REMINISCENCES OF TCHEBHOV

BY ACTORS OF THE MOSCOW ART THEATRE* TRANSLATED BY S. S. KOTELIANSKP.

FROM THE TALK OF A. L. VISHNEVSKY.

ONCE in the autumn I arrived at Lubimovka, where Anton Tchekhov was spending a holiday. It was a Saturday, and he took me to hear the ringing of the church bells of a neigh- bouring village. The cupola of the church shone bright through the yellow leaves. He did not approve very much of the sound of that bell, and said that the only fine tone one could hear was in the Strastnoy Monastery in Moscow. And yet every Saturday he would come out, sit down on a bench and listen to the ringing of the bells.

" Tell me, Anton Pavlovich, why are you so fond of church bells ? " I asked.

He was silent for a while, glanced at the yellow foliage and said : " That is all that is left to me of religion."

* * * * Anton Pavlovich was fond of fishing. He usually did this in silence, in concentration and for hours on end. He would sit silent for a few hours and then suddenly : " London is a fine place ! " " Why London " I asked, wondering. " There you can go out into the street and preach a new religion. And nobody says a word to you."

On another occasion, when we sat fishing, after a silence lasting about three hours, he said with great conviction : " Listen, Artiom ought not to act in Ibsen's plays," and he was silent again. * * * * At Lubimovka Anton Pavlovich was waited on by Stanis- laysky's butler, Yegor. .

Anton used to tell him to give up that job : "Yegor, you must not remain a butler, it Is rotten work, you can read and write." At last Yegor gave notice and said he was not going to be a butler any longer. Tchekhov Jaughed happily at having succeeded in inducing Yegor to give up a degrading job.

* * * * FROM THE TALK OF K. S. §TANISLAVSKY.

I do not remember where and when -I male Tchekhov's acquaintance.

During the first period, that is, until the foundation of the Art Theatre, we met rarely-at dinner parties, in the theatre, at official receptions.

These meetings have left no trace in my memory. I only remember. these three occasions. One was at Souvorin's bookshop in Moscniv. Sonvorin was standing in the middle of the room and criticizing someone keenly. A gentleman, WwhomI did not ; know; in a top-hat and grey mackintosh, stood in a very respectful pose, holding in his hands a bundle of books he had just bought ; and Tchekhov, leaning on the counter, examined the bindings of the books spread. over it, and now and then interrupted Souvorin's harangue with short sentences, which were met by bursts of laughter.

The gentleman in the top-hat was funny : he would burst

* These reminiscences, recorded by L A. SoulerzhitSky, are taken from the volume Shipovnik, published in Petersburg, 1914. out_laughiug at Tchekhov's jokes and throw his bundle of books on the counter ; then, growing grave, he would pick up the bundle.,again and hold it tight. in his hands.

Tchekhov addressed himself to me with a kindly joke, but at that time I could not appreciate his humour.

I feel compelled to HOnfess that at that time Tchekhov seemed to me not very sympathetic.- He seemed to me proud, haughty and not without cunning. Whether it was because of his manner of throwing his head back (as a matter of fact, it was due to his short-sightedness • owing to his wearing pince-nez Ile found it more convenient to hold himself like that), or his habit of looking above the person he spoke to, or his manner of continually adjusting his pince-nez, I do not know, but I thought he was insincere and haughty. As I found out later, all this was due to his lovable shyness, which at that time I failed to recognize.

Another occasion was this. At Korsh's theatre in Moscow

a musical and literary soirée was being given in aid of the Literary Fund. For the first time I was to act in a real theatre, before a real audience, and I was very absorbed in myself. Deliberately, I left my overcoat, not behind the scenes, as actors are supposed to, but in the cloakroom of the pit. I thought I should catch Tchekhov's eyes among the curious eyes of the public which I was going to astonish. In reality what happened was something very different : I had to hurry away to escape being noticed. At that crucial moment my meeting with Tchekhov- took place. He came straight up to me and said with a friendly smile :—

" They say you are to act in my. play The Bear. Look here, do please play in it. I'll come to see you, and write a notice."

. After some silence, he added And get money for my notice—two shillings and six- pence."

I must confess I felt hurt that he did not speak of my performance. But now I remember his words with a feeling of gratitude, for probably Tchekhov wanted to encourage me with his joke, after my failure.

The setting of the third and last occasion of that period is as follows. The small crowded room of the editor of a well-known monthly. Many unfamiliar faces. Tchekhov's friend, an architect, showing the plan of a building for a theatre, tea rooms and reading rooms for the people. Timidly I said something about the plan from the. professional point of view. All , who were present listened attentively, Tchekhov alone walked about in the room, made everyone laugh and —frankly speaking—was in the way. That evening he appeared particularly lively : tall, strong, red-faced and smiling. At that time I did not know what it was that made him so happy. Now I know : he was happy because a useful and good work was being started in Moscow. And all his life long, afterwards, he was always happy when he was helping in something that made life better and seemlier.

" Look here, it is wonderful ! " he used to say on such occasions, and a childlike smile would light up his face.

* * * * The second period of my acquaintance with Tclickhov is full of recollections most dear to me.

In the spring of 1898 the Moscow Popular Art Theatre was founded. We found it hard to get partners for the new venture, for they did not expect • any success for it. But Tchekhov responded to the first appeal and became one of the partners. He was interested in all the details of our preparatory work and asked us to write to him frequently and in detail. He loved Moscow and wished to come there, but his illness kept him in Yalta, which place Tchekhov called the Devil's Island, comparing himself to Dreyfus. Above all he was interested in the repertory of the future theatre.

He objected most strongly to our production of his Seagull. After its failure in Petersburg, he regarded The. Seagull As a sick but favourite • child.

• Yet in August 1898 The Seagull was included in our reper- tory. I do not know how VI. Iv. Nemirovich-Danchenko had succeeded in periMading Tchekhov to consent to it.

I went away to the Kharkov province to prepare the mire en seine. It was a difficult task ; to my utter shame, !could not make out The Seagull. Only in the process of working on it, imperceptibly, I managed to get into the spirit of the play and unconsciously began to love it. This seems to me the

.

peculiarity of Tchekhov's plays ; once you yield to their fascination, you want to go on breathing their aroma.

From letters I received I very son learnt that Tchekhov eould not endure remaining in Yalta,'and that he had arrived

in Moscow. He probably arrived Were to see the rehearsals of The Seagull, which had begun by that time. He was greatly agitated. But by the time I returned to Moscow he had gone back ; the bad weather drove him away, and the rehearsals of The Seagull had to stop' for a. tithe. - - Then cable the anxious dayof the openiiig oftheArt-Theatre, and its premrious existence during the first two months. The affairs of the theatre xlid not run smoothly.- - With the excep- tion of Feodor Ranovich which: gave us full house's; nothing attracted the public.

All our hopes rested on Hauptmann's Hannele. But the Moscow Metropolitan -Bishop Vladimir considered that the play was not suitable;•rand we had to remove it from our repertory. ' - Our position thus became critical ; moreover we based no great hopes' on the financial success of The Seagull.

We all realized that the fate of our theatre depended on the success of Tchekhov's 'play. But there appeared a new diffi- culty, a new anxiety. On the eve of the performance, after the final rehearsal, Marie Tchekhov, Anton's sister, came to the theatre. She was very much upset by the news she had received from Yalta of her brother's health. The idea that The Seagull, in the present state of the author's health, might turn out a failure, drove her to despair and she was afraid of the risk we were taking. - We, too, felt alarmed and .began to talk about cancelling the performance, which was equivalent to closing the theatre:

It was not easy to pronounce-the death sentence on the theatre

and to let the players starve. But then, what would the partners say ? How would they regard such a decision ?

Our responsibilities to them were quite obvious. So at eight o'clock on the following evening the curtain rose. The theatre was not crowded. • How the first act passed off I do not know. I only remember this, that all the actors and -actresses smelt of valerian drops.

I remember that I felt terror-stricken when I sat, during Nina's monologue, with my- back to the audience, surreptitiously holding my leg which trembled nervously.

It seemed as though we were in for failure.

The curtain went down on a funereal silence. The artists pressed close to each other. In fright, trying to guess the impression which the act had made on the public. Silence of the grave. From behind the scenes the scene-shifters and carpenters tried to hear what was going on in the auditorium. Then came a cry ; Olga Knipper trying to suppress hysterical sobs. Silently we moved behind the scenes.

At that very moment the audience burst out into applause: Then the curtain went up. People say that we stood on the stage with our faces half turned to the audience, that we looked queer, that none of us thought of bowing to the public, and that one of us was even squatting on the floor. Evidently we were not aware of what was taking place.

The play was a tremendous success, and the mood on the stage was the festive, mood of Easter night. Everyone was embracing everyone else, not excepting members of the public, who rushed up behind the scenes. One of the artists was in hysterics ; many others, and myself among those, from joy and excitement, danced a wild dance.

Towards the end of the performance the audience requested that a telegram of congratulation should be sent to the author, From that evening .the relations between Anton Tchekho and the Art Theatre became intimate.

The first season was over, and now it was spring, the trees growing green. Together with the swallows Anton Tchekhov, too, migrated to the north. He settled in his sister's tiny flat in Moscow. A plain table in the middle of the room, a few chairs, couch, a box of books and notes ; in a word, only necessaries, nothing superfluous—this was the ordinary setting of

Tchekhov's improvised study. As time went on his room was adorned with a. few drawings by young,paintersgifted and simple. The subjects of the drawings, too, were simple ; Russian landscapes in the Levitan manner—little birch trees, a pond, a field,_a, farthouse.

Soon there eppeaNd small note-books on Tchekhov's tablc, There were lots of them. Tchekhov was busy then reading the proofs of his•stories, which had been scattered in forgotten. papers. He was preparing a new edition Of thein. -Reading his old stories again he laughed good-naturedly, and his deep baritone voice-rang out in the tiny flat.

In the room net to his study the samovar was puffin& and round the table visitors kept on changing, as in a kaleido-, i scope one.set arriving; the -other leaving. Here often sat the painter Levitan, the poet Bunin, VI. fy. Nem.-Danchenko, and our actors Vislmevsky, Schlerzhitakir and others.

Yid must not suppose that- with the success of The Seagull and a few years of friendship our meeting was apansiVe.. Anton Tchekhov just preased my hand more firmly than usual;and giVe me a sweet smile. He did not like a show of feeling, but I felt the need of it, for I had become an enthu- siastic admirer of his talent. It was difficult for me to regard' him in the same way. as I had regarded him before. I felt myself a little man in the presence of a celebrity. I wanted to be better and wiser than I was made by God, and therefore I picked my words, tried to speak of significant things, and must have resembled a psychopathic young lady in the presence of her idol. Anton Tchekhov saw it and felt per- plexed, and for years afterwards I could not establish simple relations with him. And it was just simple relations that Tchekhov above all wanted with people.

Besides, at that meeting, I could not conceal my impression of the fatal -change in him. His illness had wrought its crueli work on him. Perhaps the expression on my face frightened! Tchekhov ; but, left alone, we felt quite awkward. Happily, VI. Iv. Nemirovich-Danchenko came to the rescue, and we began to talk shop.

The business consisted in this, that we wanted Tchekhov to consent to our production of his Uncle Vanya.

" Why should you produce it ? Indeed, you ought not to do it ; I am not a playwright. And besides, I don't know your theatre," he said, and withheld his consent.

It was a stratagem on his part. He simply wanted to see The Seagull as performed by our theatre. We gave him that chance. As we had no permanent house then, we arranged to have a performance in the Nikitsky Theatre, without the public. Accordingly, our scenery was moved there.

The setting of an empty, unlit, damp theatre, with the seats removed, would have appeared not very suitable for stimulat- ing the artists and their sole spectator. Yet Tchekhov enjoyed the performance very much. Probably he had been missing the theatre very much in his involuntary exile. at Yalta.

. With almost childish delight he walked on the stage and went the round of all the dressing rooms. He loved the theatre not for its showy side, but from the inside.

- He liked the performance, but criticized several of the actors, and myself, among the others, for my acting of Trigorin.

" You act splendidly," he said, " but not my character. I did not write that."

" But what is wrong ? " I asked.

" He has striped trousers and boots out at heel."

That is the only explanation Tchekhov gave in answer to my persistent questions.

" He wears striped trousers and smokes a cigar like this ! " - I could not get more--from him. His remarks were always like that : brief and pictorial.

His remarks surprised one and became imprinted on the mind. Anton Tchekhov, as it were, proposed' chargds, of which you could not free your mind until you had guessed them.

That charade of his I guessed only six years later, at the second revival of The Seagull. Indeed, why did I act. Trigorin as a dandy, in white trousers and white shoes, " barn de mer " ? Was it because women fell in love with him ? But is that attire typical of a Russian author ? Of course, the point was not in the striped trousers, in the boots out at heel, and in the cigar. Nina Zarechnaya, who had swallowed Trigorin's shallow short stories, falls in love not with him, but with her maiden dream. Therein is the tragedy of the shot Seagull. Therein is the irony and the bitterness of life.

The acting of one of the parts Tchekhov condemned sternly, almost cruelly. It was difficult to imagine such sternness in a man of such rare gentleness. Tchekhov demanded that, the part should be taken away : he accepted no excuses, and threatened to stop the further production of the play. While the other parts were being discussed, he made friendly jokes about the defects of the performers ; but when it came to that other part he immediately changed the tone of his voice and was merciless.

" But, look here, you. must not. Yours is a seriqus work," he kept on saying. And that was the whole motive of his 'sternness.

In these words was also expressed his attitude to our theatre. He gave no compliments, no detailed criticisms, no encouragement.

Owing to the warm weather Tchekhov,spent all that spring in Moscow and used to come every day to our rehearsals. He tried to get to the very bottom of our work. He just wished to be in the atmosphere of the theatre and to chatter with the cheerful actors. He loved the theatre, but could not stand any banality in it. Banality made him either shrink painfully or run away from it, wherever it occurred. " I must be off, I have an appointment," and he would disappear and

run home to sit and think. A few days later, as if by a reflex action, he would utter an unexpected phrase characterizing the banality which had hurt him.,

" As a matter of prenceple," he suddenly said once, and burst into laughter. He remembered a tedious speech made by a fellow, not quite Russian, on the romance and fascination of Russian country life, and that fellow had pronounced the Word " prenceple " in his speech.

[These reminiscences will be continued in the Literary Supplements of the SPECTATOR. The next instalment Will appear in the issue of November 21st.]