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.
In general, Chekhov’s work could be described as meaty. Every time I open a story, there is an overwhelming level of detail almost immediately, whether it’s in how he describes the scenery or characters. He has this amazing gift for immersing the reader in a subtextual understanding of his worlds. Given that the recent run of stories has favored more sprawling and dense tales, it’s strange to get to “The Student” and be absolutely defeated. This is not to say that the story is bad, but having chronicled several of his works at this point, it’s strange how empty and unsatisfying the entry becomes. Part of it may just be that it’s four pages, producing a quick in and out feeling which, unlike something as impeccable as Amy Tan’s “Fish Eyes” or Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” doesn’t exactly leave a greater appreciation for the world on display.
I’m unsure of the origin of the expression, “The student has become the teacher,” but I believe it is at the core of Chekhov’s irony. Here is a young and naïve individual named Ivan who will rehash a story that bible readers are familiar with. It’s not given any modernization or subversion that is evident. Ivan simply recounts the story of when Peter denied Jesus three times before the bird crows. It’s a story centered around trust. Despite holding deeper beliefs that his friend is the messiah, he chooses to reject any connection to him. Sure, he will be forgiven in time for his foolishness, but in that moment, he reflects his limited scope as a human and thus challenges the notion of mankind’s altruistic limits.
Of every biblical story, it may rank as one of the more Chekhovian narratives. It is, after all, an ironic detachment. Peter is a follower of Jesus. The reader is more than familiar with his behavior over the past several chapters. And yet, at the risk of finding some higher deity sending a signal that helps him notice his faults, he does exactly what Jesus says. Does that mean he had free will, or was he subliminally encouraged by his environment to denounce Jesus? There is, of course, some protective layer as Jesus is at risk of being persecuted and having his disciples fall victim to his demise. The Ten Commandments say thou shalt not lie, but did Peter have a choice?
Chekhov’s Russia has always been indebted to the narrative of man-made systems holding his protagonist back from some greater purpose. His ironies often stem from the tragedy of realizing a bit too late that things could’ve played out differently. Given the additional text of religion as a reputable profession, or at least a lucrative one, there’s a lot to suggest that Chekhov has a lot of complicated opinions around faith and blindly following tenets. Add in his general affection for mortality, and the idea of centering “The Student” around one of the final narratives before Jesus is crucified, and it makes sense that of every story he could reference, it would be this.
But, again, why make a story like this at all? As a reader, I came away a bit confounded about the initial point. The parable element felt lacking, and there wasn’t any revelation to be found at the finish line. Ivan had simply told a story, and it was supposed to make everyone in his vicinity feel better about living in such a miserable place like Russia. Given how fortressed prior stories had been, it makes no sense why this would be included, save that it might’ve been a quick exercise or a decompressing after writing some of his most labyrinthian work so far.
To start breaking down the text, the intention becomes clearer. The opening line, “At first the weather was fine and still,” emphasizes a familiar foe in Chekhov’s work. There is a fear of the climate turning against the characters, potentially harming them. As the paragraph develops, the weather turns dark and cold, threatening anyone who dares to wander about. In a literal sense, it’s a horrifying scenario when there is no way to be properly guided through frigid temperatures. However, it’s already raising the question whether Chekhov is suggesting that the darkness is also symbolic, possibly tying into the subtextual disposition of his characters. Are they themselves lost, and the opening, “and still,” is a cheeky suggestion that they’re complaining about the better things in life?
From there, the story starts to fall into frame. It takes place on Good Friday, which may be the easiest detail to connect to Peter’s story. In short, that is the moment when Jesus has been most doubted and is sacrificing himself for the world’s sins. It’s a moment of complete despair that features an ironic title. Good doesn’t mean positive in this sense, though possibly good in the sense that certain larger ideals have been absolved despite the hostile behavior often discussed in the traditional remembrance of this holiday. It can also be argued that the world loses its way in the day to come, as without Jesus, there is nobody to guide them on a path of righteousness.
Ivan is introduced wandering in the snow, his fingers numbed, and thus has his own struggle of endurance. This isn’t the first story where a man has randomly stumbled upon a shelter and produced a monologue for readers to parse through. “On the Road” featured an especially dense tale of a man who learned about everything but believed in nothing. Ivan can at least be respected for having a clearer direction in life. He is a student at a clerical academy, meaning he’s likely to make a career documenting and organizing everything he sees in the world.
This detail alone may explain why he felt motivated to tell the Peter story in the first place. Students in general seem eager to share their personal knowledge with the world, and here it feels the most tangential to anyone Chekhov has focused on.
One detail that annotations help to clarify is that the name correlations are deliberate. As Ivan approaches his shelter, he recalls how the wind must’ve been similar to the days of Ivan the Terrible and Peter the Great. The former is the first Russian czar, while the latter helped to build the empire. In theory, these figures are as sacred as the biblical narrative that he transitions into. However, one has to ask what the greater purpose becomes. Is it suggested that the protagonist is “Terrible” and the bible “Great” in a literal sense, or is there a suggestion that he sees himself as a pioneer of a new age, and thus the richer irony is that he’s a fool? Either way, he’s quick to observe their lowly status among pheasants and how they came into their own form of power.
Ivan’s audience is found in two widows, including one with a “stupid-looking face.” Whereas it makes sense to elaborate on Ivan, the depth here rings hollow. They embody certain stereotypes of women in Chekhov’s short stories, with one being more experienced and wise than the other. They have fallen on bad circumstances with a suggestion of spousal abuse. Their one advantage in the narrative is to appear oppressed, as if the world has beaten them down. Sure, Ivan has come in from the snow in ragged condition, but he seems to have it well. Maybe the irony is that he’s blind to larger empathy, so that Peter’s story lacks anything but surface-level relief for those who feel truly lost in the weeds.
The widows are said to have cried during the story, suggesting a deeper resonance. There is some understanding that what has just transpired holds some truth in their lives. Maybe spirituality holds more power than Chekhov lets on. This could all be a placebo that numbs without ever solving. After all, it has been nineteen centuries since Peter’s story took place. How could it hold any weight on their lives? Even then, there’s the reality that they see themselves in his faulty behavior and must seek some atonement or reevaluation of their actions. As Ivan puts it, the past is linked to the present. There is progress that suggests things will change and possibly improve. The sun will rise again. The cold will disappear. Relief serves as a reminder of the struggles and how it has ultimately made everybody stronger.
Even then, Chekhov suggests that happiness is mysterious. It is unclear what this story has with a larger purpose. Maybe the simplicity is to suggest that they connect the listener and the speaker in such a way that they feel less alone in the world, able to see truth in the abstract. It may not be a terribly exciting conclusion, but those four pages hint at the power of interpretation. People are forced to share their time, and it’s better than spending it with a sense of isolation. I’m still unsure if this is more than a series of loose ends meant to symbolize something different to every reader. At most, I think this is about the passage of time and a quest for meaning in the unseen. We can doubt that it’s there, but sometimes the clues can be fun to play with.
I apologize if this entry seems anticlimactic or completely misunderstands the prompt. “The Student” was a story that I struggled to find greater meaning in, just because so much of it wasn’t originally conceived by Chekhov. It feels like a placement of his work in a larger history, and asking why he decides to create in the first place. Having somebody else’s work as the centerpiece allows the reader to have a preconceived connection to Ivan without knowing his complete backstory. This isn’t about him at all. Maybe it was always about the audience and the value of holding onto something greater. For some, it’s faith. For others, it’s fiction. For others, it’s nationality. To Chekhov, it all remains crucial to his literary identity. I may not care about Ivan anymore at the end than I did at the beginning, but at least he lived up to his title of student and helped me study the world around me.
Coming Up Next: “The Darling”
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