Customer Reviews

Anton Chekhov: A Life

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Review of Anton Chekhov: A Life. Donald Rayfield. NY: Henry Holt, 1997. 603 pp.

There are many good biographies of Chekhov available, and if a person has not read any,I would suggest another before reading Donald Rayfield's Anton Chekhov: A Life. Rayfield says that he has received access to much previously classified information. Unfortunately this loads his biography with an over-abundance of undigested detail, as if we were reading Chekhov's engagement calendar for each year or an encyclopedia of the minutiae of Chekhov's life. The material needs to be pruned down and focused. No where do I feel a biographer's point of view towards his subject -- unless it be to include as many facts as possible. And although it is interesting to read about the lives of those with whom Chekhov was most closely involved, we do not need to learn about every tart he slept with or every family problem encountered by one of his brother's wives. When these influence his writing, they are an interesting bonus, when they do not, a stronger hand at selection would have been appreciated. Indeed, the most interesting parts of the biography to me were those areas which showed how Chekhov transformed the details of his life into his work. However, too little of these connections were shown, and too many details were simply superfluous. I also miss the author's awareness of Chekhov's ironic humor, and I feel disappointed at the lack of discussion of the short farces. I recommend this book for Chekhov affectionados rather than for Chekhov novices.

BARBARA MACKEY, Ph.D. University of Toledo

I say sadly because Rayfield really isn't a very good writer. His style is clumsy, and he has no idea how to maintain any sort of narrative. He just throws facts at you. People are mentioned for a few lines and then reintroduced chapters later as if we're supposed to remember who they are. All over the book sentences crop up that are near impossible to figure out. Also, considering how much of Chekhov's personal writing survives, there aren't nearly enough excerpts from his notebooks and letters. The few quotes that are there are so fascinating that they're worth the slog through Rayfield's masses of detail.

The worst sin that he commits is that he doesn't much seem to like his subject, and invests most of his energy in making Chekhov look bad. To some extent, Chekhov needs some demythologizing, because too many people have made a saint out of him. Rayfield provides plenty of evidence that Chekhov wasn't the kindhearted conscience of Russian literature that people make him out to be - he led on a lot of women, wasn't particularly faithful to the people that loved him, and had a cruel streak. But there are lots of times when Rayfield goes out of his way to push a certain interpretation on the reader. "Chekhov's response was brutal," he insists, without providing any evidence - or, on occasion, actually quoting a letter that doesn't seem to justify his interpretation of Chekhov's bad behavior at all.

In fact, Rayfield really doesn't know how to marshall his evidence to support his statements. He seems also to dislike Olga Knipper, Anton's wife, and keeps insisting that the marriage was unhappy, and that Chekhov really didn't seem to love her, without showing us why this has to be true. Indeed, much of the material that he gives us seems to indicate the opposite.

But now comes the Sadly. This is really the only biography that gives you the entire story about Chekhov. Too much about Chekhov sexual drives is left out of other biographies, and as Rayfield pretty conclusively demonstrates, this drive was a major part of Anton's life and motivations. And, for all of his faults, Rayfield really has dug deeper and found out more than any other biographer. From the teachers at Chekhov's school in Taganrog to, well, a host of other occasionally interesting trivia, Rayfield just has more. Until someone else comes along and tries to animate all this material into a biography that's actually enjoyable to read, Rayfield is all there is. Chekhov's letters provide a better introduction to his life, but anyone that really wants to go behind the mask needs to read this book.

Rayfield's life of Chekhov is clotted with junk: railway itineraries, sexual details, and relentless speculation. Read his 600 pages and you will not be the better for it. You never get a sense of Chekhov the writer, or how Chekhov, the son of a failed grocer who beat his family daily, made himself into a man. Sure, other biographers are less frank about the sex -- but who cares, really? I recommend Henri Troyat's biography of Chekhov instead.

This is a book that grows and grows on the reader. At first I was put off by the book's clumsy style and by the brutality (really unforgivable) of Chekhov's father Pavel. Then I got "hooked" on Anton's fierce ambition joined to his extraordinary sweetness of temper; until, when he contracts TB and finally marries Olga Knipper, I was wholly sympathetic to him, his milieu, and his struggle to create masterpieces like THE CHERRY ORCHARD. A friend said of him, "Why are such precious contents locked up in such a frail vessel?" (p. 581). The author provides little interpretation of personalities and events; rather, he uses letters (thousands of them) to create, like a mosaic, the rich beauty of Chekhov's personality and the flowering of his genius. Highly recommended. -- Michael Squires, Ph.D.

Great reading for those interested in Russian literature and history. Extremely detailed and meticulous description of Russian literature and theatrical circles of late 19-th century through the life of Anton Chekhov, his family and friends. Huge amount of rare documents cited and commented. Very impressive job indeed.

The only hitch I could found was about the rout supposedly taken by the heroes of "Steppe". The trip from Taganrog to Kiev, as the author states (p.163, here and below sited by: «Anton Chekhov: a life" HarperCollins h/c edition), was hardly possible technically in the time limit of the story, and the landscape there is quite different from that described by Chekhov.

The more probable route was from near Lugansk southward to Rostov-na-Donu. The latter city grew very rapidly at the times of Chekhov that also can explain why the hero was send there to study. Another reason for this destination is that Chekhov himself has close relatives in Rostov-na-Donu (an uncle) and probably knew the city well (see p.6).

If you really have nothing to do or nothing to read you may thumb through this thoughtlessly collected biographical information about one of the greatest Russian writers known for his brilliant sense of humor and innovative approach to dramatic genre. You will lose nothing except for your time and money. You will gain nothing, either: the entire book is much ado about nothing. I wonder what kind of ambitions drove the author to write about something for which he had no feel and no understanding. If he wanted to share his knowledge about the facts he consumed once he would better publish a bibliography instead. This book is not about Chekhov, but rather about its mediocre biographer.

Yelena Dubrovin,

Writer, poet, literary critic