Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

Several things distinguish Chekhov from all the other writers of classical Russian literature. He had no trace of nobility in his veins (his grandfather had been a serf and his father was a storekeeper). His unique knowledge of human physiology and psychology resulted from scientific observation and not from aesthetic or mystical theory (he was a medical doctor). He completely transformed two distinct genres of literature, the short story and the drama—and he did so on an international plane, not merely within Russia. His character was untouched by the slightest tinge of anti-Semitism or contempt for the female sex. And finally (one might go on but there must be an end) his Russian style, the finest flower of the Russian nineteenth century, was so completely devoid of sentimentality and rhetoric, so delicately nuanced and modulated, that even a critic of Prince Mirsky’s normal acuteness could find it lacking in “raciness and nerve.”

Mirsky held other preposterous opinions about Chekhov as well. He wrote that his characters had no individuality, that his plays were invertebrate creations of pure atmosphere, and that his flat style made him the easiest of all Russian writers to translate. All this is the opposite of the truth. Some exoneration might be found in the fact that when Mirsky was writing his great history of Russian literature in England (and in English) in the 1920s, Chekhov was the darling of the literary world around him, eclipsing even Dostoevsky. Perhaps Mirsky felt that the adulation had gone too far and had to be checked.

Today, however, the many thousands of English-speakers who are able to approach Chekhov in his own language must read such opinions with astonishment, for there is hardly another Russian writer who offers such a variety of human types, settings, and situations; such a diapason of emotions from helpless laughter to genuine sadness; such a sane, healthy, and understanding relationship between author and characters; or a style of such exquisite balance and unpretentious beauty that even foreigners can glimpse its perfections.

Chekhov is probably best known in the West for four plays that made the fortunes of the Moscow Art Theater and revolutionized the drama—The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, The Three Sisters, and The Cherry Orchard. Russians, however, tend to think of him first as the author of short stories. He never wrote a novel, though such long works as “The Duel” or “My Life,” had they been written in French, would surely not be denied that title. His stories range from the hilarious slapstick pieces with which he supported himself and his relatives while studying medicine to the unsurpassed masterpieces written at the very end of his life. Chekhov’s renovations in the short story form have become so familiar from the practice of his multitudinous imitators that one does not readily perceive them in his own work. It is like the case of the student who, on reading Shakespeare for the first time, found him excessively full of quotations.

“The Bishop” was written in 1902 and is the last but one of Chekhov’s stories. It is a challenge to the good reader. The autobiographical elements are immediately apparent: Chekhov knew he was dying, and it is scarcely going too far to suppose that the reflections and emotions of the dying Bishop Pyotr mirror those of his creator. But by what dispensation may this brief account of a clergyman’s last days and hours be called a story? Utterly clear and simple, unmarked by any hint of the author’s emotions, it appears to be little more than a report, and glides into the understanding without a hitch and without the least surprise. One leaves a first reading with the conviction of having understood everything (except, perhaps, why it is so highly esteemed). A letter that Chekhov wrote to his editor in February 1902, when he was reading the proof, is suggestive: He said that if the censor cut so much as a single word, the story was not to be printed. With that authoritative direction in mind, one who rereads “The Bishop,” weighing the smallest details, will discover a story of unsuspected subtlety and significance.