Reading Chekhov

The Russians' perception of Olga as an ambitious, cold, ruthless, unkind woman, not worthy of the gentle, delicate Anton Pavlovich, is not borne out by her letters, which are consistently gentle and delicate. But Olga's German background-she came from an assimilated German family, like that of Anna Sergeyevna von Diderits's husband-may have some bearing on the dislike and resentment she has attracted, as may her post-Revolution career as a leading People's Artist. (She lived until the 1950s and never stopped acting.) In an article entitled "The Heart of Chekhov" (1959), Leo Rabeneck-who by chance had been present when Chekhov died in Badenweiler, and who stayed in touch with Olga until the Revolution, when he emigrated to Paris-gives us a chilling glimpse of her life under the Soviets: The last time I saw Olga Leonardovna was in 1937, when the [Moscow] Art Theatre had come to Paris. After the performance I went to a small bistro where the actors usually dined. As I came in I saw Olga Leonardovna sitting at a table with two men I didn't know. When she saw me, she quickly looked down at her plate until I had passed by. I understood she couldn't speak to me. The next morning, I was walking along the Champs-Elysees, when I happened to meet Kachalov [the leading male actor of the Moscow Art Theater]. We kissed and embraced. I told him how Olga Leonardovna had pretended not to know me.

Kachalov replied: Lev L'vovich, she was sitting with two archangels [secret agents], how could she speak to you? They watch us here. They don't allow us to fraternize with emigres. The anecdote raises a question: What if Chekhov had lived into the Soviet period? Would he have passed the test that no man or woman should be forced to take? Would he (like Gorky) have bowed to the dictatorship or would he have resisted and been crushed? One can never predict how anyone will behave-but everything in Chekhov's life and work expresses an exceptionally strong hatred of force and violence. In all probability, the libertarian Chekhov would have fared badly under the Soviets. Almost surely he would not have died in a posh German hotel room after drinking a glass of champagne.

Chekhov's death is one of the great set pieces of literary history. According to an account written by Olga in 1908 (and translated by Benedetti), on the night of July 2, 1904, Chekhov went to sleep and woke up around one. "He was in pain, which made it difficult to lie down," Olga wrote, and continued: He felt sick with pain, he was "in torment" and for the first time in his life he asked for a doctor… It was eerie. But the feeling that something positive had to be done, and quickly, made me gather all my strength. I woke up Lev Rabenek, a Russian student living in the hotel, and asked him to go for the doctor.

Dr. Schworer came and gently, caringly started to say something, cradling Anton in his arms. Anton sat up unusually straight and said loudly and clearly (although he knew almost no German): Ich sterbe. The doctor calmed him, took a syringe, gave him an injection of camphor, and ordered champagne. Anton took a full glass, examined it, smiled at me and said: "It's a long time since I drank champagne." He drained it, lay quietly on his left side, and I just had time to run to him and lean across the bed, and call to him, but he had stopped breathing and was sleeping peacefully as a child."

In another memoir, written in 1922, Olga refined and expanded the death scene thus: The doctor arrived and ordered champagne. Anton Pavlovich sat up and loudly informed the doctor in German (he spoke very little German), "Ich sterbe."

He then took a glass, turned his face towards me, smiled his amazing smile and said, "It's a long time since I drank champagne," calmly drained his glass, lay down quietly on his left side, and shortly afterwards fell silent forever. The dreadful silence of the night was disturbed only by a large moth which burst into the room like a whirlwind, beat tormentedly against the burning electric lamps, and flew confusedly around the room.

The doctor left, and in the silence and heat of the night the cork suddenly jumped out of the unfinished bottle of champagne with a terrifying bang. It began to grow light, and as nature awoke, the gentle, melodious song of the birds came like the first song of mourning, and the sound of an organ came from a nearby church. There was no human voice, no bustle of human life, only the beauty, calm, and majesty of death.