Another important factor that led earlier generations of scholars to deprecate Chekhov’s early work was his own selection of stories for the ten-volume Sobranie Sochinenii (Collected Works, 1899-1902). It was felt that the pieces Chekhov chose not to include were in his eyes not up to par. And until quite recently the general scholarly trend of thought has been to agree with him. Stories told in minimalist telegrams? Absurdist vignettes opening with “I was chased by 30 dogs, 7 of which were white”? How could one compare these wild pieces with the multilayered style of The Cherry Orchard or “The Lady with the Lap Dog,” a style that has served as a model for many writers of the twentieth century?
Scholars today are taking a broader view in assessing the scope of Chekhov’s early work. Pieces such as “Questions Posed by a Mad Mathematician,” until recently dismissed as “scurrilous sketches” and “impenetrably vacuous balderdash,” are now viewed as important experimental works. Thomas Venclova, for instance, discusses Chekhov’s early prose as a major precursor of the Russian absurdist writers of the late 1920s and Eugène Ionesco.
My work on this book began two years ago in the Slavic and Baltic Division of the New York Public Library. I was looking through a heavy bound volume of Budilnik issues from 1880. The magazines had a very progressive, almost late Edwardian look, much like early issues of the British magazine Punch. The drawings were colored, which surprised me, and after the middle of 1880 the lettering on the tide pages was flushed with gold. Just as I was wondering how a fin-de-siècle printer could have managed that, I noticed a short story signed “A. Chekhov”—Alexander Chekhov, Anton’s older brother. In the next few issues there were more “A. Chekhov” signatures, and quite a few “Arteopod,” an alias Alexander often used.
And then came the first stories by Antosha Chekhonte—Anton Chekhov.
To my surprise, the New York Public Library has all the Moscow and St. Petersburg magazines in which Chekhov was first published: Budilnik, Strekoza (Dragonfly), Oskolki. As I began reading Chekhov’s early stories in context, a very different image of him jumped off the page. The initial picture in my mind of the sedate literary elder with monocle and cane (the picture of Chekhov on most book covers) disappeared, and a younger, livelier, more energetic image of the writer took its place. I soon found that the New York Public Library has one of the best collections of turn-of-the-century and earlier Russian material in the world. Some of its rare books are not even available in the Russian State Library. It houses almost 400,000 books, manuscripts, and periodicals, including volumes from the libraries of twenty-six members of the Romanov dynasty—some items dating back to the fourteenth century. Avrahm Yarmolinsky, a Chekhov scholar and translator, who served as chief of the Slavic and Baltic Division, had traveled to Russia during the 1920s and 1930s, buying up the libraries of the Romanovs and the former aristocracy. It was quite an experience working on this book surrounded by such Imperial Russian treasures.
The Undiscovered Chekhov brings to English-speaking readers a new body of Chekhov’s work that deserves a wider audience. I chose these stories as representative pieces out of the large body of Chekhov’s writing spanning the period from 1880 to 1887. His work from that time is largely unknown outside Russia. Without it, one cannot have a full picture of Chekhov as a writer.
I have arranged the stories chronologically in order to show the direction of Chekhov’s development. The second section, “This and That,” brings together some of the shorter humorous vignettes that Chekhov published in magazine columns tided “This and That,” “Something,” or “Thoughts and Aphorisms.”
In The Undiscovered Chekhov, one sees exuberance and energy, but also the technique of a young writer of genius. These are the stories that made Chekhov famous in his day.
* From “Versuch ueber Tschechow,” by Thomas Mann, written July 15, 1954. The essay ini' rially appeared in the German literary magazine SINN UND FORM, and was included in Thomas Mann’s GESAMMELTE WAKE (S. Fischer, 1960). Excerpt translated by Peter Constantine with the permission of Alfred A. Knopf Inc.
Acknowledgments
My warmest thanks to Anneta Greenlee for her scholarly input and for checking my translations. Her knowledge of nineteenth-century Russian literature and the nuances of the language of the time was invaluable. I would also like to thank the Chekhov specialist Julie de Sherbinin for her recommendations. Her advice on the fine points of Chekhov’s early work were especially helpful. I am grateful to Barbara Jones, senior editor of Harper’s Magazine, for her editorial advice on the stories that appeared in the magazine, to Linda Asher for her editorial advice on the story “On Mortality: A Carnival Tale,” which appeared in the New Yorker, and also to Bradford Morrow, who made many extremely helpful suggestions. Edward Kasinec, chief of the Slavic and Baltic Division of the New York Public Library, and Tatiana Gizdavcic, librarian, for their help in locating often-hard-to-find material.
I am very grateful to my agent, Jessica Wainwright, who enthusiastically encouraged me, and to my editor, Dan Simon, for his help and support.
My very special thanks to Burton Pike, who inspired me to begin this project, and encouraged, helped, and advised me throughout it.
SARAH
BERNHARDT
COMES
TO TOWN
TELEGRAM
Have been drinking to Sarah’s health all week! Enchanting! She actually dies standing up! Our actors can’t touch the Parisians! Sitting there, you feel you’re in Paradise! Regards to Mankya.
Petrov
TELEGRAM
Lieutenant Egorov. Come, you can have my ticket— I’m not going again. It’s just rubbish. Nothing special. A waste of money.
FROM DR. KLOPSON,M.D.,
TO DR. VERFLUCHTERSCHWEIN, M.D.
Dear friend. Last night I saw S.B. Her chest—paralytic and flat. Skeletal and muscular structure—unsatisfactory. Neck—so long and thin that both the venae jugulares and even the arteriae carotides are clearly visible. Her musculi sternocleido-mastoidei are barely noticeable. Sitting in second row orchestra I could detect clear signs of anemia. No cough. On stage she was all wrapped up, which led me to deduce that she must be feverish. My diagnosis: anemia and atrophia musculorum. What is quite amazing is that her lachrymal glands react to voluntary stimuli: Tears flowed from her eyes, and her nose showed signs of hyperemia whenever she was called upon to weep.
FROM NADIA N. TO KATYA H.
Dear Katya. Last night I went to the theater and saw Sera Burnyard. Oh Katya, how many diamonds that woman has! All night I cried at the thought that I’ll never ever own such a heap of diamonds. (I’ll tell you later all about her dress). Oh how I’d love to be Sera Burnyard! They were drinking real champagne on stage! But what was strange Katya I speak excellent French but I didn’t get a word they were saying. Their French was funny. I had to sit in the gallery! That monster of mine couldn’t get me a better ticket. The monster! Now
I regret I was so cold to S. on Monday, he could have got orchestra seats. S. will do anything for a kiss. Just to spite that monster, tomorrow I’ll have S. get both you and me a ticket.
Your N.
FROM A NEWSPAPER EDITOR TO A REPORTER
Ivan Mikhailovitch! This is an abomination! Every evening you traipse down to the theater with a press ticket, and I have yet to see a single line about the show! What are you waiting for? Right now Sarah Bernhardt is the hottest— and we need to cover her now. For God’s sake, get a move on!
Answer: I don’t quite know what to write. Should I praise her? Let’s see what everyone else writes—time’s on our side.
Yours, K.
P.S. I’ll be at the office today, get my pay ready. If you want the press tickets back, send someone over.
LETTER SENT BY MISS N. TO THE SAME REPORTER
You are a darling, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Thank you for the ticket! I have feasted my eyes on Sarah, and I absolutely insist that you praise her to the skies. Can you check with your office to see if my sister can also get a press
ticket? I’ll be most grateful to you.
Your N.
Answer: It can be done... but there will be a slight fee. The fee is minimal: permission to visit you on Saturday.
TO THE NEWSPAPER EDITOR FROM HIS WIFE
If you don’t send me a ticket for Sarah Bernhardt tonight, don’t bother coming home. It’s quite obvious your reporters are more important to you than your own wife. I want to go to the theater!
FROM THE NEWSPAPER EDITOR TO HIS WIFE
Please, dear! Be reasonable! As it is, this whole Sarah Bernhardt business is driving me to distraction!
FROM AN USHER’S NOTEBOOK
Let in four. Fourteen rubles.
Let in five. Fifteen r.
Let in three and one madame. Fifteen rubles.
Thank God I didn’t go to the theater and that I sold that ticket I had. I heard Sarah Bernhardt played in French. I wouldn’t have understood a word...
Major Kovalyov
Dear Mitya! I beg of you! Can you ask your wife, tactfully, to enthuse more quietly about Sarah Bernhardt’s dresses when she’s with us in the box? At the last performance she was whispering so loud that I couldn’t hear a word of what was being said on stage. Please ask her, but tactfully. I’d be most obliged.
Your U.
FROM THE SLAVOPHILE K. TO HIS SON
My dear son. I opened my eyes and saw omens of depravity all around! Thousands of Russian Orthodox Christians heralding a union with the people—thronging to the theater to lay their gold at the feet of that Jewess... Liberals, Conservatives...!
A NOTE
Darling! When it comes to Sarah Bernhardt, as the saying goes: you can dip a frog in honey but it doesn’t mean I’ll eat it.
Sobakevitch
ON
THE
TRAIN
THE POST TRAIN RACES full speed from the Happy- Trach-Tararach station to the Run-for-Your-Life station. The locomotive whistles, hisses, puffs, snorts; the cars shake, and their unoiled wheels howl like wolves and screech like owls! Darkness is over the skies, over the earth, and in the cars... “Something-will-happen, something-will-happen,” the wagons hammer, raiding with age. “Ohohohoho!” the locomotive joins in. Pocket-friskers and cold drafts sweep through the wagons. Terrible! I stick my head out the window and look aimlessly into the endless expanse. All the lights are green, but somewhere down the line I’m sure all hell will break loose. The signal disk and the station lights are not yet visible. Darkness, anguish, thoughts of death, memories of childhood, oh God!
“I have sinned!” I whisper, “I have sinned!”
I feel a hand slip into my back pocket. The pocket is empty, but still it’s horrifying. I turn round. A stranger is standing next to me. He is wearing a straw hat and a dark gray shirt.
“Can I help you?” I ask him, patting my hands over my pockets.
“No, I’m just looking out the window!” he answers, pulling back his hand and leaning against my back.
There is a powerful, ear-splitting whistle. The train slows and slows, and finally stops. I get out of the car and walk over to the station buffet for a drink to bolster my courage. The buffet is bustling with passengers and train workers.
“A vodka, sweet and easy!” the thickset chief conductor says, turning to a fat gentleman. The fat gentleman wants to say something but can’t: his year-old sandwich is stuck in his throat.
“Poli-i-i-ce! Poli-i-i-ce!” someone outside on the platform is shouting, as in primordial times before the Deluge hungry mastodons, ichthyosaurs, and plesiosaurs would have bellowed. I go to see what’s happening. A man with a cockade on his hat is standing outside one of the first-class cars, pointing to his feet. Someone had swiped the poor man’s shoes and socks while he was sleeping.
“What am I going to do?” he shouts. “I have to go all the way to Revel! Can you believe this?”
A policeman, standing in front of him, informs him, “It’s against the rules to shout here.” I climb back into my car, number 224. It’s exactly like it was: dark, the sound of snoring, tobacco, and soot in the air—the smell of Mother Russia. A red-haired inspector traveling to Kiev from Ryazan is snoring next to me... a few feet away from him a pretty girl is dozing... a peasant in a straw hat snorts, puffs, changes position, and doesn’t know where to put his long legs... in the corner someone is munching, and loudly smacking his lips. Under the benches people lie in deep sleep. The door creaks. Two wrinkly little old women come hobbling in with bundles on their backs...
“Here! Let’s sit here!” one of them says. “Ooh, it’s dark! Temptations from Below! Oops, I stepped on someone!... But where is Pakhom?”
“Pakhom? Oh, good gracious! Where has he got to now! Oh, good gracious!”
The little old woman bustles about, opens the window, and looks up and down the platform.
“Pa-a-a-khom!” she brays. “Where are you? Pakhom! We’re over here!”
“I have a pro-o-o-blem!” a voice calls from outside. “They won’t let me on!”
“They won’t let you on? Cowshit! No one can stop you, you have a real ticket!”
“They’ve stopped selling tickets! The ticket office is closed!”
Someone leads a horse up the platform. There is snorting, and hooves clatter.
“Get back!” the policeman shouts. “Get off immediately! Nothing but trouble!”
“Petrovna!” Pakhom moans.
Petrovna drops her bundle, takes hold of a large tin teapot, and quickly runs out of the car. The second bell rings. A little conductor with a black mustache comes in.
“You’re going to have to get a ticket,” he whispers to the old man sitting opposite me. “The controller just got on!” “Really! Oh... That’s bad!... What, the Prince himself?”
“The Prince? Ha, you could beat him with a stick, he’d never come to do an inspection himself.”
“So, who is it? The one with the beard?”
“Yes, him.”
“Well, if it’s him, that’s fine. He’s a good man!”
“It’s up to you.
“Are there many ride-hoppers today?”
“At least forty.”
“I say, good for them! Fast workers!”
My heart constricts. I’m a ride-hopper too. I always hop rides. On the railroads the ride-hoppers are those passengers who prefer to “inconvenience” conductors with money rather than pay the cashier at the station. Being a ride-hopper is great, dear reader. The unwritten rule is that ride-hoppers get a 75 percent discount. Furthermore, they don’t have to line up at ticket windows or take their ticket out of their pockets every few minutes, and the conductor is much more courteous to them... in a nutshell, it’s the best way to travel!
“What’s the point of paying whatever, whenever?” the old man mumbles. “Never! I always pay the conductor direcdy! The conductor needs money more than the railroad does!”
The third bell rings.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” the little old woman whines. “Where on earth is Petrovna? The third bell already! O trials and tribulations! We’ve lost her! We’ve lost her, poor dear! And her things are still here... what am I going to do with her things, with her bag! Heavens above, we’ve lost her!”
The little old woman thinks for a moment.
“If she can’t get on, she’ll need it!” she says, and throws Petrovna’s bag out the window.
The train sets off for Khaldeyevo, which according to my Frum tourist guide is no more than a common grave. The controller and the chief conductor enter, carrying candles.
“Ti-i-i-ckets!” the chief conductor shouts.
The controller turns to me and the old man: “Your tickets!”
We shrink back, stoop over, rummage through our pockets, and then stare at the chief conductor, who winks at us.
“Get their tickets!” the controller says to the conductor, and marches on. We are saved.
“Tickets! You! Show me your ticket!” The chief conductor nudges a sleeping young man. The young man wakes up a
nd pulls the yellow ticket out of his hat.
“Where’re you going?” the controller asks, twirling the ticket in his fingers. “This isn’t where were going!”
“You blockhead, this isn’t where we’re going!” the chief conductor chimes in. “You got on the wrong train, you idiot! You’re supposed to be heading for Zhivoderevo, and we’re heading for Khaldeyevo! Here’s your ticket back! You should keep your eyes open!”
The young man blinks, looks dully at the smiling crowd, and starts rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t cry!” people tell him. “You’d better ask them to help you! A big lout like you, probably even married with children, howling like that!”
“Ti-i-i-ckets!” the chief conductor shouts at a farmer with a top hat.
“What?”
“Your ticket! Get a move on!”
“A ticket? You need it?”
“Your ticket!”
“I see... No, definitely, why not if you need it!” The farmer with the top hat reaches into his vest, quickly pulls out a greasy piece of paper, and hands it over to the controller.
“What are you giving me here? This is your passport! I want to see your ticket!”
“This is all I have!” the former answers, visibly shaken.
“How can you travel when you don’t have a ticket?”
“But I’ve paid.”
“What d’you mean you paid? Whom did you pay?”
The Undiscovered Chekhov: Forty-Three New Stories Page 2