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Bunin—A Project Gutenberg eBook</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/title-page.jpg"/> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- +p +{ + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.5em; +} + +p.center, +p.right, +p.no-indent, +#tnote p, +#tnote-bottom p +{ + text-indent: 0; +} + +p.hanging-indent +{ + padding-left: 1.5em; + text-indent: -1.5em; +} + +h1, h2, h3 +{ + text-align: center; + clear: both; + margin-top: 0; + font-weight: normal; +} + +h1 +{ + font-size: x-large; + line-height: 1.2em; + margin: 4em auto 1em auto; +} + +h2 +{ + margin: 6em auto 1.5em auto; + line-height: 1.4em; +} + +h2 small +{ + font-size: 70%; +} + +h3 +{ + margin-top: 1.5em; +} + +a:link, +a:visited +{ + text-decoration: none; +} + +ins +{ + text-decoration: none; + border-bottom: 1px dashed #add8e6; +} + +hr.thought-break +{ + visibility: hidden; + margin: 1.5em auto; +} + +.small-caps +{ + font-variant: small-caps; +} + +.all-upper +{ + font-size: smaller; +} + +.italic +{ + font-style: italic; +} + +.center +{ + text-align: center; +} + +p.right +{ + text-align: right; + margin-right: 1.5em; +} + +.figcenter +{ + margin: 3em auto; + text-align: center; +} + +a[title].pagenum +{ + position: absolute; + right: 3%; +} + +a[title].pagenum:after +{ + content: attr(title); + border: 1px solid silver; + display: inline; + font-size: x-small; + text-align: right; + color: #808080; + background-color: inherit; + font-style: normal; + padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; + font-variant: normal; + font-weight: normal; + text-decoration: none; + text-indent: 0; + letter-spacing: 0; +} + +.poetry +{ + text-align: left; + margin-left: 1.5em; +} + +.poetry .stanza +{ + margin: 1em 0; +} + +.poetry .line +{ + margin: 0; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poetry .indent2 +{ + margin-left: 1em; +} + +#tnote, +#tnote-bottom +{ + max-width: 90%; + border: 1px dashed #808080; + background-color: #fafafa; + text-align: justify; + padding: 0 0.75em; + margin: 120px auto 120px auto; +} + +#corrections +{ + list-style-type: none; + margin: 0; + padding: 0; +} + +#corrections li +{ + margin: 0.5em 0.25em; +} + +#corrections .correction +{ + text-decoration: underline; +} + +@page +{ + margin: 0.25em; +} + +@media screen +{ + body + { + width: 80%; + max-width: 40em; + margin: auto; + } + + p + { + margin: 0.75em auto; + } + + #tnote, + #tnote-bottom + { + max-width: 26em; + } + + .page-break + { + margin-top: 8em; + } +} + +@media print, handheld +{ + p + { + margin: 0; + } + + #tnote, + #tnote-bottom + { + background-color: white; + border: none; + width: 100%; + } + + #tnote p, + #tnote-bottom p + { + margin: 0.25em 0; + } + + #tnote .screen, + .pagenum + { + display: none; + } + + a:link, + a:visited + { + color: black; + } + + #tnote, + #tnote-bottom, + h1, + h2, + .page-break + { + page-break-before: always; + } + + #tnote-bottom + { + page-break-after: always; + } +} + +@media handheld +{ + body + { + margin: 0; + padding: 0; + width: 95%; + } + + #corrections li + { + margin: 0; + } +} +--> +</style> +<!--[if lt IE 8]> +<style type="text/css"> +a[title].pagenum +{ + position: static; +} +</style> +<![endif]--> +</head> +<body> + + +<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. A. BUNIN</big></p> + +<p class="center" style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-top: 2em;">TRANSLATED BY<br/> +<big class="small-caps">S. 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. 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. 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. P. CHEKHOV BY I. 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 “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.”</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>“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 +<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—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, +<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—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.”</p> + +<p>He was silent, thinking; and then, waving +his hand, he said gently: “This Russia of +ours is such an absurd, clumsy country.”</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: +“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.”</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….</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: “It is shameful and sad, but +true: there are many men who envy the +dogs.”</p> + +<p>And he added immediately with a laugh: +“To-day I can only make feeble speeches +… It means that I'm getting old.”</p> + +<p>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, +<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.” Or: +“Look here, the women teachers want books +to be sent to them.”</p> + +<p>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.</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….</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>“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….”</p> + +<p>And he rushed headlong into philosophy, +and he moved over its surface like a drunkard +skating on ice.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” Chekhov put in quietly and +kindly, “who is that teacher in your district +who beats the children?”</p> + +<p>The teacher sprang from his chair and +waved his arms indignantly: “Whom do you +mean? Me? Never! Beating?”</p> + +<p>He snorted with indignation.</p> + +<p>“Don't get excited,” Anton Chekhov went +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_7" title="7"> </a> +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.”</p> + +<p>The teacher sat down, wiped his perspiring +face, and, with a sigh of relief, said in +his deep bass:—</p> + +<p>“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.”</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:—</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a +good-natured smile, and he added suddenly:</p> + +<p>“To tell the truth, scoundrels too are unhappy—the +devil take them.”</p> + +<p>When he went out, Chekhov followed him +with a glance, smiled, and said:</p> + +<p>“He's a nice fellow…. He won't be a +teacher long.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_9" title="9"> </a>“They will run him down—whip him +off.”</p> + +<p>He thought for a bit, and added quietly:</p> + +<p>“In Russia an honest man is rather like the +chimney-sweep with whom nurses frighten +children.”</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 “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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_10" title="10"> </a> +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.</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 “putting +questions”:—</p> + +<p>“Anton Pavlovitch, what do you think? +How will the war end?”</p> + +<p>Anton Pavlovitch coughed, thought for +a while, and then gently, in a serious and +kindly voice, replied:</p> + +<p>“Probably in peace.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_11" title="11"> </a>“Well, yes … certainly. But who +will win? The Greeks or the Turks?”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me that those will win who +are the stronger.”</p> + +<p>“And who, do you think, are the stronger?” +all the ladies asked together.</p> + +<p>“Those who are the better fed and the better +educated.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, how clever,” one of them exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“And whom do you like best?” another +asked.</p> + +<p>Anton Pavlovitch looked at her kindly, +and answered with a meek smile:</p> + +<p>“I love candied fruits … don't you?”</p> + +<p>“Very much,” the lady exclaimed gayly.</p> + +<p>“Especially Abrikossov's,” the second +agreed solidly. And the third, half closing +her eyes, added with relish:</p> + +<p>“It smells so good.”</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>“We will send you some candied fruit.”</p> + +<p>“You managed that nicely,” I observed +when they had gone.</p> + +<p>Anton Pavlovitch laughed quietly and +said:</p> + +<p>“Every one should speak his own language.”</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>“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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_13" title="13"> </a> +and wreck a train? That's the question. +What's to be done?”</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>“If I were judge,” said Anton Pavlovitch +gravely, “I would acquit Denis.”</p> + +<p>“On what grounds?”</p> + +<p>“I would say to him: you, Denis, have +not yet ripened into the type of the deliberate +criminal; go—and ripen.”</p> + +<p>The lawyer began to laugh, but instantly +again became pompously serious and said:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you like gramophones?” suddenly +asked Anton Pavlovitch in his soft voice.</p> + +<p>“O yes, very much. An amazing invention!” +the youth answered gayly.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_14" title="14"> </a>“And I can't stand gramophones,” Anton +Pavlovitch confessed sadly.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“They speak and sing without feeling. +Everything seems like a caricature … +dead. Do you like photography?”</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 “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.</p> + +<p>When Anton Pavlovitch had seen him +out, he said sternly:</p> + +<p>“They are like pimples on the seat of +justice—disposing of the fate of people.”</p> + +<p>And after a short silence:</p> + +<p>“Crown prosecutors must be very fond of +fishing … especially for little fish.”</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>“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.”</p> + +<p>And in his tone there was something which +at once made the “aristocrat” trivial and +ridiculous.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Don't you like N. N., Anton Pavlovitch?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I do—very much. He's a pleasant +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_16" title="16"> </a> +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.”</p> + +<p>Some one in his presence complained of the +heaviness and tediousness of the “serious” +sections in thick monthly magazines.</p> + +<p>“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.”</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>:—</p> + +<p>“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…. And I +have no desires … my soul is in pain … +it is like a disease.”</p> + +<p>“It is a disease,” said Anton Pavlovitch +with conviction, “it is a disease; in Latin +it is called <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">morbus imitatis</i>.”</p> + +<p>Fortunately the lady did not seem to know +Latin, or, perhaps, she pretended not to know +it.</p> + +<p>“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.”</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>“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 +<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—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.”</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>“Why do you say that? He is an old +man … he's seventy.” Or: “But he's +still so young … it's only stupidity.”</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?—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 “humorous” 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: “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.</p> + +<p>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 +<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—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.”</p> + +<p>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.</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 “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 +<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 “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.</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>“You live badly, my friends. It is +shameful to live like that.”</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….</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>“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?”</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—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—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.</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—a mightier and wiser +consciousness. He would often say, looking +at his orchard with a twinkle in his eye:</p> + +<p>“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?”—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.”</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—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.</p> + +<p>—“How beautiful life will be in three or +four hundred years.”</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 “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.</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 “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.</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 “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 +<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>—“Go away, go away, fool…. Leave +me alone.”</p> + +<p>And would add, turning to his interlocutor, +with annoyance, but with laughter in his +eyes:</p> + +<p>—“Wouldn't you like me to give you this +dog? You can't believe how stupid he is.”</p> + +<p>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”:</p> + +<p>—“Ah, you silly, silly…. How did +you do it? Be quiet … you'll be better +… little stupid …”</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. 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—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.</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>“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:”</p> + +<p>—“‘What? Striking me? D'ye think +you struck me? It is him—him, that you +<ins title="struck!">struck!’</ins>”</p> + +<p>“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: ‘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.”</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: “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 +<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,—then the place reminds one of certain +spots in the Caucasus.</p> + +<p>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 +<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: “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.</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. 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—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.</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—Tolstoy.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_46" title="46"> </a>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:</p> + +<p>“Well, you know, it is not me but some +Frenchman.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p class="no-indent">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 +<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—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 “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.</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,—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. 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 +<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—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—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:</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_51" title="51"> </a>—“Look here, don't you see? There is +sure to be a constitution in Russia in ten years +time.”</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. 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. 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 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. “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 … +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_53" title="53"> </a> +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).</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. 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>“Could you not shield me from that man? +You should have sent word that I was needed +somewhere. He has tortured me!”</p> + +<p>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 +<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>—“I like reading what the Odessa reporters +write about me.”</p> + +<p>“What is that?”</p> + +<p>“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; +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_55" title="55"> </a> +it is of no consequence to me.’ Well, he +did write. It drove me into a fever.”</p> + +<p>And once with a most serious face he said:</p> + +<p>—“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….”</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,—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. P.'s mother) said +quietly with anxiety in her voice:</p> + +<p>“Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner.”</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>—“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!…”</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 “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 +<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 “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.</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. 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>—“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.”</p> + +<p>And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter, +he added unexpectedly, in his usual manner:</p> + +<p>“Have you noticed in the houses of rich +Jews, such plaster dogs often sit by the fireplace?”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>—“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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_60" title="60"> </a> +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.”</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—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:</p> + +<p>—“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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_61" title="61"> </a> +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.’”</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>—“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.”</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. 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….”</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. “If I leave a +story for a long time,”—he once said—“I +cannot make myself finish it afterwards. I +have to begin again.”</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—at times even unconscious—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. 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.</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…. 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>—“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.”</p> + +<p>Once, smiling at his recollection, he suddenly +observed:</p> + +<p>—“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!” …</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 “bosom” 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—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 “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, +<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, “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.</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 “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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_69" title="69"> </a> +pleasure—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: “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:</p> + +<p>—“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 +<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.”</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. “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:</p> + +<p>“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….”</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>“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.”</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>“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 <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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</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>“Write, write as much as possible”—he +would say to young novelists. “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.”</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>—“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.”</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>—“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. +<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….”</p> + +<p>“Why don't you write a play?”—he +would sometimes ask. “Do write one, +really. Every writer must write at least +four plays.”</p> + +<p>But he would confess now and then, that +the dramatic form is losing its interest now.</p> + +<p>“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.”</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. “The big +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_77" title="77"> </a> +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 <cite>Pagliacci</cite>? 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!”</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. “Wait, wait, how did you say +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_78" title="78"> </a> +it? The stage is a temple?” … And he +put down the whole anecdote.</p> + +<p>There was no essential contradiction in +this, and Anton Pavlovitch explained it himself. +“One should not put down similes, +characteristic <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">traits</i>, 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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<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: ‘O, you Chekhovs!’ +It seemed to them amusing.”</p> + +<p>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, <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,—they +all are burly peasants. But so far as writing +goes,—they are masters.”</p> + +<p>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 +<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—any that occurs +to your mind—and nothing else. Also use +as few brackets, italics and hyphens as possible. +They are mannerisms.”</p> + +<p>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.”</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 “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.</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…. 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>“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.”</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>“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—there too is the same joy.”</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—in +his face, voice, and bearing—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 +“Doctor Pascal.”</p> + +<p>—“Zola understands nothing and invents +it all in his study,”—he said in agitation, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_84" title="84"> </a> +coughing. “Let him come and see how our +Zemstvo doctors work and what they do +for the people.”</p> + +<p>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.</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. “My +health is recovered, although I still walk +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_85" title="85"> </a> +with a compress on.” … “I have just got +through a pleurisy, but am better now.” +… “My health is not grand…. I +write on.”</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. “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:</p> + +<p>“Antosha again coughed all night. I hear +through the wall.”</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>“You see; whilst a man's lungs are right, +everything is right.”</p> + +<p>He died simply, pathetically, and fully +conscious. They say his last words were: +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_86" title="86"> </a> +“Ich sterbe.” 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, “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.”</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>“Our trial is bitter…. Antosha is +dead.”</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. P. CHEKHOV<br/> +<small>BY</small><br/> +I. 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>“Do you write much?” he asked me once.</p> + +<p>I answered that I wrote little.</p> + +<p>“Bad,” he said, almost sternly, in his low, +deep voice. “One must work … without +sparing oneself … all one's life.”</p> + +<p>And, after a pause, without any visible +connection, he added:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</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—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.</p> + +<p>“Why don't you come to see me?” were +his first words. “Be sure to come to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“At what time?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“In the morning about eight.”</p> + +<p>And seeing perhaps that I looked surprised +he added:</p> + +<p>“We get up early. Don't you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes I do too,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Well then, come when you get up. We +will give you coffee. You take coffee?”</p> + +<p>“Sometimes.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</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>“Do you love the sea?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he replied. “But it is too lonely.”</p> + +<p>“That's what I like about it,” I replied.</p> + +<p>“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….”</p> + +<p>And then, as was usual with him, after +a pause and without apparent connection, he +added:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Some people might think him affected in +saying this. But Chekhov—affected!</p> + +<p>“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!”</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. “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.</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…. 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, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_96" title="96"> </a> +Hares and Chinamen, a fable for children.” +(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">“Stop! Whoa! Ho! Ho!”<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…. 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—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…. 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…. +<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…. 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>“You are not feeling well, Antosha?” +his mother or sister would say, seeing him +sitting all day with his eyes shut.</p> + +<p>“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.”</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 +“Taman.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</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>“You should not read your writing to +other people before it is published,” he often +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_100" title="100"> </a> +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.”</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 “talentless” 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 “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.</p> + +<p>“We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee, +Anton Pavlovitch!”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>To talk of his fame and his popularity he +would answer in the same way—with two +or three words or a jest.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_102" title="102"> </a>“Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?” +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>“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.’”</p> + +<p>Sometimes he would add seriously:</p> + +<p>“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.”</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 +“indifferent” to questions of morality and +society, and that he was a pessimist. Yet his +annoyance showed itself only in two words:</p> + +<p>“Utter idiot!”</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>“One ought only to write when one feels +completely calm,” 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—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.</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 “The Tedious Story?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_105" title="105"> </a>“Do you still call them writers? They +are cab-men!” he said bitterly.</p> + +<p>His dislike to being made a show of at +times seemed excessive.</p> + +<p>“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 <cite>Russkya Vedonosti</cite> +I swore I would never again have +any truck with scorpions, crocodiles, or +snakes.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</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 “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.</p> + +<p>“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).</p> + +<p>“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.</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>“Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us +go for a drive.”</p> + +<p>“A drive? At this time of night?” I answered. +“What's the matter, Anton Pavlovitch?”</p> + +<p>“I am in love.”</p> + +<p>“That's good. But it is past nine…. +You will catch cold.”</p> + +<p>“Young man, don't quibble!”</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>“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 +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_108" title="108"> </a> +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!”</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…. 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:</p> + +<p>“Do you know for how many years I shall +be read? Seven.”</p> + +<p>“Why seven?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Seven and a half, then.”</p> + +<p>“No,” I said. “Poetry lives long, and the +longer it lives the better it becomes—like +wine.”</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>“Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases +as ‘the silvery distance,’ ‘accord,’ or ‘onward, +onward, to the fight with the powers of +darkness’!”</p> + +<p>“You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch,” +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>“It is you who are sad,” he answered. +“You are sad because you have spent such a +lot on the cab.”</p> + +<p>Then he added gravely:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He was wrong there: he did not live for +six years….</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>”<br/> +<span class="correction">struck!’</span>” +</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. 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