Kalidasa and Chehov ¹

BY PURASU BALAKRISHNAN

(Translated by the author from his original Tamil essay)

The Russian temperament is allied to the Indian, The old Sclavonic is said to be nearly related to Sanskrit. "The Art of Russia," says Havelock Ellis, "sometimes seems to have been almost effaced by Byzantine or Hindu influences," "Russia," says G. K. Chesterton, "touches the Orient; she is a great link. Her people still go on pilgrimages; they still believe in poverty and holiness, miracles, sacrifice and faith."

There is a play in Russian literature which has close resemblances in some respects to our greatest play, "Sakuntala," I refer to "The Cherry Orchard" of Anton Chehov. In that play is described the bond which binds man to mother earth, with the lyricism and almost human affection which we find in the scene depicting Sakuntala’s departure from Kanva’s hermitage. In point of sincerity and poignancy of sentiment, this is perhaps one of the few plays in the world which can be compared with "Sakuntala."

"The Cherry Orchard" has it national significance which "Sakuntala" has not. Nevertheless the note struck by the two authors is the same. It is the note of man’s love for nature which has cradled and nurtured him from his infancy. Both the plays bring out an affection, at once spontaneous and delicate, unsophisticated and refined, which binds the heart of man to the soil of the earth. There is an atmosphere of melancholy, brooding over "The Cherry Orchard" which the Russian family, almost immediately on their return home from their trip to France, are obliged to sell, having been reduced to poverty. The love of the earth which breathes through "The Cherry Orchard" is like the Himalayan breeze sighing through the bamboos, and is resonant with many undertones of tenderness and sadness which are not heard in "Sakuntala." In "Sakuntala," on the other hand, we hear a truer note of the same love, as the play is devoid of any national significance. In "Sakuntala" the spirit of the earth embraces her children who are nearer to her than they are in "The Cherry Orchard."

Towards the end of the Third Act of "The Cherry Orchard" Anya consoles her mother thus:

"Mamma! Mamma, you’re crying, dear, kind, good, mamma! My precious! I love you! I bless you! The cherry orchard is sold, it is gone, that’s true! But don’t weep, mamma! Life is still before you, you have still your good, pure heart! Let us go, let us go, darling, away from here! We will make a new garden, more splendid than this one; you will see it, you will understand. And joy, quiet, deep joy, will sink into your soul like the sun at evening! And you will smile, mamma! Come, darling, let us go!" ²

To the Indian reader a passage like this brings recollections of the Fourth Act of "Sakuntala." The departure of the Russian family from the cherry orchard is described in the last Act of Chehov’s play. Lopahin, the merchant who has bought the orchard, says,

"Is everyone here? No one left?" (He locks the door on the left.) "There are some things stored here, we’ll have to lock them up. Come on!"

And Anya cries,

"Good-bye, old house! Good-bye, old life!"

Lynbov Andreyevna, the dispossessed proprietress, and Gayev, her brother, wait till they are left together and fall into each other’s arms and sob softly, restrainedly, as though fearing lest some one should hear them.

Gayev (in despair): "My sister, my sister! . . . ."

Lynbov Andreyevna: "To look at the walls, at the windows, for the last time! . . . . Our dead mother loved to walk to and fro in this room. . . .

Gayev: "My sister, my sister!"

The student Trofinov’s voice calls them from outside: "Yoo . . . . hoo!"

Lynbov Andreyevna answers, "We are coming," and they go out.

This parting scene forcibly recalls to the Indian reader the Fourth Act of "Sakuntala," where Kanva calls on all the hermitage

Such scenes as these display a tender heart with a great feeling for nature. Kalidasa is more idyllic in his conception, Chehov is unashamedly less ‘poetic’ and more national. About the latter feature of "The Cherry Orchard," I shall content myself with observing that it will be evident to the reader on a complete perusal of the play.

Again Chehov reveals his love for the dumb animals but he is very brief in his expression of it, and he passes over them quickly to his human characters.

In the opening Act of "The Cherry Orchard," the maid Dunyasha remarks,

"Even the dogs haven’t slept all night long. They seem to feel their masters are returning."

And Lopahin replies,

"Why, what’s the matter with you, Dunyasha?"

Dunyasha’s fancy recalls to us Sakuntala’s words on the eve of her departure,

"Oh, what is it keeps pulling at my dress,

As if to hinder me?"–

and Kanva replying,

The imagination of the poet, in the narrower sense of the term, is synthetic. It proceeds from incidents and particulars to abstractions and generalisations. Thus Kalidasa mostly describes emotions in a general comprehensive way. On the other hand the imagination of the fiction-writer is analytic. It proceeds from the main springs of the heart to particulars and incidents which reveal and exemplify them. This does not imply that the fiction-writer is less of a poet. On the other hand, Chehev’s stories and plays are the works of a true and tender poet. To describe numerous incidents and situations, as he does, so as to bring out abstract emotions implicitly contained in them, perhaps requires a more rigorous imagination than that which Kalidasa, the purer poet, employs. Observe how Chehov brings out the affectionate feeling for mother earth more concretely, for the stage demands it, than Kalidasa does. While the family is preparing to depart, the sound of an axe striking against the wood is heard in the distance. Lopahin, the merchant who has bought the orchard, is quite composed and talks like a man of sense and business:

"Well, good-bye, my dear fellow. It’s time to go. Here we stand chaffing each other, but life goes on just the same. . . . Leonid Andreyevitch has taken a situation. He’s going to be a clerk at the bank–6000 roubles a year. Only of course he won’t stick to it–he is too lazy."

And Anya appears in the doorway, saying,

"Mamma asks you please not to let them cut down the cherry orchard before she goes."

With what exquisitely tender and beautiful feeling this unostentatious sentence rings! It brings back to our minds Sakuntala

"Who, tho’ she loved adornments, never plucked

One flower, for love of you."

One is as beautiful as the other. It is impossible to say which is more beautiful. But the two, between themselves, display the difference between the methods of the two poets. Chehov is analytic, Kalidasa is synthetic. Chehov has a more vigorous imagination, as is evinced by his numerous stories and plays. Kalidasa breathes a purer poetry which lifts us at once on its wings to higher regions where the air is rain-washed, purer and fresher than on the earth.

Kalidasa’s is the synthetic imagination of an ancient, a Hindu who was brought up in the great synthetic philosophy of the Upanishads; Chehov’s is the analytic imagination of a modern, a doctor who could probe quietly into the depths of human nature.