Radislav Lapushin
To Live and Not to Live:
(The Finale of Chekhov's "V rodnom uglu")
In Chekhov's late prose there is no beginning like the beginning of "V rodnom uglu" - the long (considering the general size of Chekhov's works), introductory paragraph with its slow, almost static, and soothing description of what happens to anyone who arrives at the train station in the steppe, with no proper names, except for the mention of Moscow, and with not a single character introduced.
One can even think that here Chekhov breaks his own rule, which is to cross out everything that does not lead directly to the point - recall his famous advice to younger writers: to cut off the beginning and ending of a finished story.1
Indeed, a "normal" Chekhov story would start with the second paragraph: "За Верой Ивановной Кардиной выехали на тройке." (Think of the beginnings of two other stories written at the same time: "Жмухин, Иван Абрамыч, отставной казачий офицер [...] как-то в жаркий летний день возвращался из города к себе на хутор" ("Pecheneg"), and "В половине девятого утра выехали из города" ("Na podvode.") Furthermore, the details, pictures, and moods that appear first in this prologue and reflect the narrator's point of view are then transported-at times without any real transformation-into the sphere of the protagonist ("Вера тоже поддалась обаянию степи." "Степь, степь...") Why does Chekhov, who is renowned for his laconism, permit this redundancy?
But the main mystery of this passage probably has much to do with its particular intonation. The narrator, whose voice governs the whole paragraph, is objective. His voice seems to lack any expressiveness or open emotionality. It is different from those Chekhovian meditations that are famous for their pure musicality and are commonly attributed-behind the character's or the objective narrator's back-to Chekhov himself. Everything personal is consciously erased from the first paragraph. And still, in my opinion, it has a poetic quality. Listen, for example, to the hidden music of the third sentence with its careful sound texture:
Поезд УЖе УШел,
Покинув вас здесь,
И ШУм его слыШИтся ЧУть-ЧУть
И замирает наконец.. (S9, 313)2
Note also the heartfelt "покинув" instead of an expected and neutral "оставив," which gives to the whole prologue an existential dimension.
Due to the very poetic nature of the text, simple and realistic details immediately acquire a symbolical connotation: "Невеселая станция, одиноко белеющая в степи, тихая со стенами, горячими от зноя, без одной тени и, похоже, без людей." The blending of "white" and "lone" in the image of the station evokes one of the most famous Russian romantic poems, Lermontov's "Parus" (A direct yet corrupted quotation from the same lyric is used in Tri sestry; and we know from Bunin's memoir that Chekhov praised this poem highly).3 Both "white" loners, the sail and the station, are placed in a vast, infinite, monotonous, and uninhabited space: the sea and the steppe, respectively, are two spatial worlds whose inner affinity in the context of Russian literature, including Chekhov's
"Step'," has been demonstrated by Vladimir Toporov.4 But Lermontov's protagonist, as it is customary in a romantic "Byronic" poem, is an exceptional and heroic character, struggling alone with a natural element and challenging it. In the story, as is customarily encountered in Chekhov, we have a number of potential protagonists mirroring each other's loneliness: A lone newcomer at the station (the narrator), a lone and white station, "the only horses," "solitary birds," and other images of the steppe, which are singular: "an old burial mound," "a windmill far away." Loneliness seems to be spread in the air. Even the presence of another human being, a coachman who tells the narrator some 'long, pointless' tale ("что-то долгое и ненужное"), does not break the atmosphere of general isolation. Real communication does not occur, and it does not seem possible or even desirable in this world.
Furthermore, the "sail" signifies an idea of motion, the pathos of overcoming space, while the "station," as it is depicted here, is paradoxically associated with the end of motion. It is the place one can come to but not go from. The train (a sign of civilization, of historical, linear time) has "gone on and left you behind." And now, a person is given over to the power of the steppe, in other words, to the laws of circular, pre-historical time, to motion in a carriage that, in reality, lacks any motion ("Прошел час-другой, а все степь, степь, и все курган вдали").5 But unlike so many of Chekhov's works, this permanent circulation, this motionless motion, the state of spiritual drowsiness, and a break with the past ("O прошлом не хочется думать") are depicted here without any negative connotation or emotional expressiveness. They seem to be welcomed by the narrator.
This leads to the most striking difference-it almost reaches the level of conscious parody-between the general mood of "Parus" and the prologue of Chekhov's story. The 'sail' rejects any kind of calmness and rebelliously asks for a storm:
А он, мятежный, просит бури,
Как будто в бурях есть покой!6 Chekhov's narrator is anything but a rebel. He is yearning not for a storm but for "great calm" ("спокойствие"). At the end, one can see that the whole prologue is written from a perspective in which this "calm" (not to be confused with objectivity!) has already been achieved by the narrator, which explains the spiritual and physical motionlessness as well as the absence of personal sentiments and of any further wish or desire.
What does this "great calm" mean? To answer this question, we must trace the motif of "calm" as it operates throughout the story. First, it occurs in the narrator's sphere, then it echoes in the sphere of the protagonist ("А на душе покойно, сладко..."), and, finally, it finds its correlation with the image of the steppe: "the glorious stillness of the steppe" ("красивое спокойствие степи"). But besides these rather positive connotations, we also have a definition of the steppe as "a quiet, green monster" ("спокойное зеленое чудовище") that, according to the protagonist, "would swallow up her life without trace." Further, it is not by chance that the capitulation of the protagonist concluding the story is accompanied by the same motive: "This resolve [the resolve to marry the doctor, in other words, to give up all her dreams, hopes, etc. -
R.L.] calmed her." ("Это решение успокоило ее") This calm, too, means relief, liberation from life's insoluble problems and from the unbearable burden of the past. But such a state of tranquility is achieved through the sacrifice of one's individuality, in other words, by merging with the steppe. This merging was already outlined in the prologue; here, however, it becomes the story's climax and the fate of its protagonist.
What can we say about the female protagonist of this story, Vera Kardina? The narrator of the prologue is devoid of any personal features. He is a certain lyrical mood rather than a person. All that is described in the prologue could happen to anyone, regardless of his or her background, age, etc. Vera seems to be the opposite of this indeterminate figure: she has a name, a biography, a personality. At the same time, she has a silhouette rather than distinctive facial features. Similar to all Chekhov's protagonists, she possesses a voice not only of a particular character but also of an existential, philosophical seeker for the meaning of life in a meaningless world. And as is the case with other Chekhov protagonists, this metaphysical dimension can be seen as yet another echo of Hamlet.
There are, in fact, many parallels with the story of Hamlet in Chekhov's story, even on the level of the main character's prehistory. After graduation from the institute, a young noble girl is back on her family estate. Her father has died several months ago, and she is now the rightful owner of the estate, part of which belongs to her Aunt Dasha. The latter repeatedly calls Vera "my queen" and claims her to be the "real owner" of the estate. But in reality all power is usurped by the aunt, a lady "with small, firm, tyrannical arms" who exhibits injustice, cruelty, and hypocrisy as she rules. Trying to challenge the "usurper." Vera, a kind of Chekhovian Hamlet of the steppe, expresses irresolvable doubts and fatal indecisiveness, and thus she only delays real action.
The definition of the steppe as a "calm green monster" that swallows up lives (in other words, demands human sacrifices) provides the reader with another mythopoetic key to the story, a reference to ancient myths. Moreover, all social injustice looks like a projection of mythological "reality" onto modernity. Not by chance, an intimidating and, at the same time, comic image of the Grandfather, a staunch advocate of serfdom, seems to parody this "cannibalistic" aspect of the steppe: he is almost motionless and is always hungry, eager to swallow up everything in sight. Thus, in her struggle, Vera has to face and challenge not simply a social order represented by her Aunt and Grandfather but also a natural one embodied in the "green monster," that is, in the steppe itself:
Она негодовала, ненавидела тетю [...] Но что делать? Оборвать ее на слове? Нагрубить ей? Но какая польза? Положим, бороться с ней, устранить ее, сделать безвредной, сделать так, чтобы дедушка не замахивался палкой, но - какая польза? Это все равно, что в степи, которой конца не видно, убить одну мышь или одну змею...
(S9, 322).7 Furthermore, looking for archetypes, one can attempt an approach that has to do with the Christian calendar: I mean the mention of Saint Nicholas's Day and of "one Sunday in Lent," The very name of the protagonist can be seen as meaningful, giving an extra dimension to the story as a whole and even contributing some playful connotations to sentences such as: "Вера давно уже отвыкла молиться..."
No matter how different the approaches to this story (and to Chekhov's art in general), one must nevertheless contend with a basic subtlety and ambiguity. Vera, the Hamlet figure in the story, is defeated not by an "external" evil, in other words, not by someone else (the Aunt, Grandfather, etc.), but by a revelation that she herself is an inseparable and organic part of the evil she wishes to eliminate. Like a conventional hero, Vera confronts 'the green monster' seeking to swallow up her life. But as a member of her family, she represents this monster on the social level. When in the climactic scene, Vera starts shouting at a young servant "in a voice not her own" ("не своим голосом"), we certainly know whose voice is heard, the voice of her Grandfather, who is both a parody and a double or at least a representative of the steppe.
And the image of the steppe can by no means be limited to its monstrous side. From the very opening of the story we recall how it, equally and undeniably, represents freedom, spaciousness, and beauty. The same ambiguity runs through the finale of the story, and proves crucial for its interpretation:
И идя, куда глаза глядят, она решила, что, выйдя замуж, она будет заниматься хозяйством, лечить, учить, будет делать все, что делают другие женщины ее круга; а это постоянное недовольство и собой, и людьми, этот ряд грубых ошибок, которые горой вырастают перед тобою, едва oглянешься на свою жизнь, она будет считать своею настоящею жизнью, которая суждена ей, и не будет ждать лучшей… Ведь лучшей и не бывает! Прекрасная природа, грезы, музыка говорят одно, а действительная жизнь другое. Oчевидно, счастье и правда существуют где-то вне жизни… Надо не жить, надо слиться в одно с этой роскошной степью, безграничной и равнодушной, как вечность, с ее цветами, курганами и далью, и тогда будет хорошо.
Через месяц Вера жила уже на заводе.
(S9, 324). Whose voices are heard here? Obviously, there is the voice of the protagonist who dominates the entire passage. But the author's voice is also present. His presence is felt because of a special emotional intensity, an intensity which Chekhov does not easily allow himself and which is, therefore, always sensed by the reader.8 However, the important question is whether we are able to distinguish clearly these two voices? Here, let me briefly recall a thoughtful analysis of this problem (the author and the hero in Chekhov) by V. Vinogradov:
Но дальше, в изображении размышлений Веры, ощущается как будто примесь авторского стиля <…>В конце рассказа образ степи выступает уже как символ сломившей Веру стихии, и тут как будто экспрессия внутренней речи самой Веры совсем поглощает стиль авторского повествования.9 I wish to stress Vinogradov 's reservations regarding the nature of the author's voice (как будто, примесь авторского стиля). Quoting the ending of this story, he separates the voice of the author from the voice of the protagonist (See his italics above). Is such a division of the two voices convincing? Yes, to a large extent. Is it the only possible reading? In other words, may we suggest a different one? I think that the answer is again "yes." The reason lies in the very nature of the relation between the author and his characters in Chekhov. The presence of the author's voice may be obvious, but at the same time it is elusive. There are two different voices here (one belonging to the author and the other to the protagonist), but it is impossible to separate them without arbitrariness and violation. These two voices are separate and inseparable from the very beginning, and it is difficult to pinpoint exactly where the author's voice starts and when it ceases to sound. At the end, however, there are two voices, and it is the tension between them that creates the special mood of the conclusion, which, in my opinion, resists any final interpretation.
In the context of the protagonist's life, what happens in the finale looks like an unambiguous failure and capitulation, relinquishing of her dreams, plans, and her very individuality. But in the author's sphere (if we are still trying to separate these two spheres), things are more complex. Try to listen to this apparently hopeless, mournful, yet at the same time mysteriously reassuring and exulting intonation: "Надо не жить, надо слиться в одно с этой роскошной степью, безграничной и равнодушной, как вечность, с ее цветами, курганами и далью, и тогда будет хорошо…" .It can be interpreted as a call to that "great calm" that was already achieved by the narrator in the prologue and can thus be read as a return to the narrator's theme, which Vera's story interrupted. Allow me a short montage of passages, which confirms both the tonal and thematic affinity of the narrator's meditation in the first paragraph with the author's voice in the final passage (the latter is italicized):
...душой овладевает спокойствие, о прошлом не хочется думать... Надо не жить, надо слиться в одно с этой роскошной степью, безграничной и равнодушной, как вечность, с ее цветами, курганами и далью, и тогда будет хорошо…
But this can also sound like the author's response (soberly and bitterly ironic, I would say) to Vera's prayer right after her arrival at the steppe, which suggests the overlapping of these voices and their inner dialogue throughout the text:
Вeра давно уже отвыкла молиться, но теперь шепчет, превозмогая дремоту: Господи, дай, чтоб мне было здесь хорошо...
Надо не жить, надо слиться… It is worth noting how persistently these words ("жизнь," "жить") appear in the space of a single paragraph, more precisely, in the space of the last seven lines-and we know how careful Chekhov was with his choice of every word! On the one hand, it is "life' as it is ("настоящая жизнь," "действительная жизнь"); on the other hand, it is the "better life' and some mysterious space "outside" of life ("вне жизни"). First, there is "Надо не жить" and immediately -"Через месяц Вера жила на заводе," All these repetitions flow into and collide with each other; they define and deny, challenge and amplify each other's initial connotation.
As I said, the ambiguity of the whole finale stems from the overlapping of the two voices. But it has also to do with the ambivalence inherent in the position of the narrator himself, an ambivalence that, in my opinion, has a deeply personal ground for the mood of the finale and for the 'oddities' of the prologue described below. "V rodnom uglu" was the first work written by Chekhov after an interruption caused by the deterioration of his health in March, 1897, which left no doubt of the deadly nature of his illness. Lying in a hospital near Moscow after a severe hemorrhage, Chekhov was visited by Lev Tolstoy. Their conversation about death and immortality is described in Chekhov's letter to M. Men'shikov:
Говорили о бессмертии. Он признает бессмертие в кантовском вкусе; полагает, что все мы (люди и животные) будем жить в начале (разум, любовь), сущность и цели которого для нас составляют тайну. Мне же это начало или сила представляется в виде бесформенной студенистой массы; мое я - моя индивидуальность, мое сознание сольются с этой массой - такое бессмертие мне не нужно, я не понимаю его.
(P6, 332)
The position expressed here was characteristic of Chekhov, the most consistent and persistent advocate in Russian literature of everything fostering individuality, culture, and civilization, especially if one were to recall the credo he formulated in his famous letter to Dr. Orlov: " Я верую в отдельных людей, я вижу спасение в отдельных личностях, разбросанных по всей России там и сям - интеллигенты они или мужики - в них сила, хотя их и мало"…" (P8, 101)
On the level of poetics, one of the recurrent (obsessive) motifs in Chekhov is that of a man swallowed up by such a "shapeless mass of aspic," Quite often, fog threatens to engulf his characters. For example, the guard in "Nedobroe delo" has the impression that "земля, небо и он сам со своими мыслями слились во что-то одно громадное, непроницаемо-черное." In "Mechty," the characters keep going through the field but they are unable to leave a piece of land surrounded by the "impenetrable" wall of the white fog, etc.
One of the few exceptions where such a "merging" of an individual with a "shapeless mass" is welcomed is presented in the initial version of "Agafia" (later, the author deleted this passage):
К чему, в самом деле, двигаться, желать, искать? Не лучше ли раз навсегда замереть в этом благоухании ночи под взглядом бесконечно великого числа небесных, скромно мерцающих светил, стать частью всеобщего, величаво торжественного покоя и дышать, дышать без конца? Не в слиянии ли с этой вечной, много говорящей, но непонятной красотой цель и наслаждения жизни?
(S5, 493)
Speaking metaphorically, the "majority" of the inhabitants of a Chekhovian city form a "shapeless mass," one that seeks to absorb the individuality of a protagonist in almost all of Chekhov's stories and major plays. Thus, "immortality in a Kantian sense" seems an exact copy and reproduction of the characters' "mortal" life, of everything that Chekhov's protagonists, including Vera, try to escape and overcome, rather than something with which one should "merge." But shortly after his discussion with Tolstoy, Chekhov, as it were, confronts one of his principal beliefs, seems to accept what he hitherto refused, and finishes "V rodnom uglu" with "Надо не жить, надо слиться в одно…"
The question remains: whose capitulation is it, the protagonist's or the author's? However, "capitulation" is obviously the wrong word here - and not only because of the ambiguity of the finale mentioned above.
No statement is final in Chekhov. Any idea or generalization in his works, as we know, has a contextual, relative, and intermediate nature. It is never closed to further elaboration and is always rather fluid and, figuratively speaking, more "sandy" than "stony." In the context of Chekhov's works of the period, we have not only "Надо не жить..." from this story but also "Надо жить" from Tri sestry, which was written approximately at the same time. Can we say that one of these statements cancels the other? Are we able to determine which of them is more convincing and closer to Chekhov's personal position? Or is it another case of Chekhov's ambivalence, examples of which are caught by Bunin in his memoirs of Chekhov:
Что думал он о смерти?
Много раз старательно твердо говорил, что бессмертие, жизнь после смерти в какой бы то ни было форме - сущий вздор […]
Но потом несколько раз еще тверже говорил противоположное:
- Ни в коем случае не можем мы исчезнуть после смерти. Бессмертие - факт...10 By no means, are the examples of such ambivalence confined to Chekhov's private utterances recorded and saved by his contemporaries. First of all, they are to be found in his artistic works. Even the propositions that seem undoubtedly Chekhovian are permanently questioned and reconsidered in new contexts by new characters. As I have just mentioned, anxiety and fear of the loss of selfhood accompany the motif of "merging" in Chekhov. But this does not deny the possibility of a different - harmonious yet almost eschatological - "merging" perceived by the characters in "V ovrage":
... Казалось им, кто-то смотрит с высоты неба, из синевы, оттуда, где звезды, видит все, что происходит в Уклееве, сторожит. И как ни велико зло, все же ночь тиха и прекрасна, и все же в Божьем мире правда есть и будет, такая же тихая и прекрасная, и все на земле только ждет, чтобы слиться с правдой, как лунный свет сливается с ночью
(S10, 165-166). The faceless "crowd," that is, the "majority" that inhabits all Chekhovian cities, towns, and districts is a permanent threat to each protagonist's individuality and is understandably depicted as an "evil." In his utopian vision of the future, Sasha ("Nevesta") imagines a world where:
... Толпы в нашем смысле, в каком она есть теперь, этого зла […] не будет, потому что каждый человек будет веровать и каждый будет знать, для чего он живет, и ни один не будет искать опоры в толпе (S 10, 208).
But to the claim that the above proposition is close to Chekhov's own worldview, one can counter with another and supposedly no less "Chekhovian" description of "the crowd" in Genoa from Chaika:
Там превосходная уличная толпа. Когда вечером выходишь из отеля, то вся улица бывает запружена народом. Движешься потом в толпе без всякой цели, туда-сюда, по ломаной линии, живешь с нею вместе, сливаешься с нею психически и начинаешь верить, что в самом деле возможна одна мировая душа...
(S13, 49)
According to Chudakov, Chekhov allows for the possibility that two contradictory worldviews can coexist.11 And yet, how can the nature of his ambivalence be defined? First of all, Chekhov never over-emphasizes his contradictions, he never amplifies or underlines them in red pencil. Neither does he desire to make them clash. All of his mutually exclusive statements seem to be challenged not only from the "outside" but more importantly from the "inside." Several years before "V rodnom uglu," in another story ("Student") another protagonist came to a conclusion similar to that in "V rodnom uglu" in its tone and yet completely opposite in spirit:
А когда он переправлялся на пароме через реку и потом, поднимаясь на гору, глядел на свою родную деревню и на запад, где узкою полосой светилась холодная багровая заря, то думал о том, что правда и красота, направлявшие человеческую жизнь там, в саду и во дворе первосвященника, продолжались непрерывно до сего дня и, по-видимому, всегда составляли главное в человеческой жизни и вообще на земле…
(S8, 309)
Again, should we argue which of these two conclusions is more authoritative? Do they indicate any change or development in Chekhov's philosophical outlook? Or rather should we place these mutually exclusive - life-affirming and life-negating - propositions together in order to discover that in Chekhovian reality they do not exclude, but in fact complement and condition one another:
… Правда и красота, […] по-видимому, всегда составляли главное в человеческой жизни…
... Очевидно, счастье и правда существуют где-то вне жизни...
What do these two statements have in common? First of all, they share in intonation, which, in both cases, is non-categorical, thoughtful, conjectural, and tentative rather than definitive and self-assured. The parallel usage of the modal words with the same connotation of probability ("по-видимому," "очевидно") betrays a mutual vulnerability and incompleteness of the two opposite statements, when taken separately. Both of them are from the outset fraught with each other, being an affirmative statement bordering on negation (as in "Student') and a negative one bordering on affirmation (as in "V rodnom uglu").
This is probably the case with "Надо не жить…' and "Надо жить," and this is an explanation of the conjunction "and" rather than "or' in my title. Applying the image from the story "Student," we can see these mutually exclusive statements as the "ends" of the same "unbroken chain": "дотронулся до одного конца, как дрогнул другой."
Notes
© R. Lapushin
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TSQ 34
Toronto Slavic Annual 2003
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