That play left me with 1 only thought in my head: I have to read this again. On the one hand, because it's brilliant, on the other, because it's so filled with subtext that I feel like a missed half of it. 
 It's one of Chekhov most acclaimed plays, so I knew, and you know, that it's gonna be good (I had only read some short stories by him at the time, but I knew). And I don't know how to begin or how to end this review. The play was perfect and I don't know what to say, because I'd need to read it 3 more times to make a proper review. I'll try though. 
 If some erudite of the play should ever read this, please have compassion. 
 The play deals with art as a way of life, there are four main characters that are artists: 2 writers and 2 actresses, and each of them deals with creativity, and love, and art in a different--more or less healthy--way. You know this can only go well for the careless, narcissistic characters: sensitive & romantic people are fucked. And it's sad, but. 
 Some of the main characters, and several of the secondary ones, also struggle with the meaning of life, more or less explicitly. What have I done with my life, why is my life so boring, why should I keep living. 
 You see, it's a highly humorous book (no). 
 It's just the right amount of explicit and/or contained. It's NOT a melodrama. The author didn't write it to pass judgement, to give his opinion, or to make you cry. Chekhov just pointed at the eternal questions of Humanity and didn't give any answer. And that's the way a pro does it.