CHAPTER. XXXIV

T}IE SDAGTILL ''

HAVE already said that after my first acquaintance withChekhov's " Seagull " I did not understand the essence, the

Aroma, the beauty of his play. I wrote the tnise en scine, and

still I did not understand, 4 wn\o myself, I had appar-

ently felt its substance. lWhcn I directed tlrt pla! I still did not under-

stand it. But some of\ the inner threads of /he play attracted me,

although I did not notice\evolution thp.r6d taken place in me.

The r6le of the fashionableT?fiEi Trigorin, the literary antipode

of tlre talented Treplev who is his rival in the love of Nina Zarechnaya,

the heroine of the play, a youlg, naive, provincial girl, was somehow

beyond my powcrs. Yet nevertheless I was in the play, I was bound

to it innerly, and together with the other actors sincerely gave myselfup to the mood that was being created on the stage. The Chekhov

mood is that cave in which are kept all the unseen and$@ffiaUi"

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treasures ot Lnsciousness. This cave is that vessel in which.js_hldjlen the gteat riches

gf Chekhov.. One muqt know hqtillU6nd the place where*it is hiddgn;

one must be able to find the vessel itself, that is, the mood; one must

know how

hov's art so uncscapable. Apparently there are many ryays to the

- hidden riches, to the entrance into the soul of the Flay, the r6les and

them.

Nemirovich-Danchenko and I approached the hidden riches each

in his own way, Vladirnir Ivanovich by the literary road and I by the

road of the actor, the road of images. Vladimir Ivanovich spoke oflsszl

the ree,ings which;":"i: "::':":::,:;;, and,he r6,es Icould not speak of them and preferred to illustrate them. When Ientered into a debate of words I was not understood and I was not

persuasive. When I mounted the stage and showed what I was talkingabout, I became understandable and eloquent. True, often these variedapproaches to the play interfered with the work and the rehearsals and

caused long discussions which passed from debates of a detail todebates about principles, from the r6le to the play, from the play toart, from art to its fundamentals. There were even quarrels, but these

quarrels were always of artistic origin and they were more useful thau

dangerous. They taught us that very ess€nce which we seemed toforeknow in its general outlines, but not in concrete, systematic and

clear rules. We seemed to be digging tunnels from two opposite sides

towards one central point. Little by little we approached each other Inow only a thin wall separated us; now the wall was broken and we

could easily pass from the literary to the artistic and unite them forthe general procession of the actors along the way that we had found.

Once we found that inner line of the play, which we could not define

in words at that time, everything became comprehensible of itself notonly to the actors and the stage directors, but to the artist and the

electrician and the coshtmier and all the other co-creators of the pro-duction. Along this line of inner action, which Chekhov has in a

gTeater degree than any other dramatist, although until this time onlyactors are aware of it, there was formed a natural force of gravitytowards the play itself, which pulled all of us in one direction. Muchwas correctly guessed by the interpreter of the play, Nemirovich-Danchenko, much by the stage directors, the mise efl scAnc, the inter-preters of the roles (with the exception of myself), the scenic artist,and the properties.

Simov understood my plans and purpose of stage direction andbegan to help me marvelously towards the creation of the mood. Onthe very forestage, right near the footlights, in direct opposition to all

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MY LIFE IN ARTthe accepted laws and customs of the theatre of that time, almost allthe persons in the play sat on a long swinging bench characteristic ofRussian country estates, with their backs to the public. This bench,placed in a line with some tree stumps that remained from a destroyedforest, bordered an alley set with century-old trees that stood at ameasured distance from each other. In the spaces between theirtrunks, which seemed mysterious in the darkness of night, thereshowed something in the forrn of a proscenium that was closed fromsight by a large white sheet. This was the open-air theatre of theunsuccessful and unacknowledged Treplev. The scenery and. proper-ties of this theatre are poor and modest. But listen to the essence ofhis art and you find that it is a complete grammar for the actor ofto-day. Treplev speaks of real art in the midst of night, amidst thetrees of a damp and ancient park, waiting for the rising of the moon.Meanwhile from the distance there comes the trivial racket of a fash-ionable and tasteless waltz that changes at times to an even more taste-less but melodious Gipsy song played by Treplev's mother, a provincialactress. The tragedy is self-evident. can the provincial motherunderstand the complex longings of her talented son ? It is not at allamazing that he runs away from the house to the park so often.

To the accompaniment of tasteless conversation and jokes, thedomestic spectators take their olaces on the long bench and the treestumps, their backs to the public, very much like sparrows on a tele-graph line. The moon rises, the sheet falls, one sees the lake, its sur-face broken with the silver gleams of the moon. on a high eminencethat resembles the base of a monument, sits a grief-stricken femalefigure wrapped in manifold white, but with eyes that are young andshining and cannot be grief-stricken. This is Nina Zarechnaya in thecosturne of World Grief, the long train of which, like the tail of asnake, is stretched over grass and undergrowth. The wide cloth wasa courageous gesture on the part of the artist, a gesture of deep con-

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THE SEAGULL"tents and beautiful generalized form. How talented is this Treplev

with the soul of Chekhov and a true comprehension of art.

Nina Zarechnaya is the cause of the failure of Treplev's talented

play. She is not an actress, although she dreams of being one so as

to earn the love of the worthless Trigorin. She does not understand

what she is playing. She is too young to unclerstand the deep gloom

of the soul of Treplev. She has not yet suffered enough to perceive

the eternal tragedy of the rvorld. She must first fall in love with the

scoundrelly l-ovelace Trigorin and give hinr all that is beautiful in

woman, give it to him in vain, at an accidental meeting in some low

inn. - The youns and beautiful life is deformed and killed just as

meaninglessly as the beautiful white seagull was killed by Treplev

- because of nothing to do. Poor Nina, before understanding the-depTlT-

of what she is playing, must bear a chiid in secret, must suffer hunger

and privation many years, dragging herself through the lower depths

of all the provincial theatres, must come to know the scoundrelly atten-

tions of merchants to a young actress, must come to know her own

giftlessness, in order to be able in her last fareweli meeting with

Treplev in the fourth act of the play to feel at last all the eternal and

tragic depth of Treplev's monologue, and perhaps for the last anri

only time say it like a true actress and force Treplev and the spectators

in the theatre to shed holy tears called forth by the power of art.

The conditions under which we produced " The Seagull " were

complex and hard. The production was necessary to us because of the

of the life of our Theatre. Business was in anistration hurried our labors. And suddenly

ill in Yalta with a new attack of tuberculosis.

6ndition was such that if " The Seagull " should fail

as it at its first production in Petrograd, the great poet would not

b€ to weather the blow. His sister Maria Pavlovna warned us

with tears in her eyes, when, on the eve of the performance, she

us to postpone it. You can judge of the condition in which

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way. The

Anton Pavlovic

MY LIFE IN ARTwe actors played on the first night before a small but chosen audience.There were only six hundred rubles in the box office. when we wereon the stage there was an inncr whisper in our hearts:

" You must play well, you must play better than well; you mustcreate not onty success, but triumph, for know that if you do not, theman and writer you love will die, killed by your hands.',

These inner whispering:s did not aid our creative inspiration. Theboards were becoming the floor of a gallowq and we actors theexecutioners.

I do not rernember how we played. The first act was over. Therewas a gravelike silence. Knipper fainted on the stage. All of us couldhardly keep our feet. In the throes of despair we began moving toour dressing rooms. suddenly there was a roar in the auditorium,and a shriek of joy or fright on the stage. The curtain was lifted.fell, was lifted again, showing the whole auditorium our amazed andastounded immovability. It fell again, it rose ; it fell, it rose, and wecould not even gather sense enough to bow. Then there .tilere con-gratulations and embraces like those of Easter night, and ovations toLilina, who pleled.Mashe, and rvhe had broken the ice with-her lastwords which tore themselvgg :huu*her heart, mqaqg_-:uashed withtears. This it was that had held the audience mute for a time b,fore

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it began to roar and thunder in mad ovation.we were no longer afraid of sending a telegram to our dear and

beloved friend and poet.

Ill'ess prevented Anton Pavlovich'chekhov from coming to Mos-cow during the season. But in the spring of 1899 he arrived withthe secret hope of seeing " The Seagull " a'd demanded that we showit to him.

" Listen, it is necessary for me. I am its author. How can I writeanything else until I have seen it? " he repeated at every favorableopportunity.

What were rve to do ? The season was o\rer, the theatre was in the

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..THE SEAGULL''fianciuofstrangersforallofthesummer,a'llourbelongingshadbeentakenawayandstoredinasmallbarn.InordertoshowChekhovasingle performance, we would have had to go through almost the same

amount of preparatory work as we did for the beginning of the whole

season, that is, we would have had to hire a theatre and stage hands to

unpack the scenery, the properties, the costumes, the wigs, and to bring

them to the theatre, to collect the actors, to rehearse the play, to put

in the necessary lighting system, and so on' And as a result of all

this, the special performance would be a failure. It would be impos-

sible to arrange it in a hurry. The inexperienced actors, not being used

to the new stage, would lose themselves completely, and that would be

the worst thing that could happen, especially in a Chekhov play' Be-

sides, the auditorium of a theatre hired by chance would be devoid of

all furniture, as the latter would be in the hands of cabinet makers and

upholsterers during all summer for renovation. The play would have

no appeal in an empty theatre. And Chekhov would be disappointed.

But the words of chekhov were a law to us, and once he insisEd' it

was necessary to fulfil his wishes.

The special performance took place in

was attended by Chekhov and about ten othe

sion, as we had expected, was only middling. After every act Chekhov

ran on the stage and his face bore no signs of any inner joy' But as

soon as he saw the backstage activities, he would regain his courage

and smile, for he loved the life of the thgatre behind the scenes. Some

of the actors were praised by Chekhov, others received their full meed

of blame. This was true of one actress especially, with whose work

Chekhov was completely dissatisfied.

" Listen," he said, " she can't act in my play' You have another

actress who could be much finer in the part, who is a much better

actress.t'., But how can we take away the part once the season is over? "

we defended ourselves. " That would amount to the same thing as iflgszl

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MY LIFE IN ARTwe threw her out of the company. Think what a blow that would be.

She won't lN able to bear it."" List€n, I will take the play away from you," he summed up in a

severe rvay, almost crueliy, surprising us by his hardness and firmness.

Notwithstanding his exceptionat tenderness, detricacy and kindness, he

was severe and merciless in questions of art and never accepted anycompromises. In order not to anger and excite the sick man, we didnot contradict him, hoping that with time everything would be for-gott€n. But no. Unexpectedly, rvhen no one even dreamt that he

lvould say it, Chekhov would repeat:

" Listen, she can't act in my play."At the special performance he seemed to be trying to avoid rne. I

waited for him in my dressing roorn, but he did not come. That wasa bad sign. I went to him rnyself.

" Scold me, Anton Pavlovich," I begged him.

" Wonderful ! Listen, it was wonderful I Only you need tonrshoes and checked trousers."

He would tell me no more. What did it mean ? Did he wish not

to express his opinion? Was it a jest to get rid of rne? Was he

laughing at me? _Jr-tg*i" i" " fne S"rg iter, a

favorite of the wornen - and suddenlv he was to wea! torn shees and---en[er.*a+ro';@ most elegant of costumes-

white trousers, white vest, white hat, slippers, and a handsome

make-up.^ -'/A yearrof more passed. Again I played the part of Trigorin in

" Thefeagull " - and during one of the performances I suddenly

undCrstood what Chekhov had meanl

" Of course, the shoes must be torn and the trousers checked, and

Trigorin must not be handsome. In this lies the salt of the part: foryoung, inexperienced girls it is important that a man should be awriter and print touching and sentimental romances, and the NinaZarechnayas, one after the other, will throw themselves on his neck,

..THE SEAGULL'"without noticing that he is not talented, that he is not handsome, that

he wears checked trousers an{ torn shoes. Only afterwards, when the

love affair with such " seaEsrlls'1 ,t oo, r rL^ -'^-t -^^2..^ i- +Lair#

@n which created the great genius in theirh and the rich-

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.f Ch.kh""'s laconic remarks struck nre. It was very typical

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