Listed high among the masters of short story is Russian writer Anton Chekhov. Even if you haven’t read his work, there’s a good chance that you’ve heard of his technique in Chekhov’s gun. Instead of living in mystery, I have decided to finally dig into the author’s work and understand just what makes him an essential voice in the written word. Is he more than a simple gimmick and, if so, what does he have to say about the larger world around him? Like everything I’ve covered in the Short Stop column, his is a series defined by searching bookstores to find whatever speaks to me. At long last, I hope to better understand a name I’ve known seemingly since before I was a writing major but never had context for. Is Chekhov as great as they say? Follow along as I try to see if the payoff is worth the set-up.
For an author whose style I have been praising, it’s strange to admit that I haven’t loved a lot of his stories. Even with all of the stories that I’d rate fine, “On the Road” would still come in near the bottom of the pile. Along with being the longest so far, it is the most meandering and unsatisfying narrative yet. His style may be evolving, but what he’s producing is a tale that feels painfully dated and difficult for me to read as it was likely intended. Reading other essays on this story, I found myself befuddled by how eager I was to get to just be done with it. Some read it as romantic, as this grand gesture of a lonesome soul wandering through winter. It’s true that this is the crux of the story but, to me, this is easily Chekhov’s most unlikable protagonist yet.
A lot of the framework feels reminiscent of “The Witch,” in which travelers enter a place to escape the cold for a few pages. Whereas “The Witch” emphasized domestic squabbling, “On the Road” is about a love that to me reads as irrational. I’m not totally sure if Chekhov would identify as a feminist, which has made aspects of his narratives hard to parse. Just because I saw “The Witch” as a commentary on the arrogance of the male ego, was that how Chekhov intended? Maybe the bloodied-up nose that concluded the story was supposed to emphasize her awfulness.
And yet, I want to believe that Chekhov is a subversive author. Every story that I’ve read has been layered with coded language. With all that said, I don’t exactly know what he wants me to think of Liharev. Is he supposed to be the great intellect who has seen the world and realized that knowledge is power but also makes someone feel lonelier? Is there supposed to be some level of being so self-aware that he’s also learned some harmful lessons like misogyny?
The truth is that Liharev is a character who has become a detestable type in the modern age. He’s the type to monologue for a half-dozen pages about his achievements without a care for his partner in the conversation. He boasts of all that he’s learned with the expectation that his listener, Ilovaisky, cares at all for what he has to say. I recognize that the role of women has changed significantly since 1886, but I have to believe that romance required a level of empathy that is just not there in “On the Road.” Then again, most couples in Chekhov’s work has some level of dysfunction. “The Cook’s Wedding” is about a cab driver marrying less for love than social status. With that said, Liharev feels like he’d be at home these days as a loner who complains about how everything is meaningless and while struggling to experience love. Given how his relationship to his daughter feels somewhat neglectable, I have to believe that intentions and reality aren’t in sync.
Shifting to the larger narrative, I will note that “On the Road” is a finely constructed work in spite of many detractors. Among the overlong monologues that detail a life of insight is a motif that becomes much more fascinating the longer that one thinks about it. Liharev’s life is defined by constantly jumping from topic to topic and trying to find some greater meaning in the world. He’s not one to settle for religious doctrine and instead seeks answers from science. He studies species and is in awe with how expansive the world is. When that doesn’t work out for him, he learns about something even more curious.
While looking at the snow, Liharev learns about the functional use of light. On the surface, light has long been the symbol of optimism and clarity. It is a moment where he sees the world in vivid detail while at the same time being unable to fully grasp it. Like the thousands of species that overwhelms his mind, there’s even more that lays beyond the whiteness. In a clever commentary on the ways that faith and science overlap, he mentions how every color is needed to create luminosity. It may not be seen, but it is there. This could symbolize his passion to see every individual color by continuing to explore, even becoming a nihilist who wants to dismantle the restrictive traditions of Russia. While it all comes across as an overactive mind taking in too many ideas at once, it does suggest the ways that he’s distracted himself from feeling the less classifiable emotion of love. Love is not something that can be defined by science. At some point, he needs to trust the light without questioning why it lights.
That is what makes the opening particularly interesting. Everyone sits in “the traveler’s room” with only candles to brighten everything. Many are asleep and the howling wind outside suggests that this is the only shelter for miles. The contrast with Liharev’s fascination with the color spectrum creates this parallel of light and dark. Black is the absence of color, suggestive of a void or emptiness. While Chekhov paints the scene with small flickers of light, it’s clear that a lot of clarity is absent. If there is any activity, it’s present in the other room. It gives a larger sense of isolation that also removes hints of joy and hope.
Another reason that it’s hard to fully understand Chekov’s read of Liharev is because there is a very direct confrontation. His daughter seems displeased with being in the traveler’s room. She even calls him “a wicked man” and that “God will punish you!” Something else to consider is that even if Liharev tries to compensate by suggesting that he’ll protect her, she doesn’t believe him. He is the family screw-up who leaves the farmwork to the women in his family. A lot of what he's done could be classified under personal failure that hasn’t bettered the family. There is an implicit selfishness that is assumed before Ilovaisky enters the frame and distracts the narrative with a very exhausting plea of endearment.
Ilovaisky is a fine enough character, though is mostly designed like a chess piece than a real person. On the surface, she makes sense as the perfect contrast to Liharev. She comes from a wealthy family who has a successful farming career. There is something aspirational to her that Liharev’s life is missing. Even as she declares that men are a mawkish bunch, Liharev insecurely spends the rest of the story trying to convince her that he is different. Because he has an education and traveled the world, he’s somehow better than the men who are comparatively ignorant.
Another detail that’s fun to contrast is Ilovaisky’s wardrobe. Upon entering the room, she removes a luxurious coat that has overwhelmed the shape of her body. With this small detail, Chekhov cleverly suggests a vulnerability of this woman who is now showing her true self. Even with the irony of being in partial darkness, there is this sense that everything discussed is about finding an emotional light. They are able to reveal their true selves in this amorphous landscape, free of the larger judgment of others. Even if I think the blowing wind outside can symbolize Liharev’s blowhard manners, I think Chekhov ultimately meant that this is the source of warmth and human contact in a desolate landscape.
On that level, I understand the intent of Chekhov’s prose. A man who tries to separate his life from faith ends up returning to it because of love. There is nothing logical about this meeting and could just be random chance. Does that mean they deserve each other, or is it all coincidence? Both have their own conflicting backstory that allows the reader to understand how they’d be less lonely together.
However, I still can’t get over how Liharev seems to be an arrogant man looking out for himself. One can read his daughter’s anger as generic childishness, but maybe it alludes to more neglectful behavior. Given that Liharev wants to escape with Ilovaisky, he doesn’t seem to be the most stable person in the world. He may be happy for a day or even a week, but there will come a point where it all crumbles again and he’ll just be onto the next thing. There is no permanence. Like the snow that surrounds them, it will eventually fade. For now it buries the warmth, suffocating any moment of vulnerability, like Liharev.
I personally am more bothered by how much the story emphasizes his achievements through monologue. The story rarely feels transactional. Despite having traces of romanticism baked in, I’m never convinced that it’s earned because Ilovaisky isn’t allowed any greater agency. She gets her say at the beginning, but then things slowly fade until the reader is more concerned with Liharev’s next gesture. What is he going to do when the leave? Frankly, I don’t care. He ends the story looking at the whiteness of snow in hopes of seeing the colors, and I think that’s fine. Despite not filling that void, having the story end with clarity allows for an upbeat conclusion.
There’s a lot of great ideas in “On the Road.” Liharev seems like he’s a decent person who has unfortunately struggled to find emotional connection with others. He is at best an intellect who has abandoned faith and, in the process, found himself isolated from society. Even the way his daughter treats him suggests there’s conflict beyond that. Some of his comments about women are also borderline misogynist as they reflect the hierarchy that he seeks to break. He has the gift of being able to question the world, but maybe not enough to empathize with those around him, specifically women. It may be the side effect of a story written in the late 19th century, but even if it might lean progressive, it feels very dated and lacking a satisfying arc.
Then again, maybe it’s just that Liharev’s monologues come across like white noise after a while. Despite the academia being in itself fascinating, I think “On the Road” is a very well constructed story about an individual that I don’t care to meet and, thus, don’t know why we need to care about his love life. He is too much about his personal accomplishments that everything else ceases to matter. His efforts to be love only push me further away. Maybe that was Chekhov’s point. Maybe the women’s lack of willingness to go along with his ramblings is in itself a subversive commentary. I’m not entirely sure. As banal as his detractors are on the page, there is a part of me that thinks his biggest crime is talking incessantly in a room where everyone just wants to sleep. I get that Ilovaisky won’t be around forever, but there had to be a better way to give his two cents.
Coming Up Next: “The Dependents”
Comments
Post a Comment