By Hardev Matharoo
It’s a familiar anxiety for writers. You’re writing a scene, aware of exactly how the character feels, worrying that your future reader won’t appreciate the moment. Will they recognise it’s profundity? Will they believe in it as you do? Such a moment presents us with a crossroads. Do you trust in the reader, or do you attempt the scene again? There is, as always with writing, no clear, one-size-fits all answer but there is something very real about this problem. Trusting the reader risks your moment not fulfilling its potential. Reworking the scene risks you over-explaining or being heavy-handed.
What, then, is to be done? There is no fool proof solution it seems, but some writers have achieved this balance perfectly. In particular, Anton Chekhov stands out as the master of the understated. In his work, quiet, almost trivial details carry intense emotional weight. Below are three of my favourite examples of Chekhov utilizing the understated to incredible effect.
- ‘Gooseberries.’
This story is told by Ivan and concerns how his brother, Nikolai, sacrificed his whole life and the life of those dear to him, just to fulfil his aspiration of owning a country house large enough to grow his own gooseberries. When Nikolai achieves his dream, Ivan visits and finds him self-satisfied and indulgent. As the climax approaches and their life philosophies compete, you might expect the apex moment to be some great debate, a physical altercation or some confession on the part of Ivan or Nikolai. Instead, it is the eating of the gooseberries.
Chekhov tells us plainly that they both take a bite and while Nikolai finds them delicious, Ivan finds them hard and sour. The gooseberries do not even act as a symbol, mentioned incidentally and remaining unexplained afterwards, but their hardness presents to the reader an entire life of self-deception; a life in which one person has convinced themselves they have achieved happiness while everyone else can see it for the sham it is. The moment is understated and almost trivial, yet it is the enduring image of the piece and carries with it real cause for reflection.
- ‘About Love.’
Alyokhin tells the story of his falling in love with his friend’s wife, Anna. They never quite admit their love for each other until they meet each other for the final time, never to see one another again. An unspoken language exists between them as they share “long silences,” which seem pregnant with confessions of love. The genius understated moment occurs towards the end of the piece when it is known that Anna will leave. Alyokhin mentions how Anna seems exasperated with him and says that whenever he dropped something, she would offer her “congratulations.”
This is a simple detail, but I find it rich in meaning. It is one thing to describe someone as exasperated with you, but this familiar example concretises the feeling perfectly. And yet, this simple act is not as clear cut as might initially appear. Why, in fact, is Anna so irritated? Is she annoyed that Alyokhin hasn’t expressed his love? Is she upset with herself and projecting her feelings? Maybe she trying to create some distance between them so that it will hurt less when they separate. Each of these explanations could be a story in itself and in the end, we have no resolute answer. But one sarcastic comment, perfectly placed, suggests a complicated and rich psychology which remains just out of our reach.
- ‘The Lady with the Dog.’
My favourite example of the understated comes from Chekhov’s most famous short story, concerning an adulterous man, Dmitry Gurov, who engages in many love affairs, remaining unmoved by them, until he meets Anna, the titular lady, and initially finding it an affair like any other inexplicably finds himself in love and unable to forget her.
The crucial understated moment occurs when Dmitry is back in Moscow, constantly thinking about Anna while the world continues on around him. He wants to give life to this internal memory so one night, at dinner with an official, he says.
“You can’t imagine what an enchanting woman I met in Yalta,” to which the official says nothing. They head home and when they are getting out of the sleigh, the official calls after him.
“Hey Dmitry Dmitritch!”
“What?”
“You were right earlier: the sturgeon was off!”
This is the understated at its finest. Rather than explain Dmitry’s isolation or the great spiritual awakening occurring within him, Chekhov shows by a simple line about bad fish the intense psychological separation between Dmitry and his surroundings. To my mind, this is the moment where he realises his old way of life cannot continue and that his life has in fact changed forever. There is that moment of hope when the official calls him back and says you were right. But what is on the official’s mind? Not thoughts of love or spiritual awakening. Rather, thoughts about a badly cooked fish. We could have had Chekhov explain that there was a sudden shift in Dmitry’s perspective or that he had started upon a new chapter in his life. But instead, a simple line about another person caring about such a mundane detail illustrates this beautifully with a subtle, but earthly detail.
For aspiring writers, there is something inspiring about Chekhov. His deft use of the understated reminds us that there is much to be said in the spaces between words. Chekhov gives us confidence in ourselves. The next time we agonise over the perfect line, it can be reassuring to know that the greatest lines can exist in the simplest of phrases.
