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.
The further into the literary weeds that one gets, the more that they hears about how Chekhov was the master of the short story. An interesting thing about reading an anthology that starts near the beginning of his career is noticing a writer who is ambitious but lacks the tools to make the labyrinthian narratives that he would later be praised for. In the recent string of stories, the author has really found his niche in drawing details out. The irony is no longer one-note and, instead, presents a conflicting view of humanity that reflects his larger ideology more concretely. With “The Grasshopper,” Chekhov has created his most elaborate tale yet and, in doing so, finally feels connected to the lower class.
An easy way to deconstruct is to acknowledge that he was both a creative and a scientist. Along with penning stories that he sold to publications like Sever, he was a doctor who often did house calls. This may explain why he’s keen on exploring the great unifier: mortality. Everybody will die one day. His quest to find their humanity and ask why these material and spiritual symbols hold them back has given him a unique perspective. The search for a sense of self is what has kept him captivating.
I wouldn’t call “The Grasshopper” protagonist the most intriguing character he’s written. Olga is an artist who finds herself getting interwoven with affairs. At its core, this is a story about efforts to become a socialite, believing that talent would be enough to elevate one’s status. The story is an exhausting wind through years of minutiae as Olga struggles to experience the passion that she once had. The title references a character who exists to comment on how her affair is the byproduct of yet another affair. The grasshopper woman in question doesn’t matter except to suggest there are hidden details in everyone’s life. Chekhov likely incorporated this detail to suggest not that artists are shady, but that they tend to layer their identities with multiple meanings and symbols.
The most amusing detail can be found in Osip’s career as a surgeon and dissection demonstrator. He has his own duality as he splits time between two hospitals. One can be forgiven for finding him a boring man just because he never fully understands the more subjective aspects of humanity. Art gives life meaning. So does science. In fact, Olga and Osip are probably more similar than different because Osip’s career involves rigorous studying of his subject to make it work. It’s a respectable job, though likely one that fills him with deep anxiety that makes him more connected to others. Olga may perform more fraternizing, but Osip’s communication is quieter, encouraging a level of intimacy that requires directness. There’s no room for interpretation. Art is his irony because, as Chekhov’s work would suggest, the best is nothing but.
Compared to most stories, “The Grasshopper” opens with a directness that forgoes elaborate description. In its place is the simple fact that this is Olga’s wedding day. Her friends are there, and they’re gossiping about people they believe have some appeal. The suggestion becomes that Olga tends to know people on the cusp of celebrity, who are capable of elevating their status by knowing the right people. As shallow as the premise is, many of Chekhov’s protagonists have relied upon clout in place of personal fulfillment. While art should be self-expression, there’s clearly an underlying sense of capitalist draw that makes the work feel compromising. Olga’s only chance at happiness is to know the right people… which is why she married a surgeon.
Unlike prior stories, Chekhov has chosen to break this 25 page story into multiple chapters. The elaborate design allows him to emphasize different moments and give readers a strong sense of what it is that Olga wants out of life.
Again, the irony strikes as the wedding gives way to the introduction of an unrelated character. Dymov could be considered a more compatible mate for an artist. He is supportive and wants to help Olga with her craft. There is communal passion that makes their chemistry – even with a nine-year age gap – feel plausible. While this would suggest that she’s much too naïve to be with him, everything looks to be a perfect love story. Provided the reader has no experience with Chekhov’s tendency for gloom, the first few sections may read as typical romanticism with the occasional lover’s spat. They travel along the Volga in a passage that features some of Chekhov’s most radiant detailing (“And it seemed as though nature had removed now from the Volga the sumptuous green covers from the banks, the brilliant reflections of the sunbeams, the transparent blue distance, and all its smart gala array, and had packed it away in boxes till the coming spring, and the crows were flying above the Volga and crying tauntingly ‘Bare, bare!’”). The clever way that Chekhov has used nature to personify tone and character interiority has long been his most attractive feature, but here it’s given a beautiful subtext of a relationship about to reach a turning point. With nothing more than a description of the weather, he conveys the ways that Olga and Dymov’s sunny dispositions may be starting to fade. Add in that crows tend to symbolize death, i.e., murder, it can’t help but play into artistic license. The fact that the phrase “Kill me!” is a motif in this section only adds to this reading.
The question is ultimately why Olga would want to stay with Dymov. The easier answer is that Chekhov paints Russia as a land of physical value. The more that one ages, like in “The Dependents,” the more they become useless. Even if Olga is presumably still under 30 and has youth and vibrancy, the idea of risking old maid status would hurt her career. Nobody likes an independent woman, let alone one without a reliable influx of money. Olga is an artist, which in itself is not a profession that has consistent work. There is a need to constantly practice and bend to others’ will to receive pay. Dymov may have better luck because he is a man with an established career. While the relationship started as one of love, it now feels like an act of desperation.
Dymov isn’t by any means the most tolerable character to get along with. Despite his talent, he grows egotistical and forms an existential crisis as his health fails. He has headaches and has lost the passion that he once had. Any effort to be the celebrity that his peers want starts to fade. It is here that the grasshopper appears. Upon believing that Olga is busy, Dymov has an affair that causes him to be in an awkward position. She hides behind the artwork, jumping into the shadows for fear of breaking up the relationship. The only thing is that Olga knows. Her growing distaste for Dymov makes it easier to process the shock. Much like Dymov’s desire to quit art and move into another profession, their love is losing its value.
Many could question why Chekhov chose to focus on Dymov despite opening the story with Osip. He’s a figure who barely exists in the story, and yet seems to be significant enough to court gossip and prying eyes. The simple answer is that this is the author’s most elaborate chess move yet. His small ensembles may come with their own twists and turns, but none that feel as close to poetic irony as what happens to Dymov.
In a quest to form any social relevance, Olga’s relationship with Dymov could risk potential harm. If word got out of their arguments, nobody would trust them again. However, there’s a one-two punch that plays out when Dymov dies and is left for a surgeon to dissect the body and discover more personal details about him. These are things that were only hinted at in the pages prior and, in a lot of ways, hidden from Olga. It feels like the truth finally coming out. The irony of this is that, because of circumstances, Dymov’s life didn’t matter. In the process, Olga’s time with him lacks any greater value save for any personal memories they formed. The intimacy is theirs and will be gone so long as she keeps quiet.
A reason to start the story with Osip is that he is the other grasshopper. While never described this way in the text, he fits the same concept as Dymov’s unnamed woman. He is there rejuvenating Olga’s life. Whereas Dymov likely favored younger women as muses, it’s unclear what Osip sees in her. Maybe it’s something much more genuine. Whatever the case may be, the final lines are the perfect trick shot in Chekhov’s work to this point. She loses a loved one in the presence of her next. Dymov is just another man to be studied by the surgeon. Nobody cares what he did before. All of the potential controversy goes away, leaving a great big sigh of relief.
There’s a lot to enjoy about reading Chekhov’s work in chronological order. This particular run has been especially fulfilling in watching him develop suspense along with his morbid sense of humor. It’s very much a commentary on science and art working in tandem while also asking what value a human’s life ultimately has. When you’re in the moment, it’s easy to apply so much meaning and create reality into this elaborate canvas. However, there will come a day when it fades, and all that’s left is the body replaced by another. Life’s meaning is what we ascribe to it, and that’s the ultimate value of the artist. When that passion is gone, so much will be lost.
Even if I find the story overlong and sometimes a bit tedious, I’m not above saying that Chekhov calling this one of his favorites is true. He’s always been intrigued by humanity, and rarely has that been truer than watching characters existing outside of the institutional systems attempting to make their voices heard. They’re trying to make something that matters. The layers of irony are delectable, and his sense of emotional catharsis continues to improve. Even if I think that “Neighbors” was a more satisfying reading experience, the efforts are to be commended and warrant him as someone who never stopped thinking about the world. “The Grasshopper” may be a story about the fleeting nature of life, but it resonates through centuries in ways that still feel relevant.
Coming Up Next: “In Exile”
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