A Sourcebook on Naturalist Theatre

by Christopher Innes (ed)

  5.3.2 Anatoly Koni/Anton Chekhov, Letters

  Translated by Michael Heim

  7 November 1896

  My letter may surprise you, but even though I’m drowning in work, I cannot resist writing you about your Seagull, which I finally found time to see. I heard (from Savina) that the public’s attitude to the play upset you greatly. Let one member of the audience – uninitiated as I may be in the secrets of literature and dramatic art but acquainted with life as a result of my legal practice – tell you that he thanks you for the deep pleasure your play afforded him. The Seagull is a work whose conception, freshness of ideas and thoughtful observations of life situations raise it out of the ordinary. It is life itself on stage with all its tragic alliances, eloquent thoughtlessness and silent sufferings – the sort of everyday life that is accessible to everyone and understood in its cruel internal irony by almost no one, the sort of life that is so accessible and close to us that at times you forget you’re in a theater and you feel capable of participating in the conversation taking place in front of you. And how good the ending is! How true to life it is that not she, the seagull, commits suicide (which a run-of-the-mill playwright, out for his audience’s tears, would be sure to have done), but the young man who lives in an abstract future and “has no idea” of the why and wherefore of what goes on around him. I also very much like the device of cutting off the play abruptly, leaving the spectator to sketch in the dreary, listless, indefinite future for himself. That’s the way epic works end or rather turn out. I won’t speak of the production, in which Komissarzhevskaya is marvelous. But Sazonov and Pisarev, or so it seems to me, didn’t understand their roles and don’t play the characters you meant to portray.

  Perhaps you are shrugging your shoulders in amazement. Of what concern is my opinion to you, and why am I writing all this? Here is why. I love you for the moments of stirring emotion your works have given and continue to give me, and I want to send you a random word of sympathy from a distance, a word which as far as I know may be quite unnecessary.

  11 November 1896

  You can’t imagine how happy your letter made me. I saw only the first two acts of my play from out front. After that I went backstage, feeling all the while that The Seagull was failing. After the performance, that night and the following day, people kept assuring me that my characters were all idiots and that my play was dramatically unsound, ill-considered, incomprehensible, even nonsensical, and so on and so forth. You can see the situation I was in. It was a failure I couldn’t have imagined in my worst dreams. I was embarrassed and chagrined, and left Petersburg filled with all sorts of doubts. I thought that if I had written and staged a play so obviously abounding in monstrous shortcomings, then I had lost all sensitivity and that consequently my mechanism had run down once and for all. When I got home, I had word from Petersburg that the second and third performances had been successful. I received several letters, both signed and anonymous, that praised the play and berated the critics. Reading the letters gave me pleasure, but I was still embarrassed and chagrined, and it unwittingly came to me that if kind people found it necessary to console me, then I was certainly in a bad way. But your letter had a very decisive effect on me. I’ve known you for a long time, I respect you highly, and I believe you more than all the critics put together. You felt as much while you wrote your letter, which is why it is so beautiful and convincing. I am reassured now and can think about the play and the production without revulsion.

  Komissarzhevskaya is a marvelous actress. At one of the rehearsals many people wept as they watched her, and they said she is the best actress in all Russia today. Yet on opening night even she succumbed to the general mood of hostility to my Seagull and seemed to grow frightened and was barely audible. Our journalists are undeservedly cold to her and I feel sorry for her.

  Let me thank you for the letter from the bottom of my heart. Believe me, the feelings that prompted you to write it are more valuable to me than I can express in words, and I will never, never forget, no matter what may happen, the concern you call “unnecessary” at the end of the letter.

  *

  Although the majority of rehearsals in 1898 were conducted by Nemirovich-Danchenko, the co-producer of the new Moscow Art Theatre, every detail of the staging had been prepared by Stanislavsky in advance. Moves and blocking, gestures and tone of voice, together with sound effects were meticulously noted and illustrated by sketched stage plans on blank pages interleaved with the script. In particular Chekhov’s brief stage directions were expanded into complete pictures or extended sequences of action. Thus, the opening stage direction of the play reads:

  A section of the park on Sorin’s estate. A wide path leading upstage into the depths of the park, to the lake, is intersected by a stage, hurriedly thrown together for a domestic production, which totally obscures the lake. Bushes to the right and the left of the stage. Some chairs, a little table. The sun has just set. On the stage, behind the curtain, Yakov and the other workmen; a cough, a hammer blow; Masha and Medvedenko enter from the left, returning from a walk.

  Alongside this strictly practical description of the setting, Stanislavky evokes a drawn out mood through typical sounds and lighting effects:

  The play opens in darkness, an August evening. The dull glow of a lantern, distant, drunken singing, the distant barking of a dog, croaking frogs, a landrail calls, the infrequent peal of a distant church bell – this helps the audience feel the melancholy monotony of the characters’ lives. Harvest lightning, barely audible thunder far away. A ten second pause after curtain-up. After the pause, Yakov hammers in a nail (into the stage); having done so, he moves about there, touching the curtain and humming.

  (Translated by Elena Polyakova in Stanislavsky, 1982)

  The precision of Stanislavsky’s visualization of the action in performance is well indicated by the close of the scene between Nina and Konstantin in Act IV Where Chekhov’s stage directions state simply that Nina “ Embraces KONSTANTIN impulsively and runs out through the french window … During the next two minutes KONSTANTIN tears up all his manuscripts and throws them under the desk; then he unlocks the door on the right and goes out”, Stanislavsky creates an extremely detailed narrative sequence that focuses on highly emotional effects.

  Figure 5.1 The Seagull, Moscow Art Theatre: 1898 (directed by Stanislavsky). Nina’s performance in Act I

  Figure 5.2 The dining room of Act III

  Figure 5.3 The reversed view of Act IV: study with dining room beyond

  The whole of Nina’s speech is made to the accompaniment of the howling wind.

  Once again she leans against the jamb of the door and bursts out crying. A pause of ten seconds, during which can be heard the distant tolling of a church bell (as in Act I during the performance of Konstantias play – a rather stale stage effect!). She gives him a quick hug and runs off. One half of the door slams (a pane breaks, so powerfully did the wind slam it), then the other half of the french window shuts; the footsteps on the terrace die away. Noise of the wind, tolling of church-bell, knocking of night-watchman, a louder burst of laughter in the dining-room. For fifteen seconds Konstantin stands without moving, then he lets fall the glass from his hand (this, too, is a rather cheap stage effect!). Konstantin crosses slowly over to the writing desk. Stops. Goes to where his manuscript lies, picks it up, holds it for a moment in his hand, then tears it up. Sits down, picks something up and tries to read it, but tears it up after reading the first line. Falls into a reverie again, rubs his forehead disconsolately, looks around as though searching for something, gazes for a moment at the heap of manuscripts on his desk, then starts tearing them up with slow deliberation. Gathers up all the scraps of paper and crosses over to the stove with them (noise of opening the stage door). Throws the scraps of paper into the stove, leans against it with his hand, looking for some time at the flames devouring his works. Then he turns round, something occurs to him, he rubs his forehead, then crosses over to his desk quickly and opens a d
rawer. He takes out a bundle of letters and throws it into the fire. Walks away from the stove, ponders for a second, looks around the room once more – and walks out thoughtfully, unhurriedly.

  Sound of chairs being pushed back and of loud, merry conversation in the dining-room. The dining-room door begins to give. They knock at the door, shouting, ‘Konstantin!’ A pause. There is no reply.

  (Translated by Elena Polyakova in Stanislavsky, 1982)

  Stanislavsky later disowned this method of pre-set directing as ignoring “the inner emotions of the actor”, but it has the advantage of preserving a fairly accurate picture of how the play appeared on the Moscow Art Theatre stage. Sending his mise en scène for the fourth act to Moscow, Stanislavsky commented “I approached it at random, so do anything you like with the planning” – however the reply from Nemirovich-Danchenko indicates that Stanislavsky’s directions were precisely followed, although some of the more obtrusive naturalistic detail might have been omitted: “Your mise en scène turned out perfectly. Chekhov is in raptures about it … [but] there are places that could easily create an awkward impression … for example the ‘frogs croaking’ all the way through Treplev’s play … At times one should not distract the audience’s attention, divert them by prosaic details” (Letters, 11 and 12 September 1898). Excerpts of Stanislavsky’s production notes have been selected from Act III to illustrate the way ordinary activities established character relationships and exposed the subtext in the dialogue.

  VA. Simov, the Moscow Art Theatre set-designer, created scenery based on the mood of the play. His memoirs show that he focussed on “the contrast between the happy comfort of the first half of the play and the depressing emptiness, hollowness and discord in the lives of the people in the play in the last two acts” – so that in Act IV “[t]he room had to bear the stamp of impermanency. Outside it is cold, damp, windy; but there is no warmth in the room either. I began with the furniture, arranging it in every possible way so as to obtain the effect of mental disequilibrium” (Translated by David Magarshak in S.D. Balukhaty, The Seagull Produced by Stanislavsky, 1952). He also – as Stanislavsky points out – used the placing of a bench as a statement of naturalistic principles.

  However, according to Meyerhold (who acted Treplev), when Chekhov attended rehearsals he disapproved of all of the realistic sound effects:

  ‘Realistic!’ – repeated Chekhov with a laugh … ‘The stage is art. There’s a genre painting by Kramskoy in which the faces are portrayed superbly. What would happen if you cut the nose out of one of the paintings and substituted a real one? The nose would be “realistic” but the picture would be ruined.’

  … the stage demands a degree of artifice… You have no fourth wall. Besides the stage is art, the stage reflects the quintessence of life, and there is no need to introduce anything superfluous on to it.

  (Diary entry, 11 September 1898, translated by Ted Braun, Meyerhold on Theatre, 1960)

  However, Chekhov was unable to influence Stanislavsky’s interpretation at this late stage, and had no opportunity to see The Seagull in performance. The production had closed before Chekhov, who was ill and had seen only two early rehearsals, was able to get to Moscow. So a special performance was mounted for him on a different stage, the Nikitsky Theatre, in May 1899.

  The interpretation of the play recorded in Stanislavsky’s memoirs ignores Chekhov’s ironies – and a letter from Maria Chekhova commented: “The Seagull herself acted repulsively, sobbing fit to burst all the time and Trigorin (the literary man) walked about the stage and talked like a paralytic; he has ‘no will of his own’ and the actor interpreted that in a way that is sickening to behold” (cited in Elena Polyakova, Stanislavsky, 1982). As a result, the Moscow Art Theatre performance overstated the creative abilities of the young artists, intensifying the tragic aspect, while Stanislavsky himself was misled into portraying Trigorin as a dashingly successful literary figure.

  5.3.3 Konstantin Stanislavsky, production notes for The Seagull-Excerpts from Act III

  Translated by David Magarshak

  SORIN laughs.

  MISS ARKADINA:40 I have no money!41

  SORIN (Whistling):42 I see.43 Forgive me, my dear. Don’t be angry with me. I – I believe you … 44 You’re such a warmhearted generous woman.

  MISS ARKADINA (Ciying):45 I have no money!46

  SORIN: Of course if I had any money, I’d give him some myself, but I haven’t got anything – not a penny! (Laughs) My agent grabs all my pension47 and spends it on the estate. He rears cattle, keeps bees, and all my money just goes down the drain. The damned bees die, the damned cows die, and when I ask for a carriage, the horses are wanted for something else …

  MISS ARKADINA:48 Of course I have some money, but you must realise that I’m an actress. Why, my dresses alone are enough to ruin me.

  SORIN:49 You’re very kind, my dear. I – I respect you … Indeed, I do.50 Oh dear, I – I’m afraid – I – I’m not feeling well again – (Swaying) my head’s going round and round – (holding on to the table) afraid I – I’m going to – faint – and – so on.

  MISS ARKADINA (Frightened):51 Peter! My dear! (Trying to support him) Peter, darling! (Shouts) Help! Help!

  Enter KONSTANTIN with a dark bandage on his head, followed by MEDVYEDENKO

  MISS ARKADINA: He’s going to faint!52

  SORIN: Oh, it’s nothing – nothing. (Smiles and has a drink of water.) It’s passed off – and – so on.

  KONSTANTIN (to his mother):53 Don’t be alarmed, mother. It’s nothing serious. Uncle often has these attacks now. (To his uncle.) You ought to go and lie down for a bit, uncle.

  SORIN: Yes, for a bit …54 But I’m going to town all the same … I’ll lie down for a bit, and then I’ll go … I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it… (Walks to the door, leaning on his cane)55

  MEDVYEDENKO (taking his arm):56 Do you know the riddle, sir? In the morning on all fours, in the afternoon on two, in the evening on three …

  SORIN (laughs)’57 That’s right. And at night on his back. Thank you, I can manage myself now …

  MEDVYEDENKO: Good Lord, sir, this is no time to stand on ceremony, is it?

  SORIN and MEDVYEDENKO go out.

  MISS ARKADINA:58 Oh, he gave me such a fright!

  KONSTANTIN:59 It isn’t good for him to live in the country. He frets too much.60 I wish you’d feel munificent for once, mother, and lend him fifteen hundred or two thousand roubles. Then he could manage a whole year in town.

  MISS ARKADINA:61 I have no money. I’m an actress, not a banker.62

  A pause.

  KONSTANTIN: Please change the bandage for me, mother. You do it so beautifully.

  MISS ARKADINA (itakes some iodoform and a box with bandages from the medicine chest):63 The doctor is late today, isn’t he?

  KONSTANTIN: Yes. Promised to be here at ten, and now it’s twelve already.

  MISS ARKADINA:64 Sit down, dear.3 (Takes the bandage off his head) You look as if you were wearing a turban. Yesterday a stranger in the kitchen asked what nationality you were.65 Your wound has almost healed up. Just a little scar left. (Kisses his head) You won’t do anything so stupid again while I’m away, will you?

  KONSTANTIN: No, mother. I did it in a moment of black despair, when I lost control of myself. It won’t happen again. (Kisses her hand)66 You’ve got clever fingers, mother. I remember long ago when you were still acting on the Imperial stage – I was a little boy then – there was a fight in our yard, and a washerwoman who lived in our house was badly hurt. Remember? She was unconscious when they picked her up. You looked after her, gave her her medicine and bathed her children. Don’t you remember?

  MISS ARKADINA: I don’t. (Puts on a fresh bandage)

  KONSTANTIN: Two ballet dancers lived in our house at the time. They used to come and have coffee with you …

  MISS ARKADINA: Oh yes, I remember that.67

  Crossed out by Stanislavsky. (S.B.)

  Figure 5.4 Stanislavsky’s floor pl
an for Act III

  Figure 5.5 Stanislavsky’s floor plan for Act IV

  5.3.4 Konstantin Stanislavsky, performing The Seagull

  Translated by J. J. Robbins

  Simov understood my plans and purpose of stage direction and began to help me marvellously towards the creation of the mood. On the very fore-stage, right near the footlights, in direct opposition to all the accepted laws and customs of the theatre of that time, almost all the persons in the play sat on a long swinging bench characteristic of Russian country estates, with their backs to the public. This bench, placed in a line with some tree stumps that remained from a destroyed forest, bordered an alley set with century-old trees that stood at a measured distance from each other. In the spaces between their trunks, which seemed mysterious in the darkness of night, there showed something in the form of a proscenium that was closed from sight by a large white sheet. This was the open-air theatre of the unsuccessful and unacknowledged Treplev. The scenery and properties of this theatre are poor and modest. But listen to the essence of his art and you find that it is a complete grammar for the actor of today. Treplev speaks of real art in the midst of night, amidst the trees of a damp and ancient park, waiting for the rising of the moon. Meanwhile from the distance there comes the trivial racket of a fashionable and tasteless waltz that changes at times to an even more tasteless but melodious Gipsy song played by Treplev’s mother, a provincial actress. The tragedy is self-evident. Can the provincial mother understand the complex longings of her talented son? It is not at all amazing that he runs away from the house to the park so often.