A Liberal Darling and Concerning The Drama

In show business circles today, two topics often crop up in conversation. One concerns the restrictions currently placed upon comedians – the intricate and frustrating censorship of so-called "controversial" humor that makes use of once-acceptable political, sexual and dialect material. The other concerns modern dramatists' emphasis on the slice-of-life to the point of mundanity and drabness, their invoking of the word "realism" to excuse lurid and violent situations. But these bones of contention are by no means new, for almost a century ago the celebrated playwright and storyteller, Anton Chekhov, spoke of them in these two amusing tales, written in 1884 but not rendered into English until Ann Dunnigan translated them for this first playboy of 1961.

A Liberal Darling

Every year at Christmas time the ladies and the government officials of Chernopoopsk organized amateur theatricals for the benefit of charity. The preceding year the affair had been unsuccessful; the management had been in the hands of old Councilor Chushkin, a "Bourbon" who cut half the play and gave no leeway to the raconteurs. This year the committee protested, and the ladies took it upon themselves to select the play. The other arrangements – the choice of raconteurs, singers, and directors for the dances – were entrusted to a young official, Kaskadov, university trained and a liberal.

One December morning Kaskadov stood, hands on hips, before the pondering committee. "Well, gentlemen, whom shall we choose? The dances will be directed by Lieutenant Podligailov of the gendarmery, and... ah... of course, myself. The male singers will be... ah... I and... ah... I think perhaps Lieutenant Podligailov of the gendarmery. He has a delightful baritone – though, just between ourselves, rather coarse. Now, who will tell anecdotes during the intermission?"

"Let's have Tletvorsky," suggested the chief clerk, Kislyaev, who sat cleaning his fingernails with a match. "Last year he was a marvelous raconteur, the rascal. His ugly mug alone is worth a lot! The fellow drinks, but – all talented people drink. Even Raphael, they say, drank!"

"Tletvorsky? Ah, yes, I remember. He's not bad, but – his style, his style!... Nikifor, call him in."

In came a tall, round-shouldered man with a dark, tousled mane, large red hands and rust-colored trousers.

"Sit down, Tletvorsky," Kaskadov addressed him while blowing his nose into a scented handkerchief. "As you see, we are once again undertaking the theatricals. But, sit down. Drop that unnecessary kowtowing. Let's be human! Well, now, during the intermission and after the performance we plan to have readings, as we did last year; but here in Chernopoopsk we simply have no raconteurs or readers. I suppose I could read something, and Lieutenant Podligailov reads fairly well, but we have absolutely no time. Once again, we are obliged to appeal to you. Will you do it, my dear fellow?"

"I suppose so." Tletvorsky lowered his eyes. "But, Ivan Matveich, if they are going to restrict me the way they did last year, then it'll just be ridiculous!"

"No, no, complete freedom – the most complete freedom, my dear fellow. You read whatever you want to read, however you want to read it. That's exactly why I undertook the management myself, to give you freedom. Otherwise I should never have agreed. In other words, don't be constrained in your choice of material, nor in anything else. You will read something, tell an anecdote, recite a few verses, and, in general —"

"That's possible. I might do something from Jewish life."

"Jewish? Excellent! Splendid, my friend! However... would that be suitable? The trouble with that, my dear fellow, is that Medkher and his daughters will attend the performance. He's a convert, but, even so, it's awkward. He'd be offended. Try something else."

"You're good at telling stories about Germans," mumbled Kislyaev.

"You may be right," agreed Kaskadov. "Take something German. Only wait – that, too, would scarcely be suitable. Her Excellency is German; she was born Baroness von Rietkart. Impossible, my dear man. You don't have to be constrained, but it would do no harm to be discreet. In times like these, between you and me, everyone takes everything personally. Last year, for example, you told an Armenian anecdote, in which, you recall, the inhabitants of Nakhichevan said, 'Give us your hose, and when, with God's help, you have a fire, we'll give you two.' What's offensive in that? But, they took offense!"

"Oddly enough, they were terribly offended," affirmed Kislyaev.

"'We know what he meant,' they said. And the young ladies blushed at the word 'hose.' You must distinguish between what is proper and what is not. Discretion and more discretion! For example, if you were to take something from Russian folkways, say... something like Gorbunov's comic sketches – fine! Delightful! But impossible. His Excellency will think you are mocking the people. And he would be partly right. But, just between ourselves, these are terrible times. God only knows what times!"

"You know, maybe I could read something of Nekrasov's – 'And on her brow the fatal words: sold at public auction.' Perfect!"

"No, no, NO!" Kaskadov threw up his hands. "It will be a family evening – ladies, young girls. And you with your 'fatal words'! What's the matter with you, brother? Don't even think of it! You don't have to go to extremes. Take something that's not controversial, something neither one thing nor the other, like... ah... something in a lighter vein."

"In a lighter vein? How about Tolstoy's The Sinner?"

"A little on the heavy side, brother," Kaskadov frowned. "The Sinner, the last monolog in Woe from Wit, all that is trite, worn-out, and somewhat... controversial. Select something else – and please, don't feel limited. Choose anything you like – anything!"

Tletvorsky gazed at the ceiling, in deep thought. Kislyaev looked at him, sighed, shook his head scornfully and said, "You must be pretty corrupt if you can't think of something moral."

"This is not a question of morals, Zakhar Ilych," Kaskadov interceded. "But it is true, Tletvorsky has a one-track mind."

Tletvorsky flushed and scratched his eye. "Why did you send for me, if I'm immoral and one-sided?" he brought out as he made for the door. "I didn't ask to take part."

When he had gone, Kaskadov commenced pacing up and down. "I do not understand such people, Zakhar Ilych!" he exclaimed, rumpling his hair. "I swear to God, I do not understand. I myself am not a conservative, not a conformist – I am even liberal, and I suffer for my way of thinking. But I do not understand such an extremist as this gentleman! I and – ah – Lieutenant Podligailov are considered freethinkers – society looks askance at us. His Excellency suspects me of sympathizing with ideas. And I do not deny my convictions! I am a liberal! But – such people as this Tletvorsky, I do not understand! Here you have an extremist, and, it may be reprehensible of me, but I cannot endure extremists. I'm not a conservative, but I simply cannot endure that! Denounce me, call me a conformist, but I am unable to extend my hand to gentlemen of the Tletvorsky ilk." Kaskadov sank exhausted into an armchair and gave himself up to thought.

"Kick him out, that's all," muttered Kislyaev, who, having nothing better to do, was applying a rubber stamp to his cuff. "Kick him out, and that's all... That's all."

Concerning the Drama

Two friends, Justice of the Peace Poluyekhtov and Colonel Fintefleyev of the General Staff, were discussing the arts as they sat over a friendly snack.

"I have read Taine, Lessing – but then, what haven't I read?" Poluyekhtov said, helping his friend to some Caucasian red wine. "My youth was spent among artists. I've done some writing myself, and I understand a good deal. You know what I mean? I'm not an artist, not an actor, but I do have a nose for it, a flair. It's the heart! I can immediately distinguish anything false or unnatural. You don't fool me, brother, even if you're Sarah Bernhardt or Salvini. I get it at once if there's anything like a – a sort of trick. But why don't you eat? This is all we're going to have."

"Thanks, I'm already full, brother. It's true, as you say, our drama has declined, drastically declined."

"Of course it has! But just consider, Filya, the present-day dramatist and actor tries to – how can I express it so you'll understand me? – tries to be true to life; so, on the stage you see just what you see in life. Do we need this? What we need is expression, an effect. You're already fed up with life, it's common-place, prosaic. You need something like a – something that would draw out all your nerves and turn your guts inside out. Formerly an actor spoke in an unreal, sepulchral voice, beat his breast with great fists, shouted and fell through the earth! That was expressive! And the words were expressive! He spoke of Duty, of Humanity, of Freedom – in every action you saw self-sacrifice, suffering, great deeds for the sake of humanity, and frenzied passion. But now? Now, you see, they want something life-like. You look at the stage and what do you see? P-f-f-f! You see some kind of a bum, a crook, a worm in torn pants talking some kind of nonsense. They make a hero out of this beggar, and, I swear, it drives me mad! If one of them happened to appear in my court – and it's just too bad he doesn't – I'd take care of the good-for-nothing: according to the one hundred and nineteenth article, I'd give him three or four months, just on the strength of my personal convictions." The bell was heard. Poluyekhtov was about to stand up and nervously pace the room, but he sat down again.

Into the room came a little red-cheeked schoolboy wearing an overcoat and with a school bag on his back. He shyly approached the table, made a bow, and handed a letter to Poluyekhtov. "Mama sends her regards, Uncle," he said. "She told me to deliver this letter to you."

Poluyekhtov unsealed the envelope, put on his glasses, and started to read. "Right away, darling," he said. Having read the letter, he rose. "Come on. Excuse me, Filya, if I leave you for just a second."

He took the boy by the hand and, gathering up the skirts of his dressing gown, led him into the next room. In a moment the colonel heard strange sounds: a childish voice began to plead; the entreaties soon changed into screams, and the screams were followed by a heart-rending sob. "Uncle, I won't do it again," the colonel heard. "Dear Uncle, I won't, I wo-o-o-n't. A-a-aow! I won't!"

The sounds continued for one or two minutes, then everything grew quiet. The door opened and Poluyekhtov came into the room. The boy followed him, buttoning up his overcoat and trying to restrain his sobs. Having buttoned the coat, he wiped his tear-stained face with his sleeve, made a little bow and left. There was the sound of a door closing.

"What was all that?" Fintefleyev inquired.

"Oh, my sister sent me a letter asking me to whip the boy. He got bad marks in Greek."

"What did you whip him with?"

"A leather belt – it's by far the best. Well, now, where did I leave off?... Formerly you used to sit in your seat, look at the stage, and feel! Your heart worked – seethed! You heard words of compassion, you saw edifying deeds; you saw, in other words, something fine. And would you believe it, I used to weep? I used to sit and cry like a fool. 'Petya, what are you crying about?' my wife used to ask me. And I didn't know myself why I was crying. For me, generally speaking, the theatre is a cultural influence. But frankly, who is not moved by art? Who is not ennobled by it? What are we indebted to, if not to art, for the existence in us of our higher feelings – feelings unknown to primitive man, and unknown, as well, to our forebears. Now, look here, I have tears in my eyes. Tears are good, I'm not ashamed of them. Let's drink, brother! May art and the spirit of humanity flourish!"

"Let's drink! God grant that our children may know how to feel, as we feel."

The two friends drained their glasses and commenced talking about Shakespeare.