It may not sound much. Two actors, three chairs, a bunch of letters. But, given that the correspondents are Chekhov and Olga Knipper, the actors Michel Piccoli and Natasha Parry, and the director Peter Brook the result is an evening of extraordinary wit, beauty and quiet, luminous tenderness.
Spread over five short years from 1899 to 1904, the letters trace the friendship, love and eventual marriage of the celebrated dramatist and actress. But what makes the letters so poignant - and necessary - is that Chekhov was forced to winter in Yalta for his health while Olga practised her craft in Moscow. Separation lends the correspondence its emotional ache, affection and occasional asperity.
Because of the correspondents' calling, the letters also illuminate a vital slice of theatrical history. "Hardly a play - more of a hotchpotch really," says Chekhov of Three Sisters: meanwhile, hearing of the play's title, Olga instinctively asks "Which one am I?"
But the funniest sections concern Chekhov's longrange suspicions of Stanislavski's directorial intentions. Learning that the actors have been instructed to cry in the last act of The Cherry Orchard, an anguished Chekhov cries, "It's a comedy!" and catches the next train to Moscow.
Carol Rocomora's selection of letters is shrewd. But what makes the evening is the sensitivity of acting and direction. The actors, playing in French with English surtitles, roam around Chloë Obolensky's carpeted stage as if directly expressing their thoughts. Piccoli smiles constantly, as if evoking Chekhov's protective humour and awareness of life's absurdity. Parry, meanwhile, catches all Olga's fretfulness, impishness and sadness, especially after she suffers a miscarriage.
You can also understand why Brook was drawn to these letters. He stages them with great tact: a Panama hat, a hint of music, a burst of light are enough to evoke Chekhov's sojourn in Nice. But behind that lies a very Brookish awareness of the brief intensity of our existence.
And, as so often in his recent work, the final word is a question - as Piccoli asks, "what does it all mean?" and gazes at us with a rueful puzzlement that is both appropriate to Chekhov and infinitely moving.
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