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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by 
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov
+
+Author: Maxim Gorky
+        Alexander Kuprin
+        I. A. Bunin
+
+Translator: S. S. Koteliansky
+            Leonard Woolf
+
+Release Date: August 19, 2011 [EBook #37129]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  [ Transcriber's Notes:
+
+    Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
+    as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation.
+    Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made. They
+    are listed at the end of the text.
+
+    Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
+  ]
+
+
+
+
+  REMINISCENCES OF
+  ANTON CHEKHOV
+
+  BY
+  MAXIM GORKY, ALEXANDER KUPRIN
+  and I. A. BUNIN
+
+  TRANSLATED BY
+  S. S. KOTELIANSKY and LEONARD WOOLF
+
+  NEW YORK
+  B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc.
+  MCMXXI
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
+  B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc.
+
+
+  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS BY MAXIM GORKY, 1
+
+TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY BY ALEXANDER KUPRIN, 29
+
+A. P. CHEKHOV BY I. A. BUNIN, 91
+
+
+
+
+ANTON CHEKHOV
+
+FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS
+BY
+MAXIM GORKY
+
+
+Once he invited me to the village Koutchouk-Koy where he had a tiny
+strip of land and a white, two-storied house. There, while showing me
+his "estate," he began to speak with animation: "If I had plenty of
+money, I should build a sanatorium here for invalid village teachers.
+You know, I would put up a large, bright building--very bright, with
+large windows and lofty rooms. I would have a fine library, different
+musical instruments, bees, a vegetable garden, an orchard.... There
+would be lectures on agriculture, mythology.... Teachers ought to know
+everything, everything, my dear fellow."
+
+He was suddenly silent, coughed, looked at me out of the corners of his
+eyes, and smiled that tender, charming smile of his which attracted one
+so irresistibly to him and made one listen so attentively to his words.
+
+"Does it bore you to listen to my fantasies? I do love to talk of it....
+If you knew how badly the Russian village needs a nice, sensible,
+educated teacher! We ought in Russia to give the teacher particularly
+good conditions, and it ought to be done as quickly as possible. We
+ought to realize that without a wide education of the people, Russia
+will collapse, like a house built of badly baked bricks. A teacher must
+be an artist, in love with his calling; but with us he is a journeyman,
+ill educated, who goes to the village to teach children as though he
+were going into exile. He is starved, crushed, terrorized by the fear of
+losing his daily bread. But he ought to be the first man in the village;
+the peasants ought to recognize him as a power, worthy of attention and
+respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humiliate him personally,
+as with us every one does--the village constable, the rich shop-keeper,
+the priest, the rural police commissioner, the school guardian, the
+councilor, and that official who has the title of school-inspector, but
+who cares nothing for the improvement of education and only sees that
+the circulars of his chiefs are carried out.... It is ridiculous to pay
+in farthings the man who has to educate the people. It is intolerable
+that he should walk in rags, shiver with cold in damp and draughty
+schools, catch cold, and about the age of thirty get laryngitis,
+rheumatism, or tuberculosis. We ought to be ashamed of it. Our teacher,
+for eight or nine months in the year, lives like a hermit: he has no one
+to speak a word to; without company, books, or amusements, he is growing
+stupid, and, if he invites his colleagues to visit him, then he becomes
+politically suspect--a stupid word with which crafty men frighten fools.
+All this is disgusting; it is the mockery of a man who is doing a great
+and tremendously important work.... Do you know, whenever I see a
+teacher, I feel ashamed for him, for his timidity, and because he is
+badly dressed ... it seems to me that for the teacher's wretchedness I
+am myself to blame--I mean it."
+
+He was silent, thinking; and then, waving his hand, he said gently:
+"This Russia of ours is such an absurd, clumsy country."
+
+A shadow of sadness crossed his beautiful eyes; little rays of wrinkles
+surrounded them and made them look still more meditative. Then, looking
+round, he said jestingly: "You see, I have fired off at you a complete
+leading article from a radical paper. Come, I'll give you tea to reward
+your patience."
+
+That was characteristic of him, to speak so earnestly, with such warmth
+and sincerity, and then suddenly to laugh at himself and his speech. In
+that sad and gentle smile one felt the subtle skepticism of the man who
+knows the value of words and dreams; and there also flashed in the smile
+a lovable modesty and delicate sensitiveness....
+
+We walked back slowly in silence to the house. It was a clear, hot day;
+the waves sparkled under the bright rays of the sun; down below one
+heard a dog barking joyfully. Chekhov took my arm, coughed, and said
+slowly: "It is shameful and sad, but true: there are many men who envy
+the dogs."
+
+And he added immediately with a laugh: "To-day I can only make feeble
+speeches ... It means that I'm getting old."
+
+I often heard him say: "You know, a teacher has just come here--he's
+ill, married ... couldn't you do something for him? I have made
+arrangements for him for the time being." Or again: "Listen, Gorky,
+there is a teacher here who would like to meet you. He can't go out,
+he's ill. Won't you come and see him? Do." Or: "Look here, the women
+teachers want books to be sent to them."
+
+Sometimes I would find that "teacher" at his house; usually he would be
+sitting on the edge of his chair, blushing at the consciousness of his
+own awkwardness, in the sweat of his brow picking and choosing his
+words, trying to speak smoothly and "educatedly"; or, with the ease of
+manner of a person who is morbidly shy, he would concentrate himself
+upon the effort not to appear stupid in the eyes of an author, and he
+would simply belabor Anton Chekhov with a hail of questions which had
+never entered his head until that moment.
+
+Anton Chekhov would listen attentively to the dreary, incoherent speech;
+now and again a smile came into his sad eyes, a little wrinkle appeared
+on his forehead, and then, in his soft, lusterless voice, he began to
+speak simple, clear, homely words, words which somehow or other
+immediately made his questioner simple: the teacher stopped trying to be
+clever, and therefore immediately became more clever and interesting....
+
+I remember one teacher, a tall, thin man with a yellow, hungry face and
+a long, hooked nose which drooped gloomily towards his chin. He sat
+opposite Anton Chekhov and, looking fixedly into Chekhov's face with his
+black eyes, said in a melancholy bass voice:
+
+"From such impressions of existence within the space of the tutorial
+session there comes a psychical conglomeration which crushes every
+possibility of an objective attitude towards the surrounding universe.
+Of course, the universe is nothing but our presentation of it...."
+
+And he rushed headlong into philosophy, and he moved over its surface
+like a drunkard skating on ice.
+
+"Tell me," Chekhov put in quietly and kindly, "who is that teacher in
+your district who beats the children?"
+
+The teacher sprang from his chair and waved his arms indignantly: "Whom
+do you mean? Me? Never! Beating?"
+
+He snorted with indignation.
+
+"Don't get excited," Anton Chekhov went on, smiling reassuringly; "I'm
+not speaking of you. But I remember--I read it in the newspapers--there
+is some one in your district who beats the children."
+
+The teacher sat down, wiped his perspiring face, and, with a sigh of
+relief, said in his deep bass:--
+
+"It's true ... there was such a case ... it was Makarov. You know, it's
+not surprising. It's cruel, but explicable. He's married ... has four
+children ... his wife is ill ... himself consumptive ... his salary is
+20 roubles, the school like a cellar, and the teacher has but a single
+room--under such circumstances you will give a thrashing to an angel of
+God for no fault ... and the children--they're far from angels, believe
+me."
+
+And the man, who had just been mercilessly belaboring Chekhov with his
+store of clever words, suddenly, ominously wagging his hooked nose,
+began to speak simple, weighty, clear-cut words, which illuminated, like
+a fire, the terrible, accursed truth about the life of the Russian
+village.
+
+When he said good-bye to his host, the teacher took Chekhov's small, dry
+hand with its thin fingers in both his own, and, shaking it, said:--
+
+"I came to you as though I were going to the authorities, in fear and
+trembling ... I puffed myself out like a turkey-cock ... I wanted to
+show you that I was no ordinary mortal.... And now I'm leaving you as a
+nice, close friend who understands everything.... It's a great thing--to
+understand everything! Thank you! I'm taking away with me a pleasant
+thought: big men are simpler and more understandable ... and nearer in
+soul to us fellow men than all those wretches among whom we live....
+Good-bye; I will never forget you."
+
+His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a good-natured smile, and he
+added suddenly:
+
+"To tell the truth, scoundrels too are unhappy--the devil take them."
+
+When he went out, Chekhov followed him with a glance, smiled, and said:
+
+"He's a nice fellow.... He won't be a teacher long."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"They will run him down--whip him off."
+
+He thought for a bit, and added quietly:
+
+"In Russia an honest man is rather like the chimney-sweep with whom
+nurses frighten children."
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+I think that in Anton Chekhov's presence every one involuntarily felt in
+himself a desire to be simpler, more truthful, more one's self; I often
+saw how people cast off the motley finery of bookish phrases, smart
+words, and all the other cheap tricks with which a Russian, wishing to
+figure as a European, adorns himself, like a savage with shells and
+fish's teeth. Anton Chekhov disliked fish's teeth and cock's feathers;
+anything "brilliant" or foreign, assumed by a man to make himself look
+bigger, disturbed him; I noticed that, whenever he saw any one dressed
+up in this way, he had a desire to free him from all that oppressive,
+useless tinsel and to find underneath the genuine face and living soul
+of the person. All his life Chekhov lived on his own soul; he was always
+himself, inwardly free, and he never troubled about what some people
+expected and others--coarser people--demanded of Anton Chekhov. He did
+not like conversations about deep questions, conversations with which
+our dear Russians so assiduously comfort themselves, forgetting that it
+is ridiculous, and not at all amusing, to argue about velvet costumes in
+the future when in the present one has not even a decent pair of
+trousers.
+
+Beautifully simple himself, he loved everything simple, genuine,
+sincere, and he had a peculiar way of making other people simple.
+
+Once, I remember, three luxuriously dressed ladies came to see him; they
+filled his room with the rustle of silk skirts and the smell of strong
+scent; they sat down politely opposite their host, pretended that they
+were interested in politics, and began "putting questions":--
+
+"Anton Pavlovitch, what do you think? How will the war end?"
+
+Anton Pavlovitch coughed, thought for a while, and then gently, in a
+serious and kindly voice, replied:
+
+"Probably in peace."
+
+"Well, yes ... certainly. But who will win? The Greeks or the Turks?"
+
+"It seems to me that those will win who are the stronger."
+
+"And who, do you think, are the stronger?" all the ladies asked
+together.
+
+"Those who are the better fed and the better educated."
+
+"Ah, how clever," one of them exclaimed.
+
+"And whom do you like best?" another asked.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch looked at her kindly, and answered with a meek smile:
+
+"I love candied fruits ... don't you?"
+
+"Very much," the lady exclaimed gayly.
+
+"Especially Abrikossov's," the second agreed solidly. And the third,
+half closing her eyes, added with relish:
+
+"It smells so good."
+
+And all three began to talk with vivacity, revealing, on the subject of
+candied fruit, great erudition and subtle knowledge. It was obvious that
+they were happy at not having to strain their minds and pretend to be
+seriously interested in Turks and Greeks, to whom up to that moment they
+had not given a thought.
+
+When they left, they merrily promised Anton Pavlovitch:
+
+"We will send you some candied fruit."
+
+"You managed that nicely," I observed when they had gone.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch laughed quietly and said:
+
+"Every one should speak his own language."
+
+On another occasion I found at his house a young and prettyish crown
+prosecutor. He was standing in front of Chekhov, shaking his curly head,
+and speaking briskly:
+
+"In your story, 'The Conspirator,' you, Anton Pavlovitch, put before me
+a very complex case. If I admit in Denis Grigoriev a criminal and
+conscious intention, then I must, without any reservation, bundle him
+into prison, in the interests of the community. But he is a savage; he
+did not realize the criminality of his act.... I feel pity for him. But
+suppose I regard him as a man who acted without understanding, and
+suppose I yield to my feeling of pity, how can I guarantee the community
+that Denis will not again unscrew the nut in the sleepers and wreck a
+train? That's the question. What's to be done?"
+
+He stopped, threw himself back, and fixed an inquiring look on Anton
+Pavlovitch's face. His uniform was quite new, and the buttons shone as
+self-confidently and dully on his chest as did the little eyes in the
+pretty, clean, little face of the youthful enthusiast for justice.
+
+"If I were judge," said Anton Pavlovitch gravely, "I would acquit
+Denis."
+
+"On what grounds?"
+
+"I would say to him: you, Denis, have not yet ripened into the type of
+the deliberate criminal; go--and ripen."
+
+The lawyer began to laugh, but instantly again became pompously serious
+and said:
+
+"No, sir, the question put by you must be answered only in the interests
+of the community whose life and property I am called upon to protect.
+Denis is a savage, but he is also a criminal--that is the truth."
+
+"Do you like gramophones?" suddenly asked Anton Pavlovitch in his soft
+voice.
+
+"O yes, very much. An amazing invention!" the youth answered gayly.
+
+"And I can't stand gramophones," Anton Pavlovitch confessed sadly.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"They speak and sing without feeling. Everything seems like a caricature
+... dead. Do you like photography?"
+
+It appeared that the lawyer was a passionate lover of photography; he
+began at once to speak of it with enthusiasm, completely uninterested,
+as Chekhov had subtly and truly noticed, in the gramophone, despite his
+admiration for that "amazing invention." And again I observed how there
+looked out of that uniform a living and rather amusing little man, whose
+feelings towards life were still those of a puppy hunting.
+
+When Anton Pavlovitch had seen him out, he said sternly:
+
+"They are like pimples on the seat of justice--disposing of the fate of
+people."
+
+And after a short silence:
+
+"Crown prosecutors must be very fond of fishing ... especially for
+little fish."
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+He had the art of revealing everywhere and driving away banality, an art
+which is only possible to a man who demands much from life and which
+comes from a keen desire to see men simple, beautiful, harmonious.
+Banality always found in him a discerning and merciless judge.
+
+Some one told in his presence how the editor of a popular magazine, who
+was always talking of the necessity of love and pity, had, for no reason
+at all, insulted a railway guard, and how he usually acted with extreme
+rudeness towards his inferiors.
+
+"Well," said Anton Pavlovitch with a gloomy smile, "but isn't he an
+aristocrat, an educated gentleman? He studied at the seminary. His
+father wore bast shoes, and he wears patent-leather boots."
+
+And in his tone there was something which at once made the "aristocrat"
+trivial and ridiculous.
+
+"He's a very gifted man," he said of a certain journalist. "He always
+writes so nobly, humanely, ... lemonadely. Calls his wife a fool in
+public ... the servants' rooms are damp and the maids constantly get
+rheumatics."
+
+"Don't you like N. N., Anton Pavlovitch?"
+
+"Yes, I do--very much. He's a pleasant fellow," Anton Pavlovitch agrees,
+coughing. "He knows everything ... reads a lot ... he hasn't returned
+three of my books ... he's absent-minded. To-day he will tell you that
+you're a wonderful fellow, and to-morrow he will tell somebody else that
+you cheat your servants, and that you have stolen from your mistress's
+husband his silk socks ... the black ones with the blue stripes."
+
+Some one in his presence complained of the heaviness and tediousness of
+the "serious" sections in thick monthly magazines.
+
+"But you mustn't read those articles," said Anton Pavlovitch. "They are
+friends' literature--written for friends. They are written by Messrs.
+Red, Black, and White. One writes an article; the other replies to it;
+and the third reconciles the contradictions of the other two. It is like
+playing whist with a dummy. Yet none of them asks himself what good it
+is to the reader."
+
+Once a plump, healthy, handsome, well-dressed lady came to him and began
+to speak _à la Chekhov_:--
+
+"Life is so boring, Anton Pavlovitch. Everything is so gray: people, the
+sea, even the flowers seem to me gray.... And I have no desires ... my
+soul is in pain ... it is like a disease."
+
+"It is a disease," said Anton Pavlovitch with conviction, "it is a
+disease; in Latin it is called _morbus imitatis_."
+
+Fortunately the lady did not seem to know Latin, or, perhaps, she
+pretended not to know it.
+
+"Critics are like horse-flies which prevent the horse from plowing," he
+said, smiling his wise smile. "The horse works, all its muscles drawn
+tight like the strings on a doublebass, and a fly settles on his flanks
+and tickles and buzzes ... he has to twitch his skin and swish his tail.
+And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply
+because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on
+the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.' For twenty-five
+years I have read criticisms of my stories, and I don't remember a
+single remark of any value or one word of valuable advice. Only once
+Skabitchevsky wrote something which made an impression on me ... he said
+I would die in a ditch, drunk."
+
+Nearly always there was an ironical smile in his gray eyes, but at times
+they became cold, sharp, hard; at such times a harder tone sounded in
+his soft, sincere voice, and then it appeared that this modest, gentle
+man, when he found it necessary, could rouse himself vigorously against
+a hostile force and would not yield.
+
+But sometimes, I thought, there was in his attitude towards people a
+feeling of hopelessness, almost of cold, resigned despair.
+
+"A Russian is a strange creature," he said once. "He is like a sieve;
+nothing remains in him. In his youth he fills himself greedily with
+anything which he comes across, and after thirty years nothing remains
+but a kind of gray rubbish.... In order to live well and humanly one
+must work--work with love and with faith. But we, we can't do it. An
+architect, having built a couple of decent buildings, sits down to play
+cards, plays all his life, or else is to be found somewhere behind the
+scenes of some theatre. A doctor, if he has a practice, ceases to be
+interested in science, and reads nothing but _The Medical Journal_, and
+at forty seriously believes that all diseases have their origin in
+catarrh. I have never met a single civil servant who had any idea of the
+meaning of his work: usually he sits in the metropolis or the chief town
+of the province, and writes papers and sends them off to Zmiev or
+Smorgon for attention. But that those papers will deprive some one in
+Zmiev or Smorgon of freedom of movement--of that the civil servant
+thinks as little as an atheist of the tortures of hell. A lawyer who has
+made a name by a successful defense ceases to care about justice, and
+defends only the rights of property, gambles on the Turf, eats oysters,
+figures as a connoisseur of all the arts. An actor, having taken two or
+three parts tolerably, no longer troubles to learn his parts, puts on a
+silk hat, and thinks himself a genius. Russia is a land of insatiable
+and lazy people: they eat enormously of nice things, drink, like to
+sleep in the day-time, and snore in their sleep. They marry in order to
+get their house looked after and keep mistresses in order to be thought
+well of in society. Their psychology is that of a dog: when they are
+beaten, they whine shrilly and run into their kennels; when petted, they
+lie on their backs with their paws in the air and wag their tails."
+
+Pain and cold contempt sounded in these words. But, though contemptuous,
+he felt pity, and, if in his presence you abused any one, Anton
+Pavlovitch would immediately defend him.
+
+"Why do you say that? He is an old man ... he's seventy." Or: "But he's
+still so young ... it's only stupidity."
+
+And, when he spoke like that, I never saw a sign of aversion in his
+face.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+When a man is young, banality seems only amusing and unimportant, but
+little by little it possesses a man; it permeates his brain and blood
+like poison or asphyxiating fumes; he becomes like an old, rusty
+sign-board: something is painted on it, but what?--You can't make out.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch in his early stories was already able to reveal in the
+dim sea of banality its tragic humor; one has only to read his
+"humorous" stories with attention to see what a lot of cruel and
+disgusting things, behind the humorous words and situations, had been
+observed by the author with sorrow and were concealed by him.
+
+He was ingenuously shy; he would not say aloud and openly to people:
+"Now do be more decent"; he hoped in vain that they would themselves see
+how necessary it was that they should be more decent. He hated
+everything banal and foul, and he described the abominations of life in
+the noble language of a poet, with the humorist's gentle smile, and
+behind the beautiful form of his stories people scarcely noticed the
+inner meaning, full of bitter reproach.
+
+The dear public, when it reads his "Daughter of Albion," laughs and
+hardly realizes how abominable is the well-fed squire's mockery of a
+person who is lonely and strange to every one and everything. In each of
+his humorous stories I hear the quiet, deep sigh of a pure and human
+heart, the hopeless sigh of sympathy for men who do not know how to
+respect human dignity, who submit without any resistance to mere force,
+live like fish, believe in nothing but the necessity of swallowing every
+day as much thick soup as possible, and feel nothing but fear that some
+one, strong and insolent, will give them a hiding.
+
+No one understood as clearly and finely as Anton Chekhov, the tragedy of
+life's trivialities, no one before him showed men with such merciless
+truth the terrible and shameful picture of their life in the dim chaos
+of bourgeois every-day existence.
+
+His enemy was banality; he fought it all his life long; he ridiculed it,
+drawing it with a pointed and unimpassioned pen, finding the mustiness
+of banality even where at the first glance everything seemed to be
+arranged very nicely, comfortably, and even brilliantly--and banality
+revenged itself upon him by a nasty prank, for it saw that his corpse,
+the corpse of a poet, was put into a railway truck "For the Conveyance
+of Oysters."
+
+That dirty green railway truck seems to me precisely the great,
+triumphant laugh of banality over its tired enemy; and all the
+"Recollections" in the gutter press are hypocritical sorrow, behind
+which I feel the cold and smelly breath of banality, secretly rejoicing
+over the death of its enemy.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reading Anton Chekhov's stories, one feels oneself in a melancholy day
+of late autumn, when the air is transparent and the outline of naked
+trees, narrow houses, grayish people, is sharp. Everything is strange,
+lonely, motionless, helpless. The horizon, blue and empty, melts into
+the pale sky and its breath is terribly cold upon the earth which is
+covered with frozen mud. The author's mind, like the autumn sun, shows
+up in hard outline the monotonous roads, the crooked streets, the little
+squalid houses in which tiny, miserable people are stifled by boredom
+and laziness and fill the houses with an unintelligible, drowsy bustle.
+Here anxiously, like a gray mouse, scurries "The Darling," the dear,
+meek woman who loves so slavishly and who can love so much. You can slap
+her cheek and she won't even dare to utter a sigh aloud, the meek
+slave.... And by her side is Olga of "The Three Sisters": she too loves
+much, and submits with resignation to the caprices of the dissolute,
+banal wife of her good-for-nothing brother; the life of her sisters
+crumbles before her eyes, she weeps and cannot help any one in anything,
+and she has not within her a single live, strong word of protest against
+banality.
+
+And here is the lachrymose Ranevskaya and the other owners of "The
+Cherry Orchard," egotistical like children, with the flabbiness of
+senility. They missed the right moment for dying; they whine, seeing
+nothing of what is going on around them, understanding nothing,
+parasites without the power of again taking root in life. The wretched
+little student, Trofimov, speaks eloquently of the necessity of
+working--and does nothing but amuse himself, out of sheer boredom, with
+stupid mockery of Varya who works ceaselessly for the good of the
+idlers.
+
+Vershinin dreams of how pleasant life will be in three hundred years,
+and lives without perceiving that everything around him is falling into
+ruin before his eyes; Solyony, from boredom and stupidity, is ready to
+kill the pitiable Baron Tousenbach.
+
+There passes before one a long file of men and women, slaves of their
+love, of their stupidity and idleness, of their greed for the good
+things of life; there walk the slaves of the dark fear of life; they
+straggle anxiously along, filling life with incoherent words about the
+future, feeling that in the present there is no place for them.
+
+At moments out of the gray mass of them one hears the sound of a shot:
+Ivanov or Triepliev has guessed what he ought to do, and has died.
+
+Many of them have nice dreams of how pleasant life will be in two
+hundred years, but it occurs to none of them to ask themselves who will
+make life pleasant if we only dream.
+
+In front of that dreary, gray crowd of helpless people there passed a
+great, wise, and observant man; he looked at all these dreary
+inhabitants of his country, and, with a sad smile, with a tone of gentle
+but deep reproach, with anguish in his face and in his heart, in a
+beautiful and sincere voice, he said to them:
+
+"You live badly, my friends. It is shameful to live like that."
+
+
+
+
+TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY
+BY
+ALEXANDER KUPRIN
+
+_He lived among us...._
+
+
+You remember how, in early childhood, after the long summer holidays,
+one went back to school. Everything was gray; it was like a barrack; it
+smelt of fresh paint and putty; one's school-fellows rough, the
+authorities unkind. Still one tried somehow to keep up one's courage,
+though at moments one was seized with home-sickness. One was occupied in
+greeting friends, struck by changes in faces, deafened by the noise and
+movement.
+
+But when evening comes and the bustle in the half dark dormitory ceases,
+O what an unbearable sadness, what despair possesses one's soul. One
+bites one's pillow, suppressing one's sobs, one whispers dear names and
+cries, cries with tears that burn, and knows that this sorrow is
+unquenchable. It is then that one realizes for the first time all the
+shattering horror of two things: the irrevocability of the past and the
+feeling of loneliness. It seems as if one would gladly give up all the
+rest of life, gladly suffer any tortures, for a single day of that
+bright, beautiful life which will never repeat itself. It seems as if
+one would snatch each kind, caressing word and enclose it forever in
+one's memory, as if one would drink into one's soul, slowly and
+greedily, drop by drop, every caress. And one is cruelly tormented by
+the thought that, through carelessness, in the hurry, and because time
+seemed inexhaustible, one had not made the most of each hour and moment
+that flashed by in vain.
+
+A child's sorrows are sharp, but will melt in sleep and disappear with
+the morning sun. We, grown-up people, do not feel them so passionately,
+but we remember longer and grieve more deeply. After Chekhov's funeral,
+coming back from the service in the cemetery, one great writer spoke
+words that were simple, but full of meaning:
+
+"Now we have buried him, the hopeless keenness of the loss is passing
+away. But do you realize, forever, till the end of our days, there will
+remain in us a constant, dull, sad, consciousness that Chekhov is not
+there?"
+
+And now that he is not here, one feels with peculiar pain how precious
+was each word of his, each smile, movement, glance, in which shone out
+his beautiful, elect, aristocratic soul. One is sorry that one was not
+always attentive to those special details, which sometimes more potently
+and intimately than great deeds reveal the inner man. One reproaches
+oneself that in the fluster of life one has not managed to remember--to
+write down much of what is interesting, characteristic and important.
+And at the same time one knows that these feelings are shared by all
+those who were near him, who loved him truly as a man of incomparable
+spiritual fineness and beauty; and with eternal gratitude they will
+respect his memory, as the memory of one of the most remarkable of
+Russian writers.
+
+To the love, to the tender and subtle sorrow of these men, I dedicate
+these lines.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Chekhov's cottage in Yalta stood nearly outside the town, right on the
+white and dusty Antka road. I do not know who had built it, but it was
+the most original building in Yalta. All bright, pure, light,
+beautifully-proportioned, built in no definite architectural style
+whatsoever, with a watch-tower like a castle, with unexpected gables,
+with a glass verandah on the ground and an open terrace above, with
+scattered windows--both wide and narrow--the bungalow resembled a
+building of the modern school, if there were not obvious in its plan the
+attentive and original thought, the original, peculiar taste of an
+individual. The bungalow stood in the corner of an orchard, surrounded
+by a flower-garden. Adjoining the garden, on the side opposite the road
+was an old deserted Tartar cemetery, fenced with a low little wall;
+always green, still and unpeopled, with modest stones on the graves.
+
+The flower garden was tiny, not at all luxurious, and the fruit orchard
+was still very young. There grew in it pears and crab-apples, apricots,
+peaches, almonds. During the last year the orchard began to bear fruit,
+which caused Anton Pavlovitch much worry and a touching and childish
+pleasure. When the time came to gather almonds, they were also gathered
+in Chekhov's orchard. They usually lay in a little heap in the
+window-sill of the drawing room, and it seemed as if nobody could be
+cruel enough to take them, although they were offered.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch did not like it and was even cross when people told him
+that his bungalow was too little protected from the dust, which came
+from the Antka road, and that the orchard was insufficiently supplied
+with water. Without on the whole liking the Crimea, and certainly not
+Yalta, he regarded his orchard with a special, zealous love. People saw
+him sometimes in the morning, sitting on his heels, carefully coating
+the stems of his roses with sulphur or pulling weeds from the flower
+beds. And what rejoicing there would be, when in the summer drought
+there at last began a rain that filled the spare clay cisterns with
+water!
+
+But his love was not that of a proprietor, it was something else--a
+mightier and wiser consciousness. He would often say, looking at his
+orchard with a twinkle in his eye:
+
+"Look, I have planted each tree here and certainly they are dear to me.
+But this is of no consequence. Before I came here all this was waste
+land and ravines, all covered with stones and thistles. Then I came and
+turned this wilderness into a cultivated, beautiful place. Do you
+know?"--he would suddenly add with a grave face, in a tone of profound
+belief--"do you know that in three or four hundred years all the earth
+will become a flourishing garden. And life will then be exceedingly
+light and comfortable."
+
+The thought of the beauty of the coming life, which is expressed so
+tenderly, sadly, and charmingly in all his latest works, was in his life
+also one of his most intimate, most cherished thoughts. How often must
+he have thought of the future happiness of mankind when, in the
+mornings, alone, silently, he trimmed his roses, still moist from the
+dew, or examined carefully a young sapling, wounded by the wind. And how
+much there was in that thought of meek, wise, and humble
+self-forgetfulness.
+
+No, it was not a thirst for life, a clinging to life coming from the
+insatiable human heart, neither was it a greedy curiosity as to what
+will come after one's own life, nor an envious jealousy of remote
+generations. It was the agony of an exceptionally refined, charming, and
+sensitive soul, who suffered beyond measure from banality, coarseness,
+dreariness, nothingness, violence, savagery--the whole horror and
+darkness of modern everyday existence. And that is why, when towards the
+end of his life there came to him immense fame and comparative security,
+together with the devoted love of all that was sensitive, talented and
+honest in Russian society,--that is why he did not lock himself up in
+the inaccessibility of cold greatness nor become a masterful prophet nor
+shrink into a venomous and petty hostility against the fame of others.
+No, the sum of his wide and hard experience of life, of his sorrows,
+joys, and disappointments was expressed in that beautiful, anxious,
+self-forgetting dream of the coming happiness of others.
+
+--"How beautiful life will be in three or four hundred years."
+
+And that is why he looked lovingly after his flower beds, as if he saw
+in them the symbol of beauty to come, and watched new paths being laid
+out by human intellect and knowledge. He looked with pleasure at new
+original buildings and at large, seagoing steamers; he was eagerly
+interested in every new invention and was not bored by the company of
+specialists. With firm conviction he said that crimes such as murder,
+theft, and adultery are decreasing, and have nearly disappeared among
+the intelligentsia, teachers, doctors, and authors. He believed that in
+the future true culture would ennoble mankind.
+
+Telling of Chekhov's orchard I forgot to mention that there stood in the
+middle of it swings and a wooden bench. Both these latter remained from
+"Uncle Vanya," which play the Moscow Art Theatre acted at Yalta,
+evidently with the sole purpose of showing the performance to Anton
+Pavlovitch who was ill then. Both objects were specially dear to Chekhov
+and, pointing to them, he would recollect with gratitude the attention
+paid him so kindly by the Art Theatre. It is fitting to say here that
+these fine actors, by their exceptionally subtle response to Chekhov's
+talent and their friendly devotion to himself, much sweetened his last
+days.
+
+
+II
+
+There lived in the yard a tame crane and two dogs. It must be said that
+Anton Chekhov loved all animals very much with the exception of cats,
+for whom he felt an invincible disgust. He loved dogs specially. His
+dead "Kashtanka," his "Bromide," and "Quinine," which he had in
+Melikhovo, he remembered and spoke of, as one remembers one's dead
+friends. "Fine race, dogs!"--he would say at times with a good-natured
+smile.
+
+The crane was a pompous, grave bird. He generally mistrusted people, but
+had a close friendship with Arseniy, Anton Chekhov's pious servant. He
+would run after Arseniy anywhere, in the garden, orchard or yard and
+would jump amusingly and wave his wide-open wings, performing a
+characteristic crane dance, which always made Anton Pavlovitch laugh.
+
+One dog was called "Tusik," and the other "Kashtan," in honor of the
+famous "Kashtanka." "Kashtan" was distinguished in nothing but stupidity
+and idleness. In appearance he was fat, smooth and clumsy, of a bright
+chocolate color, with senseless yellow eyes. He would bark after "Tusik"
+at strangers, but one had only to call him and he would turn on his back
+and begin servilely to crawl on the ground. Anton Pavlovitch would give
+him a little push with his stick, when he came up fawning, and would say
+with mock sternness:
+
+--"Go away, go away, fool.... Leave me alone."
+
+And would add, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with
+laughter in his eyes:
+
+--"Wouldn't you like me to give you this dog? You can't believe how
+stupid he is."
+
+But it happened once that "Kashtan," through his stupidity and
+clumsiness, got under the wheels of a cab which crushed his leg. The
+poor dog came home running on three legs, howling terribly. His hind leg
+was crippled, the flesh cut nearly to the bone, bleeding profusely.
+Anton Pavlovitch instantly washed his wound with warm water and
+sublimate, sprinkled iodoform and put on a bandage. And with what
+tenderness, how dexterously and warily his big beautiful fingers touched
+the torn skin of the dog, and with what compassionate reproof he soothed
+the howling "Kashtan":
+
+--"Ah, you silly, silly.... How did you do it? Be quiet ... you'll be
+better ... little stupid ..."
+
+I have to repeat a commonplace, but there is no doubt that animals and
+children were instinctively drawn to Chekhov. Sometimes a girl who was
+ill would come to A. P. and bring with her a little orphan girl of three
+or four, whom she was bringing up. Between the tiny child and the sad
+invalid man, the famous author, was established a peculiar, serious and
+trusting friendship. They would sit for a long time on the bench, in the
+verandah. Anton Pavlovitch listened with attention and concentration,
+and she would whisper to him without ceasing her funny words and tangle
+her little hands in his beard.
+
+Chekhov was regarded with a great and heart-felt love by all sorts of
+simple people with whom he came into contact--servants, messengers,
+porters, beggars, tramps, postmen,--and not only with love, but with
+subtle sensitiveness, with concern and with understanding. I cannot help
+telling here one story which was told me by a small official of the
+Russian Navigation and Trade Company, a downright man, reserved and
+perfectly direct in receiving and telling his impressions.
+
+It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived by
+steamer from Sebastopol at Yalta, and had not yet left the deck. It was
+that interval of chaos, of shouts and bustle which comes while the
+gangway is being put in place. At that chaotic moment the porter, a
+Tartar, who always waited on Chekhov, saw him from the distance and
+managed to climb up on the steamer sooner than any one else. He found
+Chekhov's luggage and was already on the point of carrying it down, when
+suddenly a rough and fierce-looking chief mate rushed on him. The man
+did not confine himself to obscene language, but in the access of his
+official anger, he struck the Tartar on the face.
+
+"And then an unbelievable scene took place," my friend told me--"the
+Tartar threw the luggage on the deck, beat his breast with his fists
+and, with wild eyes, was ready to fall on the chief mate, while he
+shouted in a voice which rang all over the port:"
+
+--"'What? Striking me? D'ye think you struck me? It is him--him, that
+you struck!'"
+
+"And he pointed his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, was pale,
+his lips trembled. He came up to the mate and said to him quietly and
+distinctly, but with an unusual expression: 'Are not you ashamed!'
+Believe me, by Jove, if I were that chief mate, I would rather be spat
+upon twenty times in the face than hear that 'are not you ashamed.' And
+although the mate was sufficiently thick-skinned, even he felt it. He
+bustled about for a moment, murmured something and disappeared
+instantly. No more of him was seen on deck."
+
+
+III
+
+Chekhov's study in his Yalta house was not big, about twelve strides
+long and six wide, modest, but breathing a peculiar charm. Just opposite
+the entrance was a large square window in a frame of yellow colored
+glass. To the left of the entrance, by the window, stood a writing
+table, and behind it was a small niche, lighted from the ceiling, by a
+tiny window. In the niche was a Turkish divan. To the right, in the
+middle of the wall was a brown fireplace of Dutch tiles. On the top of
+the fireplace there is a small hole where a tile is missing, and in this
+is a carelessly painted but lovely landscape of an evening field with
+hayricks in the distance; the work of Levitan. Further, in the corner,
+there is a door, through which is seen Anton Pavlovitch's bachelor
+bedroom, a bright, gay room, shining with a certain virgin cleanliness,
+whiteness and innocence. The walls of the study are covered with dark
+and gold papers, and by the writing table hangs a printed placard: "You
+are requested not to smoke." Immediately by the entrance door, to the
+right, there is a book-case with books. On the mantelpiece there are
+some bric-a-brac and among them a beautifully made model of a sailing
+ship. There are many pretty things made of ivory and wood on the writing
+table; models of elephants being in the majority. On the walls hang
+portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovitch, and Turgenev. On a little table with
+a fan-like stand are a number of photographs of actors and authors.
+Heavy dark curtains fall on both sides of the window. On the floor is a
+large carpet of oriental design. This softens all the outlines and
+darkens the study; yet the light from the window falls evenly and
+pleasantly on the writing table. The room smells of very fine scents of
+which A. Pavlovitch was very fond. From the window is seen an open
+horseshoe-shaped hollow, running down to the sea, and the sea itself,
+surrounded by an amphitheatre of houses. On the left, on the right, and
+behind, rise mountains in a semi-circle. In the evenings, when the
+lights are lit in the hilly environs of Yalta and the lights and the
+stars over them are so mixed that you cannot distinguish one from the
+other,--then the place reminds one of certain spots in the Caucasus.
+
+This is what always happens--you get to know a man; you have studied his
+appearance, bearing, voice and manners, and still you can always recall
+his face as it was when you saw it for the first time, completely
+different from the present. Thus, after several years of friendship with
+Anton Pavlovitch, there is preserved in my memory the Chekhov, whom I
+saw for the first time in the public room of the hotel "London" in
+Odessa. He seemed to me then tall, lean, but broad in the shoulders,
+with a somewhat stern look. Signs of illness were not then noticeable,
+unless in his walk--weak, and as if on somewhat bent knees. If I were
+asked what he was like at first sight, I should say: "A Zemstvo doctor
+or a teacher of a provincial secondary school." But there was also in
+him something plain and modest, something extraordinarily Russian--of
+the people. In his face, speech and manners there was also a touch of
+the Moscow undergraduate's carelessness. Many people saw that in him,
+and I among them. But a few hours later I saw a completely different
+Chekhov--the Chekhov, whose face could never be caught by any
+photograph, who, unfortunately, was not understood by any painter who
+drew him. I saw the most beautiful, refined and spiritual face that I
+have ever come across in my life.
+
+Many said that Chekhov had blue eyes. It is a mistake, but a mistake
+strangely common to all who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown,
+and the iris of his right eye was considerably brighter, which gave
+A. P.'s look, at certain moments, an expression of absent-mindedness.
+His eyelids hung rather heavy upon his eyes, as is so often observed in
+artists, hunters and sailors, and all those who concentrate their gaze.
+Owing to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of
+his glasses, with his head somewhat tilted upwards, Anton Pavlovitch's
+face often seemed stern. But one ought to have seen Chekhov at certain
+moments (rare, alas, during the last years) when gayety possessed him,
+and when with a quick movement of the hand, he threw off his glasses and
+swung his chair and burst into gay, sincere and deep laughter. Then his
+eyes became narrow and bright, with good-natured little wrinkles at the
+corners, and he reminded one then of that youthful portrait in which he
+is seen as a beardless boy, smiling, short-sighted and naïve, looking
+rather sideways. And--strange though it is--each time that I look at
+that photograph, I cannot rid myself of the thought that Chekhov's eyes
+were really blue.
+
+Looking at Chekhov one noticed his forehead, which was wide, white and
+pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
+eyebrows, by the bridge of the nose, two vertical melancholy folds.
+Chekhov's ears were large and not shapely, but such sensible,
+intelligent ears I have seen only in one other man--Tolstoy.
+
+Once in the summer, availing myself of A. P.'s good humor, I took
+several photographs of him with a little camera. Unfortunately the best
+of them and those most like him turned out very pale, owing to the weak
+light of the study. Of the others, which were more successful, A. P.
+said as he looked at them:
+
+"Well, you know, it is not me but some Frenchman."
+
+I remember now very vividly the grip of his large, dry and hot hand,--a
+grip, always strong and manly but at the same time reserved, as if it
+were consciously concealing something. I also visualize now his
+handwriting: thin, with extremely fine strokes, careless at first sight
+and inelegant, but, when you look closer, it appears very distinct,
+tender, fine and characteristic, as everything else about him.
+
+
+IV
+
+A. P. used to get up, in the summer at least, very early. None even of
+his most intimate friends saw him carelessly dressed, nor did he approve
+of lazy habits, like wearing slippers, dressing gowns or light jackets.
+At eight or nine he was already pacing his study or at his writing
+table, invariably impeccably and neatly dressed.
+
+Evidently, his best time for work was in the morning before lunch,
+although nobody ever managed to find him writing: in this respect he was
+extraordinarily reserved and shy. All the same, on nice warm mornings he
+could be seen sitting on a slope behind the house, in the cosiest part
+of the place, where oleanders stood in tubs along the walls, and where
+he had planted a cypress. There he sat sometimes for an hour or longer,
+alone, without stirring, with his hands on his knees, looking in front
+of him at the sea.
+
+About midday and later visitors began to fill the house. Girls stood for
+hours at the iron railings, separating the bungalow from the road, with
+open mouths, in white felt hats. The most diverse people came to
+Chekhov: scholars, authors, Zemstvo workers, doctors, military,
+painters, admirers of both sexes, professors, society men and women,
+senators, priests, actors--and God knows who else. Often he was asked to
+give advice or help and still more often to give his opinion upon
+manuscripts. Casual newspaper reporters and people who were merely
+inquisitive would appear; also people who came to him with the sole
+purpose of "directing the big, but erring talent to the proper, ideal
+side." Beggars came--genuine and sham. These never met with a refusal. I
+do not think it right, myself, to mention private cases, but I know for
+certain that Chekhov's generosity towards students of both sexes, was
+immeasurably beyond what his modest means would allow.
+
+People came to him from all strata of society, of all camps, of all
+shades. Notwithstanding the worry of so continuous a stream of visitors,
+there was something attractive in it to Chekhov. He got first-hand
+knowledge of everything that was going on at any given moment in Russia.
+How mistaken were those who wrote or supposed that he was a man
+indifferent to public interests, to the whirling life of the
+intelligentsia, and to the burning questions of his time! He watched
+everything carefully, and thoughtfully. He was tormented and distressed
+by all the things which tormented the minds of the best Russians. One
+had only to see how in those terrible times, when the absurd, dark, evil
+phenomena of our public life were discussed in his presence, he knitted
+his thick eyebrows, and how martyred his face looked, and what a deep
+sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.
+
+It is fitting to mention here one fact which, in my opinion, superbly
+illustrates Chekhov's attitude to the stupidities of Russian life. Many
+know that he resigned the rank of an honorary member of the Academy; the
+motives of his resignation are known; but very few have read his letter
+to the Academy,--a splendid letter, written with a simple and noble
+dignity, and the restrained indignation of a great soul.
+
+    To the August President of the Academy
+    25 August, 1902
+    Yalta.
+
+    _Your Imperial Highness_,
+    August President!
+
+    In December of last year I received a notice of the election of
+    A. M. Pyeshkov (Maxim Gorky) as an honorary academician, and I took
+    the first opportunity of seeing A. M. Pyeshkov, who was then in
+    Crimea. I was the first to bring him news of his election and I was
+    the first to congratulate him. Some time later, it was announced in
+    the newspapers that, in view of proceedings according to Art. 1035
+    being instituted against Pyeshkov for his political views, his
+    election was cancelled. It was expressly stated that this act came
+    from the Academy of Sciences; and since I am an honorary
+    academician, I also am partly responsible for this act. I have
+    congratulated him heartily on becoming an academician and I consider
+    his election cancelled--such a contradiction does not agree with my
+    conscience, I cannot reconcile my conscience to it. The study of
+    Art. 1035 has explained nothing to me. And after long deliberation I
+    can only come to one decision, which is extremely painful and
+    regrettable to me, and that is to ask most respectfully to be
+    relieved of the rank of honorary academician. With a feeling of
+    deepest respect I have the honor to remain
+
+    Your most devoted
+    Anton Chekhov.
+
+Queer--to what an extent people misunderstood Chekhov! He, the
+"incorrigible pessimist," as he was labelled,--never tired of hoping for
+a bright future, never ceased to believe in the invisible but persistent
+and fruitful work of the best forces of our country. Which of his
+friends does not remember the favorite phrase, which he so often,
+sometimes so incongruously and unexpectedly, uttered in a tone of
+assurance:
+
+--"Look here, don't you see? There is sure to be a constitution in
+Russia in ten years time."
+
+Yes, even in that there sounds the _motif_ of the joyous future which is
+awaiting mankind; the _motif_ that was audible in all the work of his
+last years.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The truth must be told: by no means all visitors spared A. P.'s time and
+nerves, and some of them were quite merciless. I remember one striking,
+and almost incredible instance of the banality and indelicacy which
+could be displayed by a man of the so-called artistic power.
+
+It was a pleasant, cool and windless summer morning. A. P. was in an
+unusually light and cheerful mood. Suddenly there appeared as from the
+blue a stout gentleman (who subsequently turned out to be an architect),
+who sent his card to Chekhov and asked for an interview. A. P. received
+him. The architect came in, introduced himself, and, without taking any
+notice of the placard "You are requested not to smoke," without asking
+any permission, lit a huge stinking Riga cigar. Then, after paying, as
+was inevitable, a few stone-heavy compliments to his host, he began on
+the business which brought him here.
+
+The business consisted in the fact that the architect's little son, a
+school boy of the third form, was running in the streets the other day
+and from a habit peculiar to boys, whilst running, touched with his hand
+anything he came across: lamp-posts, or posts or fences. At last he
+managed to push his hand into a barbed wire fence and thus scratched his
+palm. "You see now, my worthy A. P.,"--the architect concluded his tale,
+"I shall very much like you to write a letter about it in the
+newspapers. It is lucky that Kolya (his boy) got off with a scratch, but
+it's only a chance. He might have cut an artery--what would have
+happened then?" "Yes, it's a nuisance," Chekhov answered, "but,
+unfortunately, I cannot be of any use to you. I do not write, nor have
+ever written, letters in the newspapers. I only write stories." "So much
+the better, so much the better! Put it in a story"--the architect was
+delighted. "Just put the name of the landlord in full letters. You may
+even put my own name, I do not object to it.... Still ... it would be
+best if you only put my initials, not the full name.... There are only
+two genuine authors left in Russia, you and Mr. P." (and the architect
+gave the name of a notorious literary tailor).
+
+I am not able to repeat even a hundredth part of the boring commonplaces
+which the injured architect managed to speak, since he made the
+interview last until he finished the cigar to the end, and the study had
+to be aired for a long time to get rid of the smell. But when at last he
+left, A. P. came out into the garden completely upset with red spots on
+his cheeks. His voice trembled, when he turned reproachfully to his
+sister Marie and to a friend who sat on the bench:
+
+"Could you not shield me from that man? You should have sent word that I
+was needed somewhere. He has tortured me!"
+
+I also remember,--and this I am sorry to say was partly my fault--how a
+certain self-assured general came to him to express his appreciation as
+a reader, and, probably, desiring to give Chekhov pleasure, he began,
+with his legs spread open and the fists of his turned-out hand leaning
+on them, to vilify a young author, whose great popularity was then only
+beginning to grow. And Chekhov, at once, shrank into himself, and sat
+all the time with his eyes cast down, coldly, without saying a single
+word. And only from the quick reproachful look, which he cast at my
+friend, who had introduced that general, did he show what pain he
+caused.
+
+Just as shyly and coldly he regarded praises lavished on him. He would
+retire into his niche, on the divan, his eyelids trembled, slowly fell
+and were not again raised, and his face became motionless and gloomy.
+Sometimes, when immoderate raptures came from some one he knew, he would
+try to turn the conversation into a joke, and give it a different
+direction. He would suddenly say, without rhyme or reason, with a light
+little laugh:
+
+--"I like reading what the Odessa reporters write about me."
+
+"What is that?"
+
+"It is very funny--all lies. Last spring one of them appeared in my
+hotel. He asked for an interview. And I had no time for it. So I said:
+'Excuse me but I am busy now. But write whatever you like; it is of no
+consequence to me.' Well, he did write. It drove me into a fever."
+
+And once with a most serious face he said:
+
+--"You know, in Yalta every cabman knows me. They say: 'O, Chekhov, that
+man, the reader? I know him.' For some reason they call me reader.
+Perhaps they think that I read psalm-services for the dead? You, old
+fellow, ought to ask a cabman what my occupation is...."
+
+
+V
+
+At one o'clock Chekhov dined downstairs, in a cool bright dining-room,
+and there was nearly always a guest at dinner. It was difficult not to
+yield to the fascination of that simple, kind, cordial family. One felt
+constant solicitude and love, not expressed with a single high-sounding
+word,--an amazing amount of refinement and attention, which never, as if
+on purpose, got beyond the limits of ordinary, everyday relations. One
+always noticed a truly Chekhovian fear of everything high-flown,
+insincere, or showy. In that family one felt very much at one's ease,
+light and warm, and I perfectly understand a certain author who said
+that he was in love with all the Chekhovs at the same time.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch ate exceedingly little and did not like to sit at
+table, but usually passed from the window to the door and back. Often
+after dinner, staying behind with some one in the dining-room, Yevguenia
+Yakovlevna (A. P.'s mother) said quietly with anxiety in her voice:
+
+"Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner."
+
+He was very hospitable and loved it when people stayed to dinner, and he
+knew how to treat guests in his own peculiar way, simply and heartily.
+He would say, standing behind one's chair:
+
+--"Listen, have some vodka. When I was young and healthy I loved it. I
+would pick mushrooms for a whole morning, get tired out, hardly able to
+reach home, and before lunch I would have two or three thimblefuls.
+Wonderful!..."
+
+After dinner he had tea upstairs, on the open verandah, or in his study,
+or he would come down into the garden and sit there on the bench, in his
+overcoat, with a cane, pushing his soft black hat down to his very eyes
+and looking out under its brim with screwed up eyes.
+
+These hours were the most crowded. There were constant rings on the
+telephone, asking if Anton Chekhov could be seen; and perpetual
+visitors. Strangers also came, sending in their cards and asking for
+help, for autographs or books. Then queer things happened.
+
+One "Tambov squire," as Chekhov christened him, came to him for medical
+advice. In vain did Anton Pavlovitch answer him, that he had given up
+medical practice long ago and that he was behind the times in medicine.
+In vain did he recommend a more experienced physician,--the "Tambov
+squire" persisted: no doctor would he trust but Chekhov. Willy-nilly he
+had to give a few trifling, perfectly innocent pieces of advice. On
+taking leave the "Tambov squire" put on the table two gold coins and, in
+spite of all Chekhov's persuasion, he would not agree to take them back.
+Anton Pavlovitch had to give way. He said that as he neither wished nor
+considered himself entitled to take money as a fee, he would give it to
+the Yalta Charitable Society, and at once wrote a receipt. It turned out
+that it was that the "Tambov squire" wanted. With a radiant face, he
+carefully put the receipt in his pocket-book, and then confessed that
+the sole purpose of his visit was to obtain Chekhov's autograph. Chekhov
+himself told me the story of this original and persistent
+patient--half-laughing, half-cross.
+
+I repeat, many of these visitors plagued him fearfully and even
+irritated him, but, owing to the amazing delicacy peculiar to him, he
+was with all patient, attentive and accessible to those who wished to
+see him. His delicacy at times reached a limit that bordered on
+weakness. Thus, for instance, one nice, well-meaning lady, a great
+admirer of Chekhov, gave him for a birthday present a huge pug-dog in a
+sitting position, made of colored plaster of Paris, over a yard high,
+i. e., about five times larger than its natural size. That pug-dog was
+placed downstairs, on the landing near the dining room, and there he sat
+with an angry face chewing his teeth and frightening those who had
+forgotten him.
+
+--"O, I'm afraid of that stone dog myself," Chekhov confessed, "but it
+is awkward to move him; it might hurt her. Let him stay on here."
+
+And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter, he added unexpectedly, in his
+usual manner:
+
+"Have you noticed in the houses of rich Jews, such plaster dogs often
+sit by the fireplace?"
+
+At times, for days on end, he would be annoyed with every sort of
+admirer and detractor and even adviser. "O, I have such a mass of
+visitors,"--he complained in a letter,--"that my head swims. I cannot
+work." But still he did not remain indifferent to a sincere feeling of
+love and respect and always distinguished it from idle and fulsome
+tittle-tattle. Once he returned in a very gay mood from the quay where
+he sometimes took a walk, and with great animation told us:
+
+--"I just had a wonderful meeting. An artillery officer suddenly came up
+to me on the quay, quite a young man, a sub-lieutenant.--'Are you A. P.
+Chekhov?'--'Yes. Do you want anything?'--'Excuse me please for my
+importunity, but for so long I have wanted to shake your hand!' And he
+blushed--he was a wonderful fellow with a fine face. We shook hands and
+parted."
+
+Chekhov was at his best towards evening, about seven o'clock, when
+people gathered in the dining room for tea and a light supper.
+Sometimes--but more and more rarely as the years went on--there revived
+in him the old Chekhov, inexhaustibly gay, witty, with a bubbling,
+charming, youthful humor. Then he improvised stories in which the
+characters were his friends, and he was particularly fond of arranging
+imaginary weddings, which sometimes ended with the young husband the
+following morning, sitting at the table and having his tea, saying as it
+were by the way in an unconcerned and businesslike tone:
+
+--"Do you know, my dear, after tea we'll get ready and go to a
+solicitor's. Why should you have unnecessary bother about your money?"
+
+He invented wonderful Chekhovian names, of which I now--alas!--remember
+only a certain mythical sailor Koshkodovenko-cat-slayer. He also liked
+as a joke to make young writers appear old. "What are you saying--Bunin
+is my age"--he would assure one with mock seriousness. "So is Teleshov:
+he is an old writer. Well, ask him yourself: he will tell you what a
+spree we had at T. A. Bieloussov's wedding. What a long time ago!" To a
+talented novelist, a serious writer and a man of ideas, he said: "Look
+here, you're twenty years my senior: surely you wrote previously under
+the nom-de-plume 'Nestor Kukolnik.'"
+
+But his jokes never left any bitterness any more than he consciously
+ever caused the slightest pain to any living thing.
+
+After dinner he would keep some one in his study for half an hour or an
+hour. On his table candles would be lit. Later, when all had gone and he
+remained alone, a light would still be seen in his large window for a
+long time. Whether he worked at that time, or looked through his
+note-books, putting down the impressions of the day nobody seems to
+know.
+
+
+VI
+
+It is true, on the whole, that we know nearly nothing, not only of his
+creative activities, but even of the external methods of his work. In
+this respect Anton Pavlovitch was almost eccentric in his reserve and
+silence. I remember him saying, as if by the way, something very
+significant:
+
+--"For God's sake don't read your work to any one until it is published.
+Don't read it to others in proof even."
+
+This was always his own habit, although he sometimes made exceptions for
+his wife and sister. Formerly he is said to have been more communicative
+in this respect.
+
+That was when he wrote a great deal and at great speed. He himself said
+that he used to write a story a day. E. T. Chekhov, his mother, used to
+say: "When he was still an undergraduate, Antosha would sit at the table
+in the morning, having his tea and suddenly fall to thinking; he would
+sometimes look straight into one's eyes, but I knew that he saw nothing.
+Then he would get his note-book out of his pocket and write quickly,
+quickly. And again he would fall to thinking...."
+
+But during the last years Chekhov began to treat himself with ever
+increasing strictness and exactitude: he kept his stories for several
+years, continually correcting and copying them, and nevertheless in
+spite of such minute work, the final proofs, which came from him, were
+speckled throughout with signs, corrections, and insertions. In order to
+finish a work he had to write without tearing himself away. "If I leave
+a story for a long time,"--he once said--"I cannot make myself finish it
+afterwards. I have to begin again."
+
+Where did he draw his images from? Where did he find his observations
+and his similes? Where did he forge his superb language, unique in
+Russian literature? He confided in nobody, never revealed his creative
+methods. Many note-books are said to have been left by him; perhaps in
+them will in time be found the keys to those mysteries. Or perhaps they
+will forever remain unsolved. Who knows? At any rate we must limit
+ourselves to vague hints and guesses.
+
+I think that always, from morning to night, and perhaps at night even,
+in his sleep and sleeplessness, there was going on in him an invisible
+but persistent--at times even unconscious--activity, the activity of
+weighing, defining and remembering. He knew how to listen and ask
+questions, as no one else did; but often, in the middle of a lively
+conversation, it would be noticed, how his attentive and kindly look
+became motionless and deep, as if it were withdrawing somewhere inside,
+contemplating something mysterious and important, which was going on
+there. At those moments A. P. would put his strange questions, amazing
+through their unexpectedness, completely out of touch with the
+conversation, questions which confused many people. The conversation was
+about neo-marxists, and he would suddenly ask: "Have you ever been to a
+stud-farm? You ought to see one. It is interesting." Or he would repeat
+a question for the second time, which had already been answered.
+
+Chekhov was not remarkable for a memory of external things. I speak of
+that power of minute memory, which women so often possess in a very high
+degree, also peasants, which consists in remembering, how a person was
+dressed, whether he has a beard and mustaches, what his watch chain was
+like or his boots, what color his hair was. These details were simply
+unimportant and uninteresting to him. But, instead, he took the whole
+person and defined quickly and truly, exactly like an experienced
+chemist, his specific gravity, his quality and order, and he knew
+already how to describe his essential qualities in a couple of strokes.
+
+Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeasure of a good friend of his, a
+famous scholar, who, in spite of a long-standing friendship, somewhat
+oppressed Chekhov with his talkativeness. No sooner would he arrive in
+Yalta, than he at once came to Chekhov and sat there with him all the
+morning till lunch. Then he would go to his hotel for half an hour, and
+come back and sit until late at night, all the time talking, talking,
+talking.... And so on day after day.
+
+Suddenly, abruptly breaking off his story, as if carried away by a new
+interesting thought, Anton Pavlovitch added with animation:
+
+--"And nobody would guess what is most characteristic in that man. I
+know it. That he is a professor and a savant with a European reputation,
+is to him a secondary matter. The chief thing is that in his heart he
+considers himself to be a remarkable actor, and he profoundly believes
+that it is only by chance that he has not won universal popularity on
+the stage. At home he always reads Ostrovsky aloud."
+
+Once, smiling at his recollection, he suddenly observed:
+
+--"D'you know, Moscow is the most peculiar city. In it everything is
+unexpected. Once on a spring morning S., the publicist, and myself came
+out of the Great Moscow Hotel. It was after a late and merry supper.
+Suddenly S. dragged me to the Tversky Church, just opposite. He took a
+handful of coppers and began to share it out to the beggars--there are
+dozens standing about there. He would give one a penny and whisper:
+'Pray for the health of Michael the slave of God.' It is his Christian
+name Michael. And again: 'for the servant of God, Michael; for Michael,
+the servant of God.' And he himself does not believe in God.... Queer
+fellow!" ...
+
+I now approach a delicate point which may not perhaps please every one.
+I am convinced that Chekhov talked to a scholar and a peddler, a beggar
+and a litterateur, with a prominent Zemstvo worker and a suspicious monk
+or shop assistant or a small postman, with the same attention and
+curiosity. Is not that the reason why in his stories the professor
+speaks and thinks just like an old professor, and the tramp just like a
+veritable tramp? And is it not because of this, that immediately after
+his death there appeared so many "bosom" friends, for whom, in their
+words, he would be ready to go through fire and water?
+
+I think that he did not open or give his heart completely to any one
+(there is a legend, though, of an intimate, beloved friend, a Taganrog
+official). But he regarded all kindly, indifferently so far as
+friendship is concerned--and at the same time with a great, perhaps
+unconscious, interest.
+
+His Chekhovian _mots_ and those little _traits_ that astonish us by
+their neatness and appositeness, he often took direct from life. The
+expression "it displeasures me" which quickly became, after the
+"Bishop," a bye-word with a wide circulation, he got from a certain
+gloomy tramp, half-drunkard, half-madman, half-prophet. I also remember
+talking once with Chekhov of a long dead Moscow poet, and Chekhov
+glowingly remembered him, and his mistress, and his empty rooms, and his
+St. Bernard, "Ami," who suffered from constant indigestion. "Certainly,
+I remember,"--Chekhov said laughing gayly--"At five o'clock his mistress
+would always come in and ask: 'Liodor Tranitch, I say, Liodor Tranitch,
+is it not time you drank your beer?'" And then I imprudently said: "O,
+that's where it comes from in your 'Ward N 6'?"--"Yes, well,
+yes"--replied Chekhov with displeasure.
+
+He had friends also among those merchants' wives, who, in spite of their
+millions and the most fashionable dresses, and an outward interest in
+literature, say "ideal" and "in principal." Some of them would for hours
+pour out their souls before Chekhov, wishing to convey what
+extraordinarily refined, neurotic characters they were, and what a
+remarkable novel could be written by a writer of genius about their
+lives, if only they could tell everything. And he would sit quietly, in
+silence, and listen with apparent pleasure--only under his moustache
+glided an almost imperceptible smile.
+
+I do not wish to say that he _looked_ for models, like many other
+writers. But I think, that everywhere and always he saw material for
+observation, and this happened involuntarily, often perhaps against his
+will, through his long-cultivated and ineradicable habit of diving into
+people, of analyzing and generalizing them. In this hidden process was
+to him, probably, all the torment and joy of his creative activity.
+
+He shared his impressions with no one, just as he never spoke of what
+and how he was going to write. Also very rarely was the artist and
+novelist shown in his talk. He, partly deliberately, partly
+instinctively, used in his speech ordinary, average, common expressions,
+without having recourse either to simile or picturesqueness. He guarded
+his treasures in his soul, not permitting them to be wasted in wordy
+foam, and in this there was a huge difference between him and those
+novelists who tell their stories much better than they write them.
+
+This, I think, came from a natural reserve, but also from a peculiar
+shyness. There are people who constitutionally cannot endure and are
+morbidly shy of too demonstrative attitudes, gestures and words, and
+Anton Pavlovitch possessed this quality in the highest degree. Herein,
+maybe, is hidden the key to his _seeming_ indifference towards question
+of struggle and protest and his aloofness towards topical events, which
+did and do agitate the Russian intelligentsia. He had a horror of
+pathos, of vehement emotions and the theatrical effects inseparable from
+them. I can only compare him in this with a man who loves a woman with
+all the ardor, tenderness and depth, of which a man of refinement and
+great intelligence is capable. He will never try to speak of it in
+pompous, high-flown words, and he cannot even imagine himself falling on
+his knees and pressing his hand to his heart and speaking in the
+tremulous voice of a young lover on the stage. And therefore he loves
+and is silent, and suffers in silence, and will never attempt to utter
+what the average man will express freely and noisily according to all
+the rules of rhetoric.
+
+
+VII
+
+To young writers, Chekhov was always sympathetic and kind. No one left
+him oppressed by his enormous talent and by one's own insignificance. He
+never said to any one: "Do as I do; see how I behave." If in despair one
+complained to him: "Is it worth going on, if one will forever remain
+'our young and promising author'?" he answered quietly and seriously:
+
+--"But, my dear fellow, not every one can write like Tolstoy." His
+considerateness was at times pathetic. A certain young writer came to
+Yalta and took a little room in a big and noisy Greek family somewhere
+beyond Antka, on the outskirts of the city. He once complained to
+Chekhov that it was difficult to work in such surroundings, and Chekhov
+insisted that the writer should come to him in the mornings and work
+downstairs in the room adjoining the dining room. "You will write
+downstairs, and I upstairs"--he said with his charming smile--"And you
+will have dinner with me. When you finish something, do read it to me,
+or, if you go away, send me the proofs."
+
+He read an amazing amount and always remembered everything, and never
+confused one writer with another. If writers asked his opinion, he
+always praised their work, not so as to get rid of them, but because he
+knew how cruelly a sharp, even if just, criticism cuts the wings of
+beginners, and what an encouragement and hope a little praise gives
+sometimes. "I have read your story. It is marvelously well done," he
+would say on such occasions in a hearty voice. But when a certain
+confidence was established and they got to know each other, especially
+if an author insisted, he gave his opinion more definitely, directly,
+and at greater length. I have two letters of his, written to one and the
+same novelist, concerning one and the same tale. Here is a quotation
+from the first:
+
+"Dear N., I received your tale and have read it; many thanks. The tale
+is good, I have read it at one go, as I did the previous one, and with
+the same pleasure...."
+
+But as the author was not satisfied with praise alone, he soon received
+a second letter from Anton Pavlovitch.
+
+"You want me to speak of defects only, and thereby you put me in an
+embarrassing situation. There are no defects in that story, and if one
+finds fault, it is only with a few of its peculiarities. For instance,
+your heroes, characters, you treat in the old style, as they have been
+treated for a hundred years by all who have written about them--nothing
+new. Secondly, in the first chapter you are busy describing people's
+faces--again that is the old way, it is a description which can be
+dispensed with. Five minutely described faces tire the attention, and in
+the end lose their value. Clean-shaved characters are like each other,
+like Catholic priests, and remain alike, however studiously you describe
+them. Thirdly, you overdo your rough manner in the description of
+drunken people. That is all I can say in reply to your question about
+the defects; I can find nothing more that is wrong."
+
+To those writers with whom he had any common spiritual bond, he always
+behaved with great care and attention. He never missed an occasion to
+tell them any news which he knew would be pleasing or useful.
+
+"Dear N.," he wrote to a certain friend of mine,--"I hereby inform you
+that your story was read by L. N. Tolstoy and he liked it _very much_.
+Be so good as to send him your book at this address; Koreiz, Tauric
+Province, and on the title page underline the stories which you consider
+best, so that he should begin with them. Or send the book to me and I
+will hand it to him."
+
+To the writer of these lines he also once showed a delightful kindness,
+communicating by letter that, "in the 'Dictionary of the Russian
+Language,' published by the Academy of Sciences, in the sixth number of
+the second volume, which number I received to-day, you too appeared at
+last."
+
+All these of course are details, but in them is apparent much sympathy
+and concern, so that now, when this great artist and remarkable man is
+no longer among us, his letters acquire the significance of a far-away,
+irrevocable caress.
+
+"Write, write as much as possible"--he would say to young novelists. "It
+does not matter if it does not come off. Later on it will come off. The
+chief thing is, do not waste your youth and elasticity. It's now the
+time for working. See, you write superbly, but your vocabulary is small.
+You must acquire words and turns of speech, and for this you must write
+every day."
+
+And he himself worked untiringly on himself, enriching his charming,
+varied vocabulary from every source: from conversations, dictionaries,
+catalogues, from learned works, from sacred writings. The store of words
+which that silent man had was extraordinary.
+
+--"Listen, travel third class as often as possible"--he advised--"I am
+sorry that illness prevents me from traveling third. There you will
+sometimes hear remarkably interesting things."
+
+He also wondered at those authors who for years on end see nothing but
+the next door house from the windows of their Petersburg flats. And
+often he said with a shade of impatience:
+
+--"I cannot understand why you--young, healthy, and free--don't go, for
+instance, to Australia (Australia for some reason was his favorite part
+of the world), or to Siberia. As soon as I am better, I shall certainly
+go to Siberia. I was there when I went to Saghalien. You cannot imagine,
+my dear fellow, what a wonderful country it is. It is quite different.
+You know, I am convinced Siberia will some day sever herself completely
+from Russia, just as America severed herself from her motherland. You
+must, must go there without fail...."
+
+"Why don't you write a play?"--he would sometimes ask. "Do write one,
+really. Every writer must write at least four plays."
+
+But he would confess now and then, that the dramatic form is losing its
+interest now.
+
+"The drama must either degenerate completely, or take a completely new
+form"--he said. "We cannot even imagine what the theatre will be like in
+a hundred years."
+
+There were some little inconsistencies in Anton Pavlovitch which were
+particularly attractive in him and had at the same time a deep inner
+significance. This was once the case with regard to note-books. Chekhov
+had just strongly advised us not to have recourse to them for help but
+to rely wholly on our memory and imagination. "The big things will
+remain"--he argued--"and the details you can always invent or find." But
+then, an hour later, one of the company, who had been for a year on the
+stage, began to talk of his theatrical impressions and incidentally
+mentioned this case. A rehearsal was taking place in the theatre of a
+tiny provincial town. The "young lover" paced the stage in a hat and
+check trousers, with his hands in his pockets, showing off before a
+casual public which had straggled into the theatre. The "ingenue," his
+mistress, who was also on the stage, said to him: "Sasha, what was it
+you whistled yesterday from _Pagliacci_? Do please whistle it again."
+The "young lover" turned to her, and looking her up and down with a
+devastating expression said in a fat, actor's voice: "Wha-at! Whistle on
+the stage? Would you whistle in church? Then know that the stage is the
+same as a church!"
+
+At the end of that story Anton Pavlovitch threw off his pince-nez, flung
+himself back in his chair, and began to laugh with his clear, ringing
+laughter. He immediately opened the drawer of his table to get his
+note-book. "Wait, wait, how did you say it? The stage is a temple?" ...
+And he put down the whole anecdote.
+
+There was no essential contradiction in this, and Anton Pavlovitch
+explained it himself. "One should not put down similes, characteristic
+_traits_, details, scenes from nature--this must come of itself when it
+is needed. But a bare fact, a rare name, a technical term, should be put
+down in the note-book--otherwise it may be forgotten and lost."
+
+Chekhov frequently recalled the difficulties put in his way by the
+editors of serious magazines, until with the helping hand of "Sieverny
+Viestnik" he finally overcame them.
+
+"For one thing you all ought to be grateful to me,"--he would say to
+young writers.--"It was I who opened the way for writers of short
+stories. Formerly, when one took a manuscript to an editor, he did not
+even read it. He just looked scornfully at one. 'What? You call this a
+work? But this is shorter than a sparrow's nose. No, we do not want such
+trifles.' But, see, I got round them and paved the way for others. But
+that is nothing; they treated me much worse than that! They used my name
+as a synonym for a writer of short stories. They would make merry: 'O,
+you Chekhovs!' It seemed to them amusing."
+
+Anton Pavlovitch had a high opinion of modern writing, i. e., properly
+speaking, of the technique of modern writing. "All write superbly now;
+there are no bad writers"--he said in a resolute tone. "And hence it is
+becoming more and more difficult to win fame. Do you know whom that is
+due to?--Maupassant. He, as an artist in language, put the standard
+before an author so high that it is no longer possible to write as of
+old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissemsky,
+Grigorovitch, or Ostrovsky; try, and you will see what obsolete,
+commonplace stuff it is. Take on the other hand our decadents. They are
+only pretending to be sick and crazy,--they all are burly peasants. But
+so far as writing goes,--they are masters."
+
+At the same time he asked that writers should choose ordinary, everyday
+themes, simplicity of treatment, and absence of showy tricks. "Why
+write,"--he wondered--"about a man getting into a submarine and going to
+the North Pole to reconcile himself with the world, while his beloved at
+that moment throws herself with a hysterical shriek from the belfry? All
+this is untrue and does not happen in reality. One must write about
+simple things: how Peter Semionovitch married Marie Ivanovna. That is
+all. And again, why those subtitles: a psychological study, genre,
+nouvelle? All these are mere pretense. Put as plain a title as
+possible--any that occurs to your mind--and nothing else. Also use as
+few brackets, italics and hyphens as possible. They are mannerisms."
+
+He also taught that an author should be indifferent to the joys and
+sorrows of his characters. "In a good story"--he said--"I have read a
+description of a restaurant by the sea in a large city. You saw at once
+that the author was all admiration for the music, the electric light,
+the flowers in the buttonholes; that he himself delighted in
+contemplating them. One has to stand outside these things, and, although
+knowing them in minute detail, one must look at them from top to bottom
+with contempt. And then it will be true."
+
+
+VIII
+
+The son of Alphonse Daudet in his memoirs of his father relates that the
+gifted French writer half jokingly called himself a "seller of
+happiness." People of all sorts would constantly apply to him for advice
+and assistance. They came with their sorrows and worries, and he,
+already bedridden with a painful and incurable disease, found sufficient
+courage, patience, and love of mankind in himself to penetrate into
+other people's grief, to console and encourage them.
+
+Chekhov, certainly, with his extraordinary modesty and his dislike of
+phrase-making, would never have said anything like that. But how often
+he had to listen to people's confessions, to help by word and deed, to
+hold out a tender and strong hand to the falling.... In his wonderful
+objectivity, standing above personal sorrows and joys, he knew and saw
+everything. But personal feeling stood in the way of his understanding.
+He could be kind and generous without loving; tender and sympathetic
+without attachment; a benefactor, without counting on gratitude. And
+these traits which were never understood by those round him, contained
+the chief key to his personality.
+
+Availing myself of the permission of a friend of mine, I will quote a
+short extract from a Chekhov letter. The man was greatly alarmed and
+troubled during the first pregnancy of a much beloved wife, and, to tell
+the truth, he distressed Anton Pavlovitch greatly with his own trouble.
+Chekhov once wrote to him:
+
+"Tell your wife she should not be anxious, everything will be all right.
+The travail will last twenty hours, and then will ensue a most blissful
+state, when she will smile, and you will long to cry from love and
+gratitude. Twenty hours is the usual maximum for the first childbirth."
+
+What a subtle cure for another's anxiety is heard in these few simple
+lines! But it is still more characteristic that later, when my friend
+had become a happy father, and, recollecting that letter, asked Chekhov
+how he understood these feelings so well, Anton Pavlovitch answered
+quietly, even indifferently:
+
+"When I lived in the country, I always had to attend peasant women. It
+was just the same--there too is the same joy."
+
+If Chekhov had not been such a remarkable writer, he would have been a
+great doctor. Physicians who sometimes invited him to a consultation
+spoke of him as an unusually thoughtful observer and penetrating in
+diagnosis. It would not be surprising if his diagnosis were more perfect
+and profound than a diagnosis given by a fashionable celebrity. He saw
+and heard in man--in his face, voice, and bearing--what was hidden and
+would escape the notice of an average observer.
+
+He himself preferred to recommend, in the rare cases when his advice was
+sought, medicines that were tried, simple, and mostly domestic. By the
+way he treated children with great success.
+
+He believed in medicine firmly and soundly, and nothing could shake that
+belief. I remember how cross he was once when some one began to talk
+slightingly of medicine, basing his remarks on Zola's novel "Doctor
+Pascal."
+
+--"Zola understands nothing and invents it all in his study,"--he said
+in agitation, coughing. "Let him come and see how our Zemstvo doctors
+work and what they do for the people."
+
+Every one knows how often--with what sympathy and love beneath an
+external hardness, he describes those superb workers, those obscure and
+inconspicuous heroes who deliberately doomed their names to oblivion. He
+described them, even without sparing them.
+
+
+IX
+
+There is a saying: the death of each man is like him. One recalls it
+involuntarily when one thinks of the last years of Chekhov's life, of
+the last days, even of the last minutes. Even into his funeral fate
+brought, by some fatal consistency, many purely Chekhovian traits.
+
+He struggled long, terribly long, with an implacable disease, but bore
+it with manly simplicity and patience, without irritation, without
+complaints, almost in silence. Only just before his death, he mentions
+his disease, just by the way, in his letters. "My health is recovered,
+although I still walk with a compress on." ... "I have just got through
+a pleurisy, but am better now." ... "My health is not grand.... I write
+on."
+
+He did not like to talk of his disease and was annoyed when questioned
+about it. Only from Arseniy (the servant) one would learn. "This morning
+he was very bad--there was blood," he would say in a whisper, shaking
+his head. Or Yevguenia Yakovlevna, Chekhov's mother, would say secretly
+with anguish in her voice:
+
+"Antosha again coughed all night. I hear through the wall."
+
+Did he know the extent and meaning of his disease? I think he did, but
+intrepidly, like a doctor and a philosopher, he looked into the eyes of
+imminent death. There were various, trifling circumstances pointing to
+the fact that he knew. Thus, for instance, to a lady, who complained to
+him of insomnia and nervous breakdown, he said quietly, with an
+indefinable sadness:
+
+"You see; whilst a man's lungs are right, everything is right."
+
+He died simply, pathetically, and fully conscious. They say his last
+words were: "Ich sterbe." And his last days were darkened by a deep
+sorrow for Russia, and by the anxiety of the monstrous Japanese war.
+
+His funeral comes back to mind like a dream. The cold, grayish
+Petersburg, a mistake about a telegram, a small gathering of people at
+the railway station, "Wagon for oysters," in which his remains were
+brought from Germany, the station authorities who had never heard of
+Chekhov and saw in his body only a railway cargo.... Then, as a
+contrast, Moscow, profound sorrow, thousands of bereaved people,
+tear-stained faces. And at last his grave in the Novodevitchy cemetery,
+filled with flowers, side by side with the humble grave of the
+"Cossack's widow, Olga Coocaretnikov."
+
+I remember the service in the cemetery the day after his funeral. It was
+a still July evening, and the old lime trees over the graves stood
+motionless and golden in the sun. With a quiet, tender sadness and
+sighing sounded the women's voices. And in the souls of many, then, was
+a deep perplexity.
+
+Slowly and in silence the people left the cemetery. I went up to
+Chekhov's mother and silently kissed her hand. And she said in a low,
+tired voice:
+
+"Our trial is bitter.... Antosha is dead."
+
+O, the overwhelming depth of these simple, ordinary, very Chekhovian
+words! The enormous abyss of the loss, the irrevocable nature of the
+great event, opened behind. No! Consolations would be useless. Can the
+sorrow of those, whose souls have been so close to the great soul of the
+dead, ever be assuaged?
+
+But let their unquenchable anguish be stayed by the consciousness that
+their distress is our common distress. Let it be softened by the thought
+of the immortality of his great and pure name. Indeed: there will pass
+years and centuries, and time will efface the very memory of thousands
+and thousands of those living now. But the posterity, of whose happiness
+Chekhov dreamt with such fascinating sadness, will speak his name with
+gratitude and silent sorrow for his fate.
+
+
+
+
+A. P. CHEKHOV
+BY
+I. A. BUNIN
+
+
+I made Chekhov's acquaintance in Moscow, towards the end of '95. We met
+then at intervals and I should not think it worth mentioning, if I did
+not remember some very characteristic phrases.
+
+"Do you write much?" he asked me once.
+
+I answered that I wrote little.
+
+"Bad," he said, almost sternly, in his low, deep voice. "One must work
+... without sparing oneself ... all one's life."
+
+And, after a pause, without any visible connection, he added:
+
+"When one has written a story I believe that one ought to strike out
+both the beginning and the end. That is where we novelists are most
+inclined to lie. And one must write shortly--as shortly as possible."
+
+Then we spoke of poetry, and he suddenly became excited. "Tell me, do
+you care for Alexey Tolstoy's poems? To me he is an actor. When he was a
+boy he put on evening dress and he has never taken it off."
+
+After these stray meetings in which we touched upon some of Chekhov's
+favorite topics--as that one must work "without sparing oneself" and
+must write simply and without the shadow of falsehood--we did not meet
+till the spring of '99. I came to Yalta for a few days, and one evening
+I met Chekhov on the quay.
+
+"Why don't you come to see me?" were his first words. "Be sure to come
+to-morrow."
+
+"At what time?" I asked.
+
+"In the morning about eight."
+
+And seeing perhaps that I looked surprised he added:
+
+"We get up early. Don't you?"
+
+"Yes I do too," I said.
+
+"Well then, come when you get up. We will give you coffee. You take
+coffee?"
+
+"Sometimes."
+
+"You ought to always. It's a wonderful drink. When I am working, I drink
+nothing but coffee and chicken broth until the evening. Coffee in the
+morning and chicken broth at midday. If I don't, my work suffers."
+
+I thanked him for asking me, and we crossed the quay in silence and sat
+down on a bench.
+
+"Do you love the sea?" I asked.
+
+"Yes," he replied. "But it is too lonely."
+
+"That's what I like about it," I replied.
+
+"I wonder," he mused, looking through his spectacles away into the
+distance and thinking his own thoughts. "It must be nice to be a
+soldier, or a young undergraduate ... to sit in a crowd and listen to
+the band...."
+
+And then, as was usual with him, after a pause and without apparent
+connection, he added:
+
+"It is very difficult to describe the sea. Do you know the description
+that a school-boy gave in an exercise? 'The sea is vast.' Only that.
+Wonderful, I think."
+
+Some people might think him affected in saying this. But
+Chekhov--affected!
+
+"I grant," said one who knew Chekhov well, "that I have met men as
+sincere as Chekhov. But any one so simple, and so free from pose and
+affectation I have never known!"
+
+And that is true. He loved all that was sincere, vital, and gay, so long
+as it was neither coarse nor dull, and could not endure pedants, or
+book-worms who have got so much into the habit of making phrases that
+they can talk in no other way. In his writings he scarcely ever spoke of
+himself or of his views, and this led people to think him a man without
+principles or sense of duty to his kind. In life, too, he was no
+egotist, and seldom spoke of his likings and dislikings. But both were
+very strong and lasting, and simplicity was one of the things he liked
+best. "The sea is vast." ... To him, with his passion for simplicity and
+his loathing of the strained and affected, that was "wonderful." His
+words about the officer and the music showed another characteristic of
+his: his reserve. The transition from the sea to the officer was no
+doubt inspired by his secret craving for youth and health. The sea is
+lonely.... And Chekhov loved life and joy. During his last years his
+desire for happiness, even of the simplest kind, would constantly show
+itself in his conversation. It would be hinted at, not expressed.
+
+In Moscow, in the year 1895, I saw a middle-aged man (Chekhov was then
+35) wearing pince-nez, quietly dressed, rather tall, and light and
+graceful in his movements. He welcomed me, but so quietly that I, then a
+boy, took his quietness for coldness.... In Yalta, in the year 1899, I
+found him already much changed; he had grown thin; his face was sadder;
+his distinction was as great as ever but it was the distinction of an
+elderly man, who has gone through much, and been ennobled by his
+suffering. His voice was gentler.... In other respects he was much as he
+had been in Moscow; cordial, speaking with animation, but even more
+simply and shortly, and, while he talked, he went on with his own
+thoughts. He let me grasp the connections between his thoughts as well
+as I could, while he looked through his glasses at the sea, his face
+slightly raised. Next morning after meeting him on the quay I went to
+his house. I well remember the bright sunny morning that I spent with
+Chekhov in his garden. He was very lively, and laughed and read me the
+only poem, so he said, that he had ever written, "Horses, Hares and
+Chinamen, a fable for children." (Chekhov wrote it for the children of a
+friend. See Letters.)
+
+    Once walked over a bridge
+      Fat Chinamen,
+    In front of them, with their tails up,
+      Hares ran quickly.
+    Suddenly the Chinamen shouted:
+      "Stop! Whoa! Ho! Ho!"
+    The hares raised their tails still higher
+      And hid in the bushes.
+    The moral of this fable is clear:
+      He who wants to eat hares
+    Every day getting out of bed
+      Must obey his father.
+
+After that visit I went to him more and more frequently. Chekhov's
+attitude towards me therefore changed. He became more friendly and
+cordial.... But he was still reserved, yet, as he was reserved not only
+with me but with those who were most intimate with him, it rose, I
+believed, not from coldness, but from something much more important.
+
+The charming white stone house, bright in the sun; the little orchard,
+planted and tended by Chekhov himself who loved all flowers, trees, and
+animals; his study, with its few pictures, and the large window which
+looked out onto the valley of the river Utchan-Spo, and the blue
+triangle of the sea; the hours, days, and even months which I spent
+there, and my friendship with the man who fascinated me not only by his
+genius but also by his stern voice and his child-like smile--all this
+will always remain one of the happiest memories of my life. He was
+friendly to me and at times almost tender. But the reserve which I have
+spoken of never disappeared even when we were most intimate. He was
+reserved about everything.
+
+He was very humorous and loved laughter, but he only laughed his
+charming infectious laugh when somebody else had made a joke: he himself
+would say the most amusing things without the slightest smile. He
+delighted in jokes, in absurd nicknames, and in mystifying people....
+Even towards the end when he felt a little better his humor was
+irrepressible. And with what subtle humor he would make one laugh! He
+would drop a couple of words and wink his eye above his glasses.... His
+letters too, though their form is perfect, are full of delightful humor.
+
+But Chekhov's reserve was shown in a great many other ways which proved
+the strength of his character. No one ever heard him complain, though no
+one had more reason to complain. He was one of a large family, which
+lived in a state of actual want. He had to work for money under
+conditions which would have extinguished the most fiery inspiration. He
+lived in a tiny flat, writing at the edge of a table, in the midst of
+talk and noise with the whole family and often several visitors sitting
+round him. For many years he was very poor.... Yet he scarcely ever
+grumbled at his lot. It was not that he asked little of life: on the
+contrary, he hated what was mean and meager though he was nobly Spartan
+in the way he lived. For fifteen years he suffered from an exhausting
+illness which finally killed him, but his readers never knew it. The
+same could not be said of most writers. Indeed, the manliness with which
+he bore his sufferings and met his death was admirable. Even at his
+worst he almost succeeded in hiding his pain.
+
+"You are not feeling well, Antosha?" his mother or sister would say,
+seeing him sitting all day with his eyes shut.
+
+"I?" he would answer, quietly, opening the eyes which looked so clear
+and mild without his glasses. "Oh, it's nothing. I have a little
+headache."
+
+He loved literature passionately, and to talk of writers and to praise
+Maupassant, Flaubert, or Tolstoy was a great joy to him. He spoke with
+particular enthusiasm of those just mentioned and also of Lermontov's
+"Taman."
+
+"I cannot understand," he would say, "how a mere boy could have written
+Taman! Ah, if one had written that and a good comedy--then one would be
+content to die!"
+
+But his talk about literature was very different from the usual shop
+talked by writers, with its narrowness, and smallness, and petty
+personal spite. He would only discuss books with people who loved
+literature above all other arts and were disinterested and pure in their
+love of it.
+
+"You should not read your writing to other people before it is
+published," he often said. "And it is most important never to take any
+one's advice. If you have made a mess of it, let the blood be on your
+own head. Maupassant by his greatness has so raised the standard of
+writing that it is very hard to write; but we have to write, especially
+we Russians, and in writing one must be courageous. There are big dogs
+and little dogs, but the little dogs should not be disheartened by the
+existence of the big dogs. All must bark--and bark with the voice God
+gave them."
+
+All that went on in the world of letters interested him keenly, and he
+was indignant with the stupidity, falsehood, affectation and charlatanry
+which batten upon literature. But though he was angry he was never
+irritable and there was nothing personal in his anger. It is usual to
+say of dead writers that they rejoiced in the success of others, and
+were not jealous of them. If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the
+least jealousy I should be content to say nothing about it. But the fact
+is that he rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontaneously. The word
+"talentless" was, I think, the most damaging expression he could use.
+His own failures and successes he took as he alone knew how to take
+them.
+
+He was writing for twenty-five years and during that time his writing
+was constantly attacked. Being one of the greatest and most subtle of
+Russian writers, he never used his art to preach. That being so, Russian
+critics could neither understand him nor approve of him. Did they not
+insist that Levitan should "light up" his landscapes--that is paint in a
+cow, a goose, or the figure of a woman? Such criticism hurt Chekhov a
+good deal, and embittered him even more than he was already embittered
+by Russian life itself. His bitterness would show itself
+momentarily--only momentarily.
+
+"We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee, Anton Pavlovitch!"
+
+"I know your jubilees. For twenty-five years they do nothing but abuse
+and ridicule a man, and then you give him a pen made of aluminum and
+slobber over him for a whole day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!"
+
+To talk of his fame and his popularity he would answer in the same
+way--with two or three words or a jest.
+
+"Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?" one would ask, having read an
+article about him.
+
+He would look slyly over his spectacles, ludicrously lengthen his face,
+and say in his deep voice:
+
+"Oh, a thousand thanks! There is a whole column, and at the bottom of
+it, 'There is also a writer called Chekhov: a discontented man, a
+grumbler.'"
+
+Sometimes he would add seriously:
+
+"When you find yourself criticized, remember us sinners. The critics
+boxed our ears for trifles just as if we were school-boys. One of them
+foretold that I should die in a ditch. He supposed that I had been
+expelled from school for drunkenness."
+
+I never saw Chekhov lose his temper. Very seldom was he irritated, and
+if it did happen he controlled himself astonishingly. I remember, for
+instance, that he was once annoyed by reading in a book that he was
+"indifferent" to questions of morality and society, and that he was a
+pessimist. Yet his annoyance showed itself only in two words:
+
+"Utter idiot!"
+
+Nor did I find him cold. He said that he was cold when he wrote, and
+that he only wrote when the thoughts and images that he was about to
+express were perfectly clear to him, and then he wrote on, steadily,
+without interruptions, until he had brought it to an end.
+
+"One ought only to write when one feels completely calm," he said once.
+
+But this calm was of a very peculiar nature. No other Russian writer had
+his sensibility and his complexity.
+
+Indeed, it would take a very versatile mind to throw any light upon this
+profound and complex spirit--this "incomparable artist" as Tolstoy
+called him. I can only bear witness that he was a man of rare spiritual
+nobleness, distinguished and cultivated in the best sense, who combined
+tenderness and delicacy with complete sincerity, kindness and
+sensitiveness with complete candour.
+
+To be truthful and natural and yet retain great charm implies a nature
+of rare beauty, integrity, and power. I speak so frequently of Chekhov's
+composure because his composure seems to me a proof of the strength of
+his character. It was always his, I think, even when he was young and in
+the highest spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made him so
+independent, and able to begin his work unpretentiously and
+courageously, without paltering with his conscience.
+
+Do you remember the words of the old professor in "The Tedious Story?"
+
+"I won't say that French books are good and gifted and noble; but they
+are not so dull as Russian books, and the chief element of creative
+power is often to be found in them--the sense of personal freedom."
+
+Chekhov had in the highest degree that "sense of personal freedom" and
+he could not bear that others should be without it. He would become
+bitter and uncompromising if he thought that others were taking
+liberties with it.
+
+That "freedom," it is well known, cost him a great deal; but he was not
+one of those people who have two different ideals--one for themselves,
+the other for the public. His success was for a very long time much less
+than he deserved. But he never during the whole of his life made the
+least effort to increase his popularity. He was extremely severe upon
+all the wire-pulling which is now resorted to in order to achieve
+success.
+
+"Do you still call them writers? They are cab-men!" he said bitterly.
+
+His dislike to being made a show of at times seemed excessive.
+
+"The Scorpion (a publishing firm) advertise their books badly," he wrote
+to me after the publication of "Northern Flowers." "They put my name
+first, and when I read the advertisement in the daily _Russkya
+Vedonosti_ I swore I would never again have any truck with scorpions,
+crocodiles, or snakes."
+
+This was the winter of 1900 when Chekhov who had become interested in
+certain features of the new publishing firm "Scorpion" gave them at my
+request one of his youthful stories, "On the Sea." They printed it in a
+volume of collected stories and he many times regretted it.
+
+"All this new Russian art is nonsense," he would say. "I remember that I
+once saw a sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for 'artificial') mineral
+waters are sold here! Well, this new art is the same as that."
+
+His reserve came from the loftiness of his spirit and from his incessant
+endeavor to express himself exactly. It will eventually happen that
+people will know that he was not only an "incomparable artist," not only
+an amazing master of language but an incomparable man into the bargain.
+But it will take many years for people to grasp in its fullness his
+subtlety, power, and delicacy.
+
+"How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?" he wrote to me at Nice. "I wish
+you a happy New Year. I received your letter, thank you. In Moscow
+everything is safe, sound, and dull. There is no news (except the New
+Year) nor is any news expected. My play is not yet produced, nor do I
+know when it will be. It is possible that I may come to Nice in
+February.... Greet the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea. Enjoy
+yourself, be happy, don't think about illness, and write often to your
+friends.... Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget your sallow
+northern countrymen, who suffer from indigestion and bad temper." (8th
+January, 1904).
+
+"Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet sea from me" ... I seldom heard
+him say that. But I often felt that he ought to say it, and then my
+heart ached sadly.
+
+I remember one night in early spring. It was late. Suddenly the
+telephone rang. I heard Chekhov's deep voice:
+
+"Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us go for a drive."
+
+"A drive? At this time of night?" I answered. "What's the matter, Anton
+Pavlovitch?"
+
+"I am in love."
+
+"That's good. But it is past nine.... You will catch cold."
+
+"Young man, don't quibble!"
+
+Ten minutes later I was at Antka. The house, where during the winter
+Chekhov lived alone with his mother, was dark and silent, save that a
+light came through the key-hole of his mother's room, and two little
+candles burnt in the semi-darkness of his study. My heart shrank as
+usual at the sight of that quiet study, where Chekhov passed so many
+lonely winter nights, thinking bitterly perhaps on the fate which had
+given him so much and mocked him so cruelly.
+
+"What a night!" he said to me with even more than his usual tenderness
+and pensive gladness, meeting me in the doorway. "It is so dull here!
+The only excitement is when the telephone rings and Sophie Pavlovna asks
+what I am doing, and I answer: 'I am catching mice.' Come, let us drive
+to Orianda. I don't care a hang if I do catch cold!"
+
+The night was warm and still, with a bright moon, light clouds, and a
+few stars in the deep blue sky. The carriage rolled softly along the
+white road, and, soothed by the stillness of the night, we sat silent
+looking at the sea glowing a dim gold.... Then came the forest cobwebbed
+over with shadows, but already spring-like and beautiful.... Black
+troops of giant cypresses rose majestically into the sky. We stopped the
+carriage and walked beneath them, past the ruins of the castle, which
+were pale blue in the moonlight. Chekhov suddenly said to me:
+
+"Do you know for how many years I shall be read? Seven."
+
+"Why seven?" I asked.
+
+"Seven and a half, then."
+
+"No," I said. "Poetry lives long, and the longer it lives the better it
+becomes--like wine."
+
+He said nothing, but when we had sat down on a bench from which we could
+see the sea shining in the moonlight, he took off his glasses and said,
+looking at me with his kind, tired eyes:
+
+"Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases as 'the silvery distance,'
+'accord,' or 'onward, onward, to the fight with the powers of
+darkness'!"
+
+"You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch," I said, looking at his kind
+and beautiful face, pale in the moonlight.
+
+He was thoughtfully digging up little pebbles with the end of his stick,
+with his eyes on the ground. But when I said that he was sad, he looked
+across at me, humorously.
+
+"It is you who are sad," he answered. "You are sad because you have
+spent such a lot on the cab."
+
+Then he added gravely:
+
+"Yes, I shall only be read for another seven years; and I shall live for
+less--perhaps for six. But don't go and tell that to the newspaper
+reporters."
+
+He was wrong there: he did not live for six years....
+
+He died peacefully without suffering in the stillness and beauty of a
+summer's dawn which he had always loved. When he was dead a look of
+happiness came upon his face, and it looked like the face of a very
+young man. There came to my mind the words of Leconte de Lisle:
+
+    Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
+    D'être affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
+    La honte de penser et l'horreur d'être un homme!
+
+
+
+
+  [ Transcriber's Note:
+
+    The following is a list of corrections made to the original.
+    The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.
+
+  respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humilate him personally,
+  respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humiliate him personally,
+
+  began at once to speak of it with enthusiaism, completely uninterested,
+  began at once to speak of it with enthusiasm, completely uninterested,
+
+  you struck!"
+  you struck!'"
+
+  pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came beween the
+  pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
+
+  old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissensky,
+  old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissemsky,
+
+  Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calm et noir
+  Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
+
+  ]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by 
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV ***
+
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by 
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov
+
+Author: Maxim Gorky
+        Alexander Kuprin
+        I. A. Bunin
+
+Translator: S. S. Koteliansky
+            Leonard Woolf
+
+Release Date: August 19, 2011 [EBook #37129]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<div id="tnote">
+<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Notes:</b></p>
+
+<p>Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
+as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation.</p>
+
+<p>Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made.
+<span class="screen">They are marked <ins title="transcriber's note">like
+this</ins> in the text. The original text appears when hovering the cursor
+over the marked text.</span> A <a href="#tn-bottom">list of amendments</a> is
+at the end of the text.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p class="center page-break" style="font-size: large;">REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV</p>
+
+<h1>REMINISCENCES OF<br/>
+ANTON CHEKHOV</h1>
+
+<p class="center" style="line-height: 1.5em;">BY<br/>
+<big class="small-caps">MAXIM GORKY, ALEXANDER KUPRIN<br/>
+and I.&nbsp;A. BUNIN</big></p>
+
+<p class="center" style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-top: 2em;">TRANSLATED BY<br/>
+<big class="small-caps">S.&nbsp;S. KOTELIANSKY and LEONARD WOOLF</big></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 78px;">
+<img src="images/logo.png" width="78" height="120" alt=""/>
+</div>
+
+<p class="center small-caps"><span class="all-upper" style="margin-right: 2em;">NEW YORK</span> B.&nbsp;W. HUEBSCH, Inc. <span class="all-upper" style="margin-left: 2em;">MCMXXI</span></p>
+
+<p class="center page-break" style="line-height: 1.6em;">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br/>
+<span class="small-caps">B.&nbsp;W. HUEBSCH, Inc.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center" style="margin-top: 4em; font-size: smaller;">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p>
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<p class="no-indent">FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS BY MAXIM GORKY, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></p>
+
+<p class="no-indent">TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY BY ALEXANDER KUPRIN, <a href="#Page_29">29</a></p>
+
+<p class="no-indent">A.&nbsp;P. CHEKHOV BY I.&nbsp;A. BUNIN, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></p>
+
+<h2>ANTON CHEKHOV<br/>
+<small>FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS<br/>
+BY</small><br/>
+MAXIM GORKY</h2>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_1" title="1"> </a><span class="small-caps">Once</span> he invited me to the village Koutchouk-Koy
+where he had a tiny strip of land
+and a white, two-storied house. There,
+while showing me his &ldquo;estate,&rdquo; he began to
+speak with animation: &ldquo;If I had plenty of
+money, I should build a sanatorium here for
+invalid village teachers. You know, I
+would put up a large, bright building&mdash;very
+bright, with large windows and lofty rooms.
+I would have a fine library, different musical
+instruments, bees, a vegetable garden, an
+orchard&hellip;. There would be lectures on
+agriculture, mythology&hellip;. Teachers ought
+to know everything, everything, my dear
+fellow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was suddenly silent, coughed, looked
+at me out of the corners of his eyes, and
+smiled that tender, charming smile of his
+which attracted one so irresistibly to him and
+made one listen so attentively to his words.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Does it bore you to listen to my fantasies?
+I do love to talk of it&hellip;. If you
+knew how badly the Russian village needs a
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_2" title="2"> </a>
+nice, sensible, educated teacher! We ought
+in Russia to give the teacher particularly
+good conditions, and it ought to be done as
+quickly as possible. We ought to realize
+that without a wide education of the people,
+Russia will collapse, like a house built of
+badly baked bricks. A teacher must be an
+artist, in love with his calling; but with us
+he is a journeyman, ill educated, who goes
+to the village to teach children as though
+he were going into exile. He is starved,
+crushed, terrorized by the fear of losing his
+daily bread. But he ought to be the first
+man in the village; the peasants ought to
+recognize him as a power, worthy of attention
+and respect; no one should dare to shout
+at him or <ins title="humilate">humiliate</ins> him personally, as with
+us every one does&mdash;the village constable, the
+rich shop-keeper, the priest, the rural police
+commissioner, the school guardian, the councilor,
+and that official who has the title of
+school-inspector, but who cares nothing for
+the improvement of education and only sees
+that the circulars of his chiefs are carried
+out&hellip;. It is ridiculous to pay in farthings
+the man who has to educate the people. It
+is intolerable that he should walk in rags,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_3" title="3"> </a>
+shiver with cold in damp and draughty
+schools, catch cold, and about the age of
+thirty get laryngitis, rheumatism, or tuberculosis.
+We ought to be ashamed of it.
+Our teacher, for eight or nine months in the
+year, lives like a hermit: he has no one to
+speak a word to; without company, books,
+or amusements, he is growing stupid, and,
+if he invites his colleagues to visit him, then
+he becomes politically suspect&mdash;a stupid
+word with which crafty men frighten fools.
+All this is disgusting; it is the mockery of a
+man who is doing a great and tremendously
+important work&hellip;. Do you know, whenever
+I see a teacher, I feel ashamed for him,
+for his timidity, and because he is badly
+dressed &hellip; it seems to me that for the
+teacher's wretchedness I am myself to blame&mdash;I
+mean it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was silent, thinking; and then, waving
+his hand, he said gently: &ldquo;This Russia of
+ours is such an absurd, clumsy country.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A shadow of sadness crossed his beautiful
+eyes; little rays of wrinkles surrounded
+them and made them look still more meditative.
+Then, looking round, he said jestingly:
+&ldquo;You see, I have fired off at you a
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_4" title="4"> </a>
+complete leading article from a radical paper.
+Come, I'll give you tea to reward your patience.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>That was characteristic of him, to speak
+so earnestly, with such warmth and sincerity,
+and then suddenly to laugh at himself and
+his speech. In that sad and gentle smile one
+felt the subtle skepticism of the man who
+knows the value of words and dreams; and
+there also flashed in the smile a lovable
+modesty and delicate sensitiveness&hellip;.</p>
+
+<p>We walked back slowly in silence to the
+house. It was a clear, hot day; the waves
+sparkled under the bright rays of the sun;
+down below one heard a dog barking joyfully.
+Chekhov took my arm, coughed, and
+said slowly: &ldquo;It is shameful and sad, but
+true: there are many men who envy the
+dogs.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And he added immediately with a laugh:
+&ldquo;To-day I can only make feeble speeches
+&hellip; It means that I'm getting old.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I often heard him say: &ldquo;You know, a
+teacher has just come here&mdash;he's ill, married
+&hellip; couldn't you do something for
+him? I have made arrangements for him
+for the time being.&rdquo; Or again: &ldquo;Listen,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_5" title="5"> </a>
+Gorky, there is a teacher here who would
+like to meet you. He can't go out, he's ill.
+Won't you come and see him? Do.&rdquo; Or:
+&ldquo;Look here, the women teachers want books
+to be sent to them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes I would find that &ldquo;teacher&rdquo; at
+his house; usually he would be sitting on
+the edge of his chair, blushing at the consciousness
+of his own awkwardness, in the
+sweat of his brow picking and choosing his
+words, trying to speak smoothly and &ldquo;educatedly&rdquo;;
+or, with the ease of manner of a
+person who is morbidly shy, he would concentrate
+himself upon the effort not to appear
+stupid in the eyes of an author, and he would
+simply belabor Anton Chekhov with a hail
+of questions which had never entered his
+head until that moment.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Chekhov would listen attentively
+to the dreary, incoherent speech; now and
+again a smile came into his sad eyes, a little
+wrinkle appeared on his forehead, and then,
+in his soft, lusterless voice, he began to speak
+simple, clear, homely words, words which
+somehow or other immediately made his
+questioner simple: the teacher stopped trying
+to be clever, and therefore immediately
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_6" title="6"> </a>
+became more clever and interesting&hellip;.</p>
+
+<p>I remember one teacher, a tall, thin man
+with a yellow, hungry face and a long,
+hooked nose which drooped gloomily towards
+his chin. He sat opposite Anton Chekhov
+and, looking fixedly into Chekhov's face with
+his black eyes, said in a melancholy bass
+voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;From such impressions of existence
+within the space of the tutorial session there
+comes a psychical conglomeration which
+crushes every possibility of an objective attitude
+towards the surrounding universe.
+Of course, the universe is nothing but our
+presentation of it&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And he rushed headlong into philosophy,
+and he moved over its surface like a drunkard
+skating on ice.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; Chekhov put in quietly and
+kindly, &ldquo;who is that teacher in your district
+who beats the children?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The teacher sprang from his chair and
+waved his arms indignantly: &ldquo;Whom do you
+mean? Me? Never! Beating?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He snorted with indignation.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don't get excited,&rdquo; Anton Chekhov went
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_7" title="7"> </a>
+on, smiling reassuringly; &ldquo;I'm not speaking
+of you. But I remember&mdash;I read it in the
+newspapers&mdash;there is some one in your district
+who beats the children.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The teacher sat down, wiped his perspiring
+face, and, with a sigh of relief, said in
+his deep bass:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It's true &hellip; there was such a case &hellip;
+it was Makarov. You know, it's not surprising.
+It's cruel, but explicable. He's married
+&hellip; has four children &hellip; his wife is
+ill &hellip; himself consumptive &hellip; his salary
+is 20 roubles, the school like a cellar,
+and the teacher has but a single room&mdash;under
+such circumstances you will give a thrashing
+to an angel of God for no fault &hellip;
+and the children&mdash;they're far from angels,
+believe me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And the man, who had just been mercilessly
+belaboring Chekhov with his store of
+clever words, suddenly, ominously wagging
+his hooked nose, began to speak simple,
+weighty, clear-cut words, which illuminated,
+like a fire, the terrible, accursed truth about
+the life of the Russian village.</p>
+
+<p>When he said good-bye to his host, the
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_8" title="8"> </a>
+teacher took Chekhov's small, dry hand with
+its thin fingers in both his own, and, shaking
+it, said:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I came to you as though I were going to
+the authorities, in fear and trembling &hellip;
+I puffed myself out like a turkey-cock &hellip;
+I wanted to show you that I was no ordinary
+mortal&hellip;. And now I'm leaving you as a
+nice, close friend who understands everything&hellip;.
+It's a great thing&mdash;to understand
+everything! Thank you! I'm taking
+away with me a pleasant thought: big
+men are simpler and more understandable
+&hellip; and nearer in soul to us fellow men
+than all those wretches among whom we
+live&hellip;. Good-bye; I will never forget
+you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a
+good-natured smile, and he added suddenly:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;To tell the truth, scoundrels too are unhappy&mdash;the
+devil take them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When he went out, Chekhov followed him
+with a glance, smiled, and said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He's a nice fellow&hellip;. He won't be a
+teacher long.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_9" title="9"> </a>&ldquo;They will run him down&mdash;whip him
+off.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He thought for a bit, and added quietly:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In Russia an honest man is rather like the
+chimney-sweep with whom nurses frighten
+children.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">I think</span> that in Anton Chekhov's presence
+every one involuntarily felt in himself a desire
+to be simpler, more truthful, more one's
+self; I often saw how people cast off the motley
+finery of bookish phrases, smart words,
+and all the other cheap tricks with which a
+Russian, wishing to figure as a European,
+adorns himself, like a savage with shells and
+fish's teeth. Anton Chekhov disliked fish's
+teeth and cock's feathers; anything &ldquo;brilliant&rdquo;
+or foreign, assumed by a man to make
+himself look bigger, disturbed him; I noticed
+that, whenever he saw any one dressed up in
+this way, he had a desire to free him from
+all that oppressive, useless tinsel and to find
+underneath the genuine face and living soul
+of the person. All his life Chekhov lived
+on his own soul; he was always himself,
+inwardly free, and he never troubled about
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_10" title="10"> </a>
+what some people expected and others&mdash;coarser
+people&mdash;demanded of Anton Chekhov.
+He did not like conversations about
+deep questions, conversations with which
+our dear Russians so assiduously comfort
+themselves, forgetting that it is ridiculous,
+and not at all amusing, to argue about velvet
+costumes in the future when in the present
+one has not even a decent pair of
+trousers.</p>
+
+<p>Beautifully simple himself, he loved
+everything simple, genuine, sincere, and he
+had a peculiar way of making other people
+simple.</p>
+
+<p>Once, I remember, three luxuriously
+dressed ladies came to see him; they filled his
+room with the rustle of silk skirts and the
+smell of strong scent; they sat down politely
+opposite their host, pretended that they were
+interested in politics, and began &ldquo;putting
+questions&rdquo;:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Anton Pavlovitch, what do you think?
+How will the war end?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch coughed, thought for
+a while, and then gently, in a serious and
+kindly voice, replied:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Probably in peace.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_11" title="11"> </a>&ldquo;Well, yes &hellip; certainly. But who
+will win? The Greeks or the Turks?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It seems to me that those will win who
+are the stronger.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And who, do you think, are the stronger?&rdquo;
+all the ladies asked together.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Those who are the better fed and the better
+educated.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, how clever,&rdquo; one of them exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And whom do you like best?&rdquo; another
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch looked at her kindly,
+and answered with a meek smile:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I love candied fruits &hellip; don't you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very much,&rdquo; the lady exclaimed gayly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Especially Abrikossov's,&rdquo; the second
+agreed solidly. And the third, half closing
+her eyes, added with relish:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It smells so good.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And all three began to talk with vivacity,
+revealing, on the subject of candied fruit,
+great erudition and subtle knowledge. It
+was obvious that they were happy at not
+having to strain their minds and pretend to
+be seriously interested in Turks and Greeks,
+to whom up to that moment they had not
+given a thought.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_12" title="12"> </a>When they left, they merrily promised
+Anton Pavlovitch:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We will send you some candied fruit.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You managed that nicely,&rdquo; I observed
+when they had gone.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch laughed quietly and
+said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Every one should speak his own language.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>On another occasion I found at his house
+a young and prettyish crown prosecutor.
+He was standing in front of Chekhov, shaking
+his curly head, and speaking briskly:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In your story, &lsquo;The Conspirator,&rsquo; you,
+Anton Pavlovitch, put before me a very complex
+case. If I admit in Denis Grigoriev
+a criminal and conscious intention, then I
+must, without any reservation, bundle him
+into prison, in the interests of the community.
+But he is a savage; he did not realize
+the criminality of his act&hellip;. I feel pity
+for him. But suppose I regard him as a
+man who acted without understanding, and
+suppose I yield to my feeling of pity, how
+can I guarantee the community that Denis
+will not again unscrew the nut in the sleepers
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_13" title="13"> </a>
+and wreck a train? That's the question.
+What's to be done?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He stopped, threw himself back, and fixed
+an inquiring look on Anton Pavlovitch's
+face. His uniform was quite new, and the
+buttons shone as self-confidently and dully
+on his chest as did the little eyes in the
+pretty, clean, little face of the youthful enthusiast
+for justice.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If I were judge,&rdquo; said Anton Pavlovitch
+gravely, &ldquo;I would acquit Denis.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;On what grounds?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I would say to him: you, Denis, have
+not yet ripened into the type of the deliberate
+criminal; go&mdash;and ripen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The lawyer began to laugh, but instantly
+again became pompously serious and said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, sir, the question put by you must be
+answered only in the interests of the community
+whose life and property I am called
+upon to protect. Denis is a savage, but he
+is also a criminal&mdash;that is the truth.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you like gramophones?&rdquo; suddenly
+asked Anton Pavlovitch in his soft voice.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;O yes, very much. An amazing invention!&rdquo;
+the youth answered gayly.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_14" title="14"> </a>&ldquo;And I can't stand gramophones,&rdquo; Anton
+Pavlovitch confessed sadly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They speak and sing without feeling.
+Everything seems like a caricature &hellip;
+dead. Do you like photography?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It appeared that the lawyer was a passionate
+lover of photography; he began at once
+to speak of it with <ins title="enthusiaism">enthusiasm</ins>, completely
+uninterested, as Chekhov had subtly and
+truly noticed, in the gramophone, despite
+his admiration for that &ldquo;amazing invention.&rdquo;
+And again I observed how there looked out
+of that uniform a living and rather amusing
+little man, whose feelings towards life were
+still those of a puppy hunting.</p>
+
+<p>When Anton Pavlovitch had seen him
+out, he said sternly:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They are like pimples on the seat of
+justice&mdash;disposing of the fate of people.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And after a short silence:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Crown prosecutors must be very fond of
+fishing &hellip; especially for little fish.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">He</span> had the art of revealing everywhere and
+driving away banality, an art which is only
+possible to a man who demands much from
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_15" title="15"> </a>
+life and which comes from a keen desire to
+see men simple, beautiful, harmonious.
+Banality always found in him a discerning
+and merciless judge.</p>
+
+<p>Some one told in his presence how the editor
+of a popular magazine, who was always
+talking of the necessity of love and pity, had,
+for no reason at all, insulted a railway
+guard, and how he usually acted with extreme
+rudeness towards his inferiors.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Anton Pavlovitch with a
+gloomy smile, &ldquo;but isn't he an aristocrat, an
+educated gentleman? He studied at the
+seminary. His father wore bast shoes, and
+he wears patent-leather boots.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And in his tone there was something which
+at once made the &ldquo;aristocrat&rdquo; trivial and
+ridiculous.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He's a very gifted man,&rdquo; he said of a
+certain journalist. &ldquo;He always writes so
+nobly, humanely, &hellip; lemonadely. Calls
+his wife a fool in public &hellip; the servants'
+rooms are damp and the maids constantly
+get rheumatics.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don't you like N.&nbsp;N., Anton Pavlovitch?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I do&mdash;very much. He's a pleasant
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_16" title="16"> </a>
+fellow,&rdquo; Anton Pavlovitch agrees, coughing.
+&ldquo;He knows everything &hellip; reads a
+lot &hellip; he hasn't returned three of my
+books &hellip; he's absent-minded. To-day he
+will tell you that you're a wonderful fellow,
+and to-morrow he will tell somebody else
+that you cheat your servants, and that you
+have stolen from your mistress's husband
+his silk socks &hellip; the black ones with the
+blue stripes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Some one in his presence complained of the
+heaviness and tediousness of the &ldquo;serious&rdquo;
+sections in thick monthly magazines.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But you mustn't read those articles,&rdquo;
+said Anton Pavlovitch. &ldquo;They are friends'
+literature&mdash;written for friends. They are
+written by Messrs. Red, Black, and White.
+One writes an article; the other replies to it;
+and the third reconciles the contradictions of
+the other two. It is like playing whist with
+a dummy. Yet none of them asks himself
+what good it is to the reader.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Once a plump, healthy, handsome, well-dressed
+lady came to him and began to speak
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">à la Chekhov</i>:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Life is so boring, Anton Pavlovitch.
+Everything is so gray: people, the sea, even
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_17" title="17"> </a>
+the flowers seem to me gray&hellip;. And I
+have no desires &hellip; my soul is in pain &hellip;
+it is like a disease.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is a disease,&rdquo; said Anton Pavlovitch
+with conviction, &ldquo;it is a disease; in Latin
+it is called <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">morbus imitatis</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Fortunately the lady did not seem to know
+Latin, or, perhaps, she pretended not to know
+it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Critics are like horse-flies which prevent
+the horse from plowing,&rdquo; he said, smiling
+his wise smile. &ldquo;The horse works, all its
+muscles drawn tight like the strings on a
+doublebass, and a fly settles on his flanks and
+tickles and buzzes &hellip; he has to twitch his
+skin and swish his tail. And what does the
+fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself;
+simply because it is restless and wants to
+proclaim: &lsquo;Look, I too am living on the
+earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about
+anything.&rsquo; For twenty-five years I have
+read criticisms of my stories, and I don't remember
+a single remark of any value or one
+word of valuable advice. Only once Skabitchevsky
+wrote something which made an impression
+on me &hellip; he said I would die
+in a ditch, drunk.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_18" title="18"> </a>Nearly always there was an ironical smile
+in his gray eyes, but at times they became
+cold, sharp, hard; at such times a harder tone
+sounded in his soft, sincere voice, and then
+it appeared that this modest, gentle man,
+when he found it necessary, could rouse himself
+vigorously against a hostile force and
+would not yield.</p>
+
+<p>But sometimes, I thought, there was in
+his attitude towards people a feeling of hopelessness,
+almost of cold, resigned despair.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A Russian is a strange creature,&rdquo; he said
+once. &ldquo;He is like a sieve; nothing remains
+in him. In his youth he fills himself greedily
+with anything which he comes across,
+and after thirty years nothing remains but a
+kind of gray rubbish&hellip;. In order to live
+well and humanly one must work&mdash;work
+with love and with faith. But we, we can't
+do it. An architect, having built a couple
+of decent buildings, sits down to play cards,
+plays all his life, or else is to be found somewhere
+behind the scenes of some theatre.
+A doctor, if he has a practice, ceases to be
+interested in science, and reads nothing but
+<cite>The Medical Journal</cite>, and at forty seriously
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_19" title="19"> </a>
+believes that all diseases have their origin in
+catarrh. I have never met a single civil servant
+who had any idea of the meaning of his
+work: usually he sits in the metropolis or the
+chief town of the province, and writes papers
+and sends them off to Zmiev or Smorgon for
+attention. But that those papers will deprive
+some one in Zmiev or Smorgon of freedom
+of movement&mdash;of that the civil servant
+thinks as little as an atheist of the tortures
+of hell. A lawyer who has made a name by
+a successful defense ceases to care about justice,
+and defends only the rights of property,
+gambles on the Turf, eats oysters, figures
+as a connoisseur of all the arts. An actor,
+having taken two or three parts tolerably, no
+longer troubles to learn his parts, puts on a
+silk hat, and thinks himself a genius. Russia
+is a land of insatiable and lazy people:
+they eat enormously of nice things, drink,
+like to sleep in the day-time, and snore in
+their sleep. They marry in order to get their
+house looked after and keep mistresses in
+order to be thought well of in society. Their
+psychology is that of a dog: when they are
+beaten, they whine shrilly and run into their
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_20" title="20"> </a>
+kennels; when petted, they lie on their backs
+with their paws in the air and wag their
+tails.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Pain and cold contempt sounded in these
+words. But, though contemptuous, he felt
+pity, and, if in his presence you abused any
+one, Anton Pavlovitch would immediately
+defend him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why do you say that? He is an old
+man &hellip; he's seventy.&rdquo; Or: &ldquo;But he's
+still so young &hellip; it's only stupidity.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And, when he spoke like that, I never saw
+a sign of aversion in his face.</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">When</span> a man is young, banality seems only
+amusing and unimportant, but little by
+little it possesses a man; it permeates his
+brain and blood like poison or asphyxiating
+fumes; he becomes like an old, rusty sign-board:
+something is painted on it, but what?&mdash;You
+can't make out.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch in his early stories was
+already able to reveal in the dim sea of
+banality its tragic humor; one has only to
+read his &ldquo;humorous&rdquo; stories with attention
+to see what a lot of cruel and disgusting
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_21" title="21"> </a>
+things, behind the humorous words and
+situations, had been observed by the author
+with sorrow and were concealed by
+him.</p>
+
+<p>He was ingenuously shy; he would not
+say aloud and openly to people: &ldquo;Now do
+be more decent&rdquo;; he hoped in vain that they
+would themselves see how necessary it was
+that they should be more decent. He hated
+everything banal and foul, and he described
+the abominations of life in the noble language
+of a poet, with the humorist's gentle
+smile, and behind the beautiful form of his
+stories people scarcely noticed the inner
+meaning, full of bitter reproach.</p>
+
+<p>The dear public, when it reads his
+&ldquo;Daughter of Albion,&rdquo; laughs and hardly
+realizes how abominable is the well-fed
+squire's mockery of a person who is lonely
+and strange to every one and everything. In
+each of his humorous stories I hear the quiet,
+deep sigh of a pure and human heart, the
+hopeless sigh of sympathy for men who do
+not know how to respect human dignity, who
+submit without any resistance to mere force,
+live like fish, believe in nothing but the necessity
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_22" title="22"> </a>
+of swallowing every day as much
+thick soup as possible, and feel nothing but
+fear that some one, strong and insolent, will
+give them a hiding.</p>
+
+<p>No one understood as clearly and finely
+as Anton Chekhov, the tragedy of life's trivialities,
+no one before him showed men with
+such merciless truth the terrible and shameful
+picture of their life in the dim chaos of
+bourgeois every-day existence.</p>
+
+<p>His enemy was banality; he fought it all
+his life long; he ridiculed it, drawing it with
+a pointed and unimpassioned pen, finding the
+mustiness of banality even where at the first
+glance everything seemed to be arranged very
+nicely, comfortably, and even brilliantly&mdash;and
+banality revenged itself upon him by a
+nasty prank, for it saw that his corpse, the
+corpse of a poet, was put into a railway truck
+&ldquo;For the Conveyance of Oysters.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>That dirty green railway truck seems to
+me precisely the great, triumphant laugh of
+banality over its tired enemy; and all the
+&ldquo;Recollections&rdquo; in the gutter press are hypocritical
+sorrow, behind which I feel the cold
+and smelly breath of banality, secretly rejoicing
+over the death of its enemy.</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_23" title="23"> </a><span class="small-caps">Reading</span> Anton Chekhov's stories, one feels
+oneself in a melancholy day of late autumn,
+when the air is transparent and the outline of
+naked trees, narrow houses, grayish people,
+is sharp. Everything is strange, lonely, motionless,
+helpless. The horizon, blue and
+empty, melts into the pale sky and its breath
+is terribly cold upon the earth which is covered
+with frozen mud. The author's mind,
+like the autumn sun, shows up in hard outline
+the monotonous roads, the crooked
+streets, the little squalid houses in which
+tiny, miserable people are stifled by boredom
+and laziness and fill the houses with an unintelligible,
+drowsy bustle. Here anxiously,
+like a gray mouse, scurries &ldquo;The Darling,&rdquo;
+the dear, meek woman who loves so slavishly
+and who can love so much. You can slap
+her cheek and she won't even dare to utter a
+sigh aloud, the meek slave&hellip;. And by her
+side is Olga of &ldquo;The Three Sisters&rdquo;: she too
+loves much, and submits with resignation to
+the caprices of the dissolute, banal wife of
+her good-for-nothing brother; the life of her
+sisters crumbles before her eyes, she weeps
+and cannot help any one in anything, and
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_24" title="24"> </a>
+she has not within her a single live, strong
+word of protest against banality.</p>
+
+<p>And here is the lachrymose Ranevskaya
+and the other owners of &ldquo;The Cherry Orchard,&rdquo;
+egotistical like children, with the flabbiness
+of senility. They missed the right
+moment for dying; they whine, seeing nothing
+of what is going on around them, understanding
+nothing, parasites without the
+power of again taking root in life. The
+wretched little student, Trofimov, speaks
+eloquently of the necessity of working&mdash;and
+does nothing but amuse himself, out of sheer
+boredom, with stupid mockery of Varya
+who works ceaselessly for the good of the
+idlers.</p>
+
+<p>Vershinin dreams of how pleasant life
+will be in three hundred years, and lives
+without perceiving that everything around
+him is falling into ruin before his eyes; Solyony,
+from boredom and stupidity, is ready
+to kill the pitiable Baron Tousenbach.</p>
+
+<p>There passes before one a long file of men
+and women, slaves of their love, of their stupidity
+and idleness, of their greed for the
+good things of life; there walk the slaves of
+the dark fear of life; they straggle anxiously
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_25" title="25"> </a>
+along, filling life with incoherent words
+about the future, feeling that in the present
+there is no place for them.</p>
+
+<p>At moments out of the gray mass of them
+one hears the sound of a shot: Ivanov or
+Triepliev has guessed what he ought to do,
+and has died.</p>
+
+<p>Many of them have nice dreams of how
+pleasant life will be in two hundred years,
+but it occurs to none of them to ask themselves
+who will make life pleasant if we
+only dream.</p>
+
+<p>In front of that dreary, gray crowd of
+helpless people there passed a great, wise,
+and observant man; he looked at all these
+dreary inhabitants of his country, and, with
+a sad smile, with a tone of gentle but deep
+reproach, with anguish in his face and in his
+heart, in a beautiful and sincere voice, he
+said to them:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You live badly, my friends. It is
+shameful to live like that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_27" title="27"> </a>TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY<br/>
+<small>BY</small><br/>
+ALEXANDER KUPRIN</h2>
+
+<p class="center italic" style="margin: -1em 0 2em 9em;">He lived among us&hellip;.</p>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_29" title="29"> </a><span class="small-caps">You</span> remember how, in early childhood,
+after the long summer holidays, one went
+back to school. Everything was gray; it
+was like a barrack; it smelt of fresh paint
+and putty; one's school-fellows rough,
+the authorities unkind. Still one tried somehow
+to keep up one's courage, though at moments
+one was seized with home-sickness.
+One was occupied in greeting friends, struck
+by changes in faces, deafened by the noise
+and movement.</p>
+
+<p>But when evening comes and the bustle
+in the half dark dormitory ceases, O what
+an unbearable sadness, what despair possesses
+one's soul. One bites one's pillow,
+suppressing one's sobs, one whispers dear
+names and cries, cries with tears that burn,
+and knows that this sorrow is unquenchable.
+It is then that one realizes for the first time
+all the shattering horror of two things: the
+irrevocability of the past and the feeling of
+loneliness. It seems as if one would gladly
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_30" title="30"> </a>
+give up all the rest of life, gladly suffer any
+tortures, for a single day of that bright, beautiful
+life which will never repeat itself. It
+seems as if one would snatch each kind, caressing
+word and enclose it forever in one's
+memory, as if one would drink into one's
+soul, slowly and greedily, drop by drop,
+every caress. And one is cruelly tormented
+by the thought that, through carelessness, in
+the hurry, and because time seemed inexhaustible,
+one had not made the most of
+each hour and moment that flashed by in
+vain.</p>
+
+<p>A child's sorrows are sharp, but will melt
+in sleep and disappear with the morning sun.
+We, grown-up people, do not feel them so
+passionately, but we remember longer and
+grieve more deeply. After Chekhov's funeral,
+coming back from the service in the
+cemetery, one great writer spoke words that
+were simple, but full of meaning:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Now we have buried him, the hopeless
+keenness of the loss is passing away. But do
+you realize, forever, till the end of our days,
+there will remain in us a constant, dull, sad,
+consciousness that Chekhov is not there?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And now that he is not here, one feels with
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_31" title="31"> </a>
+peculiar pain how precious was each word
+of his, each smile, movement, glance, in
+which shone out his beautiful, elect, aristocratic
+soul. One is sorry that one was not
+always attentive to those special details,
+which sometimes more potently and intimately
+than great deeds reveal the inner
+man. One reproaches oneself that in the
+fluster of life one has not managed to remember&mdash;to
+write down much of what is interesting,
+characteristic and important. And at
+the same time one knows that these feelings
+are shared by all those who were near him,
+who loved him truly as a man of incomparable
+spiritual fineness and beauty; and with
+eternal gratitude they will respect his memory,
+as the memory of one of the most remarkable
+of Russian writers.</p>
+
+<p>To the love, to the tender and subtle sorrow
+of these men, I dedicate these lines.</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">Chekhov's</span> cottage in Yalta stood nearly
+outside the town, right on the white and
+dusty Antka road. I do not know who had
+built it, but it was the most original building
+in Yalta. All bright, pure, light, beautifully-proportioned,
+built in no definite
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_32" title="32"> </a>
+architectural style whatsoever, with a watch-tower
+like a castle, with unexpected gables,
+with a glass verandah on the ground and
+an open terrace above, with scattered windows&mdash;both
+wide and narrow&mdash;the bungalow
+resembled a building of the modern
+school, if there were not obvious in its plan
+the attentive and original thought, the original,
+peculiar taste of an individual. The
+bungalow stood in the corner of an orchard,
+surrounded by a flower-garden. Adjoining
+the garden, on the side opposite the road was
+an old deserted Tartar cemetery, fenced with
+a low little wall; always green, still and unpeopled,
+with modest stones on the graves.</p>
+
+<p>The flower garden was tiny, not at all
+luxurious, and the fruit orchard was still
+very young. There grew in it pears and
+crab-apples, apricots, peaches, almonds.
+During the last year the orchard began to
+bear fruit, which caused Anton Pavlovitch
+much worry and a touching and childish
+pleasure. When the time came to gather
+almonds, they were also gathered in Chekhov's
+orchard. They usually lay in a little
+heap in the window-sill of the drawing room,
+and it seemed as if nobody could be cruel
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_33" title="33"> </a>
+enough to take them, although they were
+offered.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch did not like it and was
+even cross when people told him that his
+bungalow was too little protected from the
+dust, which came from the Antka road, and
+that the orchard was insufficiently supplied
+with water. Without on the whole liking
+the Crimea, and certainly not Yalta, he regarded
+his orchard with a special, zealous
+love. People saw him sometimes in the
+morning, sitting on his heels, carefully coating
+the stems of his roses with sulphur or
+pulling weeds from the flower beds. And
+what rejoicing there would be, when in the
+summer drought there at last began a rain
+that filled the spare clay cisterns with water!</p>
+
+<p>But his love was not that of a proprietor,
+it was something else&mdash;a mightier and wiser
+consciousness. He would often say, looking
+at his orchard with a twinkle in his eye:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Look, I have planted each tree here and
+certainly they are dear to me. But this is
+of no consequence. Before I came here all
+this was waste land and ravines, all covered
+with stones and thistles. Then I came and
+turned this wilderness into a cultivated,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_34" title="34"> </a>
+beautiful place. Do you know?&rdquo;&mdash;he
+would suddenly add with a grave face, in a
+tone of profound belief&mdash;&ldquo;do you know that
+in three or four hundred years all the earth
+will become a flourishing garden. And life
+will then be exceedingly light and comfortable.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The thought of the beauty of the coming
+life, which is expressed so tenderly, sadly,
+and charmingly in all his latest works, was
+in his life also one of his most intimate, most
+cherished thoughts. How often must he
+have thought of the future happiness of
+mankind when, in the mornings, alone, silently,
+he trimmed his roses, still moist from
+the dew, or examined carefully a young sapling,
+wounded by the wind. And how much
+there was in that thought of meek, wise, and
+humble self-forgetfulness.</p>
+
+<p>No, it was not a thirst for life, a clinging
+to life coming from the insatiable human
+heart, neither was it a greedy curiosity as
+to what will come after one's own life, nor
+an envious jealousy of remote generations.
+It was the agony of an exceptionally refined,
+charming, and sensitive soul, who suffered
+beyond measure from banality, coarseness,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_35" title="35"> </a>
+dreariness, nothingness, violence, savagery&mdash;the
+whole horror and darkness of modern
+everyday existence. And that is why, when
+towards the end of his life there came to him
+immense fame and comparative security, together
+with the devoted love of all that was
+sensitive, talented and honest in Russian society,&mdash;that
+is why he did not lock himself
+up in the inaccessibility of cold greatness
+nor become a masterful prophet nor shrink
+into a venomous and petty hostility against
+the fame of others. No, the sum of his wide
+and hard experience of life, of his sorrows,
+joys, and disappointments was expressed in
+that beautiful, anxious, self-forgetting
+dream of the coming happiness of others.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;How beautiful life will be in three or
+four hundred years.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And that is why he looked lovingly after
+his flower beds, as if he saw in them the symbol
+of beauty to come, and watched new
+paths being laid out by human intellect and
+knowledge. He looked with pleasure at
+new original buildings and at large, seagoing
+steamers; he was eagerly interested in
+every new invention and was not bored by
+the company of specialists. With firm conviction
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_36" title="36"> </a>
+he said that crimes such as murder,
+theft, and adultery are decreasing, and have
+nearly disappeared among the intelligentsia,
+teachers, doctors, and authors. He believed
+that in the future true culture would ennoble
+mankind.</p>
+
+<p>Telling of Chekhov's orchard I forgot to
+mention that there stood in the middle of it
+swings and a wooden bench. Both these
+latter remained from &ldquo;Uncle Vanya,&rdquo; which
+play the Moscow Art Theatre acted at
+Yalta, evidently with the sole purpose of
+showing the performance to Anton Pavlovitch
+who was ill then. Both objects were
+specially dear to Chekhov and, pointing to
+them, he would recollect with gratitude the
+attention paid him so kindly by the Art
+Theatre. It is fitting to say here that these
+fine actors, by their exceptionally subtle response
+to Chekhov's talent and their friendly
+devotion to himself, much sweetened his
+last days.</p>
+
+<h3>II</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">There</span> lived in the yard a tame crane and
+two dogs. It must be said that Anton Chekhov
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_37" title="37"> </a>
+loved all animals very much with the
+exception of cats, for whom he felt an invincible
+disgust. He loved dogs specially.
+His dead &ldquo;Kashtanka,&rdquo; his &ldquo;Bromide,&rdquo; and
+&ldquo;Quinine,&rdquo; which he had in Melikhovo, he
+remembered and spoke of, as one remembers
+one's dead friends. &ldquo;Fine race, dogs!&rdquo;&mdash;he
+would say at times with a good-natured smile.</p>
+
+<p>The crane was a pompous, grave bird.
+He generally mistrusted people, but had a
+close friendship with Arseniy, Anton Chekhov's
+pious servant. He would run after
+Arseniy anywhere, in the garden, orchard
+or yard and would jump amusingly and wave
+his wide-open wings, performing a characteristic
+crane dance, which always made
+Anton Pavlovitch laugh.</p>
+
+<p>One dog was called &ldquo;Tusik,&rdquo; and the other
+&ldquo;Kashtan,&rdquo; in honor of the famous &ldquo;Kashtanka.&rdquo;
+&ldquo;Kashtan&rdquo; was distinguished in
+nothing but stupidity and idleness. In appearance
+he was fat, smooth and clumsy, of
+a bright chocolate color, with senseless yellow
+eyes. He would bark after &ldquo;Tusik&rdquo; at
+strangers, but one had only to call him and
+he would turn on his back and begin servilely
+to crawl on the ground. Anton Pavlovitch
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_38" title="38"> </a>
+would give him a little push with his
+stick, when he came up fawning, and would
+say with mock sternness:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Go away, go away, fool&hellip;. Leave
+me alone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And would add, turning to his interlocutor,
+with annoyance, but with laughter in his
+eyes:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Wouldn't you like me to give you this
+dog? You can't believe how stupid he is.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But it happened once that &ldquo;Kashtan,&rdquo;
+through his stupidity and clumsiness, got under
+the wheels of a cab which crushed his
+leg. The poor dog came home running on
+three legs, howling terribly. His hind leg
+was crippled, the flesh cut nearly to the bone,
+bleeding profusely. Anton Pavlovitch instantly
+washed his wound with warm water
+and sublimate, sprinkled iodoform and put
+on a bandage. And with what tenderness,
+how dexterously and warily his big beautiful
+fingers touched the torn skin of the dog,
+and with what compassionate reproof he
+soothed the howling &ldquo;Kashtan&rdquo;:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Ah, you silly, silly&hellip;. How did
+you do it? Be quiet &hellip; you'll be better
+&hellip; little stupid&nbsp;&hellip;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_39" title="39"> </a>I have to repeat a commonplace, but there
+is no doubt that animals and children were
+instinctively drawn to Chekhov. Sometimes
+a girl who was ill would come to A.&nbsp;P. and
+bring with her a little orphan girl of three
+or four, whom she was bringing up. Between
+the tiny child and the sad invalid man,
+the famous author, was established a peculiar,
+serious and trusting friendship. They
+would sit for a long time on the bench, in
+the verandah. Anton Pavlovitch listened
+with attention and concentration, and she
+would whisper to him without ceasing her
+funny words and tangle her little hands in
+his beard.</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov was regarded with a great and
+heart-felt love by all sorts of simple people
+with whom he came into contact&mdash;servants,
+messengers, porters, beggars, tramps, postmen,&mdash;and
+not only with love, but with subtle
+sensitiveness, with concern and with understanding.
+I cannot help telling here one
+story which was told me by a small official
+of the Russian Navigation and Trade Company,
+a downright man, reserved and perfectly
+direct in receiving and telling his impressions.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_40" title="40"> </a>It was autumn. Chekhov, returning
+from Moscow, had just arrived by steamer
+from Sebastopol at Yalta, and had not yet
+left the deck. It was that interval of chaos,
+of shouts and bustle which comes while the
+gangway is being put in place. At that chaotic
+moment the porter, a Tartar, who
+always waited on Chekhov, saw him from the
+distance and managed to climb up on the
+steamer sooner than any one else. He found
+Chekhov's luggage and was already on the
+point of carrying it down, when suddenly a
+rough and fierce-looking chief mate rushed
+on him. The man did not confine himself
+to obscene language, but in the access of his
+official anger, he struck the Tartar on the face.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And then an unbelievable scene took
+place,&rdquo; my friend told me&mdash;&ldquo;the Tartar
+threw the luggage on the deck, beat his
+breast with his fists and, with wild eyes, was
+ready to fall on the chief mate, while he
+shouted in a voice which rang all over the
+port:&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;&lsquo;What? Striking me? D'ye think
+you struck me? It is him&mdash;him, that you
+<ins title="struck!">struck!&rsquo;</ins>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And he pointed his finger at Chekhov.
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_41" title="41"> </a>
+And Chekhov, you know, was pale, his lips
+trembled. He came up to the mate and said
+to him quietly and distinctly, but with an
+unusual expression: &lsquo;Are not you ashamed!&rsquo;
+Believe me, by Jove, if I were that chief
+mate, I would rather be spat upon twenty
+times in the face than hear that &lsquo;are not
+you ashamed.&rsquo; And although the mate
+was sufficiently thick-skinned, even he felt it.
+He bustled about for a moment, murmured
+something and disappeared instantly. No
+more of him was seen on deck.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<h3>III</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">Chekhov's</span> study in his Yalta house was
+not big, about twelve strides long and six
+wide, modest, but breathing a peculiar charm.
+Just opposite the entrance was a large square
+window in a frame of yellow colored glass.
+To the left of the entrance, by the window,
+stood a writing table, and behind it was a
+small niche, lighted from the ceiling, by a
+tiny window. In the niche was a Turkish
+divan. To the right, in the middle of the
+wall was a brown fireplace of Dutch tiles.
+On the top of the fireplace there is a small
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_42" title="42"> </a>
+hole where a tile is missing, and in this is a
+carelessly painted but lovely landscape of an
+evening field with hayricks in the distance;
+the work of Levitan. Further, in the corner,
+there is a door, through which is seen Anton
+Pavlovitch's bachelor bedroom, a bright,
+gay room, shining with a certain virgin cleanliness,
+whiteness and innocence. The walls
+of the study are covered with dark and gold
+papers, and by the writing table hangs a
+printed placard: &ldquo;You are requested not to
+smoke.&rdquo; Immediately by the entrance door,
+to the right, there is a book-case with books.
+On the mantelpiece there are some bric-a-brac
+and among them a beautifully made model
+of a sailing ship. There are many pretty
+things made of ivory and wood on the writing
+table; models of elephants being in the
+majority. On the walls hang portraits of
+Tolstoy, Grigorovitch, and Turgenev. On a
+little table with a fan-like stand are a number
+of photographs of actors and authors.
+Heavy dark curtains fall on both sides of
+the window. On the floor is a large carpet
+of oriental design. This softens all the outlines
+and darkens the study; yet the light
+from the window falls evenly and pleasantly
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_43" title="43"> </a>
+on the writing table. The room smells of
+very fine scents of which A. Pavlovitch was
+very fond. From the window is seen an
+open horseshoe-shaped hollow, running down
+to the sea, and the sea itself, surrounded by
+an amphitheatre of houses. On the left, on
+the right, and behind, rise mountains in a
+semi-circle. In the evenings, when the lights
+are lit in the hilly environs of Yalta and the
+lights and the stars over them are so mixed
+that you cannot distinguish one from the
+other,&mdash;then the place reminds one of certain
+spots in the Caucasus.</p>
+
+<p>This is what always happens&mdash;you get to
+know a man; you have studied his appearance,
+bearing, voice and manners, and still
+you can always recall his face as it was when
+you saw it for the first time, completely different
+from the present. Thus, after several
+years of friendship with Anton Pavlovitch,
+there is preserved in my memory the Chekhov,
+whom I saw for the first time in the
+public room of the hotel &ldquo;London&rdquo; in Odessa.
+He seemed to me then tall, lean, but broad
+in the shoulders, with a somewhat stern look.
+Signs of illness were not then noticeable,
+unless in his walk&mdash;weak, and as if on somewhat
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_44" title="44"> </a>
+bent knees. If I were asked what he
+was like at first sight, I should say: &ldquo;A
+Zemstvo doctor or a teacher of a provincial
+secondary school.&rdquo; But there was also in
+him something plain and modest, something
+extraordinarily Russian&mdash;of the people. In
+his face, speech and manners there was also
+a touch of the Moscow undergraduate's carelessness.
+Many people saw that in him,
+and I among them. But a few hours later
+I saw a completely different Chekhov&mdash;the
+Chekhov, whose face could never be caught
+by any photograph, who, unfortunately, was
+not understood by any painter who drew
+him. I saw the most beautiful, refined and
+spiritual face that I have ever come across
+in my life.</p>
+
+<p>Many said that Chekhov had blue eyes.
+It is a mistake, but a mistake strangely common
+to all who knew him. His eyes were
+dark, almost brown, and the iris of his right
+eye was considerably brighter, which gave
+A.&nbsp;P.'s look, at certain moments, an expression
+of absent-mindedness. His eyelids
+hung rather heavy upon his eyes, as is so
+often observed in artists, hunters and sailors,
+and all those who concentrate their gaze.
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_45" title="45"> </a>
+Owing to his pince-nez and his manner of
+looking through the bottom of his glasses,
+with his head somewhat tilted upwards, Anton
+Pavlovitch's face often seemed stern.
+But one ought to have seen Chekhov at certain
+moments (rare, alas, during the last
+years) when gayety possessed him, and when
+with a quick movement of the hand, he threw
+off his glasses and swung his chair and burst
+into gay, sincere and deep laughter. Then
+his eyes became narrow and bright, with
+good-natured little wrinkles at the corners,
+and he reminded one then of that youthful
+portrait in which he is seen as a beardless
+boy, smiling, short-sighted and naïve, looking
+rather sideways. And&mdash;strange though
+it is&mdash;each time that I look at that photograph,
+I cannot rid myself of the thought
+that Chekhov's eyes were really blue.</p>
+
+<p>Looking at Chekhov one noticed his forehead,
+which was wide, white and pure, and
+beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds
+came <ins title="beween">between</ins> the eyebrows, by the bridge
+of the nose, two vertical melancholy folds.
+Chekhov's ears were large and not shapely,
+but such sensible, intelligent ears I have seen
+only in one other man&mdash;Tolstoy.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_46" title="46"> </a>Once in the summer, availing myself of
+A.&nbsp;P.'s good humor, I took several photographs
+of him with a little camera. Unfortunately
+the best of them and those most
+like him turned out very pale, owing to the
+weak light of the study. Of the others,
+which were more successful, A.&nbsp;P. said as he
+looked at them:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, you know, it is not me but some
+Frenchman.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I remember now very vividly the grip of
+his large, dry and hot hand,&mdash;a grip, always
+strong and manly but at the same time reserved,
+as if it were consciously concealing
+something. I also visualize now his handwriting:
+thin, with extremely fine strokes,
+careless at first sight and inelegant, but,
+when you look closer, it appears very distinct,
+tender, fine and characteristic, as everything
+else about him.</p>
+
+<h3>IV</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent">A.&nbsp;P. used to get up, in the summer at
+least, very early. None even of his most
+intimate friends saw him carelessly dressed,
+nor did he approve of lazy habits, like wearing
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_47" title="47"> </a>
+slippers, dressing gowns or light jackets.
+At eight or nine he was already pacing his
+study or at his writing table, invariably
+impeccably and neatly dressed.</p>
+
+<p>Evidently, his best time for work was in
+the morning before lunch, although nobody
+ever managed to find him writing: in this
+respect he was extraordinarily reserved and
+shy. All the same, on nice warm mornings
+he could be seen sitting on a slope behind the
+house, in the cosiest part of the place, where
+oleanders stood in tubs along the walls, and
+where he had planted a cypress. There he
+sat sometimes for an hour or longer, alone,
+without stirring, with his hands on his knees,
+looking in front of him at the sea.</p>
+
+<p>About midday and later visitors began to
+fill the house. Girls stood for hours at the
+iron railings, separating the bungalow from
+the road, with open mouths, in white felt
+hats. The most diverse people came to
+Chekhov: scholars, authors, Zemstvo workers,
+doctors, military, painters, admirers of both
+sexes, professors, society men and women,
+senators, priests, actors&mdash;and God knows
+who else. Often he was asked to give advice
+or help and still more often to give his
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_48" title="48"> </a>
+opinion upon manuscripts. Casual newspaper
+reporters and people who were merely inquisitive
+would appear; also people who
+came to him with the sole purpose of &ldquo;directing
+the big, but erring talent to the proper,
+ideal side.&rdquo; Beggars came&mdash;genuine and
+sham. These never met with a refusal. I
+do not think it right, myself, to mention
+private cases, but I know for certain that
+Chekhov's generosity towards students of
+both sexes, was immeasurably beyond what
+his modest means would allow.</p>
+
+<p>People came to him from all strata of
+society, of all camps, of all shades. Notwithstanding
+the worry of so continuous a
+stream of visitors, there was something attractive
+in it to Chekhov. He got first-hand
+knowledge of everything that was going on
+at any given moment in Russia. How mistaken
+were those who wrote or supposed that
+he was a man indifferent to public interests,
+to the whirling life of the intelligentsia, and
+to the burning questions of his time! He
+watched everything carefully, and thoughtfully.
+He was tormented and distressed by
+all the things which tormented the minds of
+the best Russians. One had only to see how
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_49" title="49"> </a>
+in those terrible times, when the absurd,
+dark, evil phenomena of our public life were
+discussed in his presence, he knitted his thick
+eyebrows, and how martyred his face looked,
+and what a deep sorrow shone in his beautiful
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>It is fitting to mention here one fact
+which, in my opinion, superbly illustrates
+Chekhov's attitude to the stupidities of Russian
+life. Many know that he resigned the
+rank of an honorary member of the Academy;
+the motives of his resignation are known; but
+very few have read his letter to the Academy,&mdash;a
+splendid letter, written with a
+simple and noble dignity, and the restrained
+indignation of a great soul.</p>
+
+<blockquote>
+<p class="no-indent">To the August President of the Academy</p>
+
+<p class="right">25 August, 1902<br/>
+<span class="small-caps">Yalta.</span></p>
+
+<p class="hanging-indent"><i>Your Imperial Highness</i>,<br/>
+<span class="small-caps">August President</span>!</p>
+
+<p>In December of last year I received a notice of
+the election of A.&nbsp;M. Pyeshkov (Maxim Gorky)
+as an honorary academician, and I took the first
+opportunity of seeing A.&nbsp;M. Pyeshkov, who was
+then in Crimea. I was the first to bring him news
+of his election and I was the first to congratulate
+him. Some time later, it was announced in the
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_50" title="50"> </a>newspapers that, in view of proceedings according
+to Art. 1035 being instituted against Pyeshkov for
+his political views, his election was cancelled. It
+was expressly stated that this act came from the
+Academy of Sciences; and since I am an honorary
+academician, I also am partly responsible for this
+act. I have congratulated him heartily on becoming
+an academician and I consider his election cancelled&mdash;such
+a contradiction does not agree with
+my conscience, I cannot reconcile my conscience to
+it. The study of Art. 1035 has explained nothing
+to me. And after long deliberation I can only
+come to one decision, which is extremely painful
+and regrettable to me, and that is to ask most
+respectfully to be relieved of the rank of honorary
+academician. With a feeling of deepest respect I
+have the honor to remain</p>
+
+<p class="right">Your most devoted<br/>
+<span class="small-caps">Anton Chekhov</span>.</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<p>Queer&mdash;to what an extent people misunderstood
+Chekhov! He, the &ldquo;incorrigible
+pessimist,&rdquo; as he was labelled,&mdash;never tired
+of hoping for a bright future, never ceased to
+believe in the invisible but persistent and
+fruitful work of the best forces of our country.
+Which of his friends does not remember
+the favorite phrase, which he so often,
+sometimes so incongruously and unexpectedly,
+uttered in a tone of assurance:</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_51" title="51"> </a>&mdash;&ldquo;Look here, don't you see? There is
+sure to be a constitution in Russia in ten years
+time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Yes, even in that there sounds the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">motif</i> of
+the joyous future which is awaiting mankind;
+the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">motif</i> that was audible in all the work
+of his last years.</p>
+
+<hr class="thought-break"/>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">The</span> truth must be told: by no means all
+visitors spared A.&nbsp;P.'s time and nerves, and
+some of them were quite merciless. I remember
+one striking, and almost incredible
+instance of the banality and indelicacy which
+could be displayed by a man of the so-called
+artistic power.</p>
+
+<p>It was a pleasant, cool and windless summer
+morning. A.&nbsp;P. was in an unusually
+light and cheerful mood. Suddenly there
+appeared as from the blue a stout gentleman
+(who subsequently turned out to be an architect),
+who sent his card to Chekhov and
+asked for an interview. A.&nbsp;P. received him.
+The architect came in, introduced himself,
+and, without taking any notice of the placard
+&ldquo;You are requested not to smoke,&rdquo; without
+asking any permission, lit a huge stinking
+Riga cigar. Then, after paying, as was inevitable,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_52" title="52"> </a>
+a few stone-heavy compliments to
+his host, he began on the business which
+brought him here.</p>
+
+<p>The business consisted in the fact that the
+architect's little son, a school boy of the third
+form, was running in the streets the other
+day and from a habit peculiar to boys, whilst
+running, touched with his hand anything he
+came across: lamp-posts, or posts or fences.
+At last he managed to push his hand into a
+barbed wire fence and thus scratched his
+palm. &ldquo;You see now, my worthy A.&nbsp;P.,&rdquo;&mdash;the
+architect concluded his tale, &ldquo;I shall very
+much like you to write a letter about it in
+the newspapers. It is lucky that Kolya (his
+boy) got off with a scratch, but it's only a
+chance. He might have cut an artery&mdash;what
+would have happened then?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,
+it's a nuisance,&rdquo; Chekhov answered, &ldquo;but, unfortunately,
+I cannot be of any use to you.
+I do not write, nor have ever written, letters
+in the newspapers. I only write stories.&rdquo;
+&ldquo;So much the better, so much the better!
+Put it in a story&rdquo;&mdash;the architect was delighted.
+&ldquo;Just put the name of the landlord
+in full letters. You may even put my own
+name, I do not object to it&hellip;. Still &hellip;
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_53" title="53"> </a>
+it would be best if you only put my initials,
+not the full name&hellip;. There are only two
+genuine authors left in Russia, you and Mr.
+P.&rdquo; (and the architect gave the name of a
+notorious literary tailor).</p>
+
+<p>I am not able to repeat even a hundredth
+part of the boring commonplaces which the
+injured architect managed to speak, since he
+made the interview last until he finished the
+cigar to the end, and the study had to be
+aired for a long time to get rid of the smell.
+But when at last he left, A.&nbsp;P. came out into
+the garden completely upset with red spots
+on his cheeks. His voice trembled, when
+he turned reproachfully to his sister Marie
+and to a friend who sat on the bench:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Could you not shield me from that man?
+You should have sent word that I was needed
+somewhere. He has tortured me!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I also remember,&mdash;and this I am sorry
+to say was partly my fault&mdash;how a certain
+self-assured general came to him to express
+his appreciation as a reader, and, probably,
+desiring to give Chekhov pleasure, he began,
+with his legs spread open and the fists of his
+turned-out hand leaning on them, to vilify
+a young author, whose great popularity was
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_54" title="54"> </a>
+then only beginning to grow. And Chekhov,
+at once, shrank into himself, and sat all
+the time with his eyes cast down, coldly,
+without saying a single word. And only
+from the quick reproachful look, which he
+cast at my friend, who had introduced that
+general, did he show what pain he caused.</p>
+
+<p>Just as shyly and coldly he regarded
+praises lavished on him. He would retire
+into his niche, on the divan, his eyelids
+trembled, slowly fell and were not again
+raised, and his face became motionless and
+gloomy. Sometimes, when immoderate raptures
+came from some one he knew, he would
+try to turn the conversation into a joke,
+and give it a different direction. He would
+suddenly say, without rhyme or reason, with
+a light little laugh:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;I like reading what the Odessa reporters
+write about me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is very funny&mdash;all lies. Last spring
+one of them appeared in my hotel. He
+asked for an interview. And I had no time
+for it. So I said: &lsquo;Excuse me but I am
+busy now. But write whatever you like;
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_55" title="55"> </a>
+it is of no consequence to me.&rsquo; Well, he
+did write. It drove me into a fever.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And once with a most serious face he said:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;You know, in Yalta every cabman
+knows me. They say: &lsquo;O, Chekhov, that
+man, the reader? I know him.&rsquo; For some
+reason they call me reader. Perhaps they
+think that I read psalm-services for the dead?
+You, old fellow, ought to ask a cabman what
+my occupation is&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<h3>V</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">At</span> one o'clock Chekhov dined downstairs,
+in a cool bright dining-room, and there was
+nearly always a guest at dinner. It was
+difficult not to yield to the fascination of
+that simple, kind, cordial family. One felt
+constant solicitude and love, not expressed
+with a single high-sounding word,&mdash;an amazing
+amount of refinement and attention,
+which never, as if on purpose, got beyond
+the limits of ordinary, everyday relations.
+One always noticed a truly Chekhovian fear
+of everything high-flown, insincere, or showy.
+In that family one felt very much at one's
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_56" title="56"> </a>
+ease, light and warm, and I perfectly understand
+a certain author who said that he was
+in love with all the Chekhovs at the same
+time.</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch ate exceedingly little
+and did not like to sit at table, but usually
+passed from the window to the door and
+back. Often after dinner, staying behind
+with some one in the dining-room, Yevguenia
+Yakovlevna (A.&nbsp;P.'s mother) said
+quietly with anxiety in her voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was very hospitable and loved it when
+people stayed to dinner, and he knew how
+to treat guests in his own peculiar way,
+simply and heartily. He would say, standing
+behind one's chair:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Listen, have some vodka. When I
+was young and healthy I loved it. I
+would pick mushrooms for a whole morning,
+get tired out, hardly able to reach home, and
+before lunch I would have two or three
+thimblefuls. Wonderful!&hellip;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After dinner he had tea upstairs, on the
+open verandah, or in his study, or he would
+come down into the garden and sit there on
+the bench, in his overcoat, with a cane, pushing
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_57" title="57"> </a>
+his soft black hat down to his very eyes
+and looking out under its brim with screwed
+up eyes.</p>
+
+<p>These hours were the most crowded.
+There were constant rings on the telephone,
+asking if Anton Chekhov could be seen; and
+perpetual visitors. Strangers also came,
+sending in their cards and asking for help,
+for autographs or books. Then queer
+things happened.</p>
+
+<p>One &ldquo;Tambov squire,&rdquo; as Chekhov christened
+him, came to him for medical advice.
+In vain did Anton Pavlovitch answer him,
+that he had given up medical practice long
+ago and that he was behind the times in
+medicine. In vain did he recommend a
+more experienced physician,&mdash;the &ldquo;Tambov
+squire&rdquo; persisted: no doctor would he trust
+but Chekhov. Willy-nilly he had to give a
+few trifling, perfectly innocent pieces of
+advice. On taking leave the &ldquo;Tambov
+squire&rdquo; put on the table two gold coins and,
+in spite of all Chekhov's persuasion, he
+would not agree to take them back. Anton
+Pavlovitch had to give way. He said that
+as he neither wished nor considered himself
+entitled to take money as a fee, he would
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_58" title="58"> </a>
+give it to the Yalta Charitable Society, and
+at once wrote a receipt. It turned out that
+it was that the &ldquo;Tambov squire&rdquo; wanted.
+With a radiant face, he carefully put the
+receipt in his pocket-book, and then confessed
+that the sole purpose of his visit was
+to obtain Chekhov's autograph. Chekhov
+himself told me the story of this original
+and persistent patient&mdash;half-laughing, half-cross.</p>
+
+<p>I repeat, many of these visitors plagued
+him fearfully and even irritated him, but,
+owing to the amazing delicacy peculiar to
+him, he was with all patient, attentive and
+accessible to those who wished to see him.
+His delicacy at times reached a limit that
+bordered on weakness. Thus, for instance,
+one nice, well-meaning lady, a great admirer
+of Chekhov, gave him for a birthday present
+a huge pug-dog in a sitting position,
+made of colored plaster of Paris, over a
+yard high, i.&nbsp;e., about five times larger than
+its natural size. That pug-dog was placed
+downstairs, on the landing near the dining
+room, and there he sat with an angry face
+chewing his teeth and frightening those who
+had forgotten him.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_59" title="59"> </a>&mdash;&ldquo;O, I'm afraid of that stone dog myself,&rdquo;
+Chekhov confessed, &ldquo;but it is awkward
+to move him; it might hurt her. Let him
+stay on here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter,
+he added unexpectedly, in his usual manner:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Have you noticed in the houses of rich
+Jews, such plaster dogs often sit by the fireplace?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>At times, for days on end, he would be
+annoyed with every sort of admirer and detractor
+and even adviser. &ldquo;O, I have such
+a mass of visitors,&rdquo;&mdash;he complained in a
+letter,&mdash;&ldquo;that my head swims. I cannot
+work.&rdquo; But still he did not remain indifferent
+to a sincere feeling of love and respect
+and always distinguished it from idle and
+fulsome tittle-tattle. Once he returned in
+a very gay mood from the quay where he
+sometimes took a walk, and with great animation
+told us:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;I just had a wonderful meeting. An
+artillery officer suddenly came up to me on
+the quay, quite a young man, a sub-lieutenant.&mdash;&lsquo;Are
+you A.&nbsp;P. Chekhov?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Yes.
+Do you want anything?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Excuse
+me please for my importunity, but for
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_60" title="60"> </a>
+so long I have wanted to shake your hand!&rsquo;
+And he blushed&mdash;he was a wonderful fellow
+with a fine face. We shook hands and
+parted.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov was at his best towards evening,
+about seven o'clock, when people gathered in
+the dining room for tea and a light supper.
+Sometimes&mdash;but more and more rarely as
+the years went on&mdash;there revived in him the
+old Chekhov, inexhaustibly gay, witty, with
+a bubbling, charming, youthful humor.
+Then he improvised stories in which the
+characters were his friends, and he was particularly
+fond of arranging imaginary weddings,
+which sometimes ended with the
+young husband the following morning, sitting
+at the table and having his tea, saying
+as it were by the way in an unconcerned and
+businesslike tone:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Do you know, my dear, after tea we'll
+get ready and go to a solicitor's. Why
+should you have unnecessary bother about
+your money?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He invented wonderful Chekhovian
+names, of which I now&mdash;alas!&mdash;remember
+only a certain mythical sailor Koshkodovenko-cat-slayer.
+He also liked as a joke
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_61" title="61"> </a>
+to make young writers appear old. &ldquo;What
+are you saying&mdash;Bunin is my age&rdquo;&mdash;he
+would assure one with mock seriousness.
+&ldquo;So is Teleshov: he is an old writer. Well,
+ask him yourself: he will tell you what a
+spree we had at T.&nbsp;A. Bieloussov's wedding.
+What a long time ago!&rdquo; To a talented
+novelist, a serious writer and a man of ideas,
+he said: &ldquo;Look here, you're twenty years my
+senior: surely you wrote previously under
+the nom-de-plume &lsquo;Nestor Kukolnik.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But his jokes never left any bitterness any
+more than he consciously ever caused the
+slightest pain to any living thing.</p>
+
+<p>After dinner he would keep some one in
+his study for half an hour or an hour. On
+his table candles would be lit. Later, when
+all had gone and he remained alone, a light
+would still be seen in his large window for a
+long time. Whether he worked at that
+time, or looked through his note-books,
+putting down the impressions of the day nobody
+seems to know.</p>
+
+<h3>VI</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">It</span> is true, on the whole, that we know
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_62" title="62"> </a>
+nearly nothing, not only of his creative activities,
+but even of the external methods of
+his work. In this respect Anton Pavlovitch
+was almost eccentric in his reserve
+and silence. I remember him saying, as if
+by the way, something very significant:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;For God's sake don't read your work
+to any one until it is published. Don't
+read it to others in proof even.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>This was always his own habit, although
+he sometimes made exceptions for his wife
+and sister. Formerly he is said to have been
+more communicative in this respect.</p>
+
+<p>That was when he wrote a great deal and
+at great speed. He himself said that he
+used to write a story a day. E.&nbsp;T. Chekhov,
+his mother, used to say: &ldquo;When he
+was still an undergraduate, Antosha would
+sit at the table in the morning, having his
+tea and suddenly fall to thinking; he would
+sometimes look straight into one's eyes, but
+I knew that he saw nothing. Then he
+would get his note-book out of his pocket
+and write quickly, quickly. And again he
+would fall to thinking&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But during the last years Chekhov began
+to treat himself with ever increasing strictness
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_63" title="63"> </a>
+and exactitude: he kept his stories for
+several years, continually correcting and
+copying them, and nevertheless in spite of
+such minute work, the final proofs, which
+came from him, were speckled throughout
+with signs, corrections, and insertions. In
+order to finish a work he had to write without
+tearing himself away. &ldquo;If I leave a
+story for a long time,&rdquo;&mdash;he once said&mdash;&ldquo;I
+cannot make myself finish it afterwards. I
+have to begin again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Where did he draw his images from?
+Where did he find his observations and his
+similes? Where did he forge his superb
+language, unique in Russian literature? He
+confided in nobody, never revealed his creative
+methods. Many note-books are said
+to have been left by him; perhaps in them
+will in time be found the keys to those mysteries.
+Or perhaps they will forever remain
+unsolved. Who knows? At any rate we
+must limit ourselves to vague hints and
+guesses.</p>
+
+<p>I think that always, from morning to night,
+and perhaps at night even, in his sleep and
+sleeplessness, there was going on in him an
+invisible but persistent&mdash;at times even unconscious&mdash;activity,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_64" title="64"> </a>
+the activity of weighing,
+defining and remembering. He knew how
+to listen and ask questions, as no one else
+did; but often, in the middle of a lively conversation,
+it would be noticed, how his attentive
+and kindly look became motionless
+and deep, as if it were withdrawing somewhere
+inside, contemplating something mysterious
+and important, which was going
+on there. At those moments A.&nbsp;P. would
+put his strange questions, amazing through
+their unexpectedness, completely out of
+touch with the conversation, questions which
+confused many people. The conversation
+was about neo-marxists, and he would suddenly
+ask: &ldquo;Have you ever been to a stud-farm?
+You ought to see one. It is interesting.&rdquo;
+Or he would repeat a question for
+the second time, which had already been
+answered.</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov was not remarkable for a memory
+of external things. I speak of that
+power of minute memory, which women so
+often possess in a very high degree, also peasants,
+which consists in remembering, how
+a person was dressed, whether he has a
+beard and mustaches, what his watch chain
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_65" title="65"> </a>
+was like or his boots, what color his hair
+was. These details were simply unimportant
+and uninteresting to him. But, instead,
+he took the whole person and defined
+quickly and truly, exactly like an experienced
+chemist, his specific gravity, his
+quality and order, and he knew already how
+to describe his essential qualities in a couple
+of strokes.</p>
+
+<p>Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeasure
+of a good friend of his, a famous scholar,
+who, in spite of a long-standing friendship,
+somewhat oppressed Chekhov with his
+talkativeness. No sooner would he arrive
+in Yalta, than he at once came to Chekhov
+and sat there with him all the morning till
+lunch. Then he would go to his hotel for
+half an hour, and come back and sit until
+late at night, all the time talking, talking,
+talking&hellip;. And so on day after day.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly, abruptly breaking off his story,
+as if carried away by a new interesting
+thought, Anton Pavlovitch added with animation:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;And nobody would guess what is most
+characteristic in that man. I know it.
+That he is a professor and a savant with a
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_66" title="66"> </a>
+European reputation, is to him a secondary
+matter. The chief thing is that in his heart
+he considers himself to be a remarkable actor,
+and he profoundly believes that it is
+only by chance that he has not won universal
+popularity on the stage. At home he always
+reads Ostrovsky aloud.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Once, smiling at his recollection, he suddenly
+observed:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;D'you know, Moscow is the most
+peculiar city. In it everything is unexpected.
+Once on a spring morning S., the publicist,
+and myself came out of the Great
+Moscow Hotel. It was after a late and
+merry supper. Suddenly S. dragged me to
+the Tversky Church, just opposite. He
+took a handful of coppers and began to share
+it out to the beggars&mdash;there are dozens standing
+about there. He would give one a
+penny and whisper: &lsquo;Pray for the health of
+Michael the slave of God.&rsquo; It is his Christian
+name Michael. And again: &lsquo;for the
+servant of God, Michael; for Michael, the
+servant of God.&rsquo; And he himself does not
+believe in God&hellip;. Queer fellow!&rdquo;&nbsp;&hellip;</p>
+
+<p>I now approach a delicate point which
+may not perhaps please every one. I am
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_67" title="67"> </a>
+convinced that Chekhov talked to a scholar
+and a peddler, a beggar and a litterateur,
+with a prominent Zemstvo worker and a suspicious
+monk or shop assistant or a small
+postman, with the same attention and curiosity.
+Is not that the reason why in his
+stories the professor speaks and thinks just
+like an old professor, and the tramp just like
+a veritable tramp? And is it not because of
+this, that immediately after his death there
+appeared so many &ldquo;bosom&rdquo; friends, for
+whom, in their words, he would be ready to
+go through fire and water?</p>
+
+<p>I think that he did not open or give his
+heart completely to any one (there is a legend,
+though, of an intimate, beloved friend,
+a Taganrog official). But he regarded all
+kindly, indifferently so far as friendship is
+concerned&mdash;and at the same time with a
+great, perhaps unconscious, interest.</p>
+
+<p>His Chekhovian <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mots</i> and those little
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">traits</i> that astonish us by their neatness and
+appositeness, he often took direct from life.
+The expression &ldquo;it displeasures me&rdquo; which
+quickly became, after the &ldquo;Bishop,&rdquo; a bye-word
+with a wide circulation, he got from a
+certain gloomy tramp, half-drunkard, half-madman,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_68" title="68"> </a>
+half-prophet. I also remember
+talking once with Chekhov of a long dead
+Moscow poet, and Chekhov glowingly remembered
+him, and his mistress, and his
+empty rooms, and his St. Bernard, &ldquo;Ami,&rdquo;
+who suffered from constant indigestion.
+&ldquo;Certainly, I remember,&rdquo;&mdash;Chekhov said
+laughing gayly&mdash;&ldquo;At five o'clock his mistress
+would always come in and ask: &lsquo;Liodor
+Tranitch, I say, Liodor Tranitch, is it not
+time you drank your beer?&rsquo;&rdquo; And then
+I imprudently said: &ldquo;O, that's where it
+comes from in your &lsquo;Ward N&nbsp;6&rsquo;?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Yes,
+well, yes&rdquo;&mdash;replied Chekhov with displeasure.</p>
+
+<p>He had friends also among those merchants'
+wives, who, in spite of their millions
+and the most fashionable dresses, and an
+outward interest in literature, say &ldquo;ideal&rdquo;
+and &ldquo;in principal.&rdquo; Some of them would for
+hours pour out their souls before Chekhov,
+wishing to convey what extraordinarily refined,
+neurotic characters they were, and
+what a remarkable novel could be written by
+a writer of genius about their lives, if only
+they could tell everything. And he would
+sit quietly, in silence, and listen with apparent
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_69" title="69"> </a>
+pleasure&mdash;only under his moustache
+glided an almost imperceptible smile.</p>
+
+<p>I do not wish to say that he <em>looked</em> for
+models, like many other writers. But I
+think, that everywhere and always he saw
+material for observation, and this happened
+involuntarily, often perhaps against his will,
+through his long-cultivated and ineradicable
+habit of diving into people, of analyzing
+and generalizing them. In this hidden process
+was to him, probably, all the torment
+and joy of his creative activity.</p>
+
+<p>He shared his impressions with no one,
+just as he never spoke of what and how he
+was going to write. Also very rarely was the
+artist and novelist shown in his talk. He,
+partly deliberately, partly instinctively, used
+in his speech ordinary, average, common expressions,
+without having recourse either to
+simile or picturesqueness. He guarded his
+treasures in his soul, not permitting them to
+be wasted in wordy foam, and in this there
+was a huge difference between him and those
+novelists who tell their stories much better
+than they write them.</p>
+
+<p>This, I think, came from a natural reserve,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_70" title="70"> </a>
+but also from a peculiar shyness. There are
+people who constitutionally cannot endure
+and are morbidly shy of too demonstrative
+attitudes, gestures and words, and Anton
+Pavlovitch possessed this quality in the highest
+degree. Herein, maybe, is hidden the
+key to his <em>seeming</em> indifference towards question
+of struggle and protest and his aloofness
+towards topical events, which did and do agitate
+the Russian intelligentsia. He had a
+horror of pathos, of vehement emotions and
+the theatrical effects inseparable from them.
+I can only compare him in this with a man
+who loves a woman with all the ardor, tenderness
+and depth, of which a man of refinement
+and great intelligence is capable. He
+will never try to speak of it in pompous,
+high-flown words, and he cannot even imagine
+himself falling on his knees and pressing
+his hand to his heart and speaking in the
+tremulous voice of a young lover on the stage.
+And therefore he loves and is silent, and
+suffers in silence, and will never attempt to
+utter what the average man will express
+freely and noisily according to all the rules
+of rhetoric.</p>
+
+<h3><a class="pagenum" name="Page_71" title="71"> </a>VII</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">To</span> young writers, Chekhov was always
+sympathetic and kind. No one left him
+oppressed by his enormous talent and by
+one's own insignificance. He never said to
+any one: &ldquo;Do as I do; see how I behave.&rdquo;
+If in despair one complained to him: &ldquo;Is it
+worth going on, if one will forever remain
+&lsquo;our young and promising author&rsquo;?&rdquo; he
+answered quietly and seriously:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;But, my dear fellow, not every one can
+write like Tolstoy.&rdquo; His considerateness
+was at times pathetic. A certain young
+writer came to Yalta and took a little room
+in a big and noisy Greek family somewhere
+beyond Antka, on the outskirts of the city.
+He once complained to Chekhov that it was
+difficult to work in such surroundings, and
+Chekhov insisted that the writer should come
+to him in the mornings and work downstairs
+in the room adjoining the dining room.
+&ldquo;You will write downstairs, and I upstairs&rdquo;&mdash;he
+said with his charming smile&mdash;&ldquo;And
+you will have dinner with me. When you
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_72" title="72"> </a>
+finish something, do read it to me, or, if you
+go away, send me the proofs.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He read an amazing amount and always
+remembered everything, and never confused
+one writer with another. If writers asked
+his opinion, he always praised their work,
+not so as to get rid of them, but because he
+knew how cruelly a sharp, even if just, criticism
+cuts the wings of beginners, and what an
+encouragement and hope a little praise gives
+sometimes. &ldquo;I have read your story. It is
+marvelously well done,&rdquo; he would say on
+such occasions in a hearty voice. But when
+a certain confidence was established and they
+got to know each other, especially if an author
+insisted, he gave his opinion more definitely,
+directly, and at greater length. I
+have two letters of his, written to one and
+the same novelist, concerning one and the
+same tale. Here is a quotation from the
+first:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dear N., I received your tale and have
+read it; many thanks. The tale is good, I
+have read it at one go, as I did the previous
+one, and with the same pleasure&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But as the author was not satisfied with
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_73" title="73"> </a>
+praise alone, he soon received a second letter
+from Anton Pavlovitch.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You want me to speak of defects only,
+and thereby you put me in an embarrassing
+situation. There are no defects in that
+story, and if one finds fault, it is only with a
+few of its peculiarities. For instance, your
+heroes, characters, you treat in the old style,
+as they have been treated for a hundred years
+by all who have written about them&mdash;nothing
+new. Secondly, in the first chapter
+you are busy describing people's faces&mdash;again
+that is the old way, it is a description
+which can be dispensed with. Five
+minutely described faces tire the attention,
+and in the end lose their value. Clean-shaved
+characters are like each other, like
+Catholic priests, and remain alike, however
+studiously you describe them. Thirdly,
+you overdo your rough manner in the description
+of drunken people. That is all I
+can say in reply to your question about the
+defects; I can find nothing more that is
+wrong.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>To those writers with whom he had any
+common spiritual bond, he always behaved
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_74" title="74"> </a>
+with great care and attention. He never
+missed an occasion to tell them any news
+which he knew would be pleasing or useful.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dear N.,&rdquo; he wrote to a certain friend of
+mine,&mdash;&ldquo;I hereby inform you that your
+story was read by L.&nbsp;N. Tolstoy and he liked
+it <em>very much</em>. Be so good as to send him
+your book at this address; Koreiz, Tauric
+Province, and on the title page underline the
+stories which you consider best, so that he
+should begin with them. Or send the book
+to me and I will hand it to him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>To the writer of these lines he also once
+showed a delightful kindness, communicating
+by letter that, &ldquo;in the &lsquo;Dictionary of the Russian
+Language,&rsquo; published by the Academy
+of Sciences, in the sixth number of the second
+volume, which number I received to-day, you
+too appeared at last.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>All these of course are details, but in them
+is apparent much sympathy and concern, so
+that now, when this great artist and remarkable
+man is no longer among us, his letters
+acquire the significance of a far-away, irrevocable
+caress.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Write, write as much as possible&rdquo;&mdash;he
+would say to young novelists. &ldquo;It does not
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_75" title="75"> </a>
+matter if it does not come off. Later on it
+will come off. The chief thing is, do not
+waste your youth and elasticity. It's now
+the time for working. See, you write superbly,
+but your vocabulary is small. You
+must acquire words and turns of speech, and
+for this you must write every day.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And he himself worked untiringly on himself,
+enriching his charming, varied vocabulary
+from every source: from conversations,
+dictionaries, catalogues, from learned works,
+from sacred writings. The store of words
+which that silent man had was extraordinary.</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Listen, travel third class as often as
+possible&rdquo;&mdash;he advised&mdash;&ldquo;I am sorry that illness
+prevents me from traveling third.
+There you will sometimes hear remarkably
+interesting things.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He also wondered at those authors who
+for years on end see nothing but the next
+door house from the windows of their Petersburg
+flats. And often he said with a shade
+of impatience:</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;I cannot understand why you&mdash;young,
+healthy, and free&mdash;don't go, for instance, to
+Australia (Australia for some reason was his
+favorite part of the world), or to Siberia.
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_76" title="76"> </a>
+As soon as I am better, I shall certainly go to
+Siberia. I was there when I went to Saghalien.
+You cannot imagine, my dear fellow,
+what a wonderful country it is. It is
+quite different. You know, I am convinced
+Siberia will some day sever herself completely
+from Russia, just as America severed
+herself from her motherland. You must,
+must go there without fail&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why don't you write a play?&rdquo;&mdash;he
+would sometimes ask. &ldquo;Do write one,
+really. Every writer must write at least
+four plays.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But he would confess now and then, that
+the dramatic form is losing its interest now.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The drama must either degenerate completely,
+or take a completely new form&rdquo;&mdash;he
+said. &ldquo;We cannot even imagine what the
+theatre will be like in a hundred years.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There were some little inconsistencies in
+Anton Pavlovitch which were particularly
+attractive in him and had at the same time a
+deep inner significance. This was once the
+case with regard to note-books. Chekhov
+had just strongly advised us not to have recourse
+to them for help but to rely wholly on
+our memory and imagination. &ldquo;The big
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_77" title="77"> </a>
+things will remain&rdquo;&mdash;he argued&mdash;&ldquo;and the
+details you can always invent or find.&rdquo;
+But then, an hour later, one of the company,
+who had been for a year on the stage, began
+to talk of his theatrical impressions and
+incidentally mentioned this case. A rehearsal
+was taking place in the theatre of a tiny provincial
+town. The &ldquo;young lover&rdquo; paced the
+stage in a hat and check trousers, with his
+hands in his pockets, showing off before a
+casual public which had straggled into the
+theatre. The &ldquo;ingenue,&rdquo; his mistress, who
+was also on the stage, said to him:
+&ldquo;Sasha, what was it you whistled yesterday
+from <cite>Pagliacci</cite>? Do please whistle it
+again.&rdquo; The &ldquo;young lover&rdquo; turned to her,
+and looking her up and down with a devastating
+expression said in a fat, actor's voice:
+&ldquo;Wha-at! Whistle on the stage? Would
+you whistle in church? Then know that
+the stage is the same as a church!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>At the end of that story Anton Pavlovitch
+threw off his pince-nez, flung himself
+back in his chair, and began to laugh with
+his clear, ringing laughter. He immediately
+opened the drawer of his table to get his
+note-book. &ldquo;Wait, wait, how did you say
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_78" title="78"> </a>
+it? The stage is a temple?&rdquo; &hellip; And he
+put down the whole anecdote.</p>
+
+<p>There was no essential contradiction in
+this, and Anton Pavlovitch explained it himself.
+&ldquo;One should not put down similes,
+characteristic <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">traits</i>, details, scenes from
+nature&mdash;this must come of itself when it
+is needed. But a bare fact, a rare name, a
+technical term, should be put down in the
+note-book&mdash;otherwise it may be forgotten
+and lost.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov frequently recalled the difficulties
+put in his way by the editors of serious
+magazines, until with the helping hand of
+&ldquo;Sieverny Viestnik&rdquo; he finally overcame
+them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;For one thing you all ought to be grateful
+to me,&rdquo;&mdash;he would say to young writers.&mdash;&ldquo;It
+was I who opened the way for writers
+of short stories. Formerly, when one took a
+manuscript to an editor, he did not even
+read it. He just looked scornfully at one.
+&lsquo;What? You call this a work? But this
+is shorter than a sparrow's nose. No, we
+do not want such trifles.&rsquo; But, see, I got
+round them and paved the way for others.
+But that is nothing; they treated me much
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_79" title="79"> </a>
+worse than that! They used my name as
+a synonym for a writer of short stories.
+They would make merry: &lsquo;O, you Chekhovs!&rsquo;
+It seemed to them amusing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Anton Pavlovitch had a high opinion of
+modern writing, i.&nbsp;e., properly speaking, of
+the technique of modern writing. &ldquo;All
+write superbly now; there are no bad
+writers&rdquo;&mdash;he said in a resolute tone. &ldquo;And
+hence it is becoming more and more difficult
+to win fame. Do you know whom
+that is due to?&mdash;Maupassant. He, as an
+artist in language, put the standard before an
+author so high that it is no longer possible
+to write as of old. You try to re-read some
+of our classics, say, <ins title="Pissensky">Pissemsky</ins>, Grigorovitch,
+or Ostrovsky; try, and you will see what obsolete,
+commonplace stuff it is. Take on
+the other hand our decadents. They are
+only pretending to be sick and crazy,&mdash;they
+all are burly peasants. But so far as writing
+goes,&mdash;they are masters.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>At the same time he asked that writers
+should choose ordinary, everyday themes,
+simplicity of treatment, and absence of
+showy tricks. &ldquo;Why write,&rdquo;&mdash;he wondered&mdash;&ldquo;about
+a man getting into a submarine
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_80" title="80"> </a>
+and going to the North Pole to reconcile
+himself with the world, while his beloved
+at that moment throws herself with a hysterical
+shriek from the belfry? All this is
+untrue and does not happen in reality. One
+must write about simple things: how Peter
+Semionovitch married Marie Ivanovna.
+That is all. And again, why those subtitles:
+a psychological study, genre, nouvelle?
+All these are mere pretense. Put
+as plain a title as possible&mdash;any that occurs
+to your mind&mdash;and nothing else. Also use
+as few brackets, italics and hyphens as possible.
+They are mannerisms.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He also taught that an author should be
+indifferent to the joys and sorrows of his
+characters. &ldquo;In a good story&rdquo;&mdash;he said&mdash;&ldquo;I
+have read a description of a restaurant by
+the sea in a large city. You saw at once
+that the author was all admiration for the
+music, the electric light, the flowers in the
+buttonholes; that he himself delighted in
+contemplating them. One has to stand outside
+these things, and, although knowing
+them in minute detail, one must look at them
+from top to bottom with contempt. And
+then it will be true.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<h3><a class="pagenum" name="Page_81" title="81"> </a>VIII</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">The</span> son of Alphonse Daudet in his memoirs
+of his father relates that the gifted French
+writer half jokingly called himself a &ldquo;seller
+of happiness.&rdquo; People of all sorts would
+constantly apply to him for advice and assistance.
+They came with their sorrows and
+worries, and he, already bedridden with a
+painful and incurable disease, found sufficient
+courage, patience, and love of mankind
+in himself to penetrate into other
+people's grief, to console and encourage them.</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov, certainly, with his extraordinary
+modesty and his dislike of phrase-making,
+would never have said anything like that.
+But how often he had to listen to people's
+confessions, to help by word and deed, to
+hold out a tender and strong hand to the
+falling&hellip;. In his wonderful objectivity,
+standing above personal sorrows and joys, he
+knew and saw everything. But personal
+feeling stood in the way of his understanding.
+He could be kind and generous without
+loving; tender and sympathetic without
+attachment; a benefactor, without counting
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_82" title="82"> </a>
+on gratitude. And these traits which were
+never understood by those round him, contained
+the chief key to his personality.</p>
+
+<p>Availing myself of the permission of a
+friend of mine, I will quote a short extract
+from a Chekhov letter. The man was
+greatly alarmed and troubled during the first
+pregnancy of a much beloved wife, and, to
+tell the truth, he distressed Anton Pavlovitch
+greatly with his own trouble. Chekhov once
+wrote to him:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Tell your wife she should not be anxious,
+everything will be all right. The travail
+will last twenty hours, and then will ensue
+a most blissful state, when she will smile,
+and you will long to cry from love and gratitude.
+Twenty hours is the usual maximum
+for the first childbirth.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>What a subtle cure for another's anxiety
+is heard in these few simple lines! But
+it is still more characteristic that later, when
+my friend had become a happy father, and,
+recollecting that letter, asked Chekhov how
+he understood these feelings so well, Anton
+Pavlovitch answered quietly, even indifferently:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When I lived in the country, I always
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_83" title="83"> </a>
+had to attend peasant women. It was just
+the same&mdash;there too is the same joy.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>If Chekhov had not been such a remarkable
+writer, he would have been a great
+doctor. Physicians who sometimes invited
+him to a consultation spoke of him as an
+unusually thoughtful observer and penetrating
+in diagnosis. It would not be surprising
+if his diagnosis were more perfect and profound
+than a diagnosis given by a fashionable
+celebrity. He saw and heard in man&mdash;in
+his face, voice, and bearing&mdash;what was
+hidden and would escape the notice of an
+average observer.</p>
+
+<p>He himself preferred to recommend, in
+the rare cases when his advice was sought,
+medicines that were tried, simple, and mostly
+domestic. By the way he treated children
+with great success.</p>
+
+<p>He believed in medicine firmly and
+soundly, and nothing could shake that belief.
+I remember how cross he was once
+when some one began to talk slightingly of
+medicine, basing his remarks on Zola's novel
+&ldquo;Doctor Pascal.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&mdash;&ldquo;Zola understands nothing and invents
+it all in his study,&rdquo;&mdash;he said in agitation,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_84" title="84"> </a>
+coughing. &ldquo;Let him come and see how our
+Zemstvo doctors work and what they do
+for the people.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Every one knows how often&mdash;with what
+sympathy and love beneath an external hardness,
+he describes those superb workers, those
+obscure and inconspicuous heroes who deliberately
+doomed their names to oblivion.
+He described them, even without sparing
+them.</p>
+
+<h3>IX</h3>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">There</span> is a saying: the death of each man is
+like him. One recalls it involuntarily when
+one thinks of the last years of Chekhov's
+life, of the last days, even of the last
+minutes. Even into his funeral fate
+brought, by some fatal consistency, many
+purely Chekhovian traits.</p>
+
+<p>He struggled long, terribly long, with an
+implacable disease, but bore it with manly
+simplicity and patience, without irritation,
+without complaints, almost in silence. Only
+just before his death, he mentions his disease,
+just by the way, in his letters. &ldquo;My
+health is recovered, although I still walk
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_85" title="85"> </a>
+with a compress on.&rdquo; &hellip; &ldquo;I have just got
+through a pleurisy, but am better now.&rdquo;
+&hellip; &ldquo;My health is not grand&hellip;. I
+write on.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He did not like to talk of his disease and
+was annoyed when questioned about it.
+Only from Arseniy (the servant) one would
+learn. &ldquo;This morning he was very bad&mdash;there
+was blood,&rdquo; he would say in a whisper,
+shaking his head. Or Yevguenia Yakovlevna,
+Chekhov's mother, would say secretly
+with anguish in her voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Antosha again coughed all night. I hear
+through the wall.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Did he know the extent and meaning of
+his disease? I think he did, but intrepidly,
+like a doctor and a philosopher, he looked
+into the eyes of imminent death. There
+were various, trifling circumstances pointing
+to the fact that he knew. Thus, for instance,
+to a lady, who complained to him of
+insomnia and nervous breakdown, he said
+quietly, with an indefinable sadness:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You see; whilst a man's lungs are right,
+everything is right.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He died simply, pathetically, and fully
+conscious. They say his last words were:
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_86" title="86"> </a>
+&ldquo;Ich sterbe.&rdquo; And his last days were
+darkened by a deep sorrow for Russia, and
+by the anxiety of the monstrous Japanese
+war.</p>
+
+<p>His funeral comes back to mind like a
+dream. The cold, grayish Petersburg, a
+mistake about a telegram, a small gathering
+of people at the railway station, &ldquo;Wagon
+for oysters,&rdquo; in which his remains were
+brought from Germany, the station authorities
+who had never heard of Chekhov and
+saw in his body only a railway cargo&hellip;.
+Then, as a contrast, Moscow, profound sorrow,
+thousands of bereaved people, tear-stained
+faces. And at last his grave in the
+Novodevitchy cemetery, filled with flowers,
+side by side with the humble grave of the
+&ldquo;Cossack's widow, Olga Coocaretnikov.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I remember the service in the cemetery the
+day after his funeral. It was a still July
+evening, and the old lime trees over the
+graves stood motionless and golden in the
+sun. With a quiet, tender sadness and
+sighing sounded the women's voices. And
+in the souls of many, then, was a deep perplexity.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly and in silence the people left the
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_87" title="87"> </a>
+cemetery. I went up to Chekhov's mother
+and silently kissed her hand. And she said
+in a low, tired voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Our trial is bitter&hellip;. Antosha is
+dead.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>O, the overwhelming depth of these
+simple, ordinary, very Chekhovian words!
+The enormous abyss of the loss, the irrevocable
+nature of the great event, opened behind.
+No! Consolations would be useless.
+Can the sorrow of those, whose souls have
+been so close to the great soul of the dead,
+ever be assuaged?</p>
+
+<p>But let their unquenchable anguish be
+stayed by the consciousness that their distress
+is our common distress. Let it be
+softened by the thought of the immortality
+of his great and pure name. Indeed: there
+will pass years and centuries, and time will
+efface the very memory of thousands and
+thousands of those living now. But the
+posterity, of whose happiness Chekhov
+dreamt with such fascinating sadness, will
+speak his name with gratitude and silent
+sorrow for his fate.</p>
+
+<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_89" title="89"> </a>A.&nbsp;P. CHEKHOV<br/>
+<small>BY</small><br/>
+I.&nbsp;A. BUNIN</h2>
+
+<p class="no-indent"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_91" title="91"> </a><span class="small-caps">I made</span> Chekhov's acquaintance in Moscow,
+towards the end of '95. We met then at
+intervals and I should not think it worth
+mentioning, if I did not remember some very
+characteristic phrases.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you write much?&rdquo; he asked me once.</p>
+
+<p>I answered that I wrote little.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Bad,&rdquo; he said, almost sternly, in his low,
+deep voice. &ldquo;One must work &hellip; without
+sparing oneself &hellip; all one's life.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And, after a pause, without any visible
+connection, he added:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When one has written a story I believe
+that one ought to strike out both the beginning
+and the end. That is where we novelists
+are most inclined to lie. And one must
+write shortly&mdash;as shortly as possible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then we spoke of poetry, and he suddenly
+became excited. &ldquo;Tell me, do you care for
+Alexey Tolstoy's poems? To me he is an
+actor. When he was a boy he put on
+evening dress and he has never taken it off.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_92" title="92"> </a>After these stray meetings in which we
+touched upon some of Chekhov's favorite
+topics&mdash;as that one must work &ldquo;without
+sparing oneself&rdquo; and must write simply and
+without the shadow of falsehood&mdash;we did
+not meet till the spring of '99. I came to
+Yalta for a few days, and one evening I
+met Chekhov on the quay.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why don't you come to see me?&rdquo; were
+his first words. &ldquo;Be sure to come to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At what time?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In the morning about eight.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And seeing perhaps that I looked surprised
+he added:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We get up early. Don't you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes I do too,&rdquo; I said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well then, come when you get up. We
+will give you coffee. You take coffee?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sometimes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You ought to always. It's a wonderful
+drink. When I am working, I drink nothing
+but coffee and chicken broth until the
+evening. Coffee in the morning and chicken
+broth at midday. If I don't, my work
+suffers.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I thanked him for asking me, and we
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_93" title="93"> </a>
+crossed the quay in silence and sat down on
+a bench.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you love the sea?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;But it is too lonely.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That's what I like about it,&rdquo; I replied.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; he mused, looking through
+his spectacles away into the distance and
+thinking his own thoughts. &ldquo;It must be
+nice to be a soldier, or a young undergraduate
+&hellip; to sit in a crowd and listen to the
+band&hellip;.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And then, as was usual with him, after
+a pause and without apparent connection, he
+added:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is very difficult to describe the sea.
+Do you know the description that a school-boy
+gave in an exercise? &lsquo;The sea is vast.&rsquo;
+Only that. Wonderful, I think.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Some people might think him affected in
+saying this. But Chekhov&mdash;affected!</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I grant,&rdquo; said one who knew Chekhov
+well, &ldquo;that I have met men as sincere as
+Chekhov. But any one so simple, and so
+free from pose and affectation I have never
+known!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And that is true. He loved all that was
+sincere, vital, and gay, so long as it was
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_94" title="94"> </a>
+neither coarse nor dull, and could not endure
+pedants, or book-worms who have got
+so much into the habit of making phrases
+that they can talk in no other way. In his
+writings he scarcely ever spoke of himself
+or of his views, and this led people to think
+him a man without principles or sense of
+duty to his kind. In life, too, he was no
+egotist, and seldom spoke of his likings and
+dislikings. But both were very strong and
+lasting, and simplicity was one of the things
+he liked best. &ldquo;The sea is vast.&rdquo; &hellip; To
+him, with his passion for simplicity and his
+loathing of the strained and affected, that
+was &ldquo;wonderful.&rdquo; His words about the
+officer and the music showed another characteristic
+of his: his reserve. The transition
+from the sea to the officer was no
+doubt inspired by his secret craving for youth
+and health. The sea is lonely&hellip;. And
+Chekhov loved life and joy. During his
+last years his desire for happiness, even of
+the simplest kind, would constantly show
+itself in his conversation. It would be
+hinted at, not expressed.</p>
+
+<p>In Moscow, in the year 1895, I saw a
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_95" title="95"> </a>
+middle-aged man (Chekhov was then 35)
+wearing pince-nez, quietly dressed, rather
+tall, and light and graceful in his movements.
+He welcomed me, but so quietly
+that I, then a boy, took his quietness for
+coldness&hellip;. In Yalta, in the year 1899,
+I found him already much changed; he had
+grown thin; his face was sadder; his distinction
+was as great as ever but it was the
+distinction of an elderly man, who has gone
+through much, and been ennobled by his suffering.
+His voice was gentler&hellip;. In
+other respects he was much as he had been
+in Moscow; cordial, speaking with animation,
+but even more simply and shortly,
+and, while he talked, he went on with his
+own thoughts. He let me grasp the connections
+between his thoughts as well as I
+could, while he looked through his glasses
+at the sea, his face slightly raised. Next
+morning after meeting him on the quay I
+went to his house. I well remember the
+bright sunny morning that I spent with
+Chekhov in his garden. He was very lively,
+and laughed and read me the only poem, so
+he said, that he had ever written, &ldquo;Horses,
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_96" title="96"> </a>
+Hares and Chinamen, a fable for children.&rdquo;
+(Chekhov wrote it for the children of a
+friend. See Letters.)</p>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza">
+<div class="line">Once walked over a bridge<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">Fat Chinamen,<br/></div>
+<div class="line">In front of them, with their tails up,<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">Hares ran quickly.<br/></div>
+<div class="line">Suddenly the Chinamen shouted:<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">&ldquo;Stop! Whoa! Ho! Ho!&rdquo;<br/></div>
+<div class="line">The hares raised their tails still higher<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">And hid in the bushes.<br/></div>
+<div class="line">The moral of this fable is clear:<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">He who wants to eat hares<br/></div>
+<div class="line">Every day getting out of bed<br/></div>
+<div class="line indent2">Must obey his father.<br/></div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>After that visit I went to him more and
+more frequently. Chekhov's attitude towards
+me therefore changed. He became
+more friendly and cordial&hellip;. But he was
+still reserved, yet, as he was reserved not
+only with me but with those who were most
+intimate with him, it rose, I believed, not
+from coldness, but from something much
+more important.</p>
+
+<p>The charming white stone house, bright
+in the sun; the little orchard, planted and
+tended by Chekhov himself who loved all
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_97" title="97"> </a>
+flowers, trees, and animals; his study, with
+its few pictures, and the large window which
+looked out onto the valley of the river Utchan-Spo,
+and the blue triangle of the sea;
+the hours, days, and even months which I
+spent there, and my friendship with the man
+who fascinated me not only by his genius
+but also by his stern voice and his child-like
+smile&mdash;all this will always remain one
+of the happiest memories of my life. He
+was friendly to me and at times almost tender.
+But the reserve which I have spoken
+of never disappeared even when we were
+most intimate. He was reserved about
+everything.</p>
+
+<p>He was very humorous and loved laughter,
+but he only laughed his charming infectious
+laugh when somebody else had made
+a joke: he himself would say the most amusing
+things without the slightest smile. He
+delighted in jokes, in absurd nicknames, and
+in mystifying people&hellip;. Even towards
+the end when he felt a little better
+his humor was irrepressible. And with
+what subtle humor he would make one
+laugh! He would drop a couple of words
+and wink his eye above his glasses&hellip;.
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_98" title="98"> </a>
+His letters too, though their form is perfect,
+are full of delightful humor.</p>
+
+<p>But Chekhov's reserve was shown in a
+great many other ways which proved the
+strength of his character. No one ever
+heard him complain, though no one had
+more reason to complain. He was one of
+a large family, which lived in a state of
+actual want. He had to work for money
+under conditions which would have extinguished
+the most fiery inspiration. He
+lived in a tiny flat, writing at the edge of a
+table, in the midst of talk and noise with
+the whole family and often several visitors
+sitting round him. For many years he was
+very poor&hellip;. Yet he scarcely ever grumbled
+at his lot. It was not that he asked
+little of life: on the contrary, he hated what
+was mean and meager though he was nobly
+Spartan in the way he lived. For fifteen
+years he suffered from an exhausting illness
+which finally killed him, but his readers
+never knew it. The same could not be said
+of most writers. Indeed, the manliness with
+which he bore his sufferings and met his
+death was admirable. Even at his worst he
+almost succeeded in hiding his pain.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_99" title="99"> </a>&ldquo;You are not feeling well, Antosha?&rdquo;
+his mother or sister would say, seeing him
+sitting all day with his eyes shut.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I?&rdquo; he would answer, quietly, opening
+the eyes which looked so clear and mild
+without his glasses. &ldquo;Oh, it's nothing. I
+have a little headache.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He loved literature passionately, and to
+talk of writers and to praise Maupassant,
+Flaubert, or Tolstoy was a great joy to him.
+He spoke with particular enthusiasm of those
+just mentioned and also of Lermontov's
+&ldquo;Taman.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot understand,&rdquo; he would say,
+&ldquo;how a mere boy could have written
+Taman! Ah, if one had written that and
+a good comedy&mdash;then one would be content
+to die!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But his talk about literature was very
+different from the usual shop talked by
+writers, with its narrowness, and smallness,
+and petty personal spite. He would only
+discuss books with people who loved literature
+above all other arts and were disinterested
+and pure in their love of it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You should not read your writing to
+other people before it is published,&rdquo; he often
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_100" title="100"> </a>
+said. &ldquo;And it is most important never to
+take any one's advice. If you have made a
+mess of it, let the blood be on your own
+head. Maupassant by his greatness has so
+raised the standard of writing that it is very
+hard to write; but we have to write, especially
+we Russians, and in writing one must
+be courageous. There are big dogs and little
+dogs, but the little dogs should not be disheartened
+by the existence of the big dogs.
+All must bark&mdash;and bark with the voice
+God gave them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>All that went on in the world of letters
+interested him keenly, and he was indignant
+with the stupidity, falsehood, affectation
+and charlatanry which batten upon
+literature. But though he was angry he
+was never irritable and there was nothing
+personal in his anger. It is usual to say
+of dead writers that they rejoiced in the success
+of others, and were not jealous of them.
+If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the
+least jealousy I should be content to say
+nothing about it. But the fact is that he
+rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontaneously.
+The word &ldquo;talentless&rdquo; was, I think,
+the most damaging expression he could use.
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_101" title="101"> </a>
+His own failures and successes he took as he
+alone knew how to take them.</p>
+
+<p>He was writing for twenty-five years and
+during that time his writing was constantly
+attacked. Being one of the greatest and
+most subtle of Russian writers, he never
+used his art to preach. That being so, Russian
+critics could neither understand him
+nor approve of him. Did they not insist
+that Levitan should &ldquo;light up&rdquo; his landscapes&mdash;that
+is paint in a cow, a goose, or
+the figure of a woman? Such criticism hurt
+Chekhov a good deal, and embittered him
+even more than he was already embittered
+by Russian life itself. His bitterness
+would show itself momentarily&mdash;only momentarily.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee,
+Anton Pavlovitch!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I know your jubilees. For twenty-five
+years they do nothing but abuse and ridicule
+a man, and then you give him a pen made of
+aluminum and slobber over him for a whole
+day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>To talk of his fame and his popularity he
+would answer in the same way&mdash;with two
+or three words or a jest.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_102" title="102"> </a>&ldquo;Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?&rdquo;
+one would ask, having read an article about
+him.</p>
+
+<p>He would look slyly over his spectacles,
+ludicrously lengthen his face, and say in
+his deep voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, a thousand thanks! There is a
+whole column, and at the bottom of it,
+&lsquo;There is also a writer called Chekhov: a
+discontented man, a grumbler.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes he would add seriously:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When you find yourself criticized, remember
+us sinners. The critics boxed our
+ears for trifles just as if we were school-boys.
+One of them foretold that I should
+die in a ditch. He supposed that I had been
+expelled from school for drunkenness.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I never saw Chekhov lose his temper.
+Very seldom was he irritated, and if it did
+happen he controlled himself astonishingly.
+I remember, for instance, that he was once
+annoyed by reading in a book that he was
+&ldquo;indifferent&rdquo; to questions of morality and
+society, and that he was a pessimist. Yet his
+annoyance showed itself only in two words:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Utter idiot!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Nor did I find him cold. He said that he
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_103" title="103"> </a>
+was cold when he wrote, and that he only
+wrote when the thoughts and images that he
+was about to express were perfectly clear to
+him, and then he wrote on, steadily, without
+interruptions, until he had brought it to an
+end.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One ought only to write when one feels
+completely calm,&rdquo; he said once.</p>
+
+<p>But this calm was of a very peculiar nature.
+No other Russian writer had his sensibility
+and his complexity.</p>
+
+<p>Indeed, it would take a very versatile
+mind to throw any light upon this profound
+and complex spirit&mdash;this &ldquo;incomparable artist&rdquo;
+as Tolstoy called him. I can only bear
+witness that he was a man of rare spiritual
+nobleness, distinguished and cultivated in
+the best sense, who combined tenderness and
+delicacy with complete sincerity, kindness
+and sensitiveness with complete candour.</p>
+
+<p>To be truthful and natural and yet retain
+great charm implies a nature of rare beauty,
+integrity, and power. I speak so frequently
+of Chekhov's composure because his composure
+seems to me a proof of the strength of
+his character. It was always his, I think,
+even when he was young and in the highest
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_104" title="104"> </a>
+spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made
+him so independent, and able to begin his
+work unpretentiously and courageously,
+without paltering with his conscience.</p>
+
+<p>Do you remember the words of the old
+professor in &ldquo;The Tedious Story?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I won't say that French books are good
+and gifted and noble; but they are not so
+dull as Russian books, and the chief element
+of creative power is often to be found in
+them&mdash;the sense of personal freedom.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Chekhov had in the highest degree that
+&ldquo;sense of personal freedom&rdquo; and he could not
+bear that others should be without it. He
+would become bitter and uncompromising if
+he thought that others were taking liberties
+with it.</p>
+
+<p>That &ldquo;freedom,&rdquo; it is well known, cost
+him a great deal; but he was not one of those
+people who have two different ideals&mdash;one
+for themselves, the other for the public.
+His success was for a very long time much
+less than he deserved. But he never during
+the whole of his life made the least effort to
+increase his popularity. He was extremely
+severe upon all the wire-pulling which is now
+resorted to in order to achieve success.</p>
+
+<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_105" title="105"> </a>&ldquo;Do you still call them writers? They
+are cab-men!&rdquo; he said bitterly.</p>
+
+<p>His dislike to being made a show of at
+times seemed excessive.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The Scorpion (a publishing firm) advertise
+their books badly,&rdquo; he wrote to me after
+the publication of &ldquo;Northern Flowers.&rdquo;
+&ldquo;They put my name first, and when I read
+the advertisement in the daily <cite>Russkya Vedonosti</cite>
+I swore I would never again have
+any truck with scorpions, crocodiles, or
+snakes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>This was the winter of 1900 when Chekhov
+who had become interested in certain
+features of the new publishing firm &ldquo;Scorpion&rdquo;
+gave them at my request one of his
+youthful stories, &ldquo;On the Sea.&rdquo; They
+printed it in a volume of collected stories
+and he many times regretted it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;All this new Russian art is nonsense,&rdquo; he
+would say. &ldquo;I remember that I once saw a
+sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for &lsquo;artificial&rsquo;)
+mineral waters are sold here! Well,
+this new art is the same as that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His reserve came from the loftiness of his
+spirit and from his incessant endeavor to express
+himself exactly. It will eventually
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_106" title="106"> </a>
+happen that people will know that he was
+not only an &ldquo;incomparable artist,&rdquo; not only
+an amazing master of language but an incomparable
+man into the bargain. But it will
+take many years for people to grasp in its
+fullness his subtlety, power, and delicacy.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?&rdquo;
+he wrote to me at Nice. &ldquo;I wish you a
+happy New Year. I received your letter,
+thank you. In Moscow everything is safe,
+sound, and dull. There is no news (except
+the New Year) nor is any news expected.
+My play is not yet produced, nor do I
+know when it will be. It is possible that I
+may come to Nice in February&hellip;. Greet
+the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea.
+Enjoy yourself, be happy, don't think about
+illness, and write often to your friends&hellip;.
+Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget
+your sallow northern countrymen, who suffer
+from indigestion and bad temper.&rdquo; (8th
+January, 1904).</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet
+sea from me&rdquo; &hellip; I seldom heard him say
+that. But I often felt that he ought to say
+it, and then my heart ached sadly.</p>
+
+<p>I remember one night in early spring. It
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_107" title="107"> </a>
+was late. Suddenly the telephone rang. I
+heard Chekhov's deep voice:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us
+go for a drive.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A drive? At this time of night?&rdquo; I answered.
+&ldquo;What's the matter, Anton Pavlovitch?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am in love.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That's good. But it is past nine&hellip;.
+You will catch cold.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Young man, don't quibble!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Ten minutes later I was at Antka. The
+house, where during the winter Chekhov
+lived alone with his mother, was dark and
+silent, save that a light came through the
+key-hole of his mother's room, and two little
+candles burnt in the semi-darkness of his
+study. My heart shrank as usual at the
+sight of that quiet study, where Chekhov
+passed so many lonely winter nights, thinking
+bitterly perhaps on the fate which had
+given him so much and mocked him so
+cruelly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What a night!&rdquo; he said to me with even
+more than his usual tenderness and pensive
+gladness, meeting me in the doorway. &ldquo;It
+is so dull here! The only excitement is
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_108" title="108"> </a>
+when the telephone rings and Sophie Pavlovna
+asks what I am doing, and I answer:
+&lsquo;I am catching mice.&rsquo; Come, let us drive to
+Orianda. I don't care a hang if I do catch
+cold!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The night was warm and still, with a
+bright moon, light clouds, and a few stars in
+the deep blue sky. The carriage rolled softly
+along the white road, and, soothed by the
+stillness of the night, we sat silent looking at
+the sea glowing a dim gold&hellip;. Then
+came the forest cobwebbed over with shadows,
+but already spring-like and beautiful&hellip;.
+Black troops of giant cypresses rose
+majestically into the sky. We stopped the
+carriage and walked beneath them, past the
+ruins of the castle, which were pale blue in
+the moonlight. Chekhov suddenly said to
+me:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you know for how many years I shall
+be read? Seven.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why seven?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Seven and a half, then.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Poetry lives long, and the
+longer it lives the better it becomes&mdash;like
+wine.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He said nothing, but when we had sat
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_109" title="109"> </a>
+down on a bench from which we could see the
+sea shining in the moonlight, he took off his
+glasses and said, looking at me with his kind,
+tired eyes:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases
+as &lsquo;the silvery distance,&rsquo; &lsquo;accord,&rsquo; or &lsquo;onward,
+onward, to the fight with the powers of
+darkness&rsquo;!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch,&rdquo;
+I said, looking at his kind and beautiful face,
+pale in the moonlight.</p>
+
+<p>He was thoughtfully digging up little
+pebbles with the end of his stick, with his
+eyes on the ground. But when I said that
+he was sad, he looked across at me, humorously.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is you who are sad,&rdquo; he answered.
+&ldquo;You are sad because you have spent such a
+lot on the cab.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then he added gravely:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I shall only be read for another seven
+years; and I shall live for less&mdash;perhaps for
+six. But don't go and tell that to the newspaper
+reporters.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was wrong there: he did not live for
+six years&hellip;.</p>
+
+<p>He died peacefully without suffering in
+<a class="pagenum" name="Page_110" title="110"> </a>
+the stillness and beauty of a summer's dawn
+which he had always loved. When he was
+dead a look of happiness came upon his face,
+and it looked like the face of a very young
+man. There came to my mind the words of
+Leconte de Lisle:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry">
+<div class="stanza">
+<div class="line">Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau <ins title="calm">calme</ins> et noir<br/></div>
+<div class="line">D'être affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir<br/></div>
+<div class="line">La honte de penser et l'horreur d'être un homme!<br/></div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div id="tnote-bottom">
+<p class="center"><a name="tn-bottom"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></a></p>
+<p>The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The
+first passage is the original passage, the second the corrected one.</p>
+
+<ul id="corrections">
+<li><a href="#Page_2">Page 2</a>:<br/>
+at him or <span class="correction">humilate</span> him personally, as with<br/>
+at him or <span class="correction">humiliate</span> him personally, as with
+</li>
+<li><a href="#Page_14">Page 14</a>:<br/>
+to speak of it with <span class="correction">enthusiaism</span>, completely<br/>
+to speak of it with <span class="correction">enthusiasm</span>, completely
+</li>
+<li><a href="#Page_40">Page 40</a>:<br/>
+<span class="correction">struck!</span>&rdquo;<br/>
+<span class="correction">struck!&rsquo;</span>&rdquo;
+</li>
+<li><a href="#Page_45">Page 45</a>:<br/>
+came <span class="correction">beween</span> the eyebrows, by the bridge<br/>
+came <span class="correction">between</span> the eyebrows, by the bridge
+</li>
+<li><a href="#Page_79">Page 79</a>:<br/>
+of our classics, say, <span class="correction">Pissensky</span>, Grigorovitch,<br/>
+of our classics, say, <span class="correction">Pissemsky</span>, Grigorovitch,
+</li>
+<li><a href="#Page_110">Page 110</a>:<br/>
+Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau <span class="correction">calm</span> et noir<br/>
+Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau <span class="correction">calme</span> et noir
+</li>
+</ul>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by 
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov
+
+Author: Maxim Gorky
+        Alexander Kuprin
+        I. A. Bunin
+
+Translator: S. S. Koteliansky
+            Leonard Woolf
+
+Release Date: August 19, 2011 [EBook #37129]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  [ Transcriber's Notes:
+
+    Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
+    as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation.
+    Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made. They
+    are listed at the end of the text.
+
+    Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
+  ]
+
+
+
+
+  REMINISCENCES OF
+  ANTON CHEKHOV
+
+  BY
+  MAXIM GORKY, ALEXANDER KUPRIN
+  and I. A. BUNIN
+
+  TRANSLATED BY
+  S. S. KOTELIANSKY and LEONARD WOOLF
+
+  NEW YORK
+  B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc.
+  MCMXXI
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
+  B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc.
+
+
+  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS BY MAXIM GORKY, 1
+
+TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY BY ALEXANDER KUPRIN, 29
+
+A. P. CHEKHOV BY I. A. BUNIN, 91
+
+
+
+
+ANTON CHEKHOV
+
+FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS
+BY
+MAXIM GORKY
+
+
+Once he invited me to the village Koutchouk-Koy where he had a tiny
+strip of land and a white, two-storied house. There, while showing me
+his "estate," he began to speak with animation: "If I had plenty of
+money, I should build a sanatorium here for invalid village teachers.
+You know, I would put up a large, bright building--very bright, with
+large windows and lofty rooms. I would have a fine library, different
+musical instruments, bees, a vegetable garden, an orchard.... There
+would be lectures on agriculture, mythology.... Teachers ought to know
+everything, everything, my dear fellow."
+
+He was suddenly silent, coughed, looked at me out of the corners of his
+eyes, and smiled that tender, charming smile of his which attracted one
+so irresistibly to him and made one listen so attentively to his words.
+
+"Does it bore you to listen to my fantasies? I do love to talk of it....
+If you knew how badly the Russian village needs a nice, sensible,
+educated teacher! We ought in Russia to give the teacher particularly
+good conditions, and it ought to be done as quickly as possible. We
+ought to realize that without a wide education of the people, Russia
+will collapse, like a house built of badly baked bricks. A teacher must
+be an artist, in love with his calling; but with us he is a journeyman,
+ill educated, who goes to the village to teach children as though he
+were going into exile. He is starved, crushed, terrorized by the fear of
+losing his daily bread. But he ought to be the first man in the village;
+the peasants ought to recognize him as a power, worthy of attention and
+respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humiliate him personally,
+as with us every one does--the village constable, the rich shop-keeper,
+the priest, the rural police commissioner, the school guardian, the
+councilor, and that official who has the title of school-inspector, but
+who cares nothing for the improvement of education and only sees that
+the circulars of his chiefs are carried out.... It is ridiculous to pay
+in farthings the man who has to educate the people. It is intolerable
+that he should walk in rags, shiver with cold in damp and draughty
+schools, catch cold, and about the age of thirty get laryngitis,
+rheumatism, or tuberculosis. We ought to be ashamed of it. Our teacher,
+for eight or nine months in the year, lives like a hermit: he has no one
+to speak a word to; without company, books, or amusements, he is growing
+stupid, and, if he invites his colleagues to visit him, then he becomes
+politically suspect--a stupid word with which crafty men frighten fools.
+All this is disgusting; it is the mockery of a man who is doing a great
+and tremendously important work.... Do you know, whenever I see a
+teacher, I feel ashamed for him, for his timidity, and because he is
+badly dressed ... it seems to me that for the teacher's wretchedness I
+am myself to blame--I mean it."
+
+He was silent, thinking; and then, waving his hand, he said gently:
+"This Russia of ours is such an absurd, clumsy country."
+
+A shadow of sadness crossed his beautiful eyes; little rays of wrinkles
+surrounded them and made them look still more meditative. Then, looking
+round, he said jestingly: "You see, I have fired off at you a complete
+leading article from a radical paper. Come, I'll give you tea to reward
+your patience."
+
+That was characteristic of him, to speak so earnestly, with such warmth
+and sincerity, and then suddenly to laugh at himself and his speech. In
+that sad and gentle smile one felt the subtle skepticism of the man who
+knows the value of words and dreams; and there also flashed in the smile
+a lovable modesty and delicate sensitiveness....
+
+We walked back slowly in silence to the house. It was a clear, hot day;
+the waves sparkled under the bright rays of the sun; down below one
+heard a dog barking joyfully. Chekhov took my arm, coughed, and said
+slowly: "It is shameful and sad, but true: there are many men who envy
+the dogs."
+
+And he added immediately with a laugh: "To-day I can only make feeble
+speeches ... It means that I'm getting old."
+
+I often heard him say: "You know, a teacher has just come here--he's
+ill, married ... couldn't you do something for him? I have made
+arrangements for him for the time being." Or again: "Listen, Gorky,
+there is a teacher here who would like to meet you. He can't go out,
+he's ill. Won't you come and see him? Do." Or: "Look here, the women
+teachers want books to be sent to them."
+
+Sometimes I would find that "teacher" at his house; usually he would be
+sitting on the edge of his chair, blushing at the consciousness of his
+own awkwardness, in the sweat of his brow picking and choosing his
+words, trying to speak smoothly and "educatedly"; or, with the ease of
+manner of a person who is morbidly shy, he would concentrate himself
+upon the effort not to appear stupid in the eyes of an author, and he
+would simply belabor Anton Chekhov with a hail of questions which had
+never entered his head until that moment.
+
+Anton Chekhov would listen attentively to the dreary, incoherent speech;
+now and again a smile came into his sad eyes, a little wrinkle appeared
+on his forehead, and then, in his soft, lusterless voice, he began to
+speak simple, clear, homely words, words which somehow or other
+immediately made his questioner simple: the teacher stopped trying to be
+clever, and therefore immediately became more clever and interesting....
+
+I remember one teacher, a tall, thin man with a yellow, hungry face and
+a long, hooked nose which drooped gloomily towards his chin. He sat
+opposite Anton Chekhov and, looking fixedly into Chekhov's face with his
+black eyes, said in a melancholy bass voice:
+
+"From such impressions of existence within the space of the tutorial
+session there comes a psychical conglomeration which crushes every
+possibility of an objective attitude towards the surrounding universe.
+Of course, the universe is nothing but our presentation of it...."
+
+And he rushed headlong into philosophy, and he moved over its surface
+like a drunkard skating on ice.
+
+"Tell me," Chekhov put in quietly and kindly, "who is that teacher in
+your district who beats the children?"
+
+The teacher sprang from his chair and waved his arms indignantly: "Whom
+do you mean? Me? Never! Beating?"
+
+He snorted with indignation.
+
+"Don't get excited," Anton Chekhov went on, smiling reassuringly; "I'm
+not speaking of you. But I remember--I read it in the newspapers--there
+is some one in your district who beats the children."
+
+The teacher sat down, wiped his perspiring face, and, with a sigh of
+relief, said in his deep bass:--
+
+"It's true ... there was such a case ... it was Makarov. You know, it's
+not surprising. It's cruel, but explicable. He's married ... has four
+children ... his wife is ill ... himself consumptive ... his salary is
+20 roubles, the school like a cellar, and the teacher has but a single
+room--under such circumstances you will give a thrashing to an angel of
+God for no fault ... and the children--they're far from angels, believe
+me."
+
+And the man, who had just been mercilessly belaboring Chekhov with his
+store of clever words, suddenly, ominously wagging his hooked nose,
+began to speak simple, weighty, clear-cut words, which illuminated, like
+a fire, the terrible, accursed truth about the life of the Russian
+village.
+
+When he said good-bye to his host, the teacher took Chekhov's small, dry
+hand with its thin fingers in both his own, and, shaking it, said:--
+
+"I came to you as though I were going to the authorities, in fear and
+trembling ... I puffed myself out like a turkey-cock ... I wanted to
+show you that I was no ordinary mortal.... And now I'm leaving you as a
+nice, close friend who understands everything.... It's a great thing--to
+understand everything! Thank you! I'm taking away with me a pleasant
+thought: big men are simpler and more understandable ... and nearer in
+soul to us fellow men than all those wretches among whom we live....
+Good-bye; I will never forget you."
+
+His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a good-natured smile, and he
+added suddenly:
+
+"To tell the truth, scoundrels too are unhappy--the devil take them."
+
+When he went out, Chekhov followed him with a glance, smiled, and said:
+
+"He's a nice fellow.... He won't be a teacher long."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"They will run him down--whip him off."
+
+He thought for a bit, and added quietly:
+
+"In Russia an honest man is rather like the chimney-sweep with whom
+nurses frighten children."
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+I think that in Anton Chekhov's presence every one involuntarily felt in
+himself a desire to be simpler, more truthful, more one's self; I often
+saw how people cast off the motley finery of bookish phrases, smart
+words, and all the other cheap tricks with which a Russian, wishing to
+figure as a European, adorns himself, like a savage with shells and
+fish's teeth. Anton Chekhov disliked fish's teeth and cock's feathers;
+anything "brilliant" or foreign, assumed by a man to make himself look
+bigger, disturbed him; I noticed that, whenever he saw any one dressed
+up in this way, he had a desire to free him from all that oppressive,
+useless tinsel and to find underneath the genuine face and living soul
+of the person. All his life Chekhov lived on his own soul; he was always
+himself, inwardly free, and he never troubled about what some people
+expected and others--coarser people--demanded of Anton Chekhov. He did
+not like conversations about deep questions, conversations with which
+our dear Russians so assiduously comfort themselves, forgetting that it
+is ridiculous, and not at all amusing, to argue about velvet costumes in
+the future when in the present one has not even a decent pair of
+trousers.
+
+Beautifully simple himself, he loved everything simple, genuine,
+sincere, and he had a peculiar way of making other people simple.
+
+Once, I remember, three luxuriously dressed ladies came to see him; they
+filled his room with the rustle of silk skirts and the smell of strong
+scent; they sat down politely opposite their host, pretended that they
+were interested in politics, and began "putting questions":--
+
+"Anton Pavlovitch, what do you think? How will the war end?"
+
+Anton Pavlovitch coughed, thought for a while, and then gently, in a
+serious and kindly voice, replied:
+
+"Probably in peace."
+
+"Well, yes ... certainly. But who will win? The Greeks or the Turks?"
+
+"It seems to me that those will win who are the stronger."
+
+"And who, do you think, are the stronger?" all the ladies asked
+together.
+
+"Those who are the better fed and the better educated."
+
+"Ah, how clever," one of them exclaimed.
+
+"And whom do you like best?" another asked.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch looked at her kindly, and answered with a meek smile:
+
+"I love candied fruits ... don't you?"
+
+"Very much," the lady exclaimed gayly.
+
+"Especially Abrikossov's," the second agreed solidly. And the third,
+half closing her eyes, added with relish:
+
+"It smells so good."
+
+And all three began to talk with vivacity, revealing, on the subject of
+candied fruit, great erudition and subtle knowledge. It was obvious that
+they were happy at not having to strain their minds and pretend to be
+seriously interested in Turks and Greeks, to whom up to that moment they
+had not given a thought.
+
+When they left, they merrily promised Anton Pavlovitch:
+
+"We will send you some candied fruit."
+
+"You managed that nicely," I observed when they had gone.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch laughed quietly and said:
+
+"Every one should speak his own language."
+
+On another occasion I found at his house a young and prettyish crown
+prosecutor. He was standing in front of Chekhov, shaking his curly head,
+and speaking briskly:
+
+"In your story, 'The Conspirator,' you, Anton Pavlovitch, put before me
+a very complex case. If I admit in Denis Grigoriev a criminal and
+conscious intention, then I must, without any reservation, bundle him
+into prison, in the interests of the community. But he is a savage; he
+did not realize the criminality of his act.... I feel pity for him. But
+suppose I regard him as a man who acted without understanding, and
+suppose I yield to my feeling of pity, how can I guarantee the community
+that Denis will not again unscrew the nut in the sleepers and wreck a
+train? That's the question. What's to be done?"
+
+He stopped, threw himself back, and fixed an inquiring look on Anton
+Pavlovitch's face. His uniform was quite new, and the buttons shone as
+self-confidently and dully on his chest as did the little eyes in the
+pretty, clean, little face of the youthful enthusiast for justice.
+
+"If I were judge," said Anton Pavlovitch gravely, "I would acquit
+Denis."
+
+"On what grounds?"
+
+"I would say to him: you, Denis, have not yet ripened into the type of
+the deliberate criminal; go--and ripen."
+
+The lawyer began to laugh, but instantly again became pompously serious
+and said:
+
+"No, sir, the question put by you must be answered only in the interests
+of the community whose life and property I am called upon to protect.
+Denis is a savage, but he is also a criminal--that is the truth."
+
+"Do you like gramophones?" suddenly asked Anton Pavlovitch in his soft
+voice.
+
+"O yes, very much. An amazing invention!" the youth answered gayly.
+
+"And I can't stand gramophones," Anton Pavlovitch confessed sadly.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"They speak and sing without feeling. Everything seems like a caricature
+... dead. Do you like photography?"
+
+It appeared that the lawyer was a passionate lover of photography; he
+began at once to speak of it with enthusiasm, completely uninterested,
+as Chekhov had subtly and truly noticed, in the gramophone, despite his
+admiration for that "amazing invention." And again I observed how there
+looked out of that uniform a living and rather amusing little man, whose
+feelings towards life were still those of a puppy hunting.
+
+When Anton Pavlovitch had seen him out, he said sternly:
+
+"They are like pimples on the seat of justice--disposing of the fate of
+people."
+
+And after a short silence:
+
+"Crown prosecutors must be very fond of fishing ... especially for
+little fish."
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+He had the art of revealing everywhere and driving away banality, an art
+which is only possible to a man who demands much from life and which
+comes from a keen desire to see men simple, beautiful, harmonious.
+Banality always found in him a discerning and merciless judge.
+
+Some one told in his presence how the editor of a popular magazine, who
+was always talking of the necessity of love and pity, had, for no reason
+at all, insulted a railway guard, and how he usually acted with extreme
+rudeness towards his inferiors.
+
+"Well," said Anton Pavlovitch with a gloomy smile, "but isn't he an
+aristocrat, an educated gentleman? He studied at the seminary. His
+father wore bast shoes, and he wears patent-leather boots."
+
+And in his tone there was something which at once made the "aristocrat"
+trivial and ridiculous.
+
+"He's a very gifted man," he said of a certain journalist. "He always
+writes so nobly, humanely, ... lemonadely. Calls his wife a fool in
+public ... the servants' rooms are damp and the maids constantly get
+rheumatics."
+
+"Don't you like N. N., Anton Pavlovitch?"
+
+"Yes, I do--very much. He's a pleasant fellow," Anton Pavlovitch agrees,
+coughing. "He knows everything ... reads a lot ... he hasn't returned
+three of my books ... he's absent-minded. To-day he will tell you that
+you're a wonderful fellow, and to-morrow he will tell somebody else that
+you cheat your servants, and that you have stolen from your mistress's
+husband his silk socks ... the black ones with the blue stripes."
+
+Some one in his presence complained of the heaviness and tediousness of
+the "serious" sections in thick monthly magazines.
+
+"But you mustn't read those articles," said Anton Pavlovitch. "They are
+friends' literature--written for friends. They are written by Messrs.
+Red, Black, and White. One writes an article; the other replies to it;
+and the third reconciles the contradictions of the other two. It is like
+playing whist with a dummy. Yet none of them asks himself what good it
+is to the reader."
+
+Once a plump, healthy, handsome, well-dressed lady came to him and began
+to speak _a la Chekhov_:--
+
+"Life is so boring, Anton Pavlovitch. Everything is so gray: people, the
+sea, even the flowers seem to me gray.... And I have no desires ... my
+soul is in pain ... it is like a disease."
+
+"It is a disease," said Anton Pavlovitch with conviction, "it is a
+disease; in Latin it is called _morbus imitatis_."
+
+Fortunately the lady did not seem to know Latin, or, perhaps, she
+pretended not to know it.
+
+"Critics are like horse-flies which prevent the horse from plowing," he
+said, smiling his wise smile. "The horse works, all its muscles drawn
+tight like the strings on a doublebass, and a fly settles on his flanks
+and tickles and buzzes ... he has to twitch his skin and swish his tail.
+And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply
+because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on
+the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.' For twenty-five
+years I have read criticisms of my stories, and I don't remember a
+single remark of any value or one word of valuable advice. Only once
+Skabitchevsky wrote something which made an impression on me ... he said
+I would die in a ditch, drunk."
+
+Nearly always there was an ironical smile in his gray eyes, but at times
+they became cold, sharp, hard; at such times a harder tone sounded in
+his soft, sincere voice, and then it appeared that this modest, gentle
+man, when he found it necessary, could rouse himself vigorously against
+a hostile force and would not yield.
+
+But sometimes, I thought, there was in his attitude towards people a
+feeling of hopelessness, almost of cold, resigned despair.
+
+"A Russian is a strange creature," he said once. "He is like a sieve;
+nothing remains in him. In his youth he fills himself greedily with
+anything which he comes across, and after thirty years nothing remains
+but a kind of gray rubbish.... In order to live well and humanly one
+must work--work with love and with faith. But we, we can't do it. An
+architect, having built a couple of decent buildings, sits down to play
+cards, plays all his life, or else is to be found somewhere behind the
+scenes of some theatre. A doctor, if he has a practice, ceases to be
+interested in science, and reads nothing but _The Medical Journal_, and
+at forty seriously believes that all diseases have their origin in
+catarrh. I have never met a single civil servant who had any idea of the
+meaning of his work: usually he sits in the metropolis or the chief town
+of the province, and writes papers and sends them off to Zmiev or
+Smorgon for attention. But that those papers will deprive some one in
+Zmiev or Smorgon of freedom of movement--of that the civil servant
+thinks as little as an atheist of the tortures of hell. A lawyer who has
+made a name by a successful defense ceases to care about justice, and
+defends only the rights of property, gambles on the Turf, eats oysters,
+figures as a connoisseur of all the arts. An actor, having taken two or
+three parts tolerably, no longer troubles to learn his parts, puts on a
+silk hat, and thinks himself a genius. Russia is a land of insatiable
+and lazy people: they eat enormously of nice things, drink, like to
+sleep in the day-time, and snore in their sleep. They marry in order to
+get their house looked after and keep mistresses in order to be thought
+well of in society. Their psychology is that of a dog: when they are
+beaten, they whine shrilly and run into their kennels; when petted, they
+lie on their backs with their paws in the air and wag their tails."
+
+Pain and cold contempt sounded in these words. But, though contemptuous,
+he felt pity, and, if in his presence you abused any one, Anton
+Pavlovitch would immediately defend him.
+
+"Why do you say that? He is an old man ... he's seventy." Or: "But he's
+still so young ... it's only stupidity."
+
+And, when he spoke like that, I never saw a sign of aversion in his
+face.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+When a man is young, banality seems only amusing and unimportant, but
+little by little it possesses a man; it permeates his brain and blood
+like poison or asphyxiating fumes; he becomes like an old, rusty
+sign-board: something is painted on it, but what?--You can't make out.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch in his early stories was already able to reveal in the
+dim sea of banality its tragic humor; one has only to read his
+"humorous" stories with attention to see what a lot of cruel and
+disgusting things, behind the humorous words and situations, had been
+observed by the author with sorrow and were concealed by him.
+
+He was ingenuously shy; he would not say aloud and openly to people:
+"Now do be more decent"; he hoped in vain that they would themselves see
+how necessary it was that they should be more decent. He hated
+everything banal and foul, and he described the abominations of life in
+the noble language of a poet, with the humorist's gentle smile, and
+behind the beautiful form of his stories people scarcely noticed the
+inner meaning, full of bitter reproach.
+
+The dear public, when it reads his "Daughter of Albion," laughs and
+hardly realizes how abominable is the well-fed squire's mockery of a
+person who is lonely and strange to every one and everything. In each of
+his humorous stories I hear the quiet, deep sigh of a pure and human
+heart, the hopeless sigh of sympathy for men who do not know how to
+respect human dignity, who submit without any resistance to mere force,
+live like fish, believe in nothing but the necessity of swallowing every
+day as much thick soup as possible, and feel nothing but fear that some
+one, strong and insolent, will give them a hiding.
+
+No one understood as clearly and finely as Anton Chekhov, the tragedy of
+life's trivialities, no one before him showed men with such merciless
+truth the terrible and shameful picture of their life in the dim chaos
+of bourgeois every-day existence.
+
+His enemy was banality; he fought it all his life long; he ridiculed it,
+drawing it with a pointed and unimpassioned pen, finding the mustiness
+of banality even where at the first glance everything seemed to be
+arranged very nicely, comfortably, and even brilliantly--and banality
+revenged itself upon him by a nasty prank, for it saw that his corpse,
+the corpse of a poet, was put into a railway truck "For the Conveyance
+of Oysters."
+
+That dirty green railway truck seems to me precisely the great,
+triumphant laugh of banality over its tired enemy; and all the
+"Recollections" in the gutter press are hypocritical sorrow, behind
+which I feel the cold and smelly breath of banality, secretly rejoicing
+over the death of its enemy.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Reading Anton Chekhov's stories, one feels oneself in a melancholy day
+of late autumn, when the air is transparent and the outline of naked
+trees, narrow houses, grayish people, is sharp. Everything is strange,
+lonely, motionless, helpless. The horizon, blue and empty, melts into
+the pale sky and its breath is terribly cold upon the earth which is
+covered with frozen mud. The author's mind, like the autumn sun, shows
+up in hard outline the monotonous roads, the crooked streets, the little
+squalid houses in which tiny, miserable people are stifled by boredom
+and laziness and fill the houses with an unintelligible, drowsy bustle.
+Here anxiously, like a gray mouse, scurries "The Darling," the dear,
+meek woman who loves so slavishly and who can love so much. You can slap
+her cheek and she won't even dare to utter a sigh aloud, the meek
+slave.... And by her side is Olga of "The Three Sisters": she too loves
+much, and submits with resignation to the caprices of the dissolute,
+banal wife of her good-for-nothing brother; the life of her sisters
+crumbles before her eyes, she weeps and cannot help any one in anything,
+and she has not within her a single live, strong word of protest against
+banality.
+
+And here is the lachrymose Ranevskaya and the other owners of "The
+Cherry Orchard," egotistical like children, with the flabbiness of
+senility. They missed the right moment for dying; they whine, seeing
+nothing of what is going on around them, understanding nothing,
+parasites without the power of again taking root in life. The wretched
+little student, Trofimov, speaks eloquently of the necessity of
+working--and does nothing but amuse himself, out of sheer boredom, with
+stupid mockery of Varya who works ceaselessly for the good of the
+idlers.
+
+Vershinin dreams of how pleasant life will be in three hundred years,
+and lives without perceiving that everything around him is falling into
+ruin before his eyes; Solyony, from boredom and stupidity, is ready to
+kill the pitiable Baron Tousenbach.
+
+There passes before one a long file of men and women, slaves of their
+love, of their stupidity and idleness, of their greed for the good
+things of life; there walk the slaves of the dark fear of life; they
+straggle anxiously along, filling life with incoherent words about the
+future, feeling that in the present there is no place for them.
+
+At moments out of the gray mass of them one hears the sound of a shot:
+Ivanov or Triepliev has guessed what he ought to do, and has died.
+
+Many of them have nice dreams of how pleasant life will be in two
+hundred years, but it occurs to none of them to ask themselves who will
+make life pleasant if we only dream.
+
+In front of that dreary, gray crowd of helpless people there passed a
+great, wise, and observant man; he looked at all these dreary
+inhabitants of his country, and, with a sad smile, with a tone of gentle
+but deep reproach, with anguish in his face and in his heart, in a
+beautiful and sincere voice, he said to them:
+
+"You live badly, my friends. It is shameful to live like that."
+
+
+
+
+TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY
+BY
+ALEXANDER KUPRIN
+
+_He lived among us...._
+
+
+You remember how, in early childhood, after the long summer holidays,
+one went back to school. Everything was gray; it was like a barrack; it
+smelt of fresh paint and putty; one's school-fellows rough, the
+authorities unkind. Still one tried somehow to keep up one's courage,
+though at moments one was seized with home-sickness. One was occupied in
+greeting friends, struck by changes in faces, deafened by the noise and
+movement.
+
+But when evening comes and the bustle in the half dark dormitory ceases,
+O what an unbearable sadness, what despair possesses one's soul. One
+bites one's pillow, suppressing one's sobs, one whispers dear names and
+cries, cries with tears that burn, and knows that this sorrow is
+unquenchable. It is then that one realizes for the first time all the
+shattering horror of two things: the irrevocability of the past and the
+feeling of loneliness. It seems as if one would gladly give up all the
+rest of life, gladly suffer any tortures, for a single day of that
+bright, beautiful life which will never repeat itself. It seems as if
+one would snatch each kind, caressing word and enclose it forever in
+one's memory, as if one would drink into one's soul, slowly and
+greedily, drop by drop, every caress. And one is cruelly tormented by
+the thought that, through carelessness, in the hurry, and because time
+seemed inexhaustible, one had not made the most of each hour and moment
+that flashed by in vain.
+
+A child's sorrows are sharp, but will melt in sleep and disappear with
+the morning sun. We, grown-up people, do not feel them so passionately,
+but we remember longer and grieve more deeply. After Chekhov's funeral,
+coming back from the service in the cemetery, one great writer spoke
+words that were simple, but full of meaning:
+
+"Now we have buried him, the hopeless keenness of the loss is passing
+away. But do you realize, forever, till the end of our days, there will
+remain in us a constant, dull, sad, consciousness that Chekhov is not
+there?"
+
+And now that he is not here, one feels with peculiar pain how precious
+was each word of his, each smile, movement, glance, in which shone out
+his beautiful, elect, aristocratic soul. One is sorry that one was not
+always attentive to those special details, which sometimes more potently
+and intimately than great deeds reveal the inner man. One reproaches
+oneself that in the fluster of life one has not managed to remember--to
+write down much of what is interesting, characteristic and important.
+And at the same time one knows that these feelings are shared by all
+those who were near him, who loved him truly as a man of incomparable
+spiritual fineness and beauty; and with eternal gratitude they will
+respect his memory, as the memory of one of the most remarkable of
+Russian writers.
+
+To the love, to the tender and subtle sorrow of these men, I dedicate
+these lines.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Chekhov's cottage in Yalta stood nearly outside the town, right on the
+white and dusty Antka road. I do not know who had built it, but it was
+the most original building in Yalta. All bright, pure, light,
+beautifully-proportioned, built in no definite architectural style
+whatsoever, with a watch-tower like a castle, with unexpected gables,
+with a glass verandah on the ground and an open terrace above, with
+scattered windows--both wide and narrow--the bungalow resembled a
+building of the modern school, if there were not obvious in its plan the
+attentive and original thought, the original, peculiar taste of an
+individual. The bungalow stood in the corner of an orchard, surrounded
+by a flower-garden. Adjoining the garden, on the side opposite the road
+was an old deserted Tartar cemetery, fenced with a low little wall;
+always green, still and unpeopled, with modest stones on the graves.
+
+The flower garden was tiny, not at all luxurious, and the fruit orchard
+was still very young. There grew in it pears and crab-apples, apricots,
+peaches, almonds. During the last year the orchard began to bear fruit,
+which caused Anton Pavlovitch much worry and a touching and childish
+pleasure. When the time came to gather almonds, they were also gathered
+in Chekhov's orchard. They usually lay in a little heap in the
+window-sill of the drawing room, and it seemed as if nobody could be
+cruel enough to take them, although they were offered.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch did not like it and was even cross when people told him
+that his bungalow was too little protected from the dust, which came
+from the Antka road, and that the orchard was insufficiently supplied
+with water. Without on the whole liking the Crimea, and certainly not
+Yalta, he regarded his orchard with a special, zealous love. People saw
+him sometimes in the morning, sitting on his heels, carefully coating
+the stems of his roses with sulphur or pulling weeds from the flower
+beds. And what rejoicing there would be, when in the summer drought
+there at last began a rain that filled the spare clay cisterns with
+water!
+
+But his love was not that of a proprietor, it was something else--a
+mightier and wiser consciousness. He would often say, looking at his
+orchard with a twinkle in his eye:
+
+"Look, I have planted each tree here and certainly they are dear to me.
+But this is of no consequence. Before I came here all this was waste
+land and ravines, all covered with stones and thistles. Then I came and
+turned this wilderness into a cultivated, beautiful place. Do you
+know?"--he would suddenly add with a grave face, in a tone of profound
+belief--"do you know that in three or four hundred years all the earth
+will become a flourishing garden. And life will then be exceedingly
+light and comfortable."
+
+The thought of the beauty of the coming life, which is expressed so
+tenderly, sadly, and charmingly in all his latest works, was in his life
+also one of his most intimate, most cherished thoughts. How often must
+he have thought of the future happiness of mankind when, in the
+mornings, alone, silently, he trimmed his roses, still moist from the
+dew, or examined carefully a young sapling, wounded by the wind. And how
+much there was in that thought of meek, wise, and humble
+self-forgetfulness.
+
+No, it was not a thirst for life, a clinging to life coming from the
+insatiable human heart, neither was it a greedy curiosity as to what
+will come after one's own life, nor an envious jealousy of remote
+generations. It was the agony of an exceptionally refined, charming, and
+sensitive soul, who suffered beyond measure from banality, coarseness,
+dreariness, nothingness, violence, savagery--the whole horror and
+darkness of modern everyday existence. And that is why, when towards the
+end of his life there came to him immense fame and comparative security,
+together with the devoted love of all that was sensitive, talented and
+honest in Russian society,--that is why he did not lock himself up in
+the inaccessibility of cold greatness nor become a masterful prophet nor
+shrink into a venomous and petty hostility against the fame of others.
+No, the sum of his wide and hard experience of life, of his sorrows,
+joys, and disappointments was expressed in that beautiful, anxious,
+self-forgetting dream of the coming happiness of others.
+
+--"How beautiful life will be in three or four hundred years."
+
+And that is why he looked lovingly after his flower beds, as if he saw
+in them the symbol of beauty to come, and watched new paths being laid
+out by human intellect and knowledge. He looked with pleasure at new
+original buildings and at large, seagoing steamers; he was eagerly
+interested in every new invention and was not bored by the company of
+specialists. With firm conviction he said that crimes such as murder,
+theft, and adultery are decreasing, and have nearly disappeared among
+the intelligentsia, teachers, doctors, and authors. He believed that in
+the future true culture would ennoble mankind.
+
+Telling of Chekhov's orchard I forgot to mention that there stood in the
+middle of it swings and a wooden bench. Both these latter remained from
+"Uncle Vanya," which play the Moscow Art Theatre acted at Yalta,
+evidently with the sole purpose of showing the performance to Anton
+Pavlovitch who was ill then. Both objects were specially dear to Chekhov
+and, pointing to them, he would recollect with gratitude the attention
+paid him so kindly by the Art Theatre. It is fitting to say here that
+these fine actors, by their exceptionally subtle response to Chekhov's
+talent and their friendly devotion to himself, much sweetened his last
+days.
+
+
+II
+
+There lived in the yard a tame crane and two dogs. It must be said that
+Anton Chekhov loved all animals very much with the exception of cats,
+for whom he felt an invincible disgust. He loved dogs specially. His
+dead "Kashtanka," his "Bromide," and "Quinine," which he had in
+Melikhovo, he remembered and spoke of, as one remembers one's dead
+friends. "Fine race, dogs!"--he would say at times with a good-natured
+smile.
+
+The crane was a pompous, grave bird. He generally mistrusted people, but
+had a close friendship with Arseniy, Anton Chekhov's pious servant. He
+would run after Arseniy anywhere, in the garden, orchard or yard and
+would jump amusingly and wave his wide-open wings, performing a
+characteristic crane dance, which always made Anton Pavlovitch laugh.
+
+One dog was called "Tusik," and the other "Kashtan," in honor of the
+famous "Kashtanka." "Kashtan" was distinguished in nothing but stupidity
+and idleness. In appearance he was fat, smooth and clumsy, of a bright
+chocolate color, with senseless yellow eyes. He would bark after "Tusik"
+at strangers, but one had only to call him and he would turn on his back
+and begin servilely to crawl on the ground. Anton Pavlovitch would give
+him a little push with his stick, when he came up fawning, and would say
+with mock sternness:
+
+--"Go away, go away, fool.... Leave me alone."
+
+And would add, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with
+laughter in his eyes:
+
+--"Wouldn't you like me to give you this dog? You can't believe how
+stupid he is."
+
+But it happened once that "Kashtan," through his stupidity and
+clumsiness, got under the wheels of a cab which crushed his leg. The
+poor dog came home running on three legs, howling terribly. His hind leg
+was crippled, the flesh cut nearly to the bone, bleeding profusely.
+Anton Pavlovitch instantly washed his wound with warm water and
+sublimate, sprinkled iodoform and put on a bandage. And with what
+tenderness, how dexterously and warily his big beautiful fingers touched
+the torn skin of the dog, and with what compassionate reproof he soothed
+the howling "Kashtan":
+
+--"Ah, you silly, silly.... How did you do it? Be quiet ... you'll be
+better ... little stupid ..."
+
+I have to repeat a commonplace, but there is no doubt that animals and
+children were instinctively drawn to Chekhov. Sometimes a girl who was
+ill would come to A. P. and bring with her a little orphan girl of three
+or four, whom she was bringing up. Between the tiny child and the sad
+invalid man, the famous author, was established a peculiar, serious and
+trusting friendship. They would sit for a long time on the bench, in the
+verandah. Anton Pavlovitch listened with attention and concentration,
+and she would whisper to him without ceasing her funny words and tangle
+her little hands in his beard.
+
+Chekhov was regarded with a great and heart-felt love by all sorts of
+simple people with whom he came into contact--servants, messengers,
+porters, beggars, tramps, postmen,--and not only with love, but with
+subtle sensitiveness, with concern and with understanding. I cannot help
+telling here one story which was told me by a small official of the
+Russian Navigation and Trade Company, a downright man, reserved and
+perfectly direct in receiving and telling his impressions.
+
+It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived by
+steamer from Sebastopol at Yalta, and had not yet left the deck. It was
+that interval of chaos, of shouts and bustle which comes while the
+gangway is being put in place. At that chaotic moment the porter, a
+Tartar, who always waited on Chekhov, saw him from the distance and
+managed to climb up on the steamer sooner than any one else. He found
+Chekhov's luggage and was already on the point of carrying it down, when
+suddenly a rough and fierce-looking chief mate rushed on him. The man
+did not confine himself to obscene language, but in the access of his
+official anger, he struck the Tartar on the face.
+
+"And then an unbelievable scene took place," my friend told me--"the
+Tartar threw the luggage on the deck, beat his breast with his fists
+and, with wild eyes, was ready to fall on the chief mate, while he
+shouted in a voice which rang all over the port:"
+
+--"'What? Striking me? D'ye think you struck me? It is him--him, that
+you struck!'"
+
+"And he pointed his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, was pale,
+his lips trembled. He came up to the mate and said to him quietly and
+distinctly, but with an unusual expression: 'Are not you ashamed!'
+Believe me, by Jove, if I were that chief mate, I would rather be spat
+upon twenty times in the face than hear that 'are not you ashamed.' And
+although the mate was sufficiently thick-skinned, even he felt it. He
+bustled about for a moment, murmured something and disappeared
+instantly. No more of him was seen on deck."
+
+
+III
+
+Chekhov's study in his Yalta house was not big, about twelve strides
+long and six wide, modest, but breathing a peculiar charm. Just opposite
+the entrance was a large square window in a frame of yellow colored
+glass. To the left of the entrance, by the window, stood a writing
+table, and behind it was a small niche, lighted from the ceiling, by a
+tiny window. In the niche was a Turkish divan. To the right, in the
+middle of the wall was a brown fireplace of Dutch tiles. On the top of
+the fireplace there is a small hole where a tile is missing, and in this
+is a carelessly painted but lovely landscape of an evening field with
+hayricks in the distance; the work of Levitan. Further, in the corner,
+there is a door, through which is seen Anton Pavlovitch's bachelor
+bedroom, a bright, gay room, shining with a certain virgin cleanliness,
+whiteness and innocence. The walls of the study are covered with dark
+and gold papers, and by the writing table hangs a printed placard: "You
+are requested not to smoke." Immediately by the entrance door, to the
+right, there is a book-case with books. On the mantelpiece there are
+some bric-a-brac and among them a beautifully made model of a sailing
+ship. There are many pretty things made of ivory and wood on the writing
+table; models of elephants being in the majority. On the walls hang
+portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovitch, and Turgenev. On a little table with
+a fan-like stand are a number of photographs of actors and authors.
+Heavy dark curtains fall on both sides of the window. On the floor is a
+large carpet of oriental design. This softens all the outlines and
+darkens the study; yet the light from the window falls evenly and
+pleasantly on the writing table. The room smells of very fine scents of
+which A. Pavlovitch was very fond. From the window is seen an open
+horseshoe-shaped hollow, running down to the sea, and the sea itself,
+surrounded by an amphitheatre of houses. On the left, on the right, and
+behind, rise mountains in a semi-circle. In the evenings, when the
+lights are lit in the hilly environs of Yalta and the lights and the
+stars over them are so mixed that you cannot distinguish one from the
+other,--then the place reminds one of certain spots in the Caucasus.
+
+This is what always happens--you get to know a man; you have studied his
+appearance, bearing, voice and manners, and still you can always recall
+his face as it was when you saw it for the first time, completely
+different from the present. Thus, after several years of friendship with
+Anton Pavlovitch, there is preserved in my memory the Chekhov, whom I
+saw for the first time in the public room of the hotel "London" in
+Odessa. He seemed to me then tall, lean, but broad in the shoulders,
+with a somewhat stern look. Signs of illness were not then noticeable,
+unless in his walk--weak, and as if on somewhat bent knees. If I were
+asked what he was like at first sight, I should say: "A Zemstvo doctor
+or a teacher of a provincial secondary school." But there was also in
+him something plain and modest, something extraordinarily Russian--of
+the people. In his face, speech and manners there was also a touch of
+the Moscow undergraduate's carelessness. Many people saw that in him,
+and I among them. But a few hours later I saw a completely different
+Chekhov--the Chekhov, whose face could never be caught by any
+photograph, who, unfortunately, was not understood by any painter who
+drew him. I saw the most beautiful, refined and spiritual face that I
+have ever come across in my life.
+
+Many said that Chekhov had blue eyes. It is a mistake, but a mistake
+strangely common to all who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown,
+and the iris of his right eye was considerably brighter, which gave
+A. P.'s look, at certain moments, an expression of absent-mindedness.
+His eyelids hung rather heavy upon his eyes, as is so often observed in
+artists, hunters and sailors, and all those who concentrate their gaze.
+Owing to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of
+his glasses, with his head somewhat tilted upwards, Anton Pavlovitch's
+face often seemed stern. But one ought to have seen Chekhov at certain
+moments (rare, alas, during the last years) when gayety possessed him,
+and when with a quick movement of the hand, he threw off his glasses and
+swung his chair and burst into gay, sincere and deep laughter. Then his
+eyes became narrow and bright, with good-natured little wrinkles at the
+corners, and he reminded one then of that youthful portrait in which he
+is seen as a beardless boy, smiling, short-sighted and naive, looking
+rather sideways. And--strange though it is--each time that I look at
+that photograph, I cannot rid myself of the thought that Chekhov's eyes
+were really blue.
+
+Looking at Chekhov one noticed his forehead, which was wide, white and
+pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
+eyebrows, by the bridge of the nose, two vertical melancholy folds.
+Chekhov's ears were large and not shapely, but such sensible,
+intelligent ears I have seen only in one other man--Tolstoy.
+
+Once in the summer, availing myself of A. P.'s good humor, I took
+several photographs of him with a little camera. Unfortunately the best
+of them and those most like him turned out very pale, owing to the weak
+light of the study. Of the others, which were more successful, A. P.
+said as he looked at them:
+
+"Well, you know, it is not me but some Frenchman."
+
+I remember now very vividly the grip of his large, dry and hot hand,--a
+grip, always strong and manly but at the same time reserved, as if it
+were consciously concealing something. I also visualize now his
+handwriting: thin, with extremely fine strokes, careless at first sight
+and inelegant, but, when you look closer, it appears very distinct,
+tender, fine and characteristic, as everything else about him.
+
+
+IV
+
+A. P. used to get up, in the summer at least, very early. None even of
+his most intimate friends saw him carelessly dressed, nor did he approve
+of lazy habits, like wearing slippers, dressing gowns or light jackets.
+At eight or nine he was already pacing his study or at his writing
+table, invariably impeccably and neatly dressed.
+
+Evidently, his best time for work was in the morning before lunch,
+although nobody ever managed to find him writing: in this respect he was
+extraordinarily reserved and shy. All the same, on nice warm mornings he
+could be seen sitting on a slope behind the house, in the cosiest part
+of the place, where oleanders stood in tubs along the walls, and where
+he had planted a cypress. There he sat sometimes for an hour or longer,
+alone, without stirring, with his hands on his knees, looking in front
+of him at the sea.
+
+About midday and later visitors began to fill the house. Girls stood for
+hours at the iron railings, separating the bungalow from the road, with
+open mouths, in white felt hats. The most diverse people came to
+Chekhov: scholars, authors, Zemstvo workers, doctors, military,
+painters, admirers of both sexes, professors, society men and women,
+senators, priests, actors--and God knows who else. Often he was asked to
+give advice or help and still more often to give his opinion upon
+manuscripts. Casual newspaper reporters and people who were merely
+inquisitive would appear; also people who came to him with the sole
+purpose of "directing the big, but erring talent to the proper, ideal
+side." Beggars came--genuine and sham. These never met with a refusal. I
+do not think it right, myself, to mention private cases, but I know for
+certain that Chekhov's generosity towards students of both sexes, was
+immeasurably beyond what his modest means would allow.
+
+People came to him from all strata of society, of all camps, of all
+shades. Notwithstanding the worry of so continuous a stream of visitors,
+there was something attractive in it to Chekhov. He got first-hand
+knowledge of everything that was going on at any given moment in Russia.
+How mistaken were those who wrote or supposed that he was a man
+indifferent to public interests, to the whirling life of the
+intelligentsia, and to the burning questions of his time! He watched
+everything carefully, and thoughtfully. He was tormented and distressed
+by all the things which tormented the minds of the best Russians. One
+had only to see how in those terrible times, when the absurd, dark, evil
+phenomena of our public life were discussed in his presence, he knitted
+his thick eyebrows, and how martyred his face looked, and what a deep
+sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.
+
+It is fitting to mention here one fact which, in my opinion, superbly
+illustrates Chekhov's attitude to the stupidities of Russian life. Many
+know that he resigned the rank of an honorary member of the Academy; the
+motives of his resignation are known; but very few have read his letter
+to the Academy,--a splendid letter, written with a simple and noble
+dignity, and the restrained indignation of a great soul.
+
+    To the August President of the Academy
+    25 August, 1902
+    Yalta.
+
+    _Your Imperial Highness_,
+    August President!
+
+    In December of last year I received a notice of the election of
+    A. M. Pyeshkov (Maxim Gorky) as an honorary academician, and I took
+    the first opportunity of seeing A. M. Pyeshkov, who was then in
+    Crimea. I was the first to bring him news of his election and I was
+    the first to congratulate him. Some time later, it was announced in
+    the newspapers that, in view of proceedings according to Art. 1035
+    being instituted against Pyeshkov for his political views, his
+    election was cancelled. It was expressly stated that this act came
+    from the Academy of Sciences; and since I am an honorary
+    academician, I also am partly responsible for this act. I have
+    congratulated him heartily on becoming an academician and I consider
+    his election cancelled--such a contradiction does not agree with my
+    conscience, I cannot reconcile my conscience to it. The study of
+    Art. 1035 has explained nothing to me. And after long deliberation I
+    can only come to one decision, which is extremely painful and
+    regrettable to me, and that is to ask most respectfully to be
+    relieved of the rank of honorary academician. With a feeling of
+    deepest respect I have the honor to remain
+
+    Your most devoted
+    Anton Chekhov.
+
+Queer--to what an extent people misunderstood Chekhov! He, the
+"incorrigible pessimist," as he was labelled,--never tired of hoping for
+a bright future, never ceased to believe in the invisible but persistent
+and fruitful work of the best forces of our country. Which of his
+friends does not remember the favorite phrase, which he so often,
+sometimes so incongruously and unexpectedly, uttered in a tone of
+assurance:
+
+--"Look here, don't you see? There is sure to be a constitution in
+Russia in ten years time."
+
+Yes, even in that there sounds the _motif_ of the joyous future which is
+awaiting mankind; the _motif_ that was audible in all the work of his
+last years.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The truth must be told: by no means all visitors spared A. P.'s time and
+nerves, and some of them were quite merciless. I remember one striking,
+and almost incredible instance of the banality and indelicacy which
+could be displayed by a man of the so-called artistic power.
+
+It was a pleasant, cool and windless summer morning. A. P. was in an
+unusually light and cheerful mood. Suddenly there appeared as from the
+blue a stout gentleman (who subsequently turned out to be an architect),
+who sent his card to Chekhov and asked for an interview. A. P. received
+him. The architect came in, introduced himself, and, without taking any
+notice of the placard "You are requested not to smoke," without asking
+any permission, lit a huge stinking Riga cigar. Then, after paying, as
+was inevitable, a few stone-heavy compliments to his host, he began on
+the business which brought him here.
+
+The business consisted in the fact that the architect's little son, a
+school boy of the third form, was running in the streets the other day
+and from a habit peculiar to boys, whilst running, touched with his hand
+anything he came across: lamp-posts, or posts or fences. At last he
+managed to push his hand into a barbed wire fence and thus scratched his
+palm. "You see now, my worthy A. P.,"--the architect concluded his tale,
+"I shall very much like you to write a letter about it in the
+newspapers. It is lucky that Kolya (his boy) got off with a scratch, but
+it's only a chance. He might have cut an artery--what would have
+happened then?" "Yes, it's a nuisance," Chekhov answered, "but,
+unfortunately, I cannot be of any use to you. I do not write, nor have
+ever written, letters in the newspapers. I only write stories." "So much
+the better, so much the better! Put it in a story"--the architect was
+delighted. "Just put the name of the landlord in full letters. You may
+even put my own name, I do not object to it.... Still ... it would be
+best if you only put my initials, not the full name.... There are only
+two genuine authors left in Russia, you and Mr. P." (and the architect
+gave the name of a notorious literary tailor).
+
+I am not able to repeat even a hundredth part of the boring commonplaces
+which the injured architect managed to speak, since he made the
+interview last until he finished the cigar to the end, and the study had
+to be aired for a long time to get rid of the smell. But when at last he
+left, A. P. came out into the garden completely upset with red spots on
+his cheeks. His voice trembled, when he turned reproachfully to his
+sister Marie and to a friend who sat on the bench:
+
+"Could you not shield me from that man? You should have sent word that I
+was needed somewhere. He has tortured me!"
+
+I also remember,--and this I am sorry to say was partly my fault--how a
+certain self-assured general came to him to express his appreciation as
+a reader, and, probably, desiring to give Chekhov pleasure, he began,
+with his legs spread open and the fists of his turned-out hand leaning
+on them, to vilify a young author, whose great popularity was then only
+beginning to grow. And Chekhov, at once, shrank into himself, and sat
+all the time with his eyes cast down, coldly, without saying a single
+word. And only from the quick reproachful look, which he cast at my
+friend, who had introduced that general, did he show what pain he
+caused.
+
+Just as shyly and coldly he regarded praises lavished on him. He would
+retire into his niche, on the divan, his eyelids trembled, slowly fell
+and were not again raised, and his face became motionless and gloomy.
+Sometimes, when immoderate raptures came from some one he knew, he would
+try to turn the conversation into a joke, and give it a different
+direction. He would suddenly say, without rhyme or reason, with a light
+little laugh:
+
+--"I like reading what the Odessa reporters write about me."
+
+"What is that?"
+
+"It is very funny--all lies. Last spring one of them appeared in my
+hotel. He asked for an interview. And I had no time for it. So I said:
+'Excuse me but I am busy now. But write whatever you like; it is of no
+consequence to me.' Well, he did write. It drove me into a fever."
+
+And once with a most serious face he said:
+
+--"You know, in Yalta every cabman knows me. They say: 'O, Chekhov, that
+man, the reader? I know him.' For some reason they call me reader.
+Perhaps they think that I read psalm-services for the dead? You, old
+fellow, ought to ask a cabman what my occupation is...."
+
+
+V
+
+At one o'clock Chekhov dined downstairs, in a cool bright dining-room,
+and there was nearly always a guest at dinner. It was difficult not to
+yield to the fascination of that simple, kind, cordial family. One felt
+constant solicitude and love, not expressed with a single high-sounding
+word,--an amazing amount of refinement and attention, which never, as if
+on purpose, got beyond the limits of ordinary, everyday relations. One
+always noticed a truly Chekhovian fear of everything high-flown,
+insincere, or showy. In that family one felt very much at one's ease,
+light and warm, and I perfectly understand a certain author who said
+that he was in love with all the Chekhovs at the same time.
+
+Anton Pavlovitch ate exceedingly little and did not like to sit at
+table, but usually passed from the window to the door and back. Often
+after dinner, staying behind with some one in the dining-room, Yevguenia
+Yakovlevna (A. P.'s mother) said quietly with anxiety in her voice:
+
+"Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner."
+
+He was very hospitable and loved it when people stayed to dinner, and he
+knew how to treat guests in his own peculiar way, simply and heartily.
+He would say, standing behind one's chair:
+
+--"Listen, have some vodka. When I was young and healthy I loved it. I
+would pick mushrooms for a whole morning, get tired out, hardly able to
+reach home, and before lunch I would have two or three thimblefuls.
+Wonderful!..."
+
+After dinner he had tea upstairs, on the open verandah, or in his study,
+or he would come down into the garden and sit there on the bench, in his
+overcoat, with a cane, pushing his soft black hat down to his very eyes
+and looking out under its brim with screwed up eyes.
+
+These hours were the most crowded. There were constant rings on the
+telephone, asking if Anton Chekhov could be seen; and perpetual
+visitors. Strangers also came, sending in their cards and asking for
+help, for autographs or books. Then queer things happened.
+
+One "Tambov squire," as Chekhov christened him, came to him for medical
+advice. In vain did Anton Pavlovitch answer him, that he had given up
+medical practice long ago and that he was behind the times in medicine.
+In vain did he recommend a more experienced physician,--the "Tambov
+squire" persisted: no doctor would he trust but Chekhov. Willy-nilly he
+had to give a few trifling, perfectly innocent pieces of advice. On
+taking leave the "Tambov squire" put on the table two gold coins and, in
+spite of all Chekhov's persuasion, he would not agree to take them back.
+Anton Pavlovitch had to give way. He said that as he neither wished nor
+considered himself entitled to take money as a fee, he would give it to
+the Yalta Charitable Society, and at once wrote a receipt. It turned out
+that it was that the "Tambov squire" wanted. With a radiant face, he
+carefully put the receipt in his pocket-book, and then confessed that
+the sole purpose of his visit was to obtain Chekhov's autograph. Chekhov
+himself told me the story of this original and persistent
+patient--half-laughing, half-cross.
+
+I repeat, many of these visitors plagued him fearfully and even
+irritated him, but, owing to the amazing delicacy peculiar to him, he
+was with all patient, attentive and accessible to those who wished to
+see him. His delicacy at times reached a limit that bordered on
+weakness. Thus, for instance, one nice, well-meaning lady, a great
+admirer of Chekhov, gave him for a birthday present a huge pug-dog in a
+sitting position, made of colored plaster of Paris, over a yard high,
+i. e., about five times larger than its natural size. That pug-dog was
+placed downstairs, on the landing near the dining room, and there he sat
+with an angry face chewing his teeth and frightening those who had
+forgotten him.
+
+--"O, I'm afraid of that stone dog myself," Chekhov confessed, "but it
+is awkward to move him; it might hurt her. Let him stay on here."
+
+And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter, he added unexpectedly, in his
+usual manner:
+
+"Have you noticed in the houses of rich Jews, such plaster dogs often
+sit by the fireplace?"
+
+At times, for days on end, he would be annoyed with every sort of
+admirer and detractor and even adviser. "O, I have such a mass of
+visitors,"--he complained in a letter,--"that my head swims. I cannot
+work." But still he did not remain indifferent to a sincere feeling of
+love and respect and always distinguished it from idle and fulsome
+tittle-tattle. Once he returned in a very gay mood from the quay where
+he sometimes took a walk, and with great animation told us:
+
+--"I just had a wonderful meeting. An artillery officer suddenly came up
+to me on the quay, quite a young man, a sub-lieutenant.--'Are you A. P.
+Chekhov?'--'Yes. Do you want anything?'--'Excuse me please for my
+importunity, but for so long I have wanted to shake your hand!' And he
+blushed--he was a wonderful fellow with a fine face. We shook hands and
+parted."
+
+Chekhov was at his best towards evening, about seven o'clock, when
+people gathered in the dining room for tea and a light supper.
+Sometimes--but more and more rarely as the years went on--there revived
+in him the old Chekhov, inexhaustibly gay, witty, with a bubbling,
+charming, youthful humor. Then he improvised stories in which the
+characters were his friends, and he was particularly fond of arranging
+imaginary weddings, which sometimes ended with the young husband the
+following morning, sitting at the table and having his tea, saying as it
+were by the way in an unconcerned and businesslike tone:
+
+--"Do you know, my dear, after tea we'll get ready and go to a
+solicitor's. Why should you have unnecessary bother about your money?"
+
+He invented wonderful Chekhovian names, of which I now--alas!--remember
+only a certain mythical sailor Koshkodovenko-cat-slayer. He also liked
+as a joke to make young writers appear old. "What are you saying--Bunin
+is my age"--he would assure one with mock seriousness. "So is Teleshov:
+he is an old writer. Well, ask him yourself: he will tell you what a
+spree we had at T. A. Bieloussov's wedding. What a long time ago!" To a
+talented novelist, a serious writer and a man of ideas, he said: "Look
+here, you're twenty years my senior: surely you wrote previously under
+the nom-de-plume 'Nestor Kukolnik.'"
+
+But his jokes never left any bitterness any more than he consciously
+ever caused the slightest pain to any living thing.
+
+After dinner he would keep some one in his study for half an hour or an
+hour. On his table candles would be lit. Later, when all had gone and he
+remained alone, a light would still be seen in his large window for a
+long time. Whether he worked at that time, or looked through his
+note-books, putting down the impressions of the day nobody seems to
+know.
+
+
+VI
+
+It is true, on the whole, that we know nearly nothing, not only of his
+creative activities, but even of the external methods of his work. In
+this respect Anton Pavlovitch was almost eccentric in his reserve and
+silence. I remember him saying, as if by the way, something very
+significant:
+
+--"For God's sake don't read your work to any one until it is published.
+Don't read it to others in proof even."
+
+This was always his own habit, although he sometimes made exceptions for
+his wife and sister. Formerly he is said to have been more communicative
+in this respect.
+
+That was when he wrote a great deal and at great speed. He himself said
+that he used to write a story a day. E. T. Chekhov, his mother, used to
+say: "When he was still an undergraduate, Antosha would sit at the table
+in the morning, having his tea and suddenly fall to thinking; he would
+sometimes look straight into one's eyes, but I knew that he saw nothing.
+Then he would get his note-book out of his pocket and write quickly,
+quickly. And again he would fall to thinking...."
+
+But during the last years Chekhov began to treat himself with ever
+increasing strictness and exactitude: he kept his stories for several
+years, continually correcting and copying them, and nevertheless in
+spite of such minute work, the final proofs, which came from him, were
+speckled throughout with signs, corrections, and insertions. In order to
+finish a work he had to write without tearing himself away. "If I leave
+a story for a long time,"--he once said--"I cannot make myself finish it
+afterwards. I have to begin again."
+
+Where did he draw his images from? Where did he find his observations
+and his similes? Where did he forge his superb language, unique in
+Russian literature? He confided in nobody, never revealed his creative
+methods. Many note-books are said to have been left by him; perhaps in
+them will in time be found the keys to those mysteries. Or perhaps they
+will forever remain unsolved. Who knows? At any rate we must limit
+ourselves to vague hints and guesses.
+
+I think that always, from morning to night, and perhaps at night even,
+in his sleep and sleeplessness, there was going on in him an invisible
+but persistent--at times even unconscious--activity, the activity of
+weighing, defining and remembering. He knew how to listen and ask
+questions, as no one else did; but often, in the middle of a lively
+conversation, it would be noticed, how his attentive and kindly look
+became motionless and deep, as if it were withdrawing somewhere inside,
+contemplating something mysterious and important, which was going on
+there. At those moments A. P. would put his strange questions, amazing
+through their unexpectedness, completely out of touch with the
+conversation, questions which confused many people. The conversation was
+about neo-marxists, and he would suddenly ask: "Have you ever been to a
+stud-farm? You ought to see one. It is interesting." Or he would repeat
+a question for the second time, which had already been answered.
+
+Chekhov was not remarkable for a memory of external things. I speak of
+that power of minute memory, which women so often possess in a very high
+degree, also peasants, which consists in remembering, how a person was
+dressed, whether he has a beard and mustaches, what his watch chain was
+like or his boots, what color his hair was. These details were simply
+unimportant and uninteresting to him. But, instead, he took the whole
+person and defined quickly and truly, exactly like an experienced
+chemist, his specific gravity, his quality and order, and he knew
+already how to describe his essential qualities in a couple of strokes.
+
+Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeasure of a good friend of his, a
+famous scholar, who, in spite of a long-standing friendship, somewhat
+oppressed Chekhov with his talkativeness. No sooner would he arrive in
+Yalta, than he at once came to Chekhov and sat there with him all the
+morning till lunch. Then he would go to his hotel for half an hour, and
+come back and sit until late at night, all the time talking, talking,
+talking.... And so on day after day.
+
+Suddenly, abruptly breaking off his story, as if carried away by a new
+interesting thought, Anton Pavlovitch added with animation:
+
+--"And nobody would guess what is most characteristic in that man. I
+know it. That he is a professor and a savant with a European reputation,
+is to him a secondary matter. The chief thing is that in his heart he
+considers himself to be a remarkable actor, and he profoundly believes
+that it is only by chance that he has not won universal popularity on
+the stage. At home he always reads Ostrovsky aloud."
+
+Once, smiling at his recollection, he suddenly observed:
+
+--"D'you know, Moscow is the most peculiar city. In it everything is
+unexpected. Once on a spring morning S., the publicist, and myself came
+out of the Great Moscow Hotel. It was after a late and merry supper.
+Suddenly S. dragged me to the Tversky Church, just opposite. He took a
+handful of coppers and began to share it out to the beggars--there are
+dozens standing about there. He would give one a penny and whisper:
+'Pray for the health of Michael the slave of God.' It is his Christian
+name Michael. And again: 'for the servant of God, Michael; for Michael,
+the servant of God.' And he himself does not believe in God.... Queer
+fellow!" ...
+
+I now approach a delicate point which may not perhaps please every one.
+I am convinced that Chekhov talked to a scholar and a peddler, a beggar
+and a litterateur, with a prominent Zemstvo worker and a suspicious monk
+or shop assistant or a small postman, with the same attention and
+curiosity. Is not that the reason why in his stories the professor
+speaks and thinks just like an old professor, and the tramp just like a
+veritable tramp? And is it not because of this, that immediately after
+his death there appeared so many "bosom" friends, for whom, in their
+words, he would be ready to go through fire and water?
+
+I think that he did not open or give his heart completely to any one
+(there is a legend, though, of an intimate, beloved friend, a Taganrog
+official). But he regarded all kindly, indifferently so far as
+friendship is concerned--and at the same time with a great, perhaps
+unconscious, interest.
+
+His Chekhovian _mots_ and those little _traits_ that astonish us by
+their neatness and appositeness, he often took direct from life. The
+expression "it displeasures me" which quickly became, after the
+"Bishop," a bye-word with a wide circulation, he got from a certain
+gloomy tramp, half-drunkard, half-madman, half-prophet. I also remember
+talking once with Chekhov of a long dead Moscow poet, and Chekhov
+glowingly remembered him, and his mistress, and his empty rooms, and his
+St. Bernard, "Ami," who suffered from constant indigestion. "Certainly,
+I remember,"--Chekhov said laughing gayly--"At five o'clock his mistress
+would always come in and ask: 'Liodor Tranitch, I say, Liodor Tranitch,
+is it not time you drank your beer?'" And then I imprudently said: "O,
+that's where it comes from in your 'Ward N 6'?"--"Yes, well,
+yes"--replied Chekhov with displeasure.
+
+He had friends also among those merchants' wives, who, in spite of their
+millions and the most fashionable dresses, and an outward interest in
+literature, say "ideal" and "in principal." Some of them would for hours
+pour out their souls before Chekhov, wishing to convey what
+extraordinarily refined, neurotic characters they were, and what a
+remarkable novel could be written by a writer of genius about their
+lives, if only they could tell everything. And he would sit quietly, in
+silence, and listen with apparent pleasure--only under his moustache
+glided an almost imperceptible smile.
+
+I do not wish to say that he _looked_ for models, like many other
+writers. But I think, that everywhere and always he saw material for
+observation, and this happened involuntarily, often perhaps against his
+will, through his long-cultivated and ineradicable habit of diving into
+people, of analyzing and generalizing them. In this hidden process was
+to him, probably, all the torment and joy of his creative activity.
+
+He shared his impressions with no one, just as he never spoke of what
+and how he was going to write. Also very rarely was the artist and
+novelist shown in his talk. He, partly deliberately, partly
+instinctively, used in his speech ordinary, average, common expressions,
+without having recourse either to simile or picturesqueness. He guarded
+his treasures in his soul, not permitting them to be wasted in wordy
+foam, and in this there was a huge difference between him and those
+novelists who tell their stories much better than they write them.
+
+This, I think, came from a natural reserve, but also from a peculiar
+shyness. There are people who constitutionally cannot endure and are
+morbidly shy of too demonstrative attitudes, gestures and words, and
+Anton Pavlovitch possessed this quality in the highest degree. Herein,
+maybe, is hidden the key to his _seeming_ indifference towards question
+of struggle and protest and his aloofness towards topical events, which
+did and do agitate the Russian intelligentsia. He had a horror of
+pathos, of vehement emotions and the theatrical effects inseparable from
+them. I can only compare him in this with a man who loves a woman with
+all the ardor, tenderness and depth, of which a man of refinement and
+great intelligence is capable. He will never try to speak of it in
+pompous, high-flown words, and he cannot even imagine himself falling on
+his knees and pressing his hand to his heart and speaking in the
+tremulous voice of a young lover on the stage. And therefore he loves
+and is silent, and suffers in silence, and will never attempt to utter
+what the average man will express freely and noisily according to all
+the rules of rhetoric.
+
+
+VII
+
+To young writers, Chekhov was always sympathetic and kind. No one left
+him oppressed by his enormous talent and by one's own insignificance. He
+never said to any one: "Do as I do; see how I behave." If in despair one
+complained to him: "Is it worth going on, if one will forever remain
+'our young and promising author'?" he answered quietly and seriously:
+
+--"But, my dear fellow, not every one can write like Tolstoy." His
+considerateness was at times pathetic. A certain young writer came to
+Yalta and took a little room in a big and noisy Greek family somewhere
+beyond Antka, on the outskirts of the city. He once complained to
+Chekhov that it was difficult to work in such surroundings, and Chekhov
+insisted that the writer should come to him in the mornings and work
+downstairs in the room adjoining the dining room. "You will write
+downstairs, and I upstairs"--he said with his charming smile--"And you
+will have dinner with me. When you finish something, do read it to me,
+or, if you go away, send me the proofs."
+
+He read an amazing amount and always remembered everything, and never
+confused one writer with another. If writers asked his opinion, he
+always praised their work, not so as to get rid of them, but because he
+knew how cruelly a sharp, even if just, criticism cuts the wings of
+beginners, and what an encouragement and hope a little praise gives
+sometimes. "I have read your story. It is marvelously well done," he
+would say on such occasions in a hearty voice. But when a certain
+confidence was established and they got to know each other, especially
+if an author insisted, he gave his opinion more definitely, directly,
+and at greater length. I have two letters of his, written to one and the
+same novelist, concerning one and the same tale. Here is a quotation
+from the first:
+
+"Dear N., I received your tale and have read it; many thanks. The tale
+is good, I have read it at one go, as I did the previous one, and with
+the same pleasure...."
+
+But as the author was not satisfied with praise alone, he soon received
+a second letter from Anton Pavlovitch.
+
+"You want me to speak of defects only, and thereby you put me in an
+embarrassing situation. There are no defects in that story, and if one
+finds fault, it is only with a few of its peculiarities. For instance,
+your heroes, characters, you treat in the old style, as they have been
+treated for a hundred years by all who have written about them--nothing
+new. Secondly, in the first chapter you are busy describing people's
+faces--again that is the old way, it is a description which can be
+dispensed with. Five minutely described faces tire the attention, and in
+the end lose their value. Clean-shaved characters are like each other,
+like Catholic priests, and remain alike, however studiously you describe
+them. Thirdly, you overdo your rough manner in the description of
+drunken people. That is all I can say in reply to your question about
+the defects; I can find nothing more that is wrong."
+
+To those writers with whom he had any common spiritual bond, he always
+behaved with great care and attention. He never missed an occasion to
+tell them any news which he knew would be pleasing or useful.
+
+"Dear N.," he wrote to a certain friend of mine,--"I hereby inform you
+that your story was read by L. N. Tolstoy and he liked it _very much_.
+Be so good as to send him your book at this address; Koreiz, Tauric
+Province, and on the title page underline the stories which you consider
+best, so that he should begin with them. Or send the book to me and I
+will hand it to him."
+
+To the writer of these lines he also once showed a delightful kindness,
+communicating by letter that, "in the 'Dictionary of the Russian
+Language,' published by the Academy of Sciences, in the sixth number of
+the second volume, which number I received to-day, you too appeared at
+last."
+
+All these of course are details, but in them is apparent much sympathy
+and concern, so that now, when this great artist and remarkable man is
+no longer among us, his letters acquire the significance of a far-away,
+irrevocable caress.
+
+"Write, write as much as possible"--he would say to young novelists. "It
+does not matter if it does not come off. Later on it will come off. The
+chief thing is, do not waste your youth and elasticity. It's now the
+time for working. See, you write superbly, but your vocabulary is small.
+You must acquire words and turns of speech, and for this you must write
+every day."
+
+And he himself worked untiringly on himself, enriching his charming,
+varied vocabulary from every source: from conversations, dictionaries,
+catalogues, from learned works, from sacred writings. The store of words
+which that silent man had was extraordinary.
+
+--"Listen, travel third class as often as possible"--he advised--"I am
+sorry that illness prevents me from traveling third. There you will
+sometimes hear remarkably interesting things."
+
+He also wondered at those authors who for years on end see nothing but
+the next door house from the windows of their Petersburg flats. And
+often he said with a shade of impatience:
+
+--"I cannot understand why you--young, healthy, and free--don't go, for
+instance, to Australia (Australia for some reason was his favorite part
+of the world), or to Siberia. As soon as I am better, I shall certainly
+go to Siberia. I was there when I went to Saghalien. You cannot imagine,
+my dear fellow, what a wonderful country it is. It is quite different.
+You know, I am convinced Siberia will some day sever herself completely
+from Russia, just as America severed herself from her motherland. You
+must, must go there without fail...."
+
+"Why don't you write a play?"--he would sometimes ask. "Do write one,
+really. Every writer must write at least four plays."
+
+But he would confess now and then, that the dramatic form is losing its
+interest now.
+
+"The drama must either degenerate completely, or take a completely new
+form"--he said. "We cannot even imagine what the theatre will be like in
+a hundred years."
+
+There were some little inconsistencies in Anton Pavlovitch which were
+particularly attractive in him and had at the same time a deep inner
+significance. This was once the case with regard to note-books. Chekhov
+had just strongly advised us not to have recourse to them for help but
+to rely wholly on our memory and imagination. "The big things will
+remain"--he argued--"and the details you can always invent or find." But
+then, an hour later, one of the company, who had been for a year on the
+stage, began to talk of his theatrical impressions and incidentally
+mentioned this case. A rehearsal was taking place in the theatre of a
+tiny provincial town. The "young lover" paced the stage in a hat and
+check trousers, with his hands in his pockets, showing off before a
+casual public which had straggled into the theatre. The "ingenue," his
+mistress, who was also on the stage, said to him: "Sasha, what was it
+you whistled yesterday from _Pagliacci_? Do please whistle it again."
+The "young lover" turned to her, and looking her up and down with a
+devastating expression said in a fat, actor's voice: "Wha-at! Whistle on
+the stage? Would you whistle in church? Then know that the stage is the
+same as a church!"
+
+At the end of that story Anton Pavlovitch threw off his pince-nez, flung
+himself back in his chair, and began to laugh with his clear, ringing
+laughter. He immediately opened the drawer of his table to get his
+note-book. "Wait, wait, how did you say it? The stage is a temple?" ...
+And he put down the whole anecdote.
+
+There was no essential contradiction in this, and Anton Pavlovitch
+explained it himself. "One should not put down similes, characteristic
+_traits_, details, scenes from nature--this must come of itself when it
+is needed. But a bare fact, a rare name, a technical term, should be put
+down in the note-book--otherwise it may be forgotten and lost."
+
+Chekhov frequently recalled the difficulties put in his way by the
+editors of serious magazines, until with the helping hand of "Sieverny
+Viestnik" he finally overcame them.
+
+"For one thing you all ought to be grateful to me,"--he would say to
+young writers.--"It was I who opened the way for writers of short
+stories. Formerly, when one took a manuscript to an editor, he did not
+even read it. He just looked scornfully at one. 'What? You call this a
+work? But this is shorter than a sparrow's nose. No, we do not want such
+trifles.' But, see, I got round them and paved the way for others. But
+that is nothing; they treated me much worse than that! They used my name
+as a synonym for a writer of short stories. They would make merry: 'O,
+you Chekhovs!' It seemed to them amusing."
+
+Anton Pavlovitch had a high opinion of modern writing, i. e., properly
+speaking, of the technique of modern writing. "All write superbly now;
+there are no bad writers"--he said in a resolute tone. "And hence it is
+becoming more and more difficult to win fame. Do you know whom that is
+due to?--Maupassant. He, as an artist in language, put the standard
+before an author so high that it is no longer possible to write as of
+old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissemsky,
+Grigorovitch, or Ostrovsky; try, and you will see what obsolete,
+commonplace stuff it is. Take on the other hand our decadents. They are
+only pretending to be sick and crazy,--they all are burly peasants. But
+so far as writing goes,--they are masters."
+
+At the same time he asked that writers should choose ordinary, everyday
+themes, simplicity of treatment, and absence of showy tricks. "Why
+write,"--he wondered--"about a man getting into a submarine and going to
+the North Pole to reconcile himself with the world, while his beloved at
+that moment throws herself with a hysterical shriek from the belfry? All
+this is untrue and does not happen in reality. One must write about
+simple things: how Peter Semionovitch married Marie Ivanovna. That is
+all. And again, why those subtitles: a psychological study, genre,
+nouvelle? All these are mere pretense. Put as plain a title as
+possible--any that occurs to your mind--and nothing else. Also use as
+few brackets, italics and hyphens as possible. They are mannerisms."
+
+He also taught that an author should be indifferent to the joys and
+sorrows of his characters. "In a good story"--he said--"I have read a
+description of a restaurant by the sea in a large city. You saw at once
+that the author was all admiration for the music, the electric light,
+the flowers in the buttonholes; that he himself delighted in
+contemplating them. One has to stand outside these things, and, although
+knowing them in minute detail, one must look at them from top to bottom
+with contempt. And then it will be true."
+
+
+VIII
+
+The son of Alphonse Daudet in his memoirs of his father relates that the
+gifted French writer half jokingly called himself a "seller of
+happiness." People of all sorts would constantly apply to him for advice
+and assistance. They came with their sorrows and worries, and he,
+already bedridden with a painful and incurable disease, found sufficient
+courage, patience, and love of mankind in himself to penetrate into
+other people's grief, to console and encourage them.
+
+Chekhov, certainly, with his extraordinary modesty and his dislike of
+phrase-making, would never have said anything like that. But how often
+he had to listen to people's confessions, to help by word and deed, to
+hold out a tender and strong hand to the falling.... In his wonderful
+objectivity, standing above personal sorrows and joys, he knew and saw
+everything. But personal feeling stood in the way of his understanding.
+He could be kind and generous without loving; tender and sympathetic
+without attachment; a benefactor, without counting on gratitude. And
+these traits which were never understood by those round him, contained
+the chief key to his personality.
+
+Availing myself of the permission of a friend of mine, I will quote a
+short extract from a Chekhov letter. The man was greatly alarmed and
+troubled during the first pregnancy of a much beloved wife, and, to tell
+the truth, he distressed Anton Pavlovitch greatly with his own trouble.
+Chekhov once wrote to him:
+
+"Tell your wife she should not be anxious, everything will be all right.
+The travail will last twenty hours, and then will ensue a most blissful
+state, when she will smile, and you will long to cry from love and
+gratitude. Twenty hours is the usual maximum for the first childbirth."
+
+What a subtle cure for another's anxiety is heard in these few simple
+lines! But it is still more characteristic that later, when my friend
+had become a happy father, and, recollecting that letter, asked Chekhov
+how he understood these feelings so well, Anton Pavlovitch answered
+quietly, even indifferently:
+
+"When I lived in the country, I always had to attend peasant women. It
+was just the same--there too is the same joy."
+
+If Chekhov had not been such a remarkable writer, he would have been a
+great doctor. Physicians who sometimes invited him to a consultation
+spoke of him as an unusually thoughtful observer and penetrating in
+diagnosis. It would not be surprising if his diagnosis were more perfect
+and profound than a diagnosis given by a fashionable celebrity. He saw
+and heard in man--in his face, voice, and bearing--what was hidden and
+would escape the notice of an average observer.
+
+He himself preferred to recommend, in the rare cases when his advice was
+sought, medicines that were tried, simple, and mostly domestic. By the
+way he treated children with great success.
+
+He believed in medicine firmly and soundly, and nothing could shake that
+belief. I remember how cross he was once when some one began to talk
+slightingly of medicine, basing his remarks on Zola's novel "Doctor
+Pascal."
+
+--"Zola understands nothing and invents it all in his study,"--he said
+in agitation, coughing. "Let him come and see how our Zemstvo doctors
+work and what they do for the people."
+
+Every one knows how often--with what sympathy and love beneath an
+external hardness, he describes those superb workers, those obscure and
+inconspicuous heroes who deliberately doomed their names to oblivion. He
+described them, even without sparing them.
+
+
+IX
+
+There is a saying: the death of each man is like him. One recalls it
+involuntarily when one thinks of the last years of Chekhov's life, of
+the last days, even of the last minutes. Even into his funeral fate
+brought, by some fatal consistency, many purely Chekhovian traits.
+
+He struggled long, terribly long, with an implacable disease, but bore
+it with manly simplicity and patience, without irritation, without
+complaints, almost in silence. Only just before his death, he mentions
+his disease, just by the way, in his letters. "My health is recovered,
+although I still walk with a compress on." ... "I have just got through
+a pleurisy, but am better now." ... "My health is not grand.... I write
+on."
+
+He did not like to talk of his disease and was annoyed when questioned
+about it. Only from Arseniy (the servant) one would learn. "This morning
+he was very bad--there was blood," he would say in a whisper, shaking
+his head. Or Yevguenia Yakovlevna, Chekhov's mother, would say secretly
+with anguish in her voice:
+
+"Antosha again coughed all night. I hear through the wall."
+
+Did he know the extent and meaning of his disease? I think he did, but
+intrepidly, like a doctor and a philosopher, he looked into the eyes of
+imminent death. There were various, trifling circumstances pointing to
+the fact that he knew. Thus, for instance, to a lady, who complained to
+him of insomnia and nervous breakdown, he said quietly, with an
+indefinable sadness:
+
+"You see; whilst a man's lungs are right, everything is right."
+
+He died simply, pathetically, and fully conscious. They say his last
+words were: "Ich sterbe." And his last days were darkened by a deep
+sorrow for Russia, and by the anxiety of the monstrous Japanese war.
+
+His funeral comes back to mind like a dream. The cold, grayish
+Petersburg, a mistake about a telegram, a small gathering of people at
+the railway station, "Wagon for oysters," in which his remains were
+brought from Germany, the station authorities who had never heard of
+Chekhov and saw in his body only a railway cargo.... Then, as a
+contrast, Moscow, profound sorrow, thousands of bereaved people,
+tear-stained faces. And at last his grave in the Novodevitchy cemetery,
+filled with flowers, side by side with the humble grave of the
+"Cossack's widow, Olga Coocaretnikov."
+
+I remember the service in the cemetery the day after his funeral. It was
+a still July evening, and the old lime trees over the graves stood
+motionless and golden in the sun. With a quiet, tender sadness and
+sighing sounded the women's voices. And in the souls of many, then, was
+a deep perplexity.
+
+Slowly and in silence the people left the cemetery. I went up to
+Chekhov's mother and silently kissed her hand. And she said in a low,
+tired voice:
+
+"Our trial is bitter.... Antosha is dead."
+
+O, the overwhelming depth of these simple, ordinary, very Chekhovian
+words! The enormous abyss of the loss, the irrevocable nature of the
+great event, opened behind. No! Consolations would be useless. Can the
+sorrow of those, whose souls have been so close to the great soul of the
+dead, ever be assuaged?
+
+But let their unquenchable anguish be stayed by the consciousness that
+their distress is our common distress. Let it be softened by the thought
+of the immortality of his great and pure name. Indeed: there will pass
+years and centuries, and time will efface the very memory of thousands
+and thousands of those living now. But the posterity, of whose happiness
+Chekhov dreamt with such fascinating sadness, will speak his name with
+gratitude and silent sorrow for his fate.
+
+
+
+
+A. P. CHEKHOV
+BY
+I. A. BUNIN
+
+
+I made Chekhov's acquaintance in Moscow, towards the end of '95. We met
+then at intervals and I should not think it worth mentioning, if I did
+not remember some very characteristic phrases.
+
+"Do you write much?" he asked me once.
+
+I answered that I wrote little.
+
+"Bad," he said, almost sternly, in his low, deep voice. "One must work
+... without sparing oneself ... all one's life."
+
+And, after a pause, without any visible connection, he added:
+
+"When one has written a story I believe that one ought to strike out
+both the beginning and the end. That is where we novelists are most
+inclined to lie. And one must write shortly--as shortly as possible."
+
+Then we spoke of poetry, and he suddenly became excited. "Tell me, do
+you care for Alexey Tolstoy's poems? To me he is an actor. When he was a
+boy he put on evening dress and he has never taken it off."
+
+After these stray meetings in which we touched upon some of Chekhov's
+favorite topics--as that one must work "without sparing oneself" and
+must write simply and without the shadow of falsehood--we did not meet
+till the spring of '99. I came to Yalta for a few days, and one evening
+I met Chekhov on the quay.
+
+"Why don't you come to see me?" were his first words. "Be sure to come
+to-morrow."
+
+"At what time?" I asked.
+
+"In the morning about eight."
+
+And seeing perhaps that I looked surprised he added:
+
+"We get up early. Don't you?"
+
+"Yes I do too," I said.
+
+"Well then, come when you get up. We will give you coffee. You take
+coffee?"
+
+"Sometimes."
+
+"You ought to always. It's a wonderful drink. When I am working, I drink
+nothing but coffee and chicken broth until the evening. Coffee in the
+morning and chicken broth at midday. If I don't, my work suffers."
+
+I thanked him for asking me, and we crossed the quay in silence and sat
+down on a bench.
+
+"Do you love the sea?" I asked.
+
+"Yes," he replied. "But it is too lonely."
+
+"That's what I like about it," I replied.
+
+"I wonder," he mused, looking through his spectacles away into the
+distance and thinking his own thoughts. "It must be nice to be a
+soldier, or a young undergraduate ... to sit in a crowd and listen to
+the band...."
+
+And then, as was usual with him, after a pause and without apparent
+connection, he added:
+
+"It is very difficult to describe the sea. Do you know the description
+that a school-boy gave in an exercise? 'The sea is vast.' Only that.
+Wonderful, I think."
+
+Some people might think him affected in saying this. But
+Chekhov--affected!
+
+"I grant," said one who knew Chekhov well, "that I have met men as
+sincere as Chekhov. But any one so simple, and so free from pose and
+affectation I have never known!"
+
+And that is true. He loved all that was sincere, vital, and gay, so long
+as it was neither coarse nor dull, and could not endure pedants, or
+book-worms who have got so much into the habit of making phrases that
+they can talk in no other way. In his writings he scarcely ever spoke of
+himself or of his views, and this led people to think him a man without
+principles or sense of duty to his kind. In life, too, he was no
+egotist, and seldom spoke of his likings and dislikings. But both were
+very strong and lasting, and simplicity was one of the things he liked
+best. "The sea is vast." ... To him, with his passion for simplicity and
+his loathing of the strained and affected, that was "wonderful." His
+words about the officer and the music showed another characteristic of
+his: his reserve. The transition from the sea to the officer was no
+doubt inspired by his secret craving for youth and health. The sea is
+lonely.... And Chekhov loved life and joy. During his last years his
+desire for happiness, even of the simplest kind, would constantly show
+itself in his conversation. It would be hinted at, not expressed.
+
+In Moscow, in the year 1895, I saw a middle-aged man (Chekhov was then
+35) wearing pince-nez, quietly dressed, rather tall, and light and
+graceful in his movements. He welcomed me, but so quietly that I, then a
+boy, took his quietness for coldness.... In Yalta, in the year 1899, I
+found him already much changed; he had grown thin; his face was sadder;
+his distinction was as great as ever but it was the distinction of an
+elderly man, who has gone through much, and been ennobled by his
+suffering. His voice was gentler.... In other respects he was much as he
+had been in Moscow; cordial, speaking with animation, but even more
+simply and shortly, and, while he talked, he went on with his own
+thoughts. He let me grasp the connections between his thoughts as well
+as I could, while he looked through his glasses at the sea, his face
+slightly raised. Next morning after meeting him on the quay I went to
+his house. I well remember the bright sunny morning that I spent with
+Chekhov in his garden. He was very lively, and laughed and read me the
+only poem, so he said, that he had ever written, "Horses, Hares and
+Chinamen, a fable for children." (Chekhov wrote it for the children of a
+friend. See Letters.)
+
+    Once walked over a bridge
+      Fat Chinamen,
+    In front of them, with their tails up,
+      Hares ran quickly.
+    Suddenly the Chinamen shouted:
+      "Stop! Whoa! Ho! Ho!"
+    The hares raised their tails still higher
+      And hid in the bushes.
+    The moral of this fable is clear:
+      He who wants to eat hares
+    Every day getting out of bed
+      Must obey his father.
+
+After that visit I went to him more and more frequently. Chekhov's
+attitude towards me therefore changed. He became more friendly and
+cordial.... But he was still reserved, yet, as he was reserved not only
+with me but with those who were most intimate with him, it rose, I
+believed, not from coldness, but from something much more important.
+
+The charming white stone house, bright in the sun; the little orchard,
+planted and tended by Chekhov himself who loved all flowers, trees, and
+animals; his study, with its few pictures, and the large window which
+looked out onto the valley of the river Utchan-Spo, and the blue
+triangle of the sea; the hours, days, and even months which I spent
+there, and my friendship with the man who fascinated me not only by his
+genius but also by his stern voice and his child-like smile--all this
+will always remain one of the happiest memories of my life. He was
+friendly to me and at times almost tender. But the reserve which I have
+spoken of never disappeared even when we were most intimate. He was
+reserved about everything.
+
+He was very humorous and loved laughter, but he only laughed his
+charming infectious laugh when somebody else had made a joke: he himself
+would say the most amusing things without the slightest smile. He
+delighted in jokes, in absurd nicknames, and in mystifying people....
+Even towards the end when he felt a little better his humor was
+irrepressible. And with what subtle humor he would make one laugh! He
+would drop a couple of words and wink his eye above his glasses.... His
+letters too, though their form is perfect, are full of delightful humor.
+
+But Chekhov's reserve was shown in a great many other ways which proved
+the strength of his character. No one ever heard him complain, though no
+one had more reason to complain. He was one of a large family, which
+lived in a state of actual want. He had to work for money under
+conditions which would have extinguished the most fiery inspiration. He
+lived in a tiny flat, writing at the edge of a table, in the midst of
+talk and noise with the whole family and often several visitors sitting
+round him. For many years he was very poor.... Yet he scarcely ever
+grumbled at his lot. It was not that he asked little of life: on the
+contrary, he hated what was mean and meager though he was nobly Spartan
+in the way he lived. For fifteen years he suffered from an exhausting
+illness which finally killed him, but his readers never knew it. The
+same could not be said of most writers. Indeed, the manliness with which
+he bore his sufferings and met his death was admirable. Even at his
+worst he almost succeeded in hiding his pain.
+
+"You are not feeling well, Antosha?" his mother or sister would say,
+seeing him sitting all day with his eyes shut.
+
+"I?" he would answer, quietly, opening the eyes which looked so clear
+and mild without his glasses. "Oh, it's nothing. I have a little
+headache."
+
+He loved literature passionately, and to talk of writers and to praise
+Maupassant, Flaubert, or Tolstoy was a great joy to him. He spoke with
+particular enthusiasm of those just mentioned and also of Lermontov's
+"Taman."
+
+"I cannot understand," he would say, "how a mere boy could have written
+Taman! Ah, if one had written that and a good comedy--then one would be
+content to die!"
+
+But his talk about literature was very different from the usual shop
+talked by writers, with its narrowness, and smallness, and petty
+personal spite. He would only discuss books with people who loved
+literature above all other arts and were disinterested and pure in their
+love of it.
+
+"You should not read your writing to other people before it is
+published," he often said. "And it is most important never to take any
+one's advice. If you have made a mess of it, let the blood be on your
+own head. Maupassant by his greatness has so raised the standard of
+writing that it is very hard to write; but we have to write, especially
+we Russians, and in writing one must be courageous. There are big dogs
+and little dogs, but the little dogs should not be disheartened by the
+existence of the big dogs. All must bark--and bark with the voice God
+gave them."
+
+All that went on in the world of letters interested him keenly, and he
+was indignant with the stupidity, falsehood, affectation and charlatanry
+which batten upon literature. But though he was angry he was never
+irritable and there was nothing personal in his anger. It is usual to
+say of dead writers that they rejoiced in the success of others, and
+were not jealous of them. If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the
+least jealousy I should be content to say nothing about it. But the fact
+is that he rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontaneously. The word
+"talentless" was, I think, the most damaging expression he could use.
+His own failures and successes he took as he alone knew how to take
+them.
+
+He was writing for twenty-five years and during that time his writing
+was constantly attacked. Being one of the greatest and most subtle of
+Russian writers, he never used his art to preach. That being so, Russian
+critics could neither understand him nor approve of him. Did they not
+insist that Levitan should "light up" his landscapes--that is paint in a
+cow, a goose, or the figure of a woman? Such criticism hurt Chekhov a
+good deal, and embittered him even more than he was already embittered
+by Russian life itself. His bitterness would show itself
+momentarily--only momentarily.
+
+"We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee, Anton Pavlovitch!"
+
+"I know your jubilees. For twenty-five years they do nothing but abuse
+and ridicule a man, and then you give him a pen made of aluminum and
+slobber over him for a whole day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!"
+
+To talk of his fame and his popularity he would answer in the same
+way--with two or three words or a jest.
+
+"Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?" one would ask, having read an
+article about him.
+
+He would look slyly over his spectacles, ludicrously lengthen his face,
+and say in his deep voice:
+
+"Oh, a thousand thanks! There is a whole column, and at the bottom of
+it, 'There is also a writer called Chekhov: a discontented man, a
+grumbler.'"
+
+Sometimes he would add seriously:
+
+"When you find yourself criticized, remember us sinners. The critics
+boxed our ears for trifles just as if we were school-boys. One of them
+foretold that I should die in a ditch. He supposed that I had been
+expelled from school for drunkenness."
+
+I never saw Chekhov lose his temper. Very seldom was he irritated, and
+if it did happen he controlled himself astonishingly. I remember, for
+instance, that he was once annoyed by reading in a book that he was
+"indifferent" to questions of morality and society, and that he was a
+pessimist. Yet his annoyance showed itself only in two words:
+
+"Utter idiot!"
+
+Nor did I find him cold. He said that he was cold when he wrote, and
+that he only wrote when the thoughts and images that he was about to
+express were perfectly clear to him, and then he wrote on, steadily,
+without interruptions, until he had brought it to an end.
+
+"One ought only to write when one feels completely calm," he said once.
+
+But this calm was of a very peculiar nature. No other Russian writer had
+his sensibility and his complexity.
+
+Indeed, it would take a very versatile mind to throw any light upon this
+profound and complex spirit--this "incomparable artist" as Tolstoy
+called him. I can only bear witness that he was a man of rare spiritual
+nobleness, distinguished and cultivated in the best sense, who combined
+tenderness and delicacy with complete sincerity, kindness and
+sensitiveness with complete candour.
+
+To be truthful and natural and yet retain great charm implies a nature
+of rare beauty, integrity, and power. I speak so frequently of Chekhov's
+composure because his composure seems to me a proof of the strength of
+his character. It was always his, I think, even when he was young and in
+the highest spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made him so
+independent, and able to begin his work unpretentiously and
+courageously, without paltering with his conscience.
+
+Do you remember the words of the old professor in "The Tedious Story?"
+
+"I won't say that French books are good and gifted and noble; but they
+are not so dull as Russian books, and the chief element of creative
+power is often to be found in them--the sense of personal freedom."
+
+Chekhov had in the highest degree that "sense of personal freedom" and
+he could not bear that others should be without it. He would become
+bitter and uncompromising if he thought that others were taking
+liberties with it.
+
+That "freedom," it is well known, cost him a great deal; but he was not
+one of those people who have two different ideals--one for themselves,
+the other for the public. His success was for a very long time much less
+than he deserved. But he never during the whole of his life made the
+least effort to increase his popularity. He was extremely severe upon
+all the wire-pulling which is now resorted to in order to achieve
+success.
+
+"Do you still call them writers? They are cab-men!" he said bitterly.
+
+His dislike to being made a show of at times seemed excessive.
+
+"The Scorpion (a publishing firm) advertise their books badly," he wrote
+to me after the publication of "Northern Flowers." "They put my name
+first, and when I read the advertisement in the daily _Russkya
+Vedonosti_ I swore I would never again have any truck with scorpions,
+crocodiles, or snakes."
+
+This was the winter of 1900 when Chekhov who had become interested in
+certain features of the new publishing firm "Scorpion" gave them at my
+request one of his youthful stories, "On the Sea." They printed it in a
+volume of collected stories and he many times regretted it.
+
+"All this new Russian art is nonsense," he would say. "I remember that I
+once saw a sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for 'artificial') mineral
+waters are sold here! Well, this new art is the same as that."
+
+His reserve came from the loftiness of his spirit and from his incessant
+endeavor to express himself exactly. It will eventually happen that
+people will know that he was not only an "incomparable artist," not only
+an amazing master of language but an incomparable man into the bargain.
+But it will take many years for people to grasp in its fullness his
+subtlety, power, and delicacy.
+
+"How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?" he wrote to me at Nice. "I wish
+you a happy New Year. I received your letter, thank you. In Moscow
+everything is safe, sound, and dull. There is no news (except the New
+Year) nor is any news expected. My play is not yet produced, nor do I
+know when it will be. It is possible that I may come to Nice in
+February.... Greet the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea. Enjoy
+yourself, be happy, don't think about illness, and write often to your
+friends.... Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget your sallow
+northern countrymen, who suffer from indigestion and bad temper." (8th
+January, 1904).
+
+"Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet sea from me" ... I seldom heard
+him say that. But I often felt that he ought to say it, and then my
+heart ached sadly.
+
+I remember one night in early spring. It was late. Suddenly the
+telephone rang. I heard Chekhov's deep voice:
+
+"Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us go for a drive."
+
+"A drive? At this time of night?" I answered. "What's the matter, Anton
+Pavlovitch?"
+
+"I am in love."
+
+"That's good. But it is past nine.... You will catch cold."
+
+"Young man, don't quibble!"
+
+Ten minutes later I was at Antka. The house, where during the winter
+Chekhov lived alone with his mother, was dark and silent, save that a
+light came through the key-hole of his mother's room, and two little
+candles burnt in the semi-darkness of his study. My heart shrank as
+usual at the sight of that quiet study, where Chekhov passed so many
+lonely winter nights, thinking bitterly perhaps on the fate which had
+given him so much and mocked him so cruelly.
+
+"What a night!" he said to me with even more than his usual tenderness
+and pensive gladness, meeting me in the doorway. "It is so dull here!
+The only excitement is when the telephone rings and Sophie Pavlovna asks
+what I am doing, and I answer: 'I am catching mice.' Come, let us drive
+to Orianda. I don't care a hang if I do catch cold!"
+
+The night was warm and still, with a bright moon, light clouds, and a
+few stars in the deep blue sky. The carriage rolled softly along the
+white road, and, soothed by the stillness of the night, we sat silent
+looking at the sea glowing a dim gold.... Then came the forest cobwebbed
+over with shadows, but already spring-like and beautiful.... Black
+troops of giant cypresses rose majestically into the sky. We stopped the
+carriage and walked beneath them, past the ruins of the castle, which
+were pale blue in the moonlight. Chekhov suddenly said to me:
+
+"Do you know for how many years I shall be read? Seven."
+
+"Why seven?" I asked.
+
+"Seven and a half, then."
+
+"No," I said. "Poetry lives long, and the longer it lives the better it
+becomes--like wine."
+
+He said nothing, but when we had sat down on a bench from which we could
+see the sea shining in the moonlight, he took off his glasses and said,
+looking at me with his kind, tired eyes:
+
+"Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases as 'the silvery distance,'
+'accord,' or 'onward, onward, to the fight with the powers of
+darkness'!"
+
+"You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch," I said, looking at his kind
+and beautiful face, pale in the moonlight.
+
+He was thoughtfully digging up little pebbles with the end of his stick,
+with his eyes on the ground. But when I said that he was sad, he looked
+across at me, humorously.
+
+"It is you who are sad," he answered. "You are sad because you have
+spent such a lot on the cab."
+
+Then he added gravely:
+
+"Yes, I shall only be read for another seven years; and I shall live for
+less--perhaps for six. But don't go and tell that to the newspaper
+reporters."
+
+He was wrong there: he did not live for six years....
+
+He died peacefully without suffering in the stillness and beauty of a
+summer's dawn which he had always loved. When he was dead a look of
+happiness came upon his face, and it looked like the face of a very
+young man. There came to my mind the words of Leconte de Lisle:
+
+    Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
+    D'etre affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
+    La honte de penser et l'horreur d'etre un homme!
+
+
+
+
+  [ Transcriber's Note:
+
+    The following is a list of corrections made to the original.
+    The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.
+
+  respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humilate him personally,
+  respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humiliate him personally,
+
+  began at once to speak of it with enthusiaism, completely uninterested,
+  began at once to speak of it with enthusiasm, completely uninterested,
+
+  you struck!"
+  you struck!'"
+
+  pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came beween the
+  pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
+
+  old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissensky,
+  old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissemsky,
+
+  Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calm et noir
+  Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
+
+  ]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov, by
+Maxim Gorky and Alexander Kuprin and I. A. Bunin
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV ***
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