by Alice Miller
Depression: Compulsive Self-Deception
The Russian writer Anton Chekhov has been one of my favorite authors since my youth. I remember very clearly the avidity with which I read his story Ward No. 6 at the age of about 16, enthralled by his acuity, his psychological sensitivity, and above all by his courage in squaring up to the truth, calling it by its name, and never sparing anyone he had identified as a rogue. Very much later I read his Letters, which, together with numerous biographies, provided detailed information on his childhood. What struck me was the fact that Chekhov’s admirable courage in facing and telling the truth came up against its limits as soon as his father was involved. Here is one of his biographers, Elsbeth Wolffheim, on the subject of Chekhov’s father:
“The disparagement and humiliation he was subjected to at school were as nothing compared to the repressions he suffered at home. Chekhov’s father was hot-tempered and uncouth, and he treated the members of his family with extreme severity. The children were beaten almost every day, they had to get up at 5 in the morning and help out in the shop before going to school and as soon as they got back, so that they had very little time for their homework. In the winter it was so cold in the basement shop that even the ink froze. The three brothers served the customers until late in the evening, together with young apprentices who were also beaten regularly by their employer and were sometimes so exhausted that they fell asleep on their feet. Chekhov’s father … played a fanatically zealous role in the life of the church and conducted the choir in which his sons were also forced to sing.” (Elsbeth Wolffheim, Anton Tschechow, Rowohlt 2001, p. 13, trans. A.J.).
On one occasion Chekhov noted that in this choir he had felt like a convict in a penal servitude camp (ibid., p. 14). In a letter to his brother he devotes a few lines to a truthful description of his father, though this truth had no place in the rest of his life: “Despotism and lies have so thoroughly marred our childhood that it makes me feel sick and afraid to remember it.” (Wolffheim, p. 15) Such remarks by Chekhov are extremely rare. All his life he was greatly concerned for his father’s welfare, making major financial sacrifices to support him. No one in his immediate environment suspected that the suppression of the truth also demanded major psychic sacrifices of him. His attitude was generally considered to be that of a virtuous and dutiful son. But the denial of the authentic feelings caused by the extreme abuse he was exposed to as a child made huge demands on his strength and may have been responsible for the fact that Chekhov contracted tuberculosis at an early stage and also suffered from depression, referred to at the time as “melancholia.” Finally he died at the age of 44. (I have gone into these connections in more detail in The Body Never Lies).
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