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.
Compared to what’s been covered so far, “Typhus” is a story that unlocks a greater understanding of Chekhov’s worldview. As someone with limited knowledge of his life, I’m interpreting motivations through the prose. They all share a sense of hierarchical class and reflect how mortality comes for us all. One can be forgiven for seeing certain redundancies. The organization within the collection means that we’re still in his third year of publication. On the one hand, it’s impressive to see how prolific (and successfully so!) he was in such a short window. The way he establishes his voice is top-notch. However, it also made me wonder if I’d ever get to the point where the style would be so familiar that it ceased to be interesting. Even with “The Kiss” marking a significant high point in his early career, I think it’s “Typhus” where everything starts to make more sense.
When doing research for this essay, I discovered that Chekhov was a traveling doctor. Even at 27, when his work began to make the rounds, he was often sent to people’s houses to check on their health. Along with facing the risk of catching any known disease to man, there was a source of urgency that made exploring mortality all the more important. In fact, career and health intersected in a traditionally Chekhovian form of irony when his publisher asked him to visit his wife and treat her for typhus. As one can predict, he had a miserable time despite coming away with the inspiration for one of his best dark comedies yet.
As a disease, typhus isn’t one needs to know a lot to appreciate Chekhov’s prose. Outside of the fact that patients risk fatal outcomes, one can read this and not be too distracted by formalities. Even as a doctor, Chekhov seems more interested in exploring the human component of his protagonist Klimov, who is on his way from St. Petersburg to Moscow to treat his patient. The journey starts well enough with him on a mail train. An amusing detail is that he’s in a smoking carriage. I’m unsure of its intentionality, but given that smoking as a hobby can lead to worsening health, it starts the story on a subtle form of irony that the reader may not pick up on until later reflection.
I love the misdirect that follows. Despite only being seven pages, Chekhov dedicates three pages to the train ride. It establishes a set-up through conversation with passengers who share a sense of being from someplace other than Russia. Klimov is seen sharing a pipe with a man described as being either Finnish or Swedish. For reasons I’m unsure, there’s a discussion about what races the duo deem to be a detestable lot. While I can accept it as a form of bonding between two men who have their own adventures to share, I’m unsure if there’s a more thematic point. I have to believe it’s a personal anecdote from Chekhov’s journeys that is designed to give the story character. Even if nothing is going on during this time, it makes one aware of the curmudgeon nature of Klimov. This could be because Chekhov paints him as the equivalent of mail that has to sacrifice the elements for the sake of someone else’s convenience.
Like previous stories, this reflects the terrible turmoil that lower-class Russians had to face. An extreme example could be found in “The Dependents,” when an elderly man must sacrifice his cherished animals solely because he’s too old to take care of them. With a doctor, his health is the only thing keeping the community together. If everyone falls sick, it’s his job to find a cure. As anyone familiar with airborne diseases, this isn’t a simple request. Ironically, by sacrificing his health, he may risk spreading the disease himself even as he seeks to absolve the public of it.
The train ride may seem weary, but there’s humor in the transition. Upon arriving in Moscow, Klimov determines that it’s a town full of sick and dying people. It’s not the most welcoming of notes to declare as one enters a crowd. If anything, it’s surprising that Klimov hasn’t become a germaphobe who sees every mile of town as a horror story. He’s so in tune with death that the respite of returning home doesn’t bring with it the necessary sigh of relief. Instead, it’s a side quest to think about something more trivial for five minutes. In a rare moment of wordplay, Chekhov introduces a child talking to his father by saying that a Polish man had run up a pole. It’s a clever enough joke for a story that’s going to end on one of Chekhov’s darkest, most paradoxical endings yet.
The ending starts by discussing Klimov’s goal of trying to cure a boy of typhus. It’s an endearing enough exchange that reflects the author’s gift for exploring the small humanity of his characters. While readers have been conditioned to expect the worst from Chekhov at this point, the boy’s optimism is a misleading sigh of relief. Nobody wants the boy to die. They want Klimov to be a hero who makes his larger sacrifice meaningful. In fact, I’d argue something positive needed to happen in “Typhus” to keep it from feeling cheap.
The good news is that Klimov does his job with a good attitude. Despite the dark context, there’s enough humor to keep it from feeling like a dry medical procedure. There is a sense that while Klimov dislikes certain people, he’s still caring about the health of others. The boy is given care and emerges from his stupor with better health. In a moment that also marks one of Chekhov’s funniest endings, he writes, “And joy gave way to the boredom of everyday life and the feeling of his irrevocable loss.” Klimov is thrilled to have saved one patient but, unfortunately, he lives with the burden that he made somebody else’s worse.
In a clever twist, Klimov’s interactions with the boy’s mother Katya resulted in her demise. It came so suddenly that everybody was caught off guard. The boy’s relief is short-lived given that he now must face the grief of losing someone near to him. There isn’t a lot of time in the text dedicated to understanding his recovery, but one can assume that he’s going to be messed up, unsure if any of his accomplishments for the rest of his life won’t be the downfall of another person’ misery. This is, of course, speculation, especially as Chekhov’s prose is more interested in Klimov’s journey.
The complicated array of emotions is brilliantly portrayed throughout the last page. There’s laughter and crying. There is no rational feeling to be had, for Klimov has experienced the highs and lows of his career within close proximity. One can imagine that Chekhov’s medical career shares a certain overlap. His ability to delve into the mundane is what makes this story more effective. Even the journey aboard the train may seem meandering, but it builds Klimov’s identity and reflects the level of boredom and reliance on others he has even when his job requires him to be selective as to who he talks to.
Chekhov obviously would live long past the publication of “Typhus.” However, I wonder what is proposed by Katya’s demise as far as Klimov’s future. Is his health doomed to sicken those around him? I can imagine an outcome where he’s accidentally made the Finnish man who starts the story into a goner. The irony is that, for as much as he looks at Moscow as a town of weak mortality, his outcome may be a lot more fatal. No matter what the “irrevocable loss” that Chekhov refers to is, there is a sense of melancholy that somebody’s life is made worse because of Klimov.
The great irony is that a doctor can save lives as much as worsen them. Given the autobiographical intentions, there is a nice sense of humor in watching another character bite the dust. Another reason that “Typhus” ranks highly among Chekhov’s short stories so far is that it’s one of the few that feels more opportune. Most of the prior entries had a sense of selfishness, where the lower class all face unfathomable outcomes outside their control. Klimov is one of the first who feels capable of breaking that cycle. When even the children of Chekhov’s worldview are doomed to some imprisoned form of thinking, it’s a relief to see Klimov presenting a nice alternative.
While I don’t understand everything Chekhov is discussing, there is enough recognition of humanity to make up for it. This may be the most that he has strayed from a conventional narrative and produced small interactions that are more designed to make people feel less alone in the world. It creates a sense of community that is beautiful and curious. While I’m unsure what the racism is about, I can understand the use of cultural humor to lighten the mood. A doctor’s job is very difficult and every small lilt helps. Thankfully, Chekhov had the insight to make it into a very entertaining read.
Coming Up Next: “The Pipe”
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