ABSTRACT
‘When I hear a play of Chekhov's I want to tear my own up,’ said Mr. Shaw to me at the Stage Society's representation of ‘Uncle Vanya.’ It is easy to understand the attraction which Chekhov possesses for the literary man. He is a wonderful exponent of the kind of pessimism which overtakes all sensitive people as life gets on, when, as his Dr. Astrov says, fate ‘beats them along the road,’ and they no longer see ‘a light ahead.’ But while pessimism is the setting of Chekhov's work, its substance is something quite distinct and his own. . . .
