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.
As the penultimate entry of this series, there’s a lot of expectation for Chekhov to begin wrapping things up. After seeing everything from character sketches to lengthy diatribes about Russian institutions, it would be easy to say he’s found a groove and a general upward trajectory that will carry into the rest of his catalog. While this column focused on selected short stories, he also created some memorable plays that I assume go further and dig into themes with a more established competency. Maybe I will engage with the material one day, but, for now, “In the Ravine” serves as one of the final pit stops before saying goodbye.
This isn’t one of my least favorites because of its length. It serves as one of the longest narratives (some would classify it as novella) since the powerful, unimpeachable mastery of “Ward No. 6,” which took the puzzle elements and found the greater empathy within the physical and metaphorical struggles. For someone who has covered this ground extensively, “Ward No. 6” felt alive with a newfound sense of character interacting with architecture and themes in a manner that was playful, rewarding the reader with deeper thought on what each subsection was putting forward.
I’m not saying that Chekhov has gotten worse at conveying themes either. “In the Ravine” is dense and overcrowded to the point that I could understand why Leo Tolstoy once called Chekhov a “huge talent.” Everyone serves a purpose that is effective at conveying a story full of twists with an aching residue. As far as narratives go, this is another hit for the author and, from what reports say, a fairly successful release among general audiences. However, it still feels overcompensating, forgoing a lot of the elements that drew me to him. It’s a symbolic commentary on class structures and the value of life, yet again, but this time I feel like something is missing. The irony has rarely been this dark, and to that I ask… to what end?
My initial assumption was to envision this as Chekhov expanding on ideas found in some of his earliest writing. The inaugural entry of this column, “The Cook’s Wedding,” reflected how people force themselves into hierarchical structures and will marry less for love than false sense of power. The partnership of Anisim and Lipa is described in a manner that suggests carelessness. Anisim has an upward trajectory: a job in criminal investigation along with father Grigory who works as a merchant in the ravine. Lipa, by comparison, is described in lowly terminology. Chekhov is fixated on how her body is small except for her hands, whose masculine bulkiness reflects her experience working the field. She is the stereotypical peasant whom Anisim marries in an act of almost comic desperation.
To back up a few paragraphs, the opening sets up the premise with some of Chekhov’s most masterful prose. He states that the hometown, Ukleevo, is “where the deacon ate all the caviare at the funeral.” It’s a sentiment that conveys the abuse of power and how it goes beyond simple excess. The deacon was clueless enough to not share food in a time of mourning, and it creates disparity with how everyone can grieve. In some respects, this is Chekov’s mission statement in the shortest space imaginable. The deacon is not important to this story after the initial wedding, and yet his control looms over everyone’s need to fight amongst each other just to have any sense of relief.
This is also one of the author’s hungriest narratives to date. Almost every page centers around a food metaphor that emphasizes the differences between the haves and have-nots. In this marriage, Anisim is the have who is celebrated for his accomplishments. Meanwhile, Lipa is constantly written with pity, as if starved and lacking basic nutrition. Another element that becomes intriguing is how wealthy people within the ravine donate wine to the event. As a recurring theme in Chekhov’s recent run, it’s interesting to see this as false promises of brotherhood. Instead, it’s allowing a fantasy to unfold that will never be satiated.
Anisim has a brother named Stephan, who has the most tragic identity in the story. He’s supposed to help Grigory run the family business, but his hearing impairment makes him economic dead weight. Even the way he’s described is not with loving sentiment but instead as “the deaf man” who feels more like a background character who less progresses as he does survive to the final page. By comparison, his wife is the boorish Aksinya who has “a naïve smile.” From this point, it could be assumed that Chekhov will come to be sympathetic towards Stephan by the end, but that would be to miss the cruelty that is to follow.
In theory, both wives serve as moral good in their relationships. Lipa knows the value of hard work, and it can be assumed that Aksinya married out of compassion. However, that ignores the larger framework of Chekhov’s chess match. Grigory is reaching the end of his life. Stephan may as well not exist. If this is a marriage of love, it quickly transforms into something more horrifying. Like Lipa, there is an attraction to power. All that Aksinya has to do is wait until her roadblocks are gone forever. She can hide her intentions underneath the nobility of a perceived but ultimately hollow legacy while married to a man who couldn’t stop water if his hand was on the faucet.
For the middle section of the narrative, Chekhov focuses on Anisim and Lipa’s marriage. They are on a trip that ends with a lofty mistake. Her husband is imprisoned for possession of fake rubles. As a result, he is stuck doing six years of hard labor. Despite his job as a criminal investigator, he falls to an ironic fate that leaves Lipa helpless. Her only capabilities is to return to the ravine that she escaped and attempt to help the working class build themselves up. Maybe Aksinya has an open position. She just needs to keep her options open.
The titular ravine serves as a greater metaphor for how the characters see the world. The location is equivalent to a deep gorge that makes easy escape difficult. They are below the lines of comfortable living, and any efforts to escape are at best pipe dreams. Given how gravity works, everything washes into the ravine, leaving behind disease and neglect. Even if Chekhov suggests that there’s a comfortable living in Ukleevo, there is this subtext about seeking something better beyond, like reaching a hand upward and finding solace with God or, at very least, someone who cares to do more than gawk. It’s also a metaphor for the individuals, whose moral compasses feel indented, wounded by the harsh treatment of others. What Chekhov is attempting to do is show just how acidic the runoff can be.
Would Aksinya be a better person if she didn’t dedicate her life to financial revenge? That’s a question posed but never answered as the final third enters the bleakest chapter of Chekhov’s short fiction career. Like Stephan, Grigory becomes a useless figure. Aksinya has run mad with power and is doing everything to prop herself up as the hero that this town needs. She is a cruel figure whose connection to wealth only makes her more sadistic. Much like how Anisim fell because of wealth, so will Lipa for her lack of it. In fact, it comes in the most baffling way imaginable.
Despite the imprisonment, she has a child. As a single mother, she does what she can to raise her daughter. And yet, things go horribly real quick. The hospital burns down, and one day the daughter dies, leaving Lipa to grieve. The only issue is that the person who should be providing sentiment can’t. Why? Because Aksinya orchestrated the death and spends the next bit chastising her for being a poor mother. Her love of money has officially outstripped any sense of humanity, and, because this is a ravine, everyone begins to feel trapped with each other. At best, Aksinya could do the courtesy of killing off Lipa to keep the pain and isolation from spreading further.
The food metaphor comes together in the closing stretch. Everything is as it should be. but, three years later, the lingering misery seems worse. Stephan is still wandering around with nothing to do. Lipa has yet to develop a family due to Anisim’s predicament. However, Grigory still has a perception of control. He’s still alive, sitting in a church with his friends complaining about Aksinya. It is here that he reveals that she hasn’t fed him in three days. The shock reveals the power of food and how those who control the crops are often the ones who can fulfill the best chances of survival.
Again, this isn’t a poorly written story, but one that feels overlong and full of bleak imagery that intentionally makes one feel more and more miserable. Despite the early chapters of merriment, things fall apart slowly with the most tragic of irony. It has easily one of Chekhov’s least likable antagonists to date, and there’s no upbeat relief to cap things off. There are glances at humor, yes, but they’re buried underneath the desperation of working-class individuals suffering at the hands of people who misunderstand or refuse to listen. There’s little to say that Grigory or Stephan were bad people in need of karmic retribution. Instead, they fall victim to someone who manipulates emotions. Yes, Anisim’s marriage has a similar level of passion (which is to say none), but at least that was more docile.
At best, it can be suggested that Chekhov intended to suggest that Lipa was kind because of her position in life. She knew what hard work meant, and her reliance on the community made her notice hospitality better. By comparison, Aksinya was attractive, naïve, and able to see beyond humanity and take advantage of the inanimate. She didn’t know what hard work meant, or didn’t care. Lipa was willing to sacrifice everything to live a comfortable life, even if it meant feeling perpetually alone, even losing the one daughter that might’ve given her a greater sense of purpose as the symbolic health of the community is burned to ashes.
I understand that not every story should have a happy ending. Even in this collection, there’s been some exceptional examples of downbeat prose like “The Dependents,” though that’s been met with at least fleeting glimpses of humanity. Sure, Chekhov does seem to care for everyone’s well-being at some points, but it still feels lacking any greater depth of meaning beyond what he’s explored already. At most. it can be suggested that power corrupts anyone. Greed can imprison some, while the greedy can imprison others. Add in the food imagery that tempts the reader to enter their kitchen, and you get a story that is brutal.
Despite my distaste for “In the Ravine,” this isn’t to say that Chekhov’s quality is dipping. It’s simply the byproduct of doing so many close readings of an author who has locked into a very potent theme and found small golden nuggets within his effort. This isn’t the first loveless marriage. This isn’t the first financial corruption. This isn’t even the first religious figure to screw over the townspeople. It may be centralized better as cumulative, but it doesn’t mean it lands with the same success rate for me. It’s a well-constructed story and one I’m sure more casual readers to Chekhov will get more out of, but, for me, this is just another day in his tragic irony. All that can be said is that I hope the finale is a bit more cheery than this.
Coming Up Next: “The Bishop"
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