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 issue with reading anthologies presented in chronological order is that one assumes that each successive work will be better than the last. In the case of Chekhov, it was easy to believe that he was finding his groove and really elevating himself to some of his most masterful accomplishments. The recent run has been his strongest so far, and I long to see what the back half of this series will look like. However, “In Exile” disproves the idea that improvement comes all at once. Although it's not a bad story, it’s somewhat regressive and feels closer to earlier works that lacked confidence in their execution. It’s by no means a failure, but the larger substance feels lacking, especially coming off of something as monumental as “The Grasshopper.”
Even the premise feels like a retread. Chekhov’s penchant for sympathizing with the working class has been his best feature, but here it feels like more of the same. For those who recall “Easter Eve,” there was a whole metaphor about how crossing a river separated humanity from life and death. It was provocative and fresh. Maybe it’s because it was driven by action while “In Exile” develops through hearsay, but that felt more alive and reflected a funny little wrinkle. This latest one isn’t without compelling ideas, but it’s ultimately another layered deconstruction of how difficult it is to appreciate life when you live in the wintry climate of Siberia. How can one have a sunny disposition when the weather is so, so miserable?
On the one hand, Chekhov isn’t being lazy when he formats the story like this. The larger thesis centers around worldviews. Much like “On the Road,” there is something to be said for how the speaker’s perspective shapes their larger point. The main focus is on a man named Vassily Sergeyitch and whether or not he has lived a fulfilling life. In theory, he had a pretty great one, given that he had a wife who stayed with him for three years, along with a daughter. However, the fixation on it coming to an end caused a counterargument that maybe everything was all secretly a tragedy. The answer lies somewhere towards the middle, though the reader’s understanding of the protagonists is all too clear.
The figures in question have a thankless task ahead. Old Semyon (a.k.a. Canny) and an unnamed Tatar are introduced sitting around a campfire waiting to start their work. There is talk that they will have to work in different corners of Siberia, where they’ll risk the elements to ferry people across the water. There is an imposed isolation between these men that warrants a certain level of bitterness. Where most have convenient vocations, they are forced to witness a Russia that is always in despair. As it’s noted, they are well past Easter and there’s still ice. While they can likely form bonds during their off hours, most of the people they’ll meet are using them for personal gain. The chances of getting the deserved gratitude don’t sound like it’s in the cards.
As one can guess, Semyon is a mentor figure in this story. The impatience of Tatar is evident from the very beginning. He recognizes everything bad about Siberia and desires to leave the region altogether. To him, this is a place inhabited by death and misery. Even the fact that his wife and mother will come to Siberia when Tatar’s sick father dies suggests how fixated he is on the worst. By comparison, Semyon seems peaceful, or at least content. He’s quick to compensate the youngster by suggesting he will get used to it. The complacency may also stem from his former role as the son of a deacon. He is supposed to be used to a humble lifestyle and, as he puts it, has been so in touch with his environment that he can wander naked if he so chooses.
From here, the story becomes a study in differing perspectives. Tatar is the quickest to jump to conclusions, while Semyon settles for the worst while implying that things won’t get better. Even then, he presents the story of a man named Vassily. When Tatar confronts Semyon about the value of living in Siberia, he points to him as an example of finding love in a hopeless place. After all, Vassily has a wife who stayed with him for three years. His daughter is still with him. He’s not alone. Even if they left because the land was inhospitable, there had to be some positive memories to fall back on.
For as much optimism as is presented in the text, the counterpoint suggests a morose alternative. They could’ve lived together, but what if they were physically abusive and turned to consumption for quick amusement? There’s this sense that Siberia can’t offer any opportunities. What could Semyon possibly get from ferrying him back and forth across such a hellish landscape that Chekhov portrays with a beautiful sense of melancholy?
Deep down, I think the author was trying to explore the silver lining in a terrible situation. This conversation matters not because it’s a way to jazz up a dissertation, but to get to the heart of the subtext. Siberia may not be the friendliest place to live, but there are ways for people to live in any climate. Vassily has proven the potential for this. More importantly, he does this without losing any enthusiasm. In fact, the final pages reflect his carefree outlook on life. He tells Semyon how thrilled he is to be alive, even if it comes at the risk of not finding a good doctor. He embodies a person who lives in the moment and never overthinks anything.
By having the story presented through a retrospective, the two leads are consumed by the stagnation that they fear. They aren’t living because all they care about is noticing the ways that death surrounds them. It causes them to be cautious and unable to see any greater beauty. While this could also just be an unfortunate side effect of their careers, it’s still a sign of how much a worldview is inside someone’s head. There’s nothing to say that Semyon can’t think more like Vassily. There are suggestions that he could and does more than Tatar, but not enough to make him want to get up and make a difference. He cares more about doctors and stability than Vassily ever did. He’s miserable without the comforts of society.
The story ends with recognition that Vassily seems radical in his optimism. Where most of Chekhov’s characters end on a down note, one can assume Vassily will survive with a relatively good disposition. The same can’t be said for Semyon and Tatar. Not until the ice melts, anyway. As the story ends, they head into a cabin to sleep. They don’t consider closing the door because, as Semyon suggests, they will get used to it soon enough.
I think that Chekhov’s approach suggests these men are responsible for their own downfall. For any questioning about greater cosmic forces guiding them, they could see their surroundings and improve small things. They could’ve closed the door. They could’ve been more social with their guests and found joy in the small moments. Instead, they left the door open and watched nature overtake their small pieces of comfort. It’s another humorous ending that is understated. Even if one could suggest that the hierarchy dealt them a bad hand, Chekhov notes the ways that we keep ourselves from living productive lives. Gossip and ruminating don’t get anyone far. They may have valuable jobs, but what else do they have?
The story is not bad, and the writer has an impeccable skill for presenting a lot of vivid detail in small spaces. He’s able to create emotion with external details that help the reader understand worldviews. Snow can be wonderful, or it can be deadly. In this case, it’s a miserable, overbearing mess. As a premise, it’s not the worst thing to base a story around. However, because it lacks the forward momentum of his other work, it lacks an engaging tone that makes it an entertaining read. While nowhere near as blatant with its themes as “The Princess,” it still fits into a box of really good stories that never quite develop a satisfying pathos. This at most captures his ongoing study of mortality and how difficult it is to survive. This just happens to be one of the more obvious interpretations he has done so far.
Coming Up Next: “Ward No. 6”
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