PREVIEW： Chronicles #31 ｜ The Seagull
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Summary
Anton Chekhov is one of the most influential playwrights of the 20th century, not only in Russian literature, but also in the history of Russian theatre, and in particular, his play, The Seagull.
Transcript
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Hello, and welcome to this episode of Chronicles, where today we're going to be talking all about
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The Seagull by Anton Chekhov. Now, I have been really looking forward to getting into Chekhov
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for quite some time, not only because he is undoubtedly one of the most important writers
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to ever exist. In some ways, there is theatre and acting and writing before Chekhov, and there is
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theatre and acting and writing after Chekhov. He was a truly transformative writer, and I wanted to
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start with The Seagull, though it isn't his first play. His first play is Ivanov. I wanted to do
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The Seagull, which is his second major play, because as well as being a fantastic play,
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the history of the play itself is as interesting as a play. And so I think that by talking about
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The Seagull, we'll have a great deal to discuss. But before we start talking about the play itself,
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let's just talk a little bit about Chekhov, shall we? So Anton Chekhov was born in 1860,
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and he died in 1904 due to complications of terrible health and TB and respiratory illnesses,
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blessing, at the age of 44. But in that span of his life, he left, as I say, an indelible impression,
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not only on Russian culture, Russian literature, Russian theatre, but would go on to have, I think,
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an influence that even he didn't quite anticipate on theatre and acting throughout the West. And we'll
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discuss that a little bit more in due time. But he had a very interesting upbringing as well.
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His father was a grocer. Chekhov was born at a seaport town on the Sea of Azov in the Russian Empire,
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and his father was a grocer. His mother had travelled quite a lot as a young woman due to her father's
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trade. And Chekhov's grandfather had actually been a serf. Obviously, at the time when Chekhov was born
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in 1860, serfdom was still around in the Russian Empire, and his grandfather had actually been able
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to buy his way out of serfdom back in 1840. And so over the course of Chekhov's somewhat shortened
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life, there was a great deal of change and mobility in Russia itself, not only socially, culturally,
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but of course, as we know, and it's not something that Chekhov himself will live through to see,
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but obviously you have the Russian Revolution as well just on the horizon. Now, on this particular
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occasion, I think it makes more sense to front load this particular episode of Chronicles with the
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some history of Russian theatre, as opposed to what we were talking about a few episodes ago
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with writers such as Lope de Vega, you know, born in the 1500s, and one of the titans of the Spanish
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golden age of literature, writing through the 1500s, early 1600s. Of course, in England, you had
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Shakespeare and Marlowe. In France, you had playwrights, you know, going into the 16th and,
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sorry, the 17th and 18th centuries, such as Racine and Molière. My point with this is that all of these
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different Western European countries, they all grew a very, very organic style and character
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with their theatres, you know, they could point to playwrights that were their possession, that
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their own, that were part of their heritage, particular to them, their countries, and their people.
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But actually, Russia, by comparison, was rather late to the game with all of this.
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Pre-17th century, there was no real formal theatre. There was, of course, entertainment,
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but it was very much in the manner that you would expect when you were talking about England,
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say, in the 1400s. We were still looking at folk performers and travelling theatres and
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jesters and musicians and things like that. And of course, all sorts of religious plays and
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rituals that come from Russian heritage. But in terms of a great number of playwrights and writers,
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of course, they were, as I say, a little bit slow off the start. The change really began in Russia
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in about 1702, when Peter the Great basically ordered for the creation of a public theatre
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and so that he could watch comedy. And this was set up in the Red Square in Moscow. And after that,
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of course, once the king sets the trend and that becomes the fashion, of course, many other places
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were doing it throughout the Russian Empire as well. But obviously, as with everywhere in Europe at the
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time, there was a great deal of censorship in terms of what could be performed and what couldn't
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and what speech could even be heard in the public place. And obviously, one of the other things to
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say is that Russia went on to really take into its heart and its own sense of identity ballet. And ballet
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came to Russia in about 1741. And from there, that was one of the great versions of art and
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entertainment throughout the empire. But in terms of the 19th century, you know, by this point,
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all very well established in Europe by this point. But in Russia, the 19th century in terms of its
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literature is probably, for the most part, defined by the novels, right? When we think of Russian
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literature, probably the names that will, you know, most instantly come to your mind are those from that
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period, you know, people like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and Turgenev, and ultimately, these great,
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famous Russian novelists. By comparison, a lot of the theatre that was being performed in Russia
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during the 19th century was melodramas and, you know, versions of other European, you know,
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types of theatre, performances of Moliere and Shakespeare. And so there was a shallower sense
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of Russian identity in theatre than there was perhaps in other aspects of its literary pedigree.
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And Chekhov was one of the great writers, and he was very frustrated by how stuck in its ways
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the Russian theatre scene was. He wanted innovation, he wanted to build it a character of its own that
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spoke to contemporary Russian society. And so it's very customary with this view to see all sorts of
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characters in Chekhov's plays from all social backgrounds in Russian society. He was someone
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who wanted to chronicle the moment, that moment in history in Russia. He wanted to grab it by the
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horns and really say something about it. And I have a quote from him here, which I think is worth sharing
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The people I fear are the ones who look for tendentiousness between the lines and are so
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determined to see me as either liberal or conservative. I am neither liberal nor conservative,
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nor gradualist nor monk. I would like to be a free artist, and regret God has not given me the
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strength to be one. I hate lies and violence in all their forms. Phariseeism, dull-wittedness and
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tyranny reign not only in merchants' homes and police stations, but in science and literature among the
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younger generation. That is why I cultivate no predilection for policemen, scientists, writers,
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or the younger generation. I look upon tags and labels as prejudices. My holy of holies is a human
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body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom from violence
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and lies. And so there are a few things in that quote that I actually just want to draw out. The first
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of all is that when Chekhov says God has not given him the strength to be a free artist, this is something
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that we will see very, very prevalent in The Seagull as well. It's one of the anxieties about the
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character of Trigorin. And we also see as well this need to drive beyond the rigid and seemingly immovable
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tastes of Russian society at the time. This desire to create something genuinely new and innovative
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is the animating principle of what I would think is the main character of the piece, Constantine.
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And so we'll see how those two things clash once we've been through the story. Which, speaking of,
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I suppose now is a good time to talk you through the story of The Seagull.
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Our story begins on a summer evening at a grand estate in the Russian countryside. It borders a
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beautiful lake and the play's characters are already beginning to gather around a makeshift stage
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for the performance of Konstantin Treplev's new play. A school teacher named Medvedenko accompanies
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Masher, the daughter of the estate's manager, and the two engage in a tense conversation about
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unrequited love. Why do you always wear mourning? I dress in black to match my life. I am unhappy.
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Why should you be unhappy? I don't understand it. You are healthy, and though your father is not rich,
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he has a good competency. My life is far harder than yours. I only have 23 rubles a month to live on,
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but I don't wear mourning. Happiness does not depend on riches. Poor men are often happy.
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In theory, yes, but not in reality. Take my case, for instance. My mother, my two sisters,
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my little brother and I must all live somehow on my salary of 23 rubles a month. We have to eat and
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drink, I take it. You wouldn't have us go without tea and sugar, would you? Or tobacco. Answer me that,
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if you can. The play will soon begin. Yes. Nina Zarechnia is going to act in Treplev's play.
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They love one another, and their two souls will unite tonight in the effort to interpret the same
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idea by different means. There is no ground on which your soul and mine can meet. I love you.
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Too restless and sad to stay at home. I tramp here every day, six miles and back to be met only by your
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indifference. I am poor. My family is large. You can have no inducement to marry a man who cannot even
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find sufficient food for his own mouth. Soon, Constantine and Soren arrive. The young playwright
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is anxious and grave, not only because his lead actress Nina is late, but also because his mother
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will be attending the performance. She is a renowned actress throughout the Russian Empire,
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and Constantine yearns for her approval. My mother is a psychological curiosity. Without doubt, brilliant
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and talented, capable of sobbing over a novel or reciting all necrosolves of poetry by heart,
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and of nursing the sick like an angel of heaven. I love my mother. I love her devotedly, but I think
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she leads a stupid life. She always has this man of letters of hers on her mind, and the newspapers are
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always frightening her to death, and I am tired of it. Plain human egoism sometimes speaks in my heart,
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and I regret that my mother is a famous actress. If she were an ordinary woman, I think I should be
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a happier man. What could be more intolerable and foolish than my position, uncle, when I find myself
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the only non-entity among a crowd of her guests, all celebrated authors and artists? I feel that they
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only endure me because I am her son. Personally, I am nothing, nobody. I pulled through my third
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year at college by the skin of my teeth, as they say. I have neither money nor brains, and on my
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passport you may read that I am simply a citizen of Kiev. So was my father, but he was a well-known actor.
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When the celebrities that frequent my mother's drawing room deem to notice me at all, I know they only look
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at me to measure my insignificance. I read their thoughts and suffer from humiliation.
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The stakes are high. To Constantine's relief, a flustered Nina finally arrives, apologising for
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being late. Her father and stepmother disapprove of her acting, so she had to wait until she could slip
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away from her home across the lake. Constantine kisses his leading lady, Nina, with whom he is
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passionately in love, the only uncomplicated joy in his life. Moments later, his mother, Irina Arkadina,
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arrives with her lover, Boris Trigorin, one of the most esteemed novelists in all Russia. When everyone
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is gathered, the play begins. Nina plays the spirit of the universe, speaking with omniscient distance
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from an age long after the extinction of the human race. She recounts her struggle against Satan,
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and her inevitable triumph after the passage of innumerable eons, when even the stars perish into
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dust. The performance is not to the taste of some of the spectators, least of all Constantine's mother,
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who considers her son a foolish young man wasting his time. Humiliated, Constantine storms off.
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With the play ending prematurely, Nina announces her intention to return home quickly.
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She is distraught that she cannot stay, as she is dazzled by the high-class guests,
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and the company of celebrated figures such as Trigorin. It was a curious play, wasn't it?
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Very. I couldn't understand it at all, but I watched it with the greatest pleasure,
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because you acted with such sincerity, and the setting was beautiful. There must be a lot of fish
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in this lake. Yes, there are. I love fishing. I know of nothing pleasanter than to sit on a
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lake shore in the evening with one's eye on a floating cork. Why, I should think that for one
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who has tasted the joys of creation, no other pleasure could exist. Don't talk like that. He
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always begins to flounder when people say nice things to him. Nina departs. Constantine returns,
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his eyes red with the evidence of tears. Dr. Dawn assures him that he has great potential,
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and that there was a real craft and beauty in his work. Constantine withdraws in solitude.
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Act 1 ends with Masha confiding in Dawn that she loves Constantine, and that is why she is unhappy.
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Act 2 begins some weeks after. Our cast of characters languidly lie in the clement weather.
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Nina is with them, as her parents have gone away for a few days. They all talk and philosophise,
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but Constantine is not amongst them. He is found by Nina, and to her alarm and confusion,
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the young writer drops a dead seagull at her feet. I was base enough today to kill this gull. I lay it
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at your feet. What is happening to you? So shall I soon end my own life? You have changed so that I
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failed to recognise you. Yes, I have changed since the time when I ceased to recognise you.
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You have failed me. Your look is cold. You do not like to have me near you. You have grown so
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irritable lately, and you talk so darkly and symbolically that you must forgive me if I fail
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to follow you. I am too simple to understand you. All this began when my play failed so dismally.
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A woman can never forgive failure. I have burnt the manuscript to the last page. You say you are too
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simple to understand me. But oh, what is there to understand? You dislike my play. You have no
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faith in my powers. You already think of me as commonplace and worthless as many are.
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He sees Trigorin, who approaches, reading a book. Ah, there comes real genius, striding along like
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another hamlet, and with a book too. Ooh, words, words, words. You feel the warmth of that sun already.
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You smile. Your eyes melt and glow liquid in its rays. I shall not disturb you.
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Trigorin shall be leaving shortly, never to see Nina again. He laments his shortcomings as a writer,
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and how he doesn't understand young women. I should like to change places with you, if but for an hour,
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to look out at the world through your eyes, and so find out what sort of a little person you are.
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And I should like to change places with you. Why? To find out how a famous genius feels.
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What is it like to be famous? What sensations does it give you? But Trigorin does not enjoy his fame.
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I see nothing especially lovely about it. Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting
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thought. To write, write, write. Hardly have I finished one book. Then someone urges me to write
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another. And then the third, and then the fourth. I write ceaselessly. Oh, it is a wild life. Even now,
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thrilled as I am by talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me.
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My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano. I instantly make a mental
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note that I must remember to mention in my story. A cloud floating by that looks like a grand piano.
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I smell heliotrope. I mutter to myself. A sickly smell. The colour worn by widows. I must remember that
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in writing my next description of a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence of yours, or of my
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own, and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary storeroom, thinking that someday they may
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be useful to me. As soon as I stop working, I rush off to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope that
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I may find oblivion there. But no. Some new subject for a story, sure to come rolling through my brain
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like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling, and have to go back to it, and begin to write,
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write, write once more. And so it goes for everlasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am
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consuming my life. To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from
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my dearest flowers, to tear them from their stems, and trample the roots that bore them underfoot.
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The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my writing.
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A young author, especially if at first he does not succeed, feels clumsy, ill at ease, and superfluous
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in the world. His nerves are all on edge, and stretched to the point of breaking. He is irresistibly
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attracted, to literary and artistic people, and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed,
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fearing to look them bravely in the eye like a man with a passion for gambling, whose money is
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all gone. But don't your inspiration and the act of creation give you moments of lofty happiness?
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Yes, writing is a pleasure to me, and so is reading the proofs, but no sooner does a book leave the press
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then it becomes odious to me. It is not what I meant it to be, I made a mistake to write it at all.
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I am provoked and discouraged. Then the public reads it and says,
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Yes, it is clever and pretty, but not nearly as good as Tolstoy, or
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It is a lovely thing, but not as good as Turgenev's fathers and sons, and so it will always be.
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To my dying day I shall hear people say, clever and pretty and nothing more.
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Then when I am gone, those that knew me will say as they pass my grave,
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Here lies Tregorin, a clever writer, but who was not as good as Turgenev.
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You must excuse me, but I decline to understand what you are talking about.
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The fact is, you have been spoiled by your success.
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What success have I had? I have never pleased myself. As a writer, I do not like myself at all.
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I love this lake, these trees, the blue heaven. Nature's voice speaks to me and wakes a feeling
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of passion in my heart, and I am overcome by an uncontrollable desire to write.
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But I am not only a painter of landscapes. I am a man of the city besides. I love my country too,
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and her people. I feel that, as a writer, it is my duty to speak of their sorrows, of their future,
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also a science, of the rights of man, and so forth. So I write on every subject, and the public hounds
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me on all sides, sometimes in anger, and I race and dodge like a fox with a pack of hounds on his trail.
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I see life and knowledge flitting away before me. I am left behind them like a peasant,
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who has missed his train at a station. And finally, I come back to the conclusion that all I am fit for
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is to describe landscapes, and that whatever else I attempt rings abominably false.
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You work too hard to realise the importance of your writings. What if you are discontented with
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yourself? To others, you appear a great and splendid man. If I were a writer like you,
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I should devote my whole life to the service of the Russian people, knowing at a time that their
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welfare depended on their power to rise to the heights I had attained. And the people should send
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me before them in a chariot of triumph. In a chariot? Do you think I am Agamemnon?
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Tregorin is inspired by her innocence, and begins to imagine a new novel. A young girl grows up on the
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shores of a lake as you have. She loves the lake as the gulls do, and is as happy and free as they.
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But a man sees her who chances to come that way, and he destroys her out of idleness,
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as this gull here has been destroyed. Weeks pass once more as we enter the third act. In the interim,
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Constantine has failed in a suicide attempt. He challenges Tregorin to a duel, embittered by
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Nina's blooming infatuation towards him. Soren pleads with Irina to give the boy some money,
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so that he can have some good clothes and possibly go abroad to experience some pleasure and adventure.
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But Irina insists that she has no money, and Soren suddenly collapses due to ongoing health problems,
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and is carried away to lie down. Irina then refreshes her son's bandages,
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and Constantine reflects on the miseries of his life. He believes that he has more talent than anyone
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he knows, and he despises Tregorin for his status as the lover of his mother, his fame as a writer,
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and his winning over of Nina. Nina has been inspired by Tregorin, and asks him whether he believes that
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she has the talent to become a successful actress in her own right. She leaves a coded message for the
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great man, which he figures out to mean, if ever my life is of use to you, come and take it. With swift
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clarity, Tregorin realises that he is in love. Irina is not impressed, as she manipulatively attempts to
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persuade her celebrity lover to stay with her, and it seems that Tregorin relents. But as the carriage
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is about to depart, Tregorin returns inside, under the pretence of getting his cane, but inside he
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sees Nina, and she tells him that she wants to go with him, to experience the wonders of the city,
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and wholeheartedly commit herself to a pursuit of acting. They agree to the plan, and seal it with an
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impassioned kiss. But Irina returns from the carriage, and tells Tregorin that they will not be leaving
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after all. Our final act begins two years on, and Masha and Medveenko are now wed and have a baby.
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It is not a happy marriage, as the husband was hardly Masha's first choice, and he is an irrepressibly
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dull man. Soren is even weaker than before, and though Konstantin has managed to have a few short stories
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published, he remains gravely depressed. Nina was left to tour with a second-rate theatre group,
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and Tregorin, whom she worshipped, left her to return to Irina. Her dreams of fame and fortune came
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to nothing. The company retires to a drawing room, save for Konstantin, who is visited unexpectedly by Nina.
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Laying her head on his chest and stifling her sobs, she says,
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I was afraid you might hate me. I dream every night that you look at me without recognising me.
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I have been wandering about on the shores of the lake ever since I came back.
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I have often been near your house, but I have never had the courage to come in.
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Let us sit down and talk our hearts out. It's so quiet and warm in here. Do you hear the wind
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whistling outside? As Turgenev says, happy is he who can sit at night under the roof of his home,
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who has a warm corner in which to take refuge. I am a seagull, and yet…
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No. What was I saying? Oh yes, Turgenev. He says, and God help all houseless wanderers.
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It is all right. I shall feel better after this. I have not cried for two years. I went into the garden
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last night to see if our old theatre was still standing. I see it is. I wept there for the first
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time in two years, and my heart grew lighter and my soul saw more clearly again. See? I am not crying
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now. So? You are an author now. And I am an actress. We have both been sucked into the whirlpool. My life
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used to be as happy as a child's. I used to wake singing in the morning. I loved you and dreamt of fame.
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And what is the reality? Tomorrow morning early I must start for Elts by train in a third-class carriage
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with a lot of peasants. And at Elts the educated tradespeople would pursue me with compliments.
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It is a rough life. Why are you going to Elts? I have accepted an engagement there for the winter.
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It is time for me to go. Nina, I have cursed you and hated you and torn up your photograph,
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and yet I have known every minute of my life that my heart and soul were yours forever.
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To cease from loving you is beyond my power. I have suffered continually from the time I lost
00:27:15.580
you and began to write, and my life has been almost unendurable. My youth was suddenly plucked from me
00:27:22.060
then, and I seem now to have lived in this world for ninety years. I have called out to you. I have kissed the
00:27:28.940
ground you walked on. Wherever I looked, I have seen your eyes before me and the smile that had illuminated
00:27:35.500
me for the best years of my life. Constantine pleads for Nina to stay, but she tells him that after all
00:27:43.180
her ill fortune, she is at once hopeful for the future again. That she feels the joy of the stage,
00:27:50.380
and that her acting is improving. You have found your way. You know where you are going. But I am still
00:27:55.820
groping in the chaos of phantoms and dreams, not knowing whom and what end I am serving by at all.
00:28:01.740
I do not believe in anything, and I do not know what my calling is.
00:28:06.300
Hush. Hush. I must go. Goodbye. When I have become a famous actress, you must come and see me.
00:28:17.100
It is late. I can hardly stand. I am fainting. I am hungry.
00:28:22.460
Stay in. Let me bring you some supper. No. No. And don't come out. I can find the way alone.
00:28:29.340
My carriage is not far from here. So she brought him back with her. However,
00:28:35.740
what difference can that make to me? Don't tell Tregoran anything when you see him.
00:28:41.500
I love him. I love him. I love him even more than I used to. It is an idea for a short story. I love him.
00:28:49.340
I love him passionately. I love him to despair. Have you forgotten, Constantine?
00:28:55.500
How pleasant the old times were. What a gay, bright, gentle, pure life we led.
00:29:02.220
How a feeling as sweet and tender as a flower blossomed in our hearts.
00:29:07.020
There is nothing Constantine can say. And Nina weakly leaves, ready to move on with her life.
00:29:13.180
Constantine is despondent. He methodically tears up his manuscripts and works before going outside,
00:29:21.740
just as the other characters return to the room to play more games for the evening.
00:29:26.380
But they all panic when they hear the sound of a gunshot.
00:29:29.500
What was that? Nothing at all. Probably one of my medicine bottles has blown up. Don't worry.
00:29:36.620
He goes out through the door on the right and comes back in a few moments.
00:29:40.540
It is as I thought. A flask of ether has exploded. Spellbound once more, I stand before thee.
00:29:48.620
Oh heavens, I was really frightened. That noise reminded me of...
00:29:53.900
Everything is black before my eyes. There was an article from America in this magazine about two months ago
00:29:59.900
that I wanted to ask you about, among other things. Dawn leads Trigoran away from the others.
00:30:05.740
I am very much interested in this question. You must take Madame Arkadina away from here.
00:30:12.140
What I wanted to say was that Constantine has shot himself.
00:30:16.940
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