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.
There are certain worldviews that the reader has likely picked up on this deep into Chekhov’s bibliography. Among the most prominent is his view of social class which he’s had a field day exploring in great detail. The irony has been both comedic and devastating, helping the audience to understand his larger views on Russian culture in the late 19th century. It’s a world so full of life and purpose that is being suppressed by higher powers. For the most part, he’s reflected on this from the perspective of the victim. They’re someone who will never know wealth and work every day until they die. It’s not a message new to “The Princess,” though Chekhov has rarely been this lacking for subtlety. He has a character who basically exists to run down a laundry list of talking points and, while I think it’s effective in its intent, this is not my favorite type of prose.
This reminds me of is “On the Road.” For what it lacks in direct similarities, it more than makes up for with how Chekhov seems fascinated to let one character talk on and on. For as much as I found the protagonist of “On the Road” to be insufferable, there are enough details scattered throughout to understand his flaws. Maybe he’s lonely because he’s too hypercritical of a life that has been examined but never lived. Comparing that to “The Princess,” the titular character is equally docile but because she lacks connection to her environment, or really any greater motivation, she is a blank slate for Chekhov to throw nonstop complaints onto.
To be fair, “The Princess” was probably a very cathartic story for him to write. After depicting so many people suffering in subtlety, he has given someone the chance to rage back. The character in question is Mikhail Ivanovitch: a personal doctor for The Princess who has the thankless task of tending to her every whim. If there is irony, it’s in this man who resents her existence having to keep her alive. The premise in itself is boilerplate Chekhov with a clever twist. Add in that the author was a known doctor, it makes sense to view Mikhail as his stand-in. While it’s nowhere near as comedic as “Typhus,” it still carries the anxieties of a man who has to risk his life for little gain. Who will tend to him when his health fails? In that regard, Chekhov’s obsession with mortality can never be overstated.
Another fun detail of this story is the setting. Despite other stories suggesting a societal hierarchy that puts the church’s influence close to wealth, the monastery is inherently ironic. The priests likely took a vow of poverty that causes them to live with minimal resources. Where other characters flaunt their money, a priest looks on with humbleness. Like Mikhail, there is a need to help others with little concern for reciprocation.
In that regard, it makes sense why The Princess’ ultimate goal is to move into the monastery. She isn’t seeing the dull hours of praying and not having servants tend to their needs. If anything, she sees something that royalty is keen to seeing. They’re the type who would hear about The Princess’ arrival and spend the days prior sprucing up the building. There is a need to appear flawless, and there’s no doubt that the monastery has their own codes regarding this. If one was to receive this welcome, there’s no doubt that the monastery would be attractive. The irony, again, is that nobody really likes her. It’s not even clear that her narcissistic tendencies allow her to have any helpful introspection. She’s merely existing, wandering aimlessly. The priests may not appear like busybodies, but their simplicity in some ways is far more meaningful than what she has done in the past month.
What follows amounts to Chekhov’s wake-up call. Gone is the implicit metaphor that he usually falls back on. This isn’t “The Cook’s Wedding” where the reader has to peruse the pages and find a greater meaning. Instead, it’s a moment that comes abruptly. The Princess doesn’t have a controversial catalyst that launches the great debate. If anything, Mikhail’s outburst has a presumptive prelude. This is a man who has put up with some unseen horrors that have driven him to risk refusal by his boss. Maybe it stops at unemployment, but I’m willing to bet The Princess could be emotional enough to imprison or execute. The fact that he’s okay with the fallout speaks to how much he’s annoyed at The Princess’ trivial desire to lead a “simple” life.
A reason this story doesn’t enthrall me is how direct everything is. Even if it establishes Chekhov’s mantra in a way that’s the most accessible it’s ever been, I do like to feel challenged when starting a work. His anger is so obvious. Every page speaks of a generalized experience that is likely to rouse the interest of the reader. It’s radical because of its explicitness. I can’t speak for how effectively it resonated with audiences, but I imagine it was better received than stories like “The Dependents” where the destitute have to murder animals because they couldn’t afford their safety. By comparison, it is optimistic even as it reflects on why the lower class are screwed.
The larger feelings may explain why The Princess is not all that complex. Her wants are simple. Maybe it’s a byproduct of Chekhov being himself distanced from royalty. However, I think putting in too many wrinkles makes for a sympathetic lens that might send the wrong message. This is about breaking down her emptiness. The irony is that even if she is the character with the most collateral, she seems spiritually absent of something greater.
I suppose another issue for me is that this rhetoric is no longer fresh. This was published in 1889 when I’m sure a rebellious treatise was less common. Nowadays it feels like the average English class has some protest literature from any catchall country. Thankfully, Chekhov’s enough of an intellectual to know that the real draw of “The Princess” is not her shallowness, but the emotionality that comes with it. For all of her attempts to suggest that she’d atone and live a simple life, Mikhail is there to suggest that she lacks the purity necessary. It’s doubtful that she could care for a stranger in the way that a priest would. The vow of poverty would absolutely crush her, especially with a codependence that is tied to self-satisfaction. While it’s not a terribly complex portrait of narcissism, the mental disorder also would make self-reflection difficult. She doesn’t notice her wrongs. She may have a bad day, but that is still high above the average person’s good one.
And yet, for everything that Mikhail has told her, she ends by suggesting, “How happy I am!” The change is minimal and lacks belief of long-term change. She is merely following her delusions and belief that she’s capable of connecting to monastery culture. At some point, it will all fall apart and she’ll move onto the next impulse.
As a commentary on the elite, it seems on the nose. It’s interesting to note that Chekhov’s level of success is tied to his personal skills. He is an intellect capable of deconstructing the issues of 19th century Russia. He has worked for everything he’s owned. He has traveled long distances to solve other people’s problems. Meanwhile, The Princess was born into her wealth. She lacks conflict. Had the perspective been allowed to be more intricate, there’s a good chance that Chekhov would’ve been able to study the tragedy of a life unexamined. However, he clearly carries the grievances of his culture and needed “The Princess” to be as scathing as possible. Whereas he’ll allow cab drivers or innkeepers to have greater internal turmoil, here he needs to show how shallowness tears one from direct empathy to the point of narcissism. They will never know the struggles because they refuse to engage with the public in a way that leads to long-term change. Even if they did start, was there any conceivable way to reach a middle ground? The irony is that, according to Chekhov, the divisions are far too expansive to make a difference and that manmade hierarchies are probably for the worst.
As a concept, this story succeeds at conveying characters who have long existed under figures like The Princess. The ideas expressed in the monologues allow for consideration of reconstructing society into something more functional. The monastery is a funny place for it to happen, if just because they’re the most indebted to faith and trust, which the other two lack. They could fall back on simple lives, but the doctor serves a function to greater society. In that regard, he’s the superior character in the entire text. It may be a pompous message for Chekhov to address here, but it suggests that the answer is a lot more complicated than anyone can fully answer here. Is giving up possessions really parallel to happiness? It’s doubtful, but it seems more attractive than what’s going on here.
Coming Up Next: “Neighbours”
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