10 A minor writer and critic who later became the first Commissar of Education in the Soviet government.
khov dismissed it as a dilettante performance, '"Written in a solemn classical style, because the author was unable to write simply, out of Russian life." And her other judgments he also disparaged: "Bunin's In Autumn has been executed by a stiff, constrained hand, and in any ease Kuprin's In the Circus is far superior. It is a free, nai've, talented piccc, and written by a man who undoubtedly knows what he is about. Well, God be with them! But why are we discussing literature?" (January 31,1902.)
Chekhov's concluding query well represents his attitude — there was little point in discussing literature with his wife. Besides, they had much more interesting matters which they really held in common. At times he would inform her of his reading — theological journals and periodicals in general; Turgenev, about whose works he now offered the surprising judgment: "One eighth or one tenth of what this author has written will survive, all the rest will be consigned to the archives in the course of the next twenty-five or thirty years." (February 13, 1902.) On the other hand, to his literary friends, such as Gorky, he would write incisivc comments on contemporary authors: "Reflection of Leonid Andreev is a pretentious thing, unintelligible and obviously unnecessary, but done with talent. There is no simplicity in Andreev and his talent reminds one of the singing of an artificial nightingale. Now Skitalcts11 may be a sparrow, but he is a real, living sparrow." (July 29, 1902.)
Olga's zeal in urging her husband to write was naturally encouraged by Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko. They eagerly hoped for another Chekhov play to inaugurate the 1902-1903 season in their new theater, a structure which had revolving stage, advanced lighting effects, commodious quarters for actors, and simple, tasteful decor — unique in Russia at that time. Chekhov had every intention of complying. For more than a year now he had had a comedy in mind, a fact which he had several times mentioned to Olga. No doubt this was a reference to the original design of The Cherry Orchard. In January, when Olga took him to task for hinting to Masha but not informing her that he was thinking of beginning to write this play, he replied: "You silly! I didn't write you about my future play, not because I have 110 faith in you, as you say, but because I have no faith yet in the play. It has hardly dawned in my brain, like the first glow of sunrise, and I don't
11 See Note 4 this chapter.
know myself what it is to be, what will come of it, and it changes every day." (January 20,1902.)
During the whole of that year Olga kept reminding him of the proposed play and he himself spoke of his intentions to the directors of the Art Theater and even told Stanislavsky of the plot. Finally, as though annoyed by his wife's nagging on the subject, he tried to silence her in March: "I'm not writing my play; and I don't want to write it, because there are so many playwrights nowadays and it is becoming a boring, commonplace pursuit." (March 16, 1902.) And he advised that the Art Theater ought to put on things like Gogol's The Inspector General and Tolstoy's Fruits of Enlightenment. Though illness and domestic upsets were certainly factors that prevented him from writing, he also required, now, lengthy contemplation of a prospective work, a process characteristic of his last literary period. And the writing itself, in contrast to his earlier practice, had now become a prolonged, fastidious effort.
On several occasions, at Lyubimovka and later at Yalta, Chekhov tried to begin The Cherry Orchard, but each time he broke off. Though Nemirovich-Danchenko had told Stanislavsky that Chekhov would finish the play by August 1, Chekhov, in a letter to Olga on August 29, flatly announced: "Nemirovich-Danchenko is asking for the play, but I'm not going to write it this year, though, by the way, its subject is splendid." An additional inhibiting factor was an almost irresistible desire to return to the light, humorous one-act vaudeville type of his early period, perhaps the expression of a psychological need to compensate for the inner gloom which a knowledge of his fatal illness must have induced. The original comic design of The Cherry Orchard may also be regarded in this light.
Chekhov did not write a one-act play at this time, but his failure was somewhat redeemed by the thorough revision which he accorded an early piece in this genre. On the Harmfulness of Tobacco, "a stage monologue in one act," had first appeared in 1886,12 and in several subsequent reprintings he altered it considerably. Although he initially ruled it out of the Marx edition, he now informed the publisher that he had completely rewritten the piece and wished to include it in the edition.13 The changes between the first and last version of this slight
It was published in the Petersburg Gazette, February 17, 1886.
In this final form it was published, in 1903, in Volume VII of the Marx edition.
sketch admirably illustrates the transformation that had taken place in Chekhov's approach to the revelation of character on the stage. In the first version Nyukhin's monologue before the club audience on the harmfulness of tobacco, which his tyrant of a wife compels him to deliver for the purpose of advertising the girls' school she runs, is designed solely to amuse the audience by external comic effects which derive from the oddities, vagaries, and rambling speech of this pathetic old man who is lecturing on a subject he knows nothing about. In the final version the emphasis has entirely changed. Most of the external comic effects have vanished. Here, Nyukhin's monologue amounts to a subtle psychological analysis of the inner man. He reveals himself, not as he appears in real life, which had been the emphasis in the first version, but as he really is — a man whose fine qualities have been distorted and wantonly destroyed over the years by an insensitive, selfish, and dominating wife.14
In informing Olga again in September that he could not get on with his play, Chekhov explained that he was drawn just then "to the most commonplace prose" — that is, the short story. In the course of 1902 a number of editors importuned him for tales, and he invariably promised to submit something, though nearly always conditioning his promises by the state of his health. And illness usually did interfere with his concentration on this favorite genre. His vital forces were failing. He now averaged about a tale a year, and the manuscripts reveal the care with which he wrote them. In 1902 he finished The Bishop15 — probably the reworking of an old draft; began The Betrothed; and he seems to have started two other stories which he never finished.18
It is not Chekhov the religious skeptic but Chekhov the superb literary artist who so beautifully and movingly evokes the faith of the old bishop in what is surely a concentrated masterpiece of the short- story form. In a series of exquisitely narrated impressions, subtly selected and arranged with the purpose of achieving a total final effect, Chekhov tells of the life and death of the bishop and at the same time creates
14 Vishnevsky relates that Chekhov, at Lyumbimovka in July 1902, told him of a plan he had for a play without a hero. During the first three acts the characters discuss the life of the hero and await his coming with great expectation. But in the last act they receive a telegram announcing the hero's death. However, Chekhov never wrote such a play.