ENEMIES

Enemies

I sit in front of my computer in silence. Just as Chekhov writes: " . . . dumbness is most often the highest expression of happiness or unhappiness." And I am very unhappy. Jealous. How can one man write with such power while the rest of us struggle to make even one sentence barely legible?

From beginning to end this story is flawlessly constructed. There is so much going on. First he has to capture the doctor's mood after just seeing his only son die. That alone is like climbing Mount Everest -- then he describes the eerie stillness of the room and his helpless wife clutching her dead son -- the image of the mother completely wiped out -- beyond grief -- is sublime.

He trumps what he writes: ". . . almost elusive beauty of human sorrow which men will not for a long time learn to understand and describe, and which seems only music can convey." Well, then Chekhov is Beethoven. His words brings to life the atmosphere of the room.  The scene of the wife and child brings to mind the mother holding her dead child in Picasso's masterpiece Guernica.

And we're just getting started. In comes Abogin. Now we have a moral dilemma. The doctor's child has died five minutes ago and Abogin is pleading with him to come and save his wife. At first, one thinks Abogin is completely inappropriate -- but we begin to sympathize with him -- he is desperately trying to save his young wife whom he dearly loves.

Both of their arguments make sense -- the doctor is not capable of anything right now -- he's numb -- but Abogin can't give up -- his only hope to save his wife is to get the doctor to come with him.

Finally, the doctor relents. What convinces him is not big speeches but practicality. Abogin can get him there and back in an hour. Chekhov is brilliantly conveying the psychology involved in the competing crises. This is a duel loaded with moral and spiritual weight -- but Chekhov doesn't lose sight of what makes humans tick.

During the carriage ride to Abogin's home -- Chekhov juggles between the imagery of the surrounding landscape which is rendered with the brushstrokes of a Cézanne and the mindset of two people at the razor's edge. I'm tired already. But Chekhov is just gearing up.

In the home we get a fine description of the ugliness of the doctor and the elegance of Abogin. And now comes the twist. Abogin's wife is not dead. She is not even sick. It was all a ruse to escape with her lover. Abogin's whole life has been shattered. This is worse news to him than his wife having an aneurysm. This is about him. His life. All he has done and all he has given to his wife has been for nothing. He has been kicked in the gut. He forgets all about the doctor's suffering. He can only think about his pain. Selfish. Without a doubt. But here is Chekhov guiding us through this: "The unhappy are egoistic, spiteful, unjust, cruel, and less capable of understanding each other than fools."

So we witness two of the most unhappy people on the planet go at each other. Each feeling his unhappiness is more worthy than the other. Reminds me of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Each side lashing out their you-can't-beat-my-tragedy at each other.

You can decide to take a side in this conflict. You can say the doctor has the moral high ground. His son has just died -- he was decent enough to go with Abogin and now is being subjected needlessly to Abogin's marital woes -- or you can feel for Abogin who was desperately trying to save his wife only to find out it was all a ruse and now he has lost his senses -- and the doctor should not take it personally but simply ask Abogin to please get the carriage so he can go home.

In this case, is there a right and a wrong? Does morality play a role here? Both are justifiably unhappy and angry -- does one tragedy beat another?

Enemies. At some point there is a divide -- and because of circumstance or history -- does the ability to reach out and forgive become impossible?