Chekhov Short Story Thread

[Quark]

Humm....I have the Photobucket account; and would imagine, that I have MS Paint, as well.

If you're running Windows, then you have MS Paint. It's under Start>Programs>Accessories. Learning how to use paint can be tricky, though, because there are no directions and the program is hardly self-explanatory. I justed mess around with it haphazardly until I get the desired effect (sort of like how I write).

I do mean the first. For instance if I wanted to keep in the quoted part of this post - when you click on the reply it eliminates that part. I have seen Virgil post double many times. Yes, posts that include the original quote within a quote. I knew how to accomplish it but now I forget. I will have to play around with it until it comes back to me; then I will let you know how is done.

It too late at night for me to make another tutorial with images, so words will have to suffice. To get a quote within a quote in your response, you have to either use the advanced options or you can copy the text from post and make your own quote box within the quote. Like this:

I do mean the first. For instance if I wanted to keep in the quoted part of this post - when you click on the reply it eliminates that part.

I have seen Virgil post double many times.

Yes, posts that include the original quote within a quote. I knew how to accomplish it but now I forget. I will have to play around with it until it comes back to me; then I will let you know how is done.

Here's what it looks like in the post (I took of the brackets in the quote commands so it wouldn't post this as a quote):

QUOTE=Janine;584945 I do mean the first. For instance if I wanted to keep in the quoted part of this post - when you click on the reply it eliminates that part. QUOTE=Janine;584945 I have seen Virgil post double many times. /QUOTE Yes, posts that include the original quote within a quote. I knew how to accomplish it but now I forget. I will have to play around with it until it comes back to me; then I will let you know how is done. /QUOTE

Sort of reminds me of Heathcliff and Katy in Wuthering Heights.

Like Heathcliff and Kathrine in Wuthering Heights, the girl shows the boy the only genuine affection he knows. That's of course critical to Bronte's novel. Here it's no less true, but it's not as central to Kovrin's life. He's not screaming Tania's name on the moors, at least.

I just read "The Virgin and the Gipsy"

You've really worked your way down on the list of Lawrence titles. I hadn't even heard of that one.

[Quark]

I know I’d love to discuss one of Chekhov’s plays, maybe even “The Cherry Orchard,” but really, any one would be fine with me.

It depends on how long we want to discuss a play for. I might just use one of the shorter comical pieces as an interesting read for us in between stories. If I do decide to do a play for a whole month, however, then I would definitely pick "The Cherry Orchard." It's by far his best.

Some people on this forum might faint, but I like Tolstoy more than Dostoyevsky.

That's shocking. I didn't pass out when I heard that, though. Many people prefer Tolstoy to Dostoevsky. They're both great writers.

It’s great you have the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation of Anna Karenina. Personally, I found it so much superior to any other translation. Have you ever seen the miniseries of the book starring Nicola Pagett? I like it, but it’s not as lively as it could be. Pagett looks just like I pictured Anna Karenina.

Besides Anna Karenina those are all strange names to me. I'll have to take your word on what's the best translation. I've only read Anna Karenina once, and I don't think I could get all the way through it again no matter what translation I were using.

Before I go to bed, I want to make sure I post the next part of the story. This is the part of section V--right after the last section I posted. Kovrin sees the Black Monk again, and we get his first full conversation with the ghost.

Glad that he had been so successful in the part of peacemaker, Kovrin went into the park. Sitting on a garden seat, thinking, he heard the rattle of a carriage and a feminine laugh -- visitors were arriving. When the shades of evening began falling on the garden, the sounds of the violin and singing voices reached him indistinctly, and that reminded him of the black monk. Where, in what land or in what planet, was that optical absurdity moving now?

Hardly had he recalled the legend and pictured in his imagination the dark apparition he had seen in the rye-field, when, from behind a pine-tree exactly opposite, there came out noiselessly, without the slightest rustle, a man of medium height with uncovered grey head, all in black, and barefooted like a beggar, and his black eyebrows stood out conspicuously on his pale, death-like face. Nodding his head graciously, this beggar or pilgrim came noiselessly to the seat and sat down, and Kovrin recognised him as the black monk.

For a minute they looked at one another, Kovrin with amazement, and the monk with friendliness, and, just as before, a little slyness, as though he were thinking something to himself.

"But you are a mirage," said Kovrin. "Why are you here and sitting still? That does not fit in with the legend."

"That does not matter," the monk answered in a low voice, not immediately turning his face towards him. "The legend, the mirage, and I are all the products of your excited imagination. I am a phantom."

"Then you don't exist?" said Kovrin.

"You can think as you like," said the monk, with a faint smile. "I exist in your imagination, and your imagination is part of nature, so I exist in nature."

"You have a very old, wise, and extremely expressive face, as though you really had lived more than a thousand years," said Kovrin. "I did not know that my imagination was capable of creating such phenomena. But why do you look at me with such enthusiasm? Do you like me?"

"Yes, you are one of those few who are justly called the chosen of God. You do the service of eternal truth. Your thoughts, your designs, the marvellous studies you are engaged in, and all your life, bear the Divine, the heavenly stamp, seeing that they are consecrated to the rational and the beautiful -- that is, to what is eternal."

"You said 'eternal truth.' . . . But is eternal truth of use to man and within his reach, if there is no eternal life?"

"There is eternal life," said the monk.

"Do you believe in the immortality of man?"

"Yes, of course. A grand, brilliant future is in store for you men. And the more there are like you on earth, the sooner will this future be realised. Without you who serve the higher principle and live in full understanding and freedom, mankind would be of little account; developing in a natural way, it would have to wait a long time for the end of its earthly history. You will lead it some thousands of years earlier into the kingdom of eternal truth -- and therein lies your supreme service. You are the incarnation of the blessing of God, which rests upon men."

"And what is the object of eternal life?" asked Kovrin.

"As of all life -- enjoyment. True enjoyment lies in knowledge, and eternal life provides innumerable and inexhaustible sources of knowledge, and in that sense it has been said: 'In My Father's house there are many mansions.' "

"If only you knew how pleasant it is to hear you!" said Kovrin, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

"I am very glad."

"But I know that when you go away I shall be worried by the question of your reality. You are a phantom, an hallucination. So I am mentally deranged, not normal?"

"What if you are? Why trouble yourself? You are ill because you have overworked and exhausted yourself, and that means that you have sacrificed your health to the idea, and the time is near at hand when you will give up life itself to it. What could be better? That is the goal towards which all divinely endowed, noble natures strive."

"If I know I am mentally affected, can I trust myself?"

"And are you sure that the men of genius, whom all men trust, did not see phantoms, too? The learned say now that genius is allied to madness. My friend, healthy and normal people are only the common herd. Reflections upon the neurasthenia of the age, nervous exhaustion and degeneracy, et cetera, can only seriously agitate those who place the object of life in the present -- that is, the common herd."

"The Romans used to say: Mens sana in corpore sano."

"Not everything the Greeks and the Romans said is true. Exaltation, enthusiasm, ecstasy -- all that distinguishes prophets, poets, martyrs for the idea, from the common folk -- is repellent to the animal side of man -- that is, his physical health. I repeat, if you want to be healthy and normal, go to the common herd."

"Strange that you repeat what often comes into my mind," said Kovrin. "It is as though you had seen and overheard my secret thoughts. But don't let us talk about me. What do you mean by 'eternal truth'?"

The monk did not answer. Kovrin looked at him and could not distinguish his face. His features grew blurred and misty. Then the monk's head and arms disappeared; his body seemed merged into the seat and the evening twilight, and he vanished altogether.

[Quark]

Kovrin realizes that he, himself has conjured up the vision of the Black Monk.

Right, and that realization is a significant change. Before, he thought the monk was naturally occurring, but now he discovers that it's he himself who is creating the Black Monk. Creative interpretations of reality are something we should always be wary of in Chekhov's fiction. Most of the time they indicate that the character is losing it, and they are not considered helpful. In "Rothschild's Fiddle," for example, after Yakov loses his daughter he starts to believe that he never had a daughter. Then, he begins to imagine that he's constantly losing things--money, friends, his wife. That sense of loss takes over his life, and he becomes quite miserable. When we learn that Kovrin is imagining the monk we should immediately be suspicious. Most likely, this leads to something tragic.

As much as I like Kovrin, these passages seem to indicate that he’s suffering from megalomania.

The part of him that believes the monk may be a megalomaniac, but he struggles with this. Kovrin is tempted by the monk, certainly. He desires the power and knowledge that monk tells him he has. This part of the monk's speech particularly allures him:

"Yes, you are one of those few who are justly called the chosen of God. You do the service of eternal truth. Your thoughts, your designs, the marvellous studies you are engaged in, and all your life, bear the Divine, the heavenly stamp, seeing that they are consecrated to the rational and the beautiful -- that is, to what is eternal."

Later, though, he will turn away from this. When he takes the treatment for his TB, he stops believing the monk.

Kovrin is aware that he is mentally ill, overwrought.

The question is whether that's a helpful thing for Kovrin or not. It makes him happy, but it destroys his life and others. I tend to think it isn't helpful for Kovrin because Chekhov usually comes down on the side of selflessness over self-indulgence, and reality over imagination. I don't know if there's anything specific I can point to in the story which makes me believe that, though. The part at the end where he shreds his own work is perhaps the closest I can come to conclusive evidence.

Is being ill the only way Kovrin can be happy?

It appears that way. Kovrin never reaches the level of happiness he has with the monk at any other part of the story. Unlike in many other Chekhov tragedies, the protagonist isn't given a good option. He's doomed from the start.

[Janine]

To me, this story is more like a Shakespearian tragedy in which everyone ends up dead, than a typical Chekhovian tragedy in which people live, but end up forlorn, bitter, or simply lost. I like Kovrin and felt terribly sorry for him.

Antiquarian, Funny you should say this, because the whole time I have been reading yours and Quark's posts I have been thinking of "Hamlet"; probably since I am watching it on DVD (for about the zillionth time!). I often become Hamlet obsessed. Shakespeare is another one of my deep passions. Anyway, I kept thinking of the three people in this story - the father, Korvin and Tania - seemed reminescent of the characters in "Hamlet", since everyone perceives Hamlet's own fall into the realm of insanity; which always comes under debate from scholars; I am aware of this fact - some say there is that thin line. To me "Hamlet" Shakespeare presents this idea of a 'thin blurred line', as well, especially after Hamlet kills Polonious. Polonius could almost parallel Yegor, but he does not have a garden, nor does Yegot get murdered He does however, have a daughter, that he cares about to excess and Yegor is a bit meddling, as is Polonius. Both men's advice and actions towards their daughter's future, spur on her own downfall, to some extent. All three characters do end in tragedy and death. Interesting to note, that none have truly started out having bad intentions towards each other, as the three in this story do not intend either; also both sets of father and daughter attempt to control the madness, they see in the male character, Hamlet and Kovrin. When I think of it, both of the fathers are 'control-freaks' in various ways: Yegor channels that into his garden obessession and Polonius into controlling his two children. He even has Laertes spied on, when he is back in France. For some reason I could not fully comprehend, last night I kept being reminded of this line by Polonius, concerning the young Hamlet's decline: he...

Fell into a sadness; then into a fast;
Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness;
Thence to a lightness; and by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves
And all we wail for.

I can see now how this relates to this story. That could almost describe the various stages that Kovrin goes through as well, until his final decent into madness followed by death. Hey, Quark, I would imagine that Chekhov did read some Shakespeare? Anyway, for what it is worth I liked drawing these parallels, since I did bring up the idea of "Hamlet" in an earlier post. Now that I think of it more closely, there seem to me to be even more interesting parallels here.

[Janine]

I think that's a great observation, Janine, and I think you've drawn some great parallels. It'll be interesting to see what Quark has to say.

Generally, I don't think Chekhov is as tragic as Shakespeare (well, he is, but not as melodramatic), but in this story, I think he comes very close.

Oh, off-topic, but the book I have lists "The Winter's Tale" as one of the "late romances."

Thanks, Antiquarian, I guess I could clearly see those parellels when watching the "Hamlet" film last night. I tried two other films and took them out of my player; I felt I needed to watch Hamlet instead; I couldn't watch something shallower. Of course, beginning it after 12 was not good. I didn't even get midway through it. I might even pick up on more parellels - who knows.

Yes, I listened to "The Winter's Tale" a year or so ago. I own it on Arkangel series CD set - very good rendition with Ciaran Hinds. I just could not see how it was truly a comedy. But often with Shakespeare's so called 'comedic' works, I feel they are tragic as well or at least contain many elements of sadness, pathos and tragedy. I went online recently to research this particular play and see if they actually call it a comedy and one article said is considered more of a 'tragicomedy'. I thought that was interesting and that is what I perceived when I listened to those audiofiles. I guess sometimes there is a fine line between comedy and tragedy, as there is in life itself.

[Quark]

Chekhov was, I think, a very compassionate and non-judgmental writer. He seems pretty hard on everyone in this story

There are two separate thoughts there. I'll bring out the first one before I go on to the second.

Chekhov was a compassionate writer. He humanized all his characters--even those who might seem like villains. He also made the victims of the tragedies both pitiful and dignified at the same time. There seemed to be a reluctance on his part to point fingers when things go wrong. Chekhov was more interested in formulating the problems and noticing the consequences.

As for who he comes down on in this story, I think you're right that he makes everyone pretty miserable at the end. Yegor loses the garden he loves, Tania loses her husband, and Kovrin loses his life. Everyone is implicated in the tragedy.

To me, this story is more like a Shakespearian tragedy in which everyone ends up dead, than a typical Chekhovian tragedy in which people live, but end up forlorn, bitter, or simply lost.

I also have a hard time placing this along side other Chekhov works. It's much more fantastic and spectacular than his other stories. The ending is different, too, as you point out. It's almost Shakespearian. We've had a few people already make parallels to Hamlet and Macbeth. I see Janine has posted another one below.

In some ways, I feel the theme of this story could be that selfishness destroys. Kovrin’s selfishness in wanting the self-satisfaction the black monk provides ultimately destroys his life, Tania’s, and if not Yegor’s, then the orchard. It’s a hint of what’s to come in “The Cherry Orchard” when a “new order” destroys the peace and harmony of the old.

selfishness does destroy in this story, but, seen from another perspective, one could say that the story is about the boring unfulfillment of selflessness.

Anyway, I kept thinking of the three people in this story - the father, Korvin and Tania - seemed reminescent of the characters in "Hamlet", since everyone perceives Hamlet's own fall into the realm of insanity;

Yegor/Polonius and Tania/Ophelia have like roles in the short story and play. They both show the unfortunate consequences of the protagonist Kovrin/Hamlet. The only difference is that Ophelia and Polonius are not as implicated in the tragedy as Yegor and Tania. The characters in "The Black Monk" all share the common shortcomings, but in Hamlet the characters are not as similar.

I just could not see how it was truly a comedy. But often with Shakespeare's so called 'comedic' works, I feel they are tragic as well or at least contain many elements of sadness, pathos and tragedy.

I still have not read the play, but I know that many consider it to be a tragicomedy. Yet, at the same time, it's commonly published in collection of comedies. When I talked about my hope for a less tragic story in the Shakespeare thread, I wasn't necessarily saying I didn't want tragedy, though. Really, I was just hoping for a break from the hysterics I was reading in Greek tragedy. If the story is sad, that's perfectly fine. I just hope there aren't too many "Woe is me!" exclamations.

[Janine]

Chekhov was a compassionate writer. He humanized all his characters--even those who might seem like villains. He also made the victims of the tragedies both pitiful and dignified at the same time. There seemed to be a reluctance on his part to point fingers when things go wrong. Chekhov was more interested in formulating the problems and noticing the consequences.

I like that about him. I personally don't like to judge any of the characters because I feel they all have their reasons for reacting and acting as they do; that is just human nature. Sometimes we don't even act as we think or anticipate we would. I guess we are all fallible and I tend to see characters portrayed in literature that way. Yes, many novels and stories are tragic. Life can be tragic also. It doesn't always work out, as we planned. I think in this particular story, it is evident that things just get out of control, for all the characters. I feel for them all. I know I can become obsessed with things, like Yegor is obsessed with his gardening; I know I can get emotional and even break down crying, like Tania; maybe I can even feel a bit out of kilter, not quite as extreme as Kovrin, but I can be too obsessed with my own studies and trying to make things perfect, so I can see where he is coming from. I know I have experienced this in my art, and a requirement for an artist, is to become emersed or obsessed with one's artwork. I think that Chekhov would have known this feeling. He was an an 'artist' as a writer. I think it was the same with Lawrence; both of them were very much driven. I think Lawrence also sees his characters as humans and flawed and no character who is to blame. I think really good writers will approach their characters in this manor; see both sides.

As for who he comes down on in this story, I think you're right that he makes everyone pretty miserable at the end. Yegor loses the garden he loves, Tania loses her husband, and Kovrin loses his life. Everyone is implicated in the tragedy.

They are in my opinion. No one is blameless, yet they all do what they think is right.

I also have a hard time placing this along side other Chekhov works. It's much more fantastic and spectacular than his other stories. The ending is different, too, as you point out. It's almost Shakespearian. We've had a few people already make parallels to Hamlet and Macbeth. I see Janine has posted another one below.

It does seem that way - different than other works of Chekhov's although I have not read that many so far. Yes, well I was the first, Quark, awhile back to compare it to "Hamlet" then a page or so later islandclimber said it reminded him of "Macbeth". I don't personally see parallels to Macbeth because in Macbeth the intentions of the characters are vicious and selfish and intended to gain power over everyone in the story; thus ending in tragedy. In "Hamlet" the appearance of a mysterious ghost/phantom/apparition speaks to Hamlet, much as the Black Monk speaks to Kovrin. It is true that Yegor and Tania do try and cure what they believe is his mental illness; however in "Hamlet" Polonius does interfer and conspire with the King (Hamlet's Uncle), concerning their observation of just why Hamlet is acting as he is. Of course, Ophelia does not marry with Hamlet, as Tania does with Kovrin; but there are similarities to what drives us to the final tragedy in both stories. I didn't profess they were identical, but similar in nature.

selfishness does destroy in this story, but, seen from another perspective, one could say that the story is about the boring unfulfillment of selflessness.

Not sure if I quite understand what you mean here. Can you explain this a little better, Quark?

Yegor/Polonius and Tania/Ophelia have like roles in the short story and play. They both show the unfortunate consequences of the protagonist Kovrin/Hamlet. The only difference is that Ophelia and Polonius are not as implicated in the tragedy as Yegor and Tania. The characters in "The Black Monk" all share the common shortcomings, but in Hamlet the characters are not as similar.

I think they are implicated, in a bigger way than you think. It is not until Polonius spies on Hamlet, and also before that he forbides his daughter to see Hamlet again; this helps to spur Hamlet onto a more destructive path. Sure he is comtemplating his revenge upon his uncle, but with the addition of the two key charactes of P and O, they help to advance the plot and bring about circumstances that spiral out of the control for Hamlet at the end. In much the same way, Yegor and Tania conspire together to bring about a state of normalacy for Kovrin, but it all backfires on them in the end, and in the process all of their lives are destroyed.

On further consideration (editing now) I think that Chekhov's story is about Kovrin's own isolation, so in that way it is not that different than many of Chekhov's other stories. I think conjuring up the Monk helps him feel less alone. Likewise, Hamlet suffers isolation; except he doe have Horatio to talk to and the ghost of his father. Still, I think he feels a terrible isolation in what he feels he must do to avenge his father's death. Therefore, in terms of isolation I think the two characters are similar. This 'isolation' is a big part of making them tetter on the edge of sanity.

I still have not read the play, but I know that many consider it to be a tragicomedy. Yet, at the same time, it's commonly published in collection of comedies. When I talked about my hope for a less tragic story in the Shakespeare thread, I wasn't necessarily saying I didn't want tragedy, though. Really, I was just hoping for a break from the hysterics I was reading in Greek tragedy. If the story is sad, that's perfectly fine. I just hope there aren't too many "Woe is me!" exclamations.

I listened to it and need to do so again. Did the discussion begin? I haven't even looked in there today. I guess the voting is done. I liked the play ok; I can't say it is one of my favorites of Shakespeare's. I think I much more prefer the tragedies and the histories (some of those to me are tragedies) to the comedies. I say this because I don't think any of the comedies are true comedies. They seem to me to be a genre of their own. Yes, there is a lot of lighthearted humor in them but it seems to run side by side much deeper issues and some are actually tragic in parts. I just watched "Twelfth Night" on DVD - the stage play and I always get such a melancholy feeling seeing that play. There is such pathos in it even though it is meant to be funny. Some moments are hilarious but others are quite sad. The parts that are funny, are a little too silly for me at times. I guess in Shakespeare's day this humor was fresher but now when you see it you feel it has all been done before. Probably so many people hence stole the routines in the Shakespeare comedies.

[Quark]

Wow, it's already Wednesday. I didn't mean to abandon the discussion, but I guess that's what happened. I have an excuse, though: stupid browser. I visited my parents, and when I went to their computer to post on LitNet I couldn't log on. After typing my name and clicking log on it would refresh the page (as if it were logging me on), but then would just bring me back to the same page without me logged on. Eventually I got around that problem, but more and increasing aggravating problems persisted. One was that when I highlighted text it would highlight everything. I couldn't get a chunk of text. Also, it wouldn't update the forum. Once I logged on, everything would stop. If someone posted something, I wouldn't see it because the browser was stuck the instant I logged on. It was almost comical how much their browser messed up LitNet. Unfortunately, though, I couldn't post.

Now that I'm back let me answer Janine's post which has been begging a response for days now. I also want to post more of the story since it seems like we've been doing this story for months now. I'll post three smaller chunks this time, so we can move quickly now and finish.

I think Lawrence also sees his characters as humans and flawed and no character who is to blame. I think really good writers will approach their characters in this manor; see both sides.

I don't think there's a villain who's to blame in this story, but I do think that there are villains in other Chekhov stories. That doesn't subtract anything from those other stories, of course. The conflict is just written differently in those cases, and it's purely a matter of taste whether that makes those stories better or worse. "A Trifling Occurrence" has a great example of Chekhovian villain. In fact, Bieliayev from that story is a typical Chekhovian villain. He's the insensitive jerk. There's another character who deserves some of the blame, but for the most part Bieliayev single-handedly ruins everybody's life. Far from ruining the story, though, Bieliayev actually improves the story. So, while "The Black Monk" perhaps lack an antagonist, it doesn't necessarily mean that all Chekhov stories don't blame anyone.

I don't personally see parallels to Macbeth because in Macbeth the intentions of the characters are vicious and selfish and intended to gain power over everyone in the story

It all depends on how you interpret the monk. One could say that the monk exerts a similarly malignant influence over Kovrin as the witches do to Macbeth. Both tempt the protagonist to transgress certain rules to gain status for themselves.

Not sure if I quite understand what you mean here. Can you explain this a little better, Quark?

This goes back to what DM has argued. It's possible that Kovrin's problems are caused not by the monk, but by the treatment for his hallucinations. It's the selfless life he leads after the bromide which is awful. If he were merely left to himself, he would have been quite happy.

I think they are implicated, in a bigger way than you think.

Certainly Polonius and Ophelia are implicated in the downfall of Hamlet. That's why I said that they perform a similar role to Yegor and Tania. The father-daughter pair in "The Black Monk," however, are more than just implicated in Kovrin's downfall. They're also shown as having the same defects as those of the main character. Yegor, Tania, and Kovrin all share the same strained nerves and all-consuming perfectionism. This is slightly different that Polonius and Ophelia (particularly Polonius) who contribute to Hamlet's downfall, but don't necessarily share his qualities.

On further consideration (editing now) I think that Chekhov's story is about Kovrin's own isolation, so in that way it is not that different than many of Chekhov's other stories. I think conjuring up the Monk helps him feel less alone.

This goes back to the idea of the black monk as a coping mechanism. I'm not sure how much I agree with this. It's possible, but it doesn't seem like he needs to cope. It doesn't even seem like he really engages with his problems until the very end, so I'm not sure why he would need to cope.

Did the discussion begin? I haven't even looked in there today. I guess the voting is done.

They've definitely started now. I still haven't read the play, so I need to get to it.

I replied to Janine's post above. My fingers are crossed that this post won't bury it on a previous page. Here's the reaction of Tania and Yegor to Kovrin's marriage proposal.

"No; let us talk in earnest!" he said. "I shall take you with me, Tanya. Yes? Will you come with me? Will you be mine?"

"Come," said Tanya, and tried to laugh again, but the laugh would not come, and patches of colour came into her face.

She began breathing quickly and walked very quickly, but not to the house, but further into the park.

"I was not thinking of it . . . I was not thinking of it," she said, wringing her hands in despair.

And Kovrin followed her and went on talking, with the same radiant, enthusiastic face:

"I want a love that will dominate me altogether; and that love only you, Tanya, can give me. I am happy! I am happy!"

She was overwhelmed, and huddling and shrinking together, seemed ten years older all at once, while he thought her beautiful and expressed his rapture aloud:

"How lovely she is!"


VI
Learning from Kovrin that not only a romance had been got up, but that there would even be a wedding, Yegor Semyonitch spent a long time in pacing from one corner of the room to the other, trying to conceal his agitation. His hands began trembling, his neck swelled and turned purple, he ordered his racing droshky and drove off somewhere. Tanya, seeing how he lashed the horse, and seeing how he pulled his cap over his ears, understood what he was feeling, shut herself up in her room, and cried the whole day.

Yegor and Tania appear troubled by this. Since that's what they've been working for, it's odd that they would react so negatively.

Their wedding and marriage (with more from the black monk):

One day the monk appeared at dinner-time and sat in the dining-room window. Kovrin was delighted, and very adroitly began a conversation with Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya of what might be of interest to the monk; the black-robed visitor listened and nodded his head graciously, and Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya listened, too, and smiled gaily without suspecting that Kovrin was not talking to them but to his hallucination.

Imperceptibly the fast of the Assumption was approaching, and soon after came the wedding, which, at Yegor Semyonitch's urgent desire, was celebrated with "a flourish" -- that is, with senseless festivities that lasted for two whole days and nights. Three thousand roubles' worth of food and drink was consumed, but the music of the wretched hired band, the noisy toasts, the scurrying to and fro of the footmen, the uproar and crowding, prevented them from appreciating the taste of the expensive wines and wonderful delicacies ordered from Moscow.


VII
One long winter night Kovrin was lying in bed, reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in the evenings from living in town, to which she was not accustomed, had been asleep a long while, and, from time to time, articulated some incoherent phrase in her restless dreams.

It struck three o'clock. Kovrin put out the light and lay down to sleep, lay for a long time with his eyes closed, but could not get to sleep because, as he fancied, the room was very hot and Tanya talked in her sleep. At half-past four he lighted the candle again, and this time he saw the black monk sitting in an arm-chair near the bed.

"Good-morning," said the monk, and after a brief pause he asked: "What are you thinking of now?"

"Of fame," answered Kovrin. "In the French novel I have just been reading, there is a description of a young savant, who does silly things and pines away through worrying about fame. I can't understand such anxiety."

"Because you are wise. Your attitude towards fame is one of indifference, as towards a toy which no longer interests you."

"Yes, that is true."

"Renown does not allure you now. What is there flattering, amusing, or edifying in their carving your name on a tombstone, then time rubbing off the inscription together with the gilding? Moreover, happily there are too many of you for the weak memory of mankind to be able to retain your names."

"Of course," assented Kovrin. "Besides, why should they be remembered? But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for instance. What is happiness?'

When the clock struck five, he was sitting on the bed, dangling his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk:

"In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his happiness -- it was so great! -- and to propitiate the gods he brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too, like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed."

"But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.' "

"But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste."

Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh.

"Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk. "Andryusha! Whom?"

"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him. . . . He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk.

"There is no one here . . . no one! Andryusha, you are ill!"

Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes.

"You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way. . . . You are mentally ill, Andryusha. . . ."

Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing.

[Quark]

However, the Black Monk is a product of Kovrin's imagination. The witches are not a product of MacBeth's imagination. That's a big difference.

Well the witches are equally fantastic. Why do you draw a distinction?

I don't think he's a product of the bromides because they were given for TB, unless I'm mistaken, and Kovrin saw and interacted with the Black Monk before he was even taking the bromides.

Kovrin does interact with the monk before taking the treatment, and the monk goes away when he starts taking the bromide.

It may not seem like Kovrin needs to cope, but he was emotionally worn out and verging on mental illness on his arrival at Yegor's. He may have already been mentally ill. A person will cope subconsciously with many things, emotional illness included.

There's one sense in which I can see the monk as a coping mechanism. That is: he's having problems both with justifying all the effort he's put into study and with realizing that once he's dead his work won't mean anything. The monk constantly asserts that he's working for something great and permanent which gives Kovrin a way of overcoming those fears. Over and over, the monk stresses the timelessness and magnitude of Kovrin's genius. This must be quite soothing to a consumptive, over-working, mediocre professor.


What do you think of the portion I quoted above. I noticed a few odd things about those sections. It seems like Kovrin is extremely happy, but the others are not so. The description of their wedding seems to say it all.

Imperceptibly the fast of the Assumption was approaching, and soon after came the wedding, which, at Yegor Semyonitch's urgent desire, was celebrated with "a flourish" -- that is, with senseless festivities that lasted for two whole days and nights. Three thousand roubles' worth of food and drink was consumed, but the music of the wretched hired band, the noisy toasts, the scurrying to and fro of the footmen, the uproar and crowding, prevented them from appreciating the taste of the expensive wines and wonderful delicacies ordered from Moscow.

There's an almost excessive enjoyment in which the senses are lost, but it's mixed with a feeling of waste and loss. The ecstatic mood fits Kovrin's feelings, and the loss seems to be what consumes Tania and Yegor.

[Dark Muse]

There's one sense in which I can see the monk as a coping mechanism. That is: he's having problems both with justifying all the effort he's put into study and with realizing that once he's dead his work won't mean anything. The monk constantly asserts that he's working for something great and permanent which gives Kovrin a way of overcoming those fears. Over and over, the monk stresses the timelessness and magnitude of Kovrin's genius. This must be quite soothing to a consumptive, over-working, mediocre professor.

I have not thought of it quite like that before, but yes, that is an interesting perspective. I could see how the monk could work as a way of reassuring Kovrin that is life is not a waste, and that is work does and will mean something.

I think everyone to some degree has dealt with that on some level and developed their own methods. Not necessarily everyone believing they are genius or destined to be, but I think everyone needs a way to reassure themselves that their life means something on some greater scale, or else really what would be the point of doing anything if it really is not going to amount to anything.

For Kovrin, it just takes on a greater extreme, perhaps because of his potential for genius, or the nature of his study, as philosophy does lead one to question many things including the very nature of reality.

[Quark]

I have not thought of it quite like that before, but yes, that is an interesting perspective. I could see how the monk could work as a way of reassuring Kovrin that is life is not a waste, and that is work does and will mean something.

That's one of the three interpretations I generally apply to the monk. Another is that the monk represents the self-esteem of a certain class of Russian intellectuals who Chekhov very grudgingly joined. Or, the monk could show the trade-offs involved in gratifying your desires. I'll try to explain these perspectives better as we move forward in the story.

I think everyone to some degree has dealt with that on some level and developed their own methods.

Yeah, part of what gives this story its appeal is the fact that the themes are so universal. Everyone, at some point, has to ask themselves the questions that Kovrin tries to answer.

For Kovrin, it just takes on a greater extreme, perhaps because of his potential for genius, or the nature of his study, as philosophy does lead one to question many things including the very nature of reality.

Chekhov made Kovrin a philosopher and psychologist not only because it would lead him to these questions, but also because people at the time believed these fields could answer those questions. The reader discovers, however, that Kovrin cannot solve the problems posed to him, and that his studies were a feeble response to the grand mysteries presented to him.

[Quark]

It seems a bit odd to me that Yegor and Tania don’t realize that Kovrin was speaking to a hallucination and not directly to them.

He's not talking directly to the monk here. It says Kovrin "very adroitly began a conversation with Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya of what might be of interest to the monk." The apparition-seeing conversationalist might be detected if he speaks directly with the monk--like he does when Tania catches him. Here, though, he aims the conversation at Yegor and Tania, but skillfully chooses a topic that might interest the monk.

Also, remember that Tania and Yegor think Kovrin is extremely interesting after he sees the monk. With the monk literally in the room, Kovrin must been even more entertaining. I can see why they wouldn't suspect anything yet.

I don’t find this too odd, myself. I think there were just too many people there, too much to do for them to really be able to relax and enjoy the wedding, the food, and the drink.

Maybe it isn't necessarily odd, but I think Chekhov is trying to tell us something through Kovrin's wedding--besides the fact that everyone had a good time. I suspect that he's trying to build up two growing feelings about Kovrin and Tania. The first is that Kovrin is excessively happy. It's almost a manic state that the monk has put him in. He's so happy that he can't sleep or even feel emotions. He confesses to the monk that his happiness "smothers all other feelings." This mindless joy that Kovrin experiences is similar to the "senseless festivities" of the wedding, and I think Chekhov is trying to alert us to Kovrin's state through the celebration. The second part of the wedding that I find suspicious is the wastefulness of it. They spend and exorbitant amount of money, drink beverages they can't even taste, and listen to disharmonious music. The wastefulness of the wedding reminds of everything that Yegor, Tania, and Kovrin will lose in their marriage. Yegor loses his garden, Tania her home and husband, and Kovrin will lose everything. Chekhov seems to be passing along a message to the reader through his description of the wedding.

I’m always amused by the Russian love for the French language. A little off-topic for a second, but my grandparents knew a couple who desperately wanted their children to speak French.

French was the language of diplomacy and the aristocracy. If you spoke it, you were considered cultured and refined. It's funny that the couple got completely fooled, though. It sounded like it was all the same to them anyway.

We can see Kovrin is becoming quite over-wrought again. I wasn’t surprised when the Black Monk appeared.

He clearly isn't sleeping. Interestingly, though, he's enjoying himself with light reading while his wife is suffering from headaches. I get the idea that Tania isn't as ecstatic about their new life as Kovrin is.

There are too many of him? Too many for the “memory of mankind to be able to retain your names.” That sounds quite odd to me. It’s not the megalomania we saw before. What is happening to Kovrin now?

There aren't too many of him. He's has some divine task which will last forever. According to the monk, there are two few Kovrin's. Kovrin and the monk agree, however, that there are too many famous people.

Yet he is beginning to be uneasy for his happiness and it is beginning to seem strange to him. Perhaps he knows he’s ill and is afraid that he will have to seek treatment and lose the Black Monk or descend into madness. I’m not sure.

He either suspects something wrong, or he simply decides that this life doesn't work for him. Either way, he's beginning to doubt the monk.

[Quark]

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought we were talking about this:

We were talking about that part. I quoted from it. I did contrast that section with other parts of the story to make my point, but primarily I wanted to explain that scene.

I think the monk makes Kovrin more animated, more sociable. Perhaps the monk is the sociable part of him?

I sort of shot this down when Janine first mentioned something like this, but, now that you're also talking about it, I think something must be making people interpret the monk this way. I agree that the monk makes his conversation more interesting, so maybe one could say that the monk inspires him to be social. Beyond that, though, I can't see how the monk improves his social life. The monk seems to do more damage to his social life than help it. By listening to the monk Kovrin loses his wife and only friend. The message of the monk boils down to this: "don't worry about your health or anybody else because you're doing something great." That doesn't sound like something that would help one's social life.

Kovrin seems to suffer from some form of excessive bipolar depression – very up one time, very down the next. The monk appears to be a product of his “up” time.

Yeah, Kovrin's moods are like a roller coaster. This may not have been Chekhov's intention, though. He tried to cram so much into this short story that perhaps he didn't have time for gradual mood shifts. Really, there's enough plot here for a full-length novel, but he smashes it into some thirty pages. If he had taken more time, maybe he could have made Kovrin transition more gracefully.

Chekhov didn’t do a lot of foreshadowing, did he? Or am I mistaken about that?

Do you mean in this story, or in general?

When I said his writing was “Impressionistic,” I mean he didn’t go into a lot of descriptive detail, didn’t use symbolism heavily, didn’t foreshadow a lot. He’s not really an Impressionist, though.

Technically, no, he didn't foreshadow a lot. Typically, writers who focus more on plot use foreshadowing more than those who don't. Chekhov concerned himself more with mood and theme, and so foreshadowing wasn't something he included often. He did give many hints about what was going to happen in the story, though. I took the wedding as one of those subtle hints.

As far as impressionism goes, you're right that Chekhov didn't follow that school of writing. He wrote much more about the concrete than the subjective impressions of his characters. When he does write the impressions of a character, usually he does it for dramatic effect. There's rarely an instance where Chekhov describes a character's impressions merely for the sake of showing them.

I don’t think Tania enjoys life in the city at all. I think she greatly misses the countryside and Yegor.

Yeah, she suffers, but she suffers quietly. The narrative is very Kovrin-centric, and her feelings appear minimalized. We see Kovrin almost ecstatic taking up most of the story, and his wife in pain somewhere in the distant background. It sort of reminds me of a painting called The Funeral of Phocion which I won't post because I don't want to bombard everyone with images (you can google it if you want). The painting is dominated by people going about their business; meanwhile, the body of Phocion is being quietly led away. The painting is so focused on the benign people in the center that the death appears as just a detail at the very edge of the frame. Similarly, Tania's suffering is reduced to a detail by the focus on Kovrin's joy.

This has to be Kovrin’s megalomania coming to the fore again. A divine task that will last forever? It seems he’s associating himself with some divine aspect.

I mentioned this before, but I keep noticing how Faustian the black monk's argument is. He keeps insisting that Kovrin exchange almost everything he has for that chance at a divine purpose.

I think when he begins to doubt the monk, he begins his descent into true madness.

I thought you were saying that monk represented megalomania in Kovrin. Isn't megalomania madness?

I also think it’s interesting that Chekhov knew his objectivity regarding his characters made it harder on his readers, but offered no apologies for that. It does make it harder, but I like that. I like the fact that he doesn’t judge, but leaves it up to the reader to decide.

That's a good observation. His characters are objective portrayed, and that makes it difficult on the reader sometimes. Another problem the reader encounters is that they're also selectively portrayed. Certain key facts about them are withheld. For example, in this story we don't know anything about Kovrin's work. Since this is about genius, one would think that would be something Chekhov might talk about. Instead, he avoids the topic. We never know whether Kovrin was a genius or not. Sometimes Kovrin thinks he is, and other times he doesn't. Without knowing, though, the reader can't decide on the meaning of the story. If his work were important, then he shouldn't have been cured. But, if he was just a mediocre intellectual, then he probably shouldn't have listened to the monk. Without that information, though, it's impossible to know what Kovrin should have done.


I just noticed that, once again, I'm slow on posting text. I'm selecting another part of the story to post right now. I'll post it within the hour.

[Quark]

Anti, I replied to your last post above. This post will probably merged with that one anyway.

Here's most of section VIII:

"I believe it is time for you to have your milk," Tanya said to her husband.

"No, it is not time yet . . ." he said, sitting down on the bottom step. "Drink it yourself; I don't want it."

Tanya exchanged a troubled glance with her father, and said in a guilty voice:

"You notice yourself that milk does you good."

"Yes, a great deal of good!" Kovrin laughed. "I congratulate you: I have gained a pound in weight since Friday." He pressed his head tightly in his hands and said miserably: "Why, why have you cured me? Preparations of bromide, idleness, hot baths, supervision, cowardly consternation at every mouthful, at every step -- all this will reduce me at last to idiocy. I went out of my mind, I had megalomania; but then I was cheerful, confident, and even happy; I was interesting and original. Now I have become more sensible and stolid, but I am just like every one else: I am -- mediocrity; I am weary of life. . . . Oh, how cruelly you have treated me! . . . I saw hallucinations, but what harm did that do to any one? I ask, what harm did that do any one?"

"Goodness knows what you are saying!" sighed Yegor Semyonitch. "It's positively wearisome to listen to it."

"Then don't listen."

The presence of other people, especially Yegor Semyonitch, irritated Kovrin now; he answered him drily, coldly, and even rudely, never looked at him but with irony and hatred, while Yegor Semyonitch was overcome with confusion and cleared his throat guiltily, though he was not conscious of any fault in himself. At a loss to understand why their charming and affectionate relations had changed so abruptly, Tanya huddled up to her father and looked anxiously in his face; she wanted to understand and could not understand, and all that was clear to her was that their relations were growing worse and worse every day, that of late her father had begun to look much older, and her husband had grown irritable, capricious, quarrelsome and uninteresting. She could not laugh or sing; at dinner she ate nothing; did not sleep for nights together, expecting something awful, and was so worn out that on one occasion she lay in a dead faint from dinner-time till evening. During the service she thought her father was crying, and now while the three of them were sitting together on the terrace she made an effort not to think of it.

Before going to bed, Tanya said to him:

"Father adores you. You are cross with him about something, and it is killing him. Look at him; he is ageing, not from day to day, but from hour to hour. I entreat you, Andryusha, for God's sake, for the sake of your dead father, for the sake of my peace of mind, be affectionate to him."

"I can't, I don't want to."

"But why?" asked Tanya, beginning to tremble all over. "Explain why."

"Because he is antipathetic to me, that's all," said Kovrin carelessly; and he shrugged his shoulders. "But we won't talk about him: he is your father."

"I can't understand, I can't," said Tanya, pressing her hands to her temples and staring at a fixed point. "Something incomprehensible, awful, is going on in the house. You have changed, grown unlike yourself. . . . You, clever, extraordinary man as you are, are irritated over trifles, meddle in paltry nonsense. . . . Such trivial things excite you, that sometimes one is simply amazed and can't believe that it is you. Come, come, don't be angry, don't be angry," she went on, kissing his hands, frightened of her own words. "You are clever, kind, noble. You will be just to father. He is so good."

"He is not good; he is just good-natured. Burlesque old uncles like your father, with well-fed, good-natured faces, extraordinarily hospitable and queer, at one time used to touch me and amuse me in novels and in farces and in life; now I dislike them. They are egoists to the marrow of their bones. What disgusts me most of all is their being so well-fed, and that purely bovine, purely hoggish optimism of a full stomach."

Tanya sat down on the bed and laid her head on the pillow.

"This is torture," she said, and from her voice it was evident that she was utterly exhausted, and that it was hard for her to speak. "Not one moment of peace since the winter. . . . Why, it's awful! My God! I am wretched."

"Oh, of course, I am Herod, and you and your father are the innocents. Of course."

His face seemed to Tanya ugly and unpleasant. Hatred and an ironical expression did not suit him. And, indeed, she had noticed before that there was something lacking in his face, as though ever since his hair had been cut his face had changed, too. She wanted to say something wounding to him, but immediately she caught herself in this antagonistic feeling, she was frightened and went out of the bedroom.

[Quark]

I think the writing is very graceful, really.

Oh, definitely. The prose is graceful. It's just the transitions in Kovrin's mood that are not.

I was talking about foreshadowing in general. Lawrence will use a lot of it, I think, and his stories are character driven. No, we don’t get the characters' thoughts very often, but that adds to the dilemma of trying to decipher just what’s going on.

I agree with the part about Chekhov. Janine would probably have to decide on the part about Lawrence. I know the story we're reading right now in the L thread has a lot of foreshadowing. Who knows whether that's a constant trait, though?

I can see that, but Faust had a chance for redemption right up until the very end. I don’t see Kovrin as having many options. I don’t see him as having any, really. The bromides would eventually stop having any effectiveness at all.

Perhaps it's not as Faust-like as I though. It's just something about the black monk that reminded me of that story.

To me, not necessarily. I think a person can suffer some degree of megalomania and not be truly mad. Not need to be in a hospital, cared for, etc. I think many people can suffer some degree of megalomania and not hallucinate.

I suppose megalomania could be considered more of a personal weakness than an actual psychosis.