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 methodical nature of Chekhov is finally on full display. Over the past few entries, he’s developed some of his most confident work to date. He’s evolved from simple metaphors to intricate webs that test the connections between socioeconomics and the self. Even if “The Princess” is a story that felt too direct in its messaging, it can at least be praised for testing different forms of duality that the author is clearly interested in. With the next story in this anthology, “Neighbors,” he has found a perfect middle ground where his themes are more deeply ingrained in the text. A lot is being discussed, but there’s even more that hides within the despair of characters realizing that their lives aren’t what it could’ve been.
It's not the first story where a man arrives somewhere and provides a lengthy monologue about his own shortcomings. The most prominent example, “On the Road,” has a lot of provocative ideas, but it ultimately reads to me as being from a man who is book smart but not street smart. He has no interest in engaging with his emotionality, and I think it undercut everything that Chekhov was striving for. With “Neighbors,” he explores that subject yet again, but from an angle that I think is far more successful and leaves the final pages hitting the reader like a ton of bricks. To say the least, his studies of what life means in 19th-century Russia have rarely been as poignant as it is here. It’s not just about the economics. In a rare exercise, he also suggests a need to love.
There have been a ton of characters who are married in Chekhov’s short stories. However, they’re usually there over desperate circumstances. That may be why my initial reaction to protagonist Pyotr is a familiar source of comedic animosity. He is described as not wanting to fall in love. On some level, he’s antisocial and resents the need to care for others. He must visit Vlassitch not to congratulate him on marrying Pyotr’s sister Zina, but to understand why. There are finances involved, but given that Vlassitch is also a womanizer, there can be implied as an protective brother aspect going on. Will Vlassitch treat her terribly and leave his family destitute? Given the miserable state of his mother, it’s not that hard to assume.
Pyotr is a stereotypical Chekhov protagonist. His engagement with the world has an ironic resentment that is likely masking deep depression. The suggestion that his mother doesn’t leave her room can allude to a sense of parental detachment, where he’s stuck in a state of arrested development. Despite Zina’s ability to find it, love doesn’t appear to be a feature in the Ivashin household. Describing their premises also suggests it was like “some one dead in the house.” There is so much grief in the house that one would assume Pyotr’s departure would provide any sense of relief. If it does, it’s undercut by his personal sense of isolation.
Despite being 27, he is described as dressing like an old man. There is a sense of mortality in him as he prepares for the journey. In the journey, the author provides a chance to give a more intimate exploration of his mind. Everything about him seems bitter. One would assume he wants to talk Vlassitch out of this foolish errand. Maybe he even secretly resents Zina for being so risky. Chekhov has done an incredible job of exploring the self as he relates to his environment, managing to capture a sense of ideology through description amid action detail. Even if it’s the literal term, Pyotr traveling through the “wasteland,” and trees “bending and rustling,” gives the reader enough to recognize his viewpoint. Even the way he hypothesizes about Zina’s feeble mind could suggest a level of misogyny that clouds his ability to see her humanity. Given that he just came from a discussion about his dying mother, the projection may be deep-seated or merely irrational.
The writing is hypnotic. Even if Chekhov will ultimately come to criticize Pyotr for such a close-minded worldview, he allows the first six pages to play out free of judgment. He’s merely a man whose goals are valid. There is a sense of sympathy. He’s merely following the moral code of society. That is why readers may assume, upon arrival, that Vlassitch is the villain. He seems like a threat to Zina’s well-being, and there is a need to express chivalry.
The good news is that “Neighbors” has one of the best about-turns that this anthology has featured so far. When entering his house, there’s a shift in tone regarding scenery. Vlassitch’s house is full of reverent history. Everything has a positive connotation and reflects a desire to evolve. The marriage symbolizes a chance to start something new and beautiful. Pyotr may as well be a ghost in this story, who is trying to curse the living. While I’m unsure how intentional the metaphor could be, Pyotr could be a biblical reference to the apostle Peter, who sits at the gates of heaven and determines who is righteous. The irony in this case is that he seems to have more in line with a dark sadness, i.e., hell, than the joyous afterlife alternative.
There is mutual respect between the two men. Their love for Zina is apparent, and it’s clear that both have their own version of protecting her. Where “On the Road” found its protagonist becoming more unlikable the longer he spoke, Chekhov’s choice to let dual perspectives means that the contrast eventually provides a murkier revelation. Everyone can assume what Pyotr wants out of the deal. He wants Zina’s happiness or, at very least, his backend payment so that he can afford a comfortable life. The economics of 19th-century Russia make this a reasonable request, though in the context of general relationships, it shows how shallow Pyotr’s goals are.
Vlassitch, by comparison, is dimensional. He claims to love Zina and elaborates on the emotions that he feels. Some dreams and aspirations exist in that naïve headspace that only the enamored achieve. It’s silly and somewhat irrational, but the passion speaks to a convincing marriage. Vlassitch wants a family and to start the next phase of his life. In that way, the reader can begin to assume that Pyotr feels desperate because he’s losing his connection to humanity. He doesn’t have an offspring. Zina’s child will have a different surname. With his mother on the way out, he’ll be left alone. For as much as one can question why he insists on pushing people away, he’s ultimately left with the reality that when he walks home, he will be doing so not to a home but likely to a graveyard where he’s the only living soul.
Zina has her own interactions with her brother that reveal a sense of happiness. For any desire to control reality, Pyotr finds himself at odds. In one of Chekhov’s masterstrokes, he has waited until this moment to express jubilance within the text. By delaying the gratification, he’s allowed the intellectual debate to feel isolated between the morose and the sublime. Neither side has won yet. It isn’t until the conversation turns into lighter hypotheticals that it becomes clear. Zina has plans for her future. Vlassitch is supportive of that dream. Pyotr, meanwhile, lacks plans for next week.
In terms of execution, Chekhov has rarely done a better job of the slow burn than he does in how Vlassitch convinces Pyotr that he’s wasted his life. The idea of choosing not to fall in love or have passionate pursuits is foolish. Sure, one can argue Vlassitch deserves some criticism for not being more loyal to one woman, but he appreciates being alive. He exists in the moment and doesn’t overthink anything. It’s an ironic turn not dissimilar from “On the Road,” but I feel it lands with more heft because Pytor’s epiphany is how empty his life is. He started the story with so much purpose that his downfall is ironic.
Will Pytor learn from this instance and grow as a person? The final line of the story provides one of the author’s most depressing examples of irony: “nothing could ever set that right.” He has become an old maid without ever experiencing the joys of life. In theory, he can still find ways to grow, but nothing about the text suggests he will. Instead, he’s left with the reality of a society that favors work over the individual. It’s a theme that has been prominent in a lot of his work, but here it is finally addressed in a way that favors the individual. None of the characters are the ideal upper class. They’re all simply existing in a country that forces people into assigned roles. While Vlassitch is still a questionable individual, Zina won that lottery for the time being. She found a man who would take care of her. At least by 19th-century standards, Pyotr may have missed his chance to find his happily ever after. What a tragic way to go.
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