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'Oh, how easy and simple it all is! But you are mistaken, doctor; in each one of us there are too many springs, too many wheels and cogs for us to judge each other by first impressions or by two or three external indications. I cannot understand you, you cannot understand me, and neither of us can understand himself.'



Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull was the first play I attended in out-of- school context, and I was blown away by it (and not just by the gun shot). It affected me so deeply tears rolled down my cheeks by the end of the play. So when I discovered that Chekhov’s 1887 play Ivanov was on the program of the local cultural centre, I jumped on the chance - it looked the perfect occasion as a means to reconnect with theatre, after a pause of seventeen years without attending any play.

As the performance was presented as an adaptation and even a deconstruction of Chekhov, afterwards I was curious to discover the original text –to which the performance stayed remarkably true, apart from removing a few of the numerous minor characters from the plot �� and with it obliterating the symbolism of the card playing in the backdrop of the play which serves as a commentary on the unpredictability of life and fate.

'If an intelligent, educated, and healthy man begins to complain of his lot and go down-hill, there is nothing for him to do but to go on down until he reaches the bottom--there is no hope for him. Where could my salvation come from? How can I save myself? I cannot drink, because it makes my head ache. I never could write bad poetry. I cannot pray for strength and see anything lofty in the languor of my soul. Laziness is laziness and weakness weakness. I can find no other names for them. I am lost, I am lost; there is no doubt of that.'

The 35 year old Nikolai Ivanov is a complex and moody man. Is he guilty �� as he repeats over and over again himself �� or innocent? His environment �� his moribund wife Anna, the doctor Lvov who thinks he is a cold and heartless monster and a fortune-chaser, the brash manager of Ivanov’s estate, Borkin, the Lebedevs, the cynic count Shabelsky (Ivanov’s uncle), Sasha wishing to rescue him �� everyone is discussing him, criticising him, loving him �� Ivanov is the anti-hero at the centre of the play, but no-one seems to hear what he is trying to say �� all are too absorbed by their own dreams and little drama’s. No-one understands what is eating him, why he changed into an prickly, paralyzed man outwardly indifferent to his wife dying and his estate going to ruins by debts and neglect. Ivanov’s motives might not be as low as they look at first glance. Depicting Ivanov’s unrest, melancholy, despair and subsequent inability to take care of himself and of others, pushing everyone away in his shame, Chekhov paints a nowadays utterly recognisable, poignant and convincing portrayal of a state of depression �� and how difficult it is for others to respond to it in a meaningful way.

Can love save one from depression? What can one do to help a loved one who is struggling with depression cope? Some of the questions Ivanov rises seem timeless �� or rather timely, thinking of present day in which so many struggle with the condition and the pharmaceutical industry grows fat on the profits from selling antidepressants. Michel Houellebecq poses similar questions in his latest novel Serotonin. And as far as Houellebecq and Chekhov suggest answers to these issues, don’t expect them to be of the heartening kind.



'I am a bad, pathetic and worthless individual. One needs to be pathetic, too, worn out and drained by drink, like Pasha, to be still fond of me and to respect me. My God, how I despise myself! I so deeply loathe my voice, my walk, my hands, these clothes, my thoughts. Well, isn't that funny, isn't that shocking? Less than a year ago I was healthy and strong, I was cheerful, tireless, passionate, I worked with these very hands, I could speak to move even Philistines to tears, I could cry when I saw grief, I became indignant when I encountered evil. I knew inspiration, I knew the charm and poetry of quiet nights when from dusk to dawn you sit at your desk or indulge you mind with dreams. I believed, I looked into the future as into the eyes of my own mother... And now, my God, I am exhausted, I do not believe, I spend my days and nights in idleness.'

Ach Ivanov, poor Ivanov, how heavy life can weigh on a man’s shoulders!

'The life of a man is like a flower, blooming so gaily in a field. Then, along comes a goat, he eats it, and the flower is gone!'

Once Chekhov told Tikhonov, a young mining engineer, contemplating Russia, ‘Our cities are without paved streets, our villages poor, our people worn. When we’re young we all chirp fervently like sparrows on a dung heap, but we’re old by the time we’re forty and we start thinking of death. What kind of heroes are we?��

Not everyone can carry the weight of the world.

(paintings by Isaac Levitan (1860-1900) - Anton Chekhov was the artist’s closest friend)
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