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.
Even if every narrative follows its own direction, it’s hard to not compare “Rothschild’s Fiddle” to the prior entry on “Ward No. 6.” Chekhov has always been keen on exploring the humanity of his characters. Still, here it feels like the protagonists follow a similar road from foes to friends in a society that would rather see them isolated. If there’s a difference, it’s that “Rothschild’s Fiddle” is a lot more granular, emphasizing the small moments where revelations break through. Even then, the studies of society allow for a greater portrait, allow for understanding to emerge, and convey something radical. The world is a free place. It’s the human mind that ultimately imprisons everyone else.
Another similarity is the discussion of Antisemitism within the larger culture. The titular Rothschild is a Jewish man who is ostracized. There’s not a lot of evidence as to why, but it can be implied, like in “Ward No. 6,” that the larger public hates them. His name carries the burden of recognition, where he can’t hide behind anonymity. That may be why his music may ultimately become sad, capturing the pain of his ancestors as he attempts to play joyful music with the local orchestra. It’s a sweet gig that allows him to play for the general public. This is all to ask, why do people hate Rothschild so much?
The one clue comes in the character of Yakov, a.k.a. Bronze. The nickname presents its own negative connotation, and one that’s matched by his career, which is described as “bad.” He is an undertaker who makes coffins. Given Chekhov’s fascination with death, it makes sense to have a figure who has no choice but to be fixated on death. Like many others in this archetype, he has a dour outlook on life that makes him bitter towards others. He’s also a fiddle player who Rothschild is confounded by because he’s unable to play a joyful melody. He’s unable to exist in the moment and make the parties merry.
Both are hated by the general public to the point that their names feel like slurs. Nobody wants to be Rothschild’s friend because he presents something foreign and repulsive. Given the overbearing presence of Christianity in Chekhov’s Russia, it makes sense to read him as a minority within a community of oppressed forces. As with prior stories, there is a need to establish oneself as having dominance over another simply to have any sense of stability. Given that there are more Christians than Jews, it’s easy to push Rothschild out the door without acknowledging his humanity.
Yakov is barely above Rothschild in the hierarchy. In theory, an undertaker is a useful member of society. However, the profession connotes morbid themes and thus makes him come across as a miserable lot. He’s constantly dealing with funerals and corpses. Many may feel uncomfortable around him because of what this suggests, especially for those who imagine themselves to be happy and healthy. The nickname Bronze also alludes to the idea of an inferior metal, or someone who ranks dead last in a conventional podium medal. He is the loser in life, and someone who could never understand what it means to be alive.
The animosity comes early in the story and presents Chekhov’s paradox. Upon a rude exchange, Rothschild announces to Yakov, “If I were not that I respect you for your talent, I would have sent you flying out the window.” There is a constant divide between the two, which makes one wonder how they could ever stand to play together. At some point, the individuality needs to give way to the community. The band is only effective if they play together, especially since neither man plays the same instrument. Rothschild plays the flute, which is also antithetical to the string nature of Yakov. Given the insular bitterness, the contrast to society’s unity creates this ironic study of what everyone is expecting others to contribute. Nobody likes their neighbor, so how are they able to look past their hatred while wallowing in their own selfish passion?
As the story goes, Yakov must make a coffin for a woman named Marfa. In his exchange, Chekhov establishes a greater empathy for the characters. After an opening largely defined by division, things slow down and reveal Yakov’s humanity. He’s concerned that he never got close to Marfa and thus questions how much he cared about others. Then again, he’s had little reason to explore that side of himself. With children mocking him, there is no reason to care. Even then, the drawn-out nature creates this sadness that allows the final stretch of the story to land its emotional impact.
The biggest irony comes with Marfa’s passing. She dies from fever, believed to be typhus. Chekhov was also a doctor, and thus his familiarity with entering dangerous situations is not a new concept. Many of his stories feature some element of an airborne illness bringing healthy men down within pages. Yakov is not above this. By the end of the story, he will be dead and leave somebody else to take up his job as an undertaker. His absence brings awareness to how everyone in society plays a role and, without filling it, many will be doomed to line the street with the recently deceased. There is a need to hold onto order.
Meanwhile, Rothschild receives a terrible fate. At one point, he is bitten by a dog while the street boys shout, “Scabby Jew.” The scene is intentionally horrific, and the pairing alongside Yakov creates the ultimate awareness of how neither man is respected. With Rothschild wounded, he looks upon Yakov and tries to protect him from further injury. Both men are weakened while others laugh. Somewhere amid the hopelessness, they realize the value in respecting each other despite their differences. It would be the only thing that separates them from the people who have beaten them down so rigorously.
The irony comes with the final pages, finding the two men attempting to find common ground while one dies. Yakov isn’t long for this world, and thus takes to playing his fiddle one last time. As Rothschild watches on, he finally understands the tragic song that he’s playing. There is an unexplained expression coming through that couldn’t be said in words. It’s beautiful and holds something insular. Most of all, it communicates that deep down there is something more unifying in the human condition. All that one has to do is not be afraid to collaborate.
One final gesture arrives in Yakov’s decision to give Rothschild the fiddle. This makes the title an interesting reversal. Many would assume that Rothschild would have more possession of said instrument. However, he plays the flute. His whole professional path is different. It isn’t until the end that everything comes together and adds a bittersweet touch. The fiddle comes to symbolize this bridge between two very different men, finally understanding what makes them similar. They wasted so much time hating each other that this final act of love holds both a profound breakthrough but also an ironic pain. Imagine what would’ve happened if they hadn’t argued the entire time. Maybe they would’ve been happier. It wouldn’t stop the world from mocking them, but they would begin to see the wonderful wrinkles in each other’s culture.
It is difficult to call this phenomenal after something like “Ward No. 6.” That story remains an example of 4D Chess covering everything under the sun. “Rothschild’s Fiddle” is intentionally smaller, and I think it allows for a greater emotional resonance to break through. What the reader is left with is an interwoven study of the smaller ways that people struggle to connect despite having more in common. The band can’t play without the different instruments. Life can’t exist without death. Joy can’t exist without sadness. Everything is in contrast to each other, and it’s important to embrace their usefulness.
The symbolic fiddle may not seem like much to the average reader at first, but it comes to be the essence of life. Chekhov has always been fascinated by how life correlates to society, and this captures the ways that people imprison their own curiosity. It’s not always done out of malice, and sometimes, peer pressure keeps certain pathways from being appealing. So long as nobody questions what’s different, the familiarity will help people get along. With that said, it can lead to a boring, hostile world where nothing meaningful happens. Sometimes reaching out is what’s necessary to notice the true meaning of life.
Coming Up Next: “The Student”
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