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.
Over the course of this column, I haven’t been quiet about my fear that Chekhov’s writing is a tad redundant. While it could merely be the order that it’s presented, many of the allegories seem to arrive at the same dull commentary on fate. No matter what one does with their lives, they are doomed to die in an oppressive system that tries to numb us since birth. This isn’t a terrible subject to explore in depth, but it has made me feel like Chekhov’s view of humanity is nihilistic, lacking a greater sense of optimism. The one time that he approached something approaching a conventional silver lining (“On the Road”), I felt like it was done at the delusion of a man who was desperate for attention but not company. Elsewhere like “The Cook’s Wedding,” he explores romance less as a human condition and more contractual, like everyone participates in order to establish their place in the larger hierarchy.
Then there is “The Kiss.” Having seen animals die and babies basically be drugged for questioning their environment, there is something disarming about seeing Chekhov reflect a tenderness that is more recognizable. Even in a body of work that relies on breathtaking abstract imagery and allegories, there is something about “The Kiss” that feels more in tune with a recognizable optimism. It may be contrasted with the reality that the protagonist is extremely unrequited, but there is a longing for a better world that has been absent so far. It’s to the author’s credit that he writes every page with a longing that makes the reader believe that the impossible could happen. Maybe he will know who bestowed the kiss upon him and it will change his life. Or, for those who understand Chekhov’s version of tragic irony, it’s likely to remain his lifelong ellipses that will haunt him for the rest of time.
Before going further, it feels important to note why “The Kiss” works despite planting the catalyst so early in the narrative. In conventional western texts, the kiss is a culmination. Two characters will go on this grand adventure and arrive at their goal that is symbolized with a close and intimate celebration. There is affirmation of deeper affection that makes life feel like it’s worth living. While the reader rarely is aware of what happens after they walk into the proverbial sunset, there is an agreement between author and reader that everything will end happily. They are freed from their prior woes, end of story.
This all makes Chekhov’s “The Kiss” quite an interesting kerfuffle. While I can’t be sure how much is meant to lampoon western literature, there is an ironic sense of commentary hidden within his decision to leave Ryabovitch high and dry. As a character, there isn’t anything exceptional. He is a military man who has been invited to a wealthy individual’s mansion. Like many Chekhov characters, he likes to wander the premises and explore the dark corridors away from the celebratory crowds. It’s here that the heart of the story starts to unfold.
In a moment of solitude, Ryabovitch is bestowed a kiss from a woman. The event feels appropriately abrupt and full of immediate emotions that find Chekhov toying with passionate language. There is so much desire in the air. Following the initial shock, the effort to make the moment last as Chekhov tries to describe something that is unrecognizable. Everything gets caught up in the moment to the point that there’s no surety that anything on the page can be trusted. It is at best seen through a hazy and lustful gaze that can never be described by logic. Given that Chekhov often seems clinical with how he describes human interactions, it makes sense that he’s unable to do this diligence.
Who is this woman? The world may never know. The one theory that can be accepted is that the kiss wasn’t for Ryabovitch. If not for him then for whom? With dozens of military men wandering the mansion, there’s an endless resource of characters to pull from, and yet none of them are described by Chekhov in a suggestive tone.
From there, it’s easy to get caught up in the conflicting emotions. The reason that “The Kiss” rates highly for me is because this is a Chekhov who feels lyrically curious and desires to paint a perspective of humanity that is familiar to his melancholic aspirations while also striving for a greater sense of purpose.
The two emotions play with Ryabovitch as he tries to go about his regular life. The first scenario is that the kiss was not for him. From here it plays as a mystery that Chekhov has no interest in solving. The reader can guess all they want, but this is the most spiritual story that he’s written. Ryabovitch is stuck questioning his own invalidation and whether he could ever have an intimate moment that felt sincere. Maybe he would grow to consider love as something shallow, lacking richer fulfillment than kissing strangers in the dark.
The read that is much more interesting is the existential threads that Chekhov ends up playing with. Because Ryabovitch is an unexceptional person, this act is akin to a glitch in the matrix. His place in the military makes him prone to follow orders and blend in with the larger order of Russia. He is an obedient servant who likely believes in a predeterminism that is regimented. He’ll wake up tomorrow and march in line. The company he keeps isn’t one of emotion, or at least one that won’t validate him unless he helps the greater good.
The kiss is a violation of the familiar. It is likely he has become numb to the routine that in itself suggests its own misery. A military man is forced to confront danger, believing that there’s good and bad in the world and the latter must be eradicated. Ryabovitch is used to death, meaning he’s isolated from any sense of living. There is no aspirations for the future because, sometime soon, he will be watching another man’s life end.
When the kiss happens, it not only ruins the trajectory of the night, but resets Ryabovitch’s mind. Nobody has done this to him and as a result creates a new sensation that’s not dissimilar from the infantile “Grisha.” He is overwhelmed and unsure of how to process these new emotions. Unlike the younger protagonist, he is forced to internalize everything and not share his insecurities with others. All he can do is wander. Suddenly his world is not about regiment.
Because of that kiss, he is now motivated to consider alternatives. Is there more to life than following orders? Can Ryabovitch experience a love that is less defined by a larger system? Despite the titular act happening so early in the lengthy text, Chekhov decides to have his protagonist wander through the next dozen or so pages stuck between reality and a dream. As a result, the prose is more opaque, alluding to deeper passions forming as Ryabovitch sees his environment for the first time as beautiful and full of potential. The colorful prose is some of Chekhov’s richest and most poetic. I think it also helps to capture a sense of rejuvenation that is not unlike falling in love, especially in a situation this ambiguous.
The parallel of his return to work makes everything more melancholy. Whereas the world felt familiar at the start of the story, it now feels alien. There is knowledge that love is missing and he’s forever stuck trying to capture that desire again. Nobody in his immediate proximity can provide that comfort, thus emphasizing the coldness of the world. All he wants is to relive the kiss and, knowing he can’t, makes him slowly die inside. Even if he did run into the same woman, what would it take to convince him that she was telling the truth? Maybe the novelty will have worn off entirely and create its own heap of problems. No matter what, the kiss in all its uncertainties is more thrilling than having a single answer.
Maybe the story works so well because it’s an unrequited love. There is this passion that can only be described when something remains unfulfilled. What started as being a man with a lacking career evolved into a recognition that he has self-worth. It’s beautiful to see Chekhov flirt with optimism and try to search for a reason to find joy in an oppressive situation. It comes in the most unexpected ways, and I think it results in an entertaining yet meditative tale of looking into an ambiguous zone and finding the humanity within. I can only hope more of his stories veer into this type of tragic irony than one that leaves the reader disappointed in the larger world. I’m not opposed to either tale, especially when they’re written this well, but I want to believe he has more on his mind than facing mortality alone and afraid that everything is too cruel to show love. Sometimes the little things make all the difference, and “The Kiss” reflects that perfectly.
Coming Up Next: “Typhus"
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