I knew that I had to read something by Chekhov after attending a lecture that praised him for his simplicity of language, minimal dependence on plot, and severe commitment to objective storytelling. I had also heard “If there is a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must fire in the last” way too many times from other writers to not read Chekhov. Since he was reputed to be a master of the short story, I started my exploration with a collection of selected Chekhov stories. I read these stories looking for the three traits listed above, any firearms put to good use, and pure entertainment.
Many of his stories at the start of the book were ten pages or less, delightful blips of information that captured a situation without twisting it into a plot driven story. The use of simple language was clear in each story, and Chekhov even made gentle fun of characters who tried to use more bookish language. “Bring us half a miracle, my boy, and twenty-four savories,” is how a pompous clerk asks a poor waiter for half a bottle of vodka and some appetizers. Rather than trying to impress and possibly belittle the reader with a wide range of vocabulary, Chekhov speaks plainly, cutting through extra syllables to the content of the story.
Each story strayed away from conventional plot - no sacred quests, heroes battling villains, or a twelve step guide to achieving true love. This style flourished in Chekhov’s shorter stories, where we are given repeated glimpses of a character’s inner thoughts, presented with a situation that may be a conflict, and given slight implications of what situations may follow. “He Understood”, my favorite story in the collection, starts out with a wonderful description of a cross eyed peasant and his ludicrous gun (don’t worry, the gun gets used). As he waits unsupervised in a room of a large house for his punishment for illegally hunting, the peasant notices a wasp flying repeatedly into the window and wonders why it’s too ignorant to use the door. Wonderful moments like these multiply in a few short pages and provide direction without being predictable.
However, as the stories lengthened, this minimal dependence on plot took on a feeling of aimlessness. This became apparent with Chekhov’s story of novella length called “Three Years”, which chronicles the extended relationships between family and friends. Yes, there were interesting ideas about the fluidity of love, but the situations upon situations grew tiresome. I felt like Chekhov gave me repeated glimpses of a display case filled with pristine rifles that may have been fired. After fifty pages, I had an urge to hate any character, view a confrontation that went beyond harsh words, or make more connections between each event, even with the risk of the story appearing contrived. Perhaps dependence on plot isn’t such a vice for works of increasing length?
Chekhov’s commitment to objective storytelling came through with a stream of consciousness style. The inner thoughts of each character carry their distinctive voice while still remaining thoughts that anyone could have. In this way, Chekhov presents us with the possibility that people do different things for the same reason or the same thing for different reasons. The same thoughts don’t always lead to the same action, so how do we pass judgment? Of course, Chekhov isn’t purely objective, but his ego definitely kept its distance, careful to cast as small a shadow as possible. I found this difficult and refreshing as a reader since I wasn’t sure what to think. “The Darling”, the last story in the collection, is about a woman with an immense capability for love who adopts the opinions of those to whom she is closest. In the absence of opinions and close relationships, she is miserable. I hope to offer some possible opinions in my work without looming over the page.
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