Ivanov was written to commission, for Russia's first proper independent theatre. It opened in Moscow after Alexander III succumbed to the inevitable and abolished the Imperial Theatres monopoly on 24 March 1882. Before that date, privately run commercial theatres were simply banned in St Petersburg and Moscow. The Tsarist government aimed to control every aspect of Russian life, from the production and consumption of vodka to the plays and operas staged in its two main cities, perceiving almost that the very idea of a theatre run by its subjects was politically subversive. The Imperial Theatres Directorate was like any other government ministry, full of bureaucrats and pen-pushers pursuing a highly conservative programme. Actors also became state employees. If serfdom had held back Russian society from entering the modern world, the ossified routines of the Imperial Theatres prevented Russian drama from becoming a vibrant art form. Censorship was not abolished along with the monopoly, of course, but it was a start. Fyodor Korsh, a trained lawyer, had a theatre up and running in central Moscow just six months later. That brought the number of drama theatres in Moscow to a grand total of two (a third theatre, which established itself in the 1880s, devoted itself to vaudeville and cheap spectacle). Along with the Bolshoi (grand) Theatre, Moscow's home for opera and ballet, the Imperial Theatres continued to run the Maly (little) Theatre next door, where classical Russian drama remained the staple fare. The Maly staged about 180 performances each season: now it had to contend with a competitor. Korsh had his work cut out, since most of the 700,000-strong population in Moscow had not yet acquired the habit of going to the theatre. The Imperial Theatres never had to worry about shortfalls in their budget, but Korsh had to make a profit in order to survive.
Because theatre was still such an elitist pursuit in the 1880s, Korsh almost bankrupted himself in the early years, despite the fact that he had no permanent troupe on the payroll. But in 1885 he took over a splendid new theatre, built in the pseudo-Russian style, and began to hold his own. His next shrewd move was to commission the 27-year-old
(Chekhov to write a play. This did not come about because of Korsh's artistic judgement, which was not particularly refined, but because he wanted humorous plays in his repertoire. At this point Chekhov still enjoyed a reputation as a comic writer, and when he started criticizing Korsh's latest flimsy production, he was challenged to do better. The budding playright's enthusiasm for the project can be gauged from the lact that he wrote it in ten days flat at the end of September 1887, having hung a notice on his door saying 'very busy'. On 9 October the Petersburg newspaper New Times reported that Chekhov had written a four-act comedy; on 2 November the play was submitted to the censor, and on 19 November it was performed in public after only four rehearsals.
Because there were only two theatres producing serious drama in Moscow, a first night was a major event. Every member of the small world which made up the literary and theatrical intelligentsia in Moscow wanted to see Chekhov's play, particularly when they discovered that Vladimir Davydov, Russia's most distinguished actor, was going to play the lead. The three performances of Ivanov did not deliver what the audiences were expecting (a lightweight comedy) and they caused a furore. Here was a play which seemed to be subverting conventions at the same time as it was
pandering to them. Even friends like Levitan and Shekhtel were confounded, and Chekhov's sister almost fell into a faint. One cantankerous writer reported to Nikolai Leikin in Petersburg that he could not understand why such 'terrible rubbish' was called a comedy, since the main character was a complete scoundrel, and, furthermore, the author seemed to sympathize with him: how outrageous!45 Russian actors and Russian audiences were not used to ambiguity in their theatrical productions. Decades of conventional stagings at the Imperial Theatres had led to a situation where roles, costumes and sets were all clear-cut and very predictable. It was fine when Chekhov then went on to write the one-act farces that were to prove huge money-spinners for him (his next play for the Korsh Theatre was The Bear, which became a runaway success from its first performance on 26 October 1888), but the Russian public needed to be initiated before it could appreciate the audacious novelty of Chekhovian drama. Against this background, the innovations introduced later by the Moscow Art Theatre seem all the more remarkable.
The year 1888 had been an annus mirabilis for Chekhov. A few months after his official literary debut with 'The Steppe' that March, the second edition of his third short story collection appeared, having been published the previous summer: in October In the Twilight went on to be awarded the Pushkin Prize by the Academy of Sciences. His popularity as a playwright was also left in no doubt when The Bear was given its Moscow premiere that same month. Chekhov seemed unstoppable. When a revised version of Ivanov was staged with great success by the Imperial Theatres in St Petersburg a few months later, it seemed that 1889 was also going to be a good year. In truth, everything had begun to unravel for Chekhov, much as it did for the central character in his most important work of fiction that year, a work misleadingly entitled in English translation A Boring Story'. The word skuchno does indeed imply boredom, but it also variously implies sadness, desolation, gloom, despondency, yearning … all of which Chekhov experienced in 1889 as his brother Nikolai grew seriously ill and then died. Chekhov had started a new full-length drama entitled The Wood Demon, and bravely managed to complete it at the end of the year. After it had been rejected by the Imperial Theatres, it was finally staged at the very end of December by a small commercial theatre in Moscow, but it was massacred in the press. Chekhov was deeply stung, and five years would pass before he sat
down to write another play. Only after he had written The Seagull did he start work on revising The Wood Demon: the result was Uncle Vanya.
The vicissitudes of 1889 plunged Chekhov into a deep malaise that ultimately galvanized him into taking some drastic action. By conceiving the idea of travelling across Siberia to study the penal colony on the remote island of Sakhalin, he would at once satisfy his thirst for adventure and fulfil his vision of carrying out work that would be of some practical benefit to humanity. A few months after the fiasco of The Wood Demon, the weeks before his departure were full of activity as he carried out research and made preparations for the journey. He was thus already mentally elsewhere when he read a derogatory reference to him in Russian Thought just before he left. Russian Thought was the only serious literary journal in Moscow, and enjoyed a reputation as a bastion of liberalism. It could also be very dogmatic and self-righteous, however, and took exception to Chekhov's lack of overt ideological commitment in his writing. Such petty-minded carping was precisely what had plunged Chekhov into gloom in the first place, and made him want to escape. Incensed, he fired off a furious letter to its publisher. It was one of the most powerful letters he ever wrote in his life, its length alone speaking volumes about how closely he took to heart such aspersions on his character:
On page 147 in the book review section of the March edition of Russian Thought, I came across the following phrase: 'As recently as yesterday, even the High Priests of unprincipled writing such as Messrs Yasinsky and Chekhov, whose names . . .' etc., etc. I appreciate that it is not usually done to respond to criticism, but this is not criticism, it is libel, pure and simple. I might have been inclined to pass over even libel, but since I shall be leaving Russia in a few days' time, perhaps never to return, I could not leave this calumny unanswered.
I have never been an unprincipled writer, nor – what amounts to the same thing – a scoundrel.
It is true that my entire literary career has consisted of an unbroken series of mistakes, sometimes grievous ones, but the explanation for this lies in the limitations of my talent and has nothing whatsoever to do with whether I am a good or a bad person. I have never blackmailed anyone, nor have I ever libelled or denounced anyone. I have eschewed flattery,
lies and insults. In short, while there are many of my stories and leading articles I should be happy to throw out as worthless, I am not now ashamed of a single line. I must assume that by 'unprincipled' you are referring to the sad fact that I, an educated man whose work is often seen in print, have done nothing for those I love; my activities have left no trace on, for example, the zemstvo, the new law courts, the freedom of the press, freedom in general, and so on. If such is indeed the case, then I can only say that Russian Thought ought to regard me as a comrade in arms rather than the butt of its accusations, since in these respects it has done no more than I have.
