlovich, my dear, we've won! The success is complete, unanimous. . . . How I'd like to see you here now and still more to have you hear the shout of alclass="underline" 'Author!'" Potapenko, who saw the second and third performances, wired: colossal success, after every act curtain calls, after the
fourth —many and a demonstration. . . . the actors ask me to
convey their joy. Bilibin and Leikin wrote letters of praise. Fresh reviews by Potapenko and Leikin hailed The Sea Gull. Further, news of highly successful performances in Kiev, Taganrog, Astrakhan, and other provincial cities began to come in, and amateur groups requested permission to stage the play. Then Goltsev pleaded with him to be allowed to publish the play in Russian Thought.
All this was balm. He began to write more cheerfully in his letters, gave his permission to Goltsev,[6] and rescinded his order to Suvorin not to publish his volume of plays.13 However, perhaps nothing did more to sooth the profound artistic and moral hurt than a letter from A. F. Koni, the eminent lawyer, a man deep in the wisdom of life, a valued friend of great Russian authors, and himself a critic and writer of distinction. He thanked Chekhov for the pleasure he had derived from one of the later performances of The Sea Gull, "a work which stands out because of its design, the novelty of its ideas, and its thoughtful observations on lifelike situations. This is life itself on the stage, with its tragic alliances, eloquent abstractions, and silent sufferings — everyday life, accessible to all, and yet understood by almost no one in its cruel inner irony —life so accessible and close to us that at times you forget you are sitting in a theater and yourself are prepared to take part in the conversation you are hearing. And how wonderful is the conclusion! How faithful to reality that she, the Sea Gull, does not deprive herself of life...."