How often had Chekhov laughed at this Russian passion for jubilees and satirized it in his writings! Had he not refused to attend the jubilee for old Grigorovich? He knew they told lies at such affairs, and perhaps this was in his thoughts as he stood there listening, a faint smile occasionally appearing on his face, as though he were not really a part of all this fuss and bother. But if he joyfully scented the odor of triumph, he also scented the odor of death. The triumph, Stanislavsky prophetically remarked, with the pale, sickly Chekhov in mind, "smelled of a funeral. Our souls were heavy within us." Two days later, Chekhov wrote to his friend Batyushkov: ". . . They honored me so expansively, joyously, and so unexpectedly that I've not yet recovered from it."
At the same time, however, Chekhov informed Leontiev-Shcheglov that his play had been performed and that he was not in a good mood. The noisy jubilee had not distracted the audience from the inadequacies of the performance, as Stanislavsky had hoped. He himself admitted that the premiere had enjoyed only a mediocre success, and to his credit he accepted the blame. The reviews, on the whole, while in no sense damning either the play or the performance, criticized much of the acting, and interpreted The Cherry Orchard from the point of view of the emphasis which Stanislavsky had imparted to it —namely, the social tragedy of the passing of the old order symbolized by the sale of the cherry orchard.
Nearly all the characters, however, have pronounced comic aspects, and some of the situations designedly verge on the farcical. Though drawn with wonderful sympathy, Ranevskaya and her brother Gaev are not very serious people, nor is their predicament in any sense tragic. In the end, they quickly become reconciled to the loss of their estate and the cherry orchard. She is more intent on getting back to her shiftless lover in Paris, and Gaev is quite excited by his first real job in the bank — which he will certainly not hold for long. And the young couple, Anya and Trofimov, gaily welcome the loss of the cherry orchard, for it opens the door to a new life filled with exciting possibilities. "All Russia is our orchard," Trofimov had declared to Anya. "Our land is vast, and beautiful; there are many wonderful places in it." In these words of Trofimov, who also has his comic aspects, lies the real symbolism of the loss of the chcrry orchard — Chekhov's favorite theme of the destruction of beauty by those who are blind to it. Trofimov expresses another favorite theme of Chekhov, that of hard work as a solution for the ills of Russia. Even the merchant Lopakhin, whom Varya in a farcical scene cracks on the head with a stick, is a lover of beauty. But Lopakhin, whom Chekhov regarded as the central character, also destroys beauty if it gets in the way of his accumulation of wealth.
In short, Chekhov was concerned in The Cherry Orchard with the portrayal of a group of characters whose faults are ludicrous but who nevertheless gain the sympathy of the audience because of the magic of their creator's art. As always in the plays of his last period, and much more so in The Cherry Orchard, he combines the comic with the serious, for he had come to think of comedy as not only accusatory but also as life-affirming. He saw no contradiction between the development of serious themes through comic expression, situations, and action. Nor did he feel it necessary to indulge in polemics with his characters in exposing their faults. He saw no reason for disputing with people who are drones, eating and drinking too much, spending other people's money, deceiving themselves, pretending to sympathy for the misfortunes of the lowly while posing as idealists, liberals, lovers of beauty, and victims of fate. Chekhov regarded such people as truly comic; he felt that they should be allowed to ridicule themselves through their words and action while at the same time arousing the compassion of the audience because of their failure to see themselves as others see them. This is the situation of most of the characters in The Cherry Orchard.
It is little wonder then that Chekhov argued so vigorously with the Art Theater over its interpretation of his play. If it had not been for his illness, which no doubt reduced his capacity to struggle, he might well have withdrawn The Cherry Orchard. Months after the premiere, still annoyed by the Art Theater's rejection of his description of the work as a comedy, he wrote Olga on April 10: "Why is it that my play is persistently called a drama in posters and newspaper advertisements? Nemirovich-Danchenko and Stanislavsky sec in my play something absolutely different from what I have written, and I'm willing to stake my word on it that neither of them has once read my play through attentively. Forgive me, but I assure you it is so." Ironically enough, despite Chekhov's conviction of the Art Theater's misinterpretation of The Cherry Orchard, it became the most successful of all his plays and was retained in their repertoire for years.
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Shortly before the premiere of The Cherry Orchard, Chekhov had attended the Art Theater's New Year's party — which, according to Stanislavsky, had been arranged especially for his amusement. At the Punch and Judy show he refused to occupy the seat of honor reserved for him and merged with the crowd somewhere in the back rows. Among the more or less impromptu skits on the theater stage was an uproariously fake wrestling match, a sport that Chekhov liked to watch, between the huge Chaliapin, dressed as an Oriental, and the tiny, short-legged Sulerzhitsky, at the conclusion of which both sang Ukrainian songs. Then four actors, disguised as Vienna grisettes, sang a nonsensical quartette and danced a cascade jig. At the conclusion of the show, a supper of every imaginable delicacy was served in the foyer, accompanied by much laughter, drinking, merry toasts, and the reading of telegrams. After the meal, chairs and tables were pushed back and the dancing began. Soon the foyer with its bright decorations was transformed into a varicolored carousel of whirling ribbon, lace, stylish coiffures, flying tails of dresscoats and military epaulets. But in a far corner at a table by a window sat Chekhov and Gorky, trying to maintain a conversation above the hubbub, each periodically falling into coughing spells. "It could be said of you and me," remarked Chekhov, "that two authors have spent a fine evening together having an interesting cough with one another."
Bunin was a welcome visitor on those evenings when Olga was acting and Chekhov felt too weary to go to the theater. This cheerful companion would stay until she returned. Bunin recalls one evening when Olga, with a night off, elected to go to a charity concert with Nemirovich-Danchenko. Her escort, handsome in his tails and smelling of cigar smoke and eau de cologne, arrived, and Olga, young, fresh, and especially lovely in her evening dress, said to her husband: "Don't be bored without me, darling, but I know you're always happy with Bukishonchik. А и revoir, sweet" — and departed. Bunin was delighted to be allowed to remain and chat with his friend. Chekhov washed his head while he reminisced about his past, his family, or discussed mutual literary acquaintances. Bunin also remembered on this occasion that Chekhov dreamed out loud, as he had done several times recently, of wanting to go off as a wanderer to holy places and then settle down in some monastery near a forest and lake where he could sit on a bench outside the gates on the long summer evenings. When Bunin informed him that he and the playwright Naidenov were planning soon to leave for Nice, Chekhov at once offered to put him in touch with his friends there. Earnestly he gave Bunin advice about his health, and urged him to take a more professional attitude toward literature, give up dilettantism, and do some writing every day. At about four in the morning Olga returned, reeking of wine. "What, you are not yet asleep darling? That's bad. And you are still here, Bukishonchik, but of course he's not bored with you!" Bunin arose and quickly left.