“Lights” appeared in 1888, a year that Chekhov’s short story production fell sharply, as he shifted his focus to longer works and, as a rule, more complex and nuanced sketches of life.
This story is certainly complex and nuanced, but it is hobbled by its weird structure. I have often wondered if Chekhov ever submitted to significant revisions ordered by an editor. My guess is that the answer is no. The sheer volume of his output (while he was working as a doctor!), and the pace at which his stories appeared in print after completion would make major revision, let alone a rewrite, almost impossible.
In fact, the word “rewrite” seems to appear just once in all of his thousands of letters. On August 6, 1891, while working on probably his longest novella, “The Duel,” he wrote, “How awful it is! I must rewrite it!” Less than two weeks later, he completed it and mailed it to his editor. Not much of a rewrite.
Meanwhile, the words “revise” and “revision” seem not to appear at all in any of his letters!
Because he wrote so quickly, and because he was not one to go back and do extensive rewrites, some of his stories are like shanties that have been cobbled together without a blueprint, and with mismatched materials.
“Lights” is a case in point. Presented as a novella, it feels like two or even three stories bound up in one. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say it’s like three stories stumbling into one another.
In the first story, a pair of engineers are working on a project, building a railroad across the steppe. One night, after an evening of drinking, they go outside to have a look around. The older of the two, Ananyev, is rapturous: the lights trailing into the distance (presumably the huts of rail workers), the massive embankment of the half-finished railroad… It all makes him think of the future, when the railroad will pierce the steppe, bringing with it progress: Factories, schools, hospitals.
The younger man, von Schtenberg, sees something different: He sees the past. Civilizations come and go, he says, flaring and up and dying out. Man’s work, no matter how grand, is destined to wither away into dust.
That’s a pretty good sketch; certainly it’s worthy of Chekhov. Had the two men disagreed, then lapsed into silence under the glittering stars, it would be a complete, if brief, work of art.
But something strange happens then – structurally strange, I mean. The narrator, who has barely figured into the story until now, suddenly explains his presence. He proceeds to introduce the two engineers, spelling out their full names, describing them physically and sketching out their background. It’s as if we’re starting an entirely new story, except with characters we’ve already met and, honestly, comprehended.
What follows is essentially an argument over existentialism. It’s barely sketched out; it’s not very engaging. But it is what it is. The young man discusses the essential futility of life. The older man disagrees vehemently. The narrator, having introduced himself and his reason for being there, fades away. That’s story No. 2. Or, if not a story, a bridge.
Then we come to the third story, which is narrated by the older man, Ananyev. And it’s a long, long story. Because it seems to have nothing to do with the preceding pages, it is rather difficult to digest at first. You can’t help but say to yourself, wait, what? He’s graduated from college, he’s back in his home town, wha’??? Ananyev himself (or really Chekhov) seems to recognize that he has taken a wrong turn. After Ananyev describes at length some graffiti he came across as a young man, he says says, “You must forgive me – I don’t know how to tell a story briefly.”
(What irony that a writer like Chekhov would commit a sentence like that to print!)
About Ananyev’s story: It can be summarized very simply: Long ago, Ananyev had an affair with a young, married woman, Kisotchka. He then abandoned her. Guilt-ridden, he tried to justify his actions with nihilism, essentially thinking to himself: In one hundred years, we’ll all be dead, so what’s the difference? But then he comes to his senses and realizes that this is mere dilettantism. He repents of his nihilistic urges and becomes the man we see today: idealistic and hopeful. (And windy as hell.)
The problems with this final story are legion. First of all, it meanders badly and takes a long time to get started. Further, the narrator is a thoroughly repellent fellow: a chauvinist and probably a rapist. Modern readers will find him very hard to take. Finally, his epiphany comes essentially out of nowhere. He thinks for a couple days and – voila! – no more nihilism.
And that’s “Lights.”
READ THIS? READ THAT!
This fractured tale brings to mind a later, much better Chekhov story, “Ariadne.” That story, one of Chekhov’s great works, shares many incidental similarities with “Lights,” Like “Lights,” it is structured as a tale told to a doctor who has no role in the story but serves as the narrator. It is also about a doomed love affair. And it features characters who feel lost when they are not living in the “homeland” of northern Russia. But “Ariadne” is a masterpiece, whereas “Lights” is a mess, even if it has some decent elements.
A Chekhov Circus 
One response to “No. 148 – Lights”
He doesn’t think for a few days, it’s a life-changing event from his past.
As for “the narrator is a thoroughly repellent fellow: a chauvinist and probably a rapist. Modern readers will find him very hard to take.” He doesn’t display chauvinism but lacking or disdaining faith has a Social Darwinist seduction mindset. It’s also not rape, unless you think that you should have a statement signed by a woman, as was suggested by US universities.
As the newer generation indoctrinated in the universities has a superiority puritanical complex and contempt for all that has been in the past,
I’ve heard of Mozart and Shakespeare referred to as DEM – Dead European Males by those that have been corrupted by the educational system…. modern readers are pretty much corrupted and the least discerning readers since mass education started in the late 19th century.
I’ve even seen a Chekhov referred to, by modern readers – disparagingly and with contempt, as someone promoting “the patriarchy”, because he had a female servant in his story.