Ivanov: An interesting early play, though it isn't seen as one of Chekhov's best. Full of middle-class ennui and desperation, it isn't dramatically very satisfying, at least not on the page. Lots of talking and even quasi-soliloquies, which tend to slow down the play. Ivanov himself is an atypical protagonist for a play: he even compares himself unfavourably to Hamlet, and one can see that Chekhov had Shakespeare's play in the back of his mind. An excerpt:
Ivanov: No-good, pathetic, insignificant - that's the kind of man I am... How I despise myself, my God! How profoundly I hate my voice, my walk, my hands, my clothes, my thoughts. Well, isn't this ridiculous, isn't this offensive? Barely a year's gone by since I was healthy and strong, I was hale and hearty, indefatigable, impassioned, worked with these very hands, talked so that even ignoramuses were moved to tears, was capable of weeping when I saw misery, feel outraged when I encountered evil. I knew the meaning of inspiration, I knew the splendor and poetry of quiet nights, when from dusk to dawn you sit at your desk or beguile your mind with dreams. I had faith, I gazed into the future as into the eyes of a loving mother... And now, oh, my God!