Anton Chekhov: Letters, Diary, Reminiscences & Biography. Anton Chekhov
of the future, and watch the present slip fruitlessly away.
Forgive this long letter, and accept the sincere good wishes of your devoted
A. CHEKHOV.
TO V. G. KOROLENKO.
MOSCOW,
January 9, 1888.
Following your friendly advice I began writing a story [Footnote: “The Steppe”] for the Syeverny Vyestnik. To begin with I have attempted to describe the steppe, the people who live there, and what I have experienced in the steppe. It is a good subject, and I enjoy writing about it, but unfortunately from lack of practice in writing long things, and from fear of making it too rambling, I fall into the opposite extreme: each page turns out a compact whole like a short story, the pictures accumulate, are crowded, and, getting in each other’s way, spoil the impression as a whole. As a result one gets, not a picture in which all the details are merged into one whole like stars in the heavens, but a mere diagram, a dry record of impressions. A writer — you, for instance — will understand me, but the reader will be bored and curse.
… Your “Sokolinets” is, I think, the most remarkable novel that has appeared of late. It is written like a good musical composition, in accordance with all the rules which an artist instinctively divines. Altogether in the whole of your book you are such a great artist, such a force, that even your worst failings, which would have been the ruin of any other writer, pass unnoticed. For instance, in the whole of your book there is an obstinate exclusion of women, and I have only just noticed it.
TO A. N. PLESHTCHEYEV.
MOSCOW,
February 5, 1888.
… I am longing to read Korolenko’s story. He is my favourite of contemporary writers. His colours are rich and vivid, his style is irreproachable, though in places rather elaborate, his images are noble. Leontyev [Footnote: I. L. Shtcheglov.] is good too. He is not so mature and picturesque, but he is warmer than Korolenko, more peaceful and feminine…. But, Allah kerim, why do they both specialize? The first will not part with his convicts, and the second feeds his readers with nothing but officers…. I understand specialization in art such as genre, landscape, history, but I cannot admit of such specialties as convicts, officers, priests…. This is not specialization but partiality. In Petersburg you do not care for Korolenko, and here in Moscow we do not read Shtcheglov, but I fully believe in the future of both of them. Ah, if only we had decent critics!
February 9.
… You say you liked Dymov [Translator’s Note: One of the characters in
“The Steppe.”] as a subject. Life creates such characters as the dare-devil
Dymov not to be dissenters nor tramps, but downright revolutionaries….
There never will be a revolution in Russia, and Dymov will end by taking to
drink or getting into prison. He is a superfluous man.
March 6.
It is devilishly cold, but the poor birds are already flying to Russia! They are driven by homesickness and love for their native land. If poets knew how many millions of birds fall victims to their longing and love for their homes, how many of them freeze on the way, what agonies they endure on getting home in March and at the beginning of April, they would have sung their praises long ago! … Put yourself in the place of a corncrake who does not fly but walks all the way, or of a wild goose who gives himself up to man to escape being frozen…. Life is hard in this world!
TO I. L. SHTCHEGLOV.
MOSCOW,
April 18, 1888.
… In any case I am more often merry than sad, though if one comes to think of it I am bound hand and foot…. You, my dear man, have a flat, but I have a whole house which, though a poor specimen, is still a house, and one of two storeys, too! You have a wife who will forgive your having no money, and I have a whole organization which will collapse if I don’t earn a sufficient number of roubles a month — collapse and fall on my shoulders like a heavy stone.
May 3.
… I have just sent a story [Footnote: “The Lights.”] to the Syeverny Vyestnik. I feel a little ashamed of it. It is frightfully dull, and there is so much discussion and preaching in it that it is mawkish. I didn’t like to send it, but had to, for I need money as I do air….
I have had a letter from Leman. He tells me that “we” (that is all of you Petersburg people) “have agreed to print advertisements about each other’s work on our books,” invites me to join, and warns me that among the elect may be included only such persons as have a “certain degree of solidarity with us.” I wrote to say that I agreed, and asked him how does he know with whom I have solidarity and with whom I have not? How fond of stuffiness you are in Petersburg! Don’t you feel stifled with such words as “solidarity,” “unity of young writers,” “common interests,” and so on? Solidarity and all the rest of it I admit on the stock-exchange, in politics, in religious affairs, etc., but solidarity among young writers is impossible and unnecessary…. We cannot feel and think in the same way, our aims are different, or we have no aims whatever, we know each other little or not at all, and so there is nothing on to which this solidarity could be securely hooked…. And is there any need for it? No, in order to help a colleague, to respect his personality and his work, to refrain from gossiping about him, envying him, telling him lies and being hypocritical, one does not need so much to be a young writer as simply a man…. Let us be ordinary people, let us treat everybody alike, and then we shall not need any artificially worked up solidarity. Insistent desire for particular, professional, clique solidarity such as you want, will give rise to unconscious spying on one another, suspiciousness, control, and, without wishing to do so, we shall become something like Jesuits in relation to one another…. I, dear Jean, have no solidarity with you, but I promise you as a literary man perfect freedom so long as you live; that is, you may write where and how you wish, you may think like Koreisha [Footnote: A well-known religious fanatic in Moscow.] if you like, betray your convictions and tendencies a thousand times, etc., etc., and my human relations with you will not alter one jot, and I will always publish advertisements of your books on the wrappers of mine.
TO A. S. SUVORIN.
SUMY, MADAME LINTVARYOV’S
ESTATE,
May 30, 1888.
… I am staying on the bank of the Psyol, in the lodge of an old signorial estate. I took the place without seeing it, trusting to luck, and have not regretted it so far. The river is wide and deep, with plenty of islands, of fish and of crayfish. The banks are beautiful, well-covered with grass and trees. And best of all, there is so much space that I feel as if for my one hundred roubles I have obtained a right to live on an expanse of which one can see no end. Nature and life here is built on the pattern now so old-fashioned and rejected by magazine editors. Nightingales sing night and day, dogs bark in the distance, there are old neglected gardens, sad and poetical estates shut up and deserted where live the souls of beautiful