While these days we occasionally go to the cinema, visits to theatres or concerts are rare, and trips to see opera or ballet even more so. Outings have not been helped by the Covid pandemic and only now have visits started to come back, such that in the last few weeks I have been reminded how very enjoyable films and plays can be. At the cinema, for instance, we recently saw the wonderful, albeit risqué film ‘Wicked Little Letters’, but even that was trumped by seeing at our local theatre a production of Anton Chekhov’s ‘Uncle Vanya’. This blog, which was triggered by that production, is written partly to celebrate the genius of the play itself and partly because it rekindled the memories of my lifetime’s ‘relationship’ with Chekhov. 

Chekhov (see illustration) is a playwright with whom I feel very close, indeed in some respects, with whom I have grown up. As a child, I would go to the ‘first nights’ of all of the plays in which my mother was performing. This practice started when she played Charlotta in Chekhov’s ‘The Cherry Orchard’ – which opened in 1954, when I was 12. This was her very first part on the London stage and’ having been received by ‘rave notices’, was the one which essentially launched her stage career which continued into her 70s. Not surprisingly, being cast for the role was a very important event for the family.

Although I was only twelve I was able to follow the play, to identify with the characters and to be influenced lifelong by its ideas. I remember so clearly being puzzled by Firs, the household’s 87-year old manservant, when he announced that the emancipation of serfs in Russia had been a disaster. Indeed, he said that he would prefer to go back to the days when serfs lived to admire their masters and owners. 

Then there was the student-cum-tutor who was nicknamed ‘Twenty-two misfortunes’. Even at twelve, that someone could have bad luck all the time, that this should be noticed and the sufferer then be known by that quality, all seemed so odd and unfair. Finally there was the last scene of the play when the audience heard the haunting sound of the trees in the family’s treasured orchard being chopped down as part of a deal with a rich developer. 

Since that early introduction, not only did Chekhov enter my life twice more as my mother played Charlotta on two further occasions, but it was clear that she had grown to love his writing enormously. And Rohan too feels similarly. In her retirement Rohan has become a student of Russian herself, and she tells me repeatedly about him and the beauty of his short stories. 

Given my love of Chekhov, going to Uncle Vanya for the first time a few weeks ago was a must, and it was magnificent. The actors wore 1900 Russian costumes – the play was written in 1897 – but to tell the story the script was a modern English translation; and the mixture of the two worked perfectly. Indeed the play was brilliantly crafted, continually gripping with a compelling story that moved from pathos to pessimism, from sadness to hope, all often touched by humour;  at least once Rohan asked me to stop laughing so loud. Importantly, in his writing Chekhov allowed nothing to get in the way of his message reaching the audience.

Most extraordinarily, Chekhov was way ahead of his time. At one point, Uncle Vanya talks of the importance of equality between men and women saying (I paraphrase) – women’s rights are not an alien abstract concept, rather they are something that would improve women’s lives. On another occasion, Astrov, the doctor in the play, talks about the threat of climate change – how cutting down trees and plants and clearing wild life from the countryside is thoughtlessly destroying the land and the future and how, to offset this destruction individuals must do something – he, for instance was trying to help save the future by planting trees.

Odd though it may seem, while watching Uncle Vanya was a delight,  more importantly it reminded me of Chekhov’s work and inspired me to think more widely. Five years after writing Uncle Vanya and when aged only 44, Chekhov died from tuberculosis which he suffered from, kept secret and ignored, for most of his adult life. He had trained as a doctor, and was well known for never charging his patients despite years of poverty. Finally, he decided to write to earn money and he was successful. Through his writings he became one of Russia’s most celebrated authors and a wealthy one at that. In prompting my memory, what a productive evening Uncle Vanya turned out to be in so many ways!

The illustration is a photo of Anton Chekhov, the author of Uncle Vanya, aged 41; three years before he died.

For helping me write this blog, I would like to thank Vanessa, Rohan and Vivien.