Reminiscences of Anton Chekhov

REMINISCENCES OF ANTON CHEKHOV

REMINISCENCES OF
ANTON CHEKHOV

BY

MAXIM GORKY, ALEXANDER KUPRIN
AND I. A. BUNIN

TRANSLATED BY

S. S. KOTELIANSKY and LEONARD WOOLF

NEW YORK B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc. mcmxxi

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY i

B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc. j

PRINTED IN THV UNITBD 8TATB8 OT AMIRIOA

CONTENTS

FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS BY MAXIM GORKY, 1

TO Chekhov's memory by Alexander kuprin, 29

A. p. CHEKHOV BY I. A. BUNIN, 9I

ANTON CHEKHOV

FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS
BY

MAXIM GORKY

Once he invited me to the village Kout-
chouk-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 line library, different musical
instruments, bees, a vegetable garden, an
orchard. . . . There would be lectures on
agriculture, mytholog}^ . . . Teachers ought
to know everything, everything, my dear
fellow."

He was suddenly silent, coughed, looked
at me out of the corners of his eyes, and
smiled that tender, channing smile of his
which attracted one so irresistibly to him and
made one listen so attentively to his words.

''Does it bore you to listen to my fanta-
sies'? I do love to talk of it. . . . If you
knew how badly the Russian village needs a

[1]

nice, sensible, educated teacher I 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 atten-
tion and respect ; no one should dare to shout
at him or humilate 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 coun-
cilor, 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,

[2]

shiver with cold in damp and draughty
schools, catch cold, and about the age of
thirty get laryngitis, rheumatism, or tuber-
culosis. 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, when-
ever I see a teacher, I feel ashamed for him,
for his timidity, and because he is badly
dressed ... it seems to me that for the
teacher's wretchedness I am myself to blame
— ^I mean it.''

He was silent, thinking; and then, waving
his hand, he said gently: "This Russia of
ours is such an absurd, clumsy country."

A shadow of sadness crossed his beauti-
ful eyes; little rays of wrinkles surrounded
them and made them look still more medita-
tive. Then, looking round, he said jest-
ingly: "You see, I have fired off at you a

[3]

complete leading article from a radical paper.
Come, ril give you tea to reward your pa-
tience."

That was characteristic of him, to speak
so earnestly, with such warmth and sincerity,
and then suddenly to laugh at himself and
his speech. In that sad and gentle smile one
felt the subtle skepticism of the man who
knows the value of words and dreams; and
there also flashed in the smile a lovable
modesty and delicate sensitiveness. . . .

We walked back slowly in silence to the
house. It was a clear, hot day; the waves
sparkled under the bright rays of the sun;
down below one heard a dog barking joy-
fully. Chekhov took my arm, coughed, and
said slowly: "It is shameful and sad, but
true: there are many men who envy the
dogs."

And he added immediately with a laugh:
"To-day I can only make feeble speeches
... It means that I'm getting old.''

I often heard him say: "You know, a
teacher has just come here — he's ill, mar-
ried . . . couldn't you do something for
him? I have made arrangements for him
for the time being." Or again: "Listen,

l4]

Gorky, there is a teacher here who would
like to meet you. He can't go out, he's ill.
Won't you come and see him*? Do." Or:
"Look here, the women teachers want books
to be sent to them."

Sometimes I would find that "teacher" at
his house; usually he would be sitting on
the edge of his chair, blushing at the con-
sciousness of his own awkwardness, in the
sweat of his brow picking and choosing his
words, trying to speak smoothly and "edu-
catedly"; or, with the ease of manner of a
person who is morbidly shy, he would con-
centrate himself upon the effort not to appear
stupid in the eyes of an author, and he would
simply belabor Anton Chekhov with a hail
of questions which had never entered his
head until that moment.

Anton Chekhov would listen attentively
to the dreary, incoherent speech; now and
again a smile came into his sad eyes, a little
wrinkle appeared on his forehead, and then,
in his soft, lusterless voice, he began to speak
simple, clear, homely words, words which
somehow or other immediately made his
questioner simple : the teacher stopped trying
to be clever, and therefore immediately

[5]

became more clever and interesting. . . .

I remember one teacher, a tall, thin man
with a yellow, hungry- face and a long,
hooked nose which drooped gloomily towards
his chin. He sat opposite .\nton Chekhov
and, looking fixedly into Chekhov's face with
his black eyes, said in a melancholy bass
voice :

"From such impressions of existence
within the space of the tutorial session there
comes a psychical conglomeration which
crushes every possibility of an objective at-
titude towards the surrounding universe.
Of course, the universe is nothing but our
presentation of it. . . ."

And he rushed headlong into philosophy,
and he moved over its surface like a drunk-
ard skating on ice.

"Tell me," Chekhov put in quietly and
kindly, "who is that teacher in your district
who beats the children?"

The teacher sprang from his chair and
waved his arms indignantly: "Whom do you
Tiean'? Me*? Never! Beating'?"

He snorted with indignation.

"Don't get excited," .\nton Chekhov went

[6]

on, smiling reassuringly; "Pm not speaking
of you. But I remember — I read it in the
newspapers — there is some one in your dis-
trict who beats the children."

The teacher sat down, wiped his perspir-
ing face, and, with a sigh of relief, said in
his deep bass : —

'It's true . . . there was such a case . . .
it was Makarov. You know, it's not surpris-
ing. It's cruel, but explicable. He's mar-
ried . . . has four children ... his wife is
ill . . . himself consumptive ... his sal-
ar\^ is 20 roubles, the school like a cellar,
and the teacher has but a single room — under
such circumstances you will give a thrash-
ing to an angel of God for no fault . . .
and the children — they're far from angels,
believe me."

And the man, who had just been merci-
lessly belaboring ChekHov with his store of
clever words, suddenly, ominously wagging
his hooked nose, began to speak simple,
weighty, clear-cut words, which illuminated,
like a fire, the terrible, accursed truth about
the life of the Russian village.

When he said good-bye to his host, the

[7]

teacher took Chekhov's small, dry hand with
its thin fingers in both his own, and, shaking
it, said: —

"I came to you as though I were going to
the authorities, in fear and trembling . . .
I puffed myself out like a turkey-cock . . .
I wanted to show you that I was no ordinary
mortal. . . . And now I'm leaving you as a
nice, close friend who understands every-
thing. . . . It's a great thing — to under-
stand everything! Thank you! rrri tak-
ing away with me a pleasant thought: big
men are simpler and more understandable
. . . 'and nearer in soul to us fellow men
than all those wretches among whom we
live. . . . Good-bye; I will never forget
you."

His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a
good-natured smile, and he added suddenly:

"To tell the truth, scoundrels too are un-
happy— the devil take them."

When he went out, Chekhov followed him
with a glance, smiled, and said :

"He's a nice fellow. . . , He won't be a
teacher long."

•^Why?'

[8]

"They will run him down — whip him

off.''

He thought for a bit, and added quietly:
'In Russia an honest man is rather like the

chimney-sweep with whom nurses frighten

children."

I THINK that in Anton Chekhov's presence
every one involuntarily felt in himself a de^
sire to b£._sirn2kruiiiiC£Jtry^^ one's

^eli-; I often saw how people cast off the mot-
ley 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 "bril-
liant" 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. Alibis life Chekhov lived
on his ownsoul; he was^always himself.
iiTwardly^"7ree, and he never troubled about

[9]

/

what some people expected and others —
coarser people — demanded of Anton Chek-
hov. 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 pres-
ent one has not even a decent pair of
trousers.

Beautifully simple himself, he loved
everything simple, genuine, sincere, and he
had a peculiar way of making other people
simple.

Once, I remember, three luxuriously
dressed ladies came to see him; they filled his
room with the rustle of silk skirts and the
smell of strong scent; they sat down politely
opposite their host, pretended that they were
interested in politics, and began ''putting
questions" : —

Anton Pavlovitch, what do you think?
How will the war end?"

Anton Pavlovitch coughed, thought for
a while, and then gently, in a serious and
kindly voice, replied:

"Probably in peace."
[lo]

"Well, yes . . . certainly. But who
will win? The Greeks or the Turks?"

''It seems to me that those will win who
are the stronger."

"And who, do you think, are the strong-
er?" all the ladies asked together.

"Those who are the better fed and the bet-
ter educated."

"Ah, how clever," one of them exclaimed.

"And whom do you like best?" another
asked.

Anton Pavlovitch looked at her kindly,
and answered with a meek smile :

"I love candied fruits . . . don't you?"

"Very much," the lady exclaimed gayly.

"Especially Abrikossov^s," the second
agreed solidly. And the third, half closing
her eyes, added with relish:

"It smells so good."

And all three began to talk with vivacity,
revealing, on the subject of candied fruit,
great erudition and subtle knowledge. It
was obvious that they were happy at not
having to strain their minds and pretend to
be seriously interested in Turks and Greeks,
to whom up to that moment they had not
given a thought.

[11]

When they left, they merrily promised
Anton Pavlovitch:

"We will send you some candied fruit."

"You managed that nicely," I observed
when they had gone.

Anton Pavlovitch laughed quietly and
said:

"Every one should speak his own lan-
guage."

On another occasion I found at his house
a young and prettyish crown prosecutor.
He was standing in front of Chekhov, shak-
ing his curly head, and speaking briskly :

"In your story, 'The Conspirator,' you,
Anton Pavlovitch, put before me a very com-
plex 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 commu-
nity. 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 sleep-

[12]

ers and wreck a train ^ That's the question.
What's to be done^"

He stopped, threw himself back, and fixed
an inquiring look on Anton Pavlovitch's
face. His uniform was quite new, and the
buttons shone as self -confidently and dully
on his chest as did the little eyes in the
pretty, clean, little face of the youthful en-
thusiast for justice.

''If I were judge," said Anton Pavlovitch
gravely, "I would acquit Denis."

"On what grounds'?"

"I would say to him: you, Denis, have
not yet ripened into the type of the deliber-
ate criminal; go — and ripen."

The lawyer began to laugh, but instantly
again became pompously serious and said:

"No, sir, the question put by you must be
answered only in the interests of the commu-
nity whose life and property I am called
upon to protect. Denis is a savage, but he
is also a criminal — that is the truth."

"Do you like gramophones^" suddenly
asked Anton Pavlovitch in his soft voice.

"O yes, very much. An amazing inven-
tion!" the youth answered gayly.

[13]

^

I

"And I can't stand gramophones," Anton
Pavlovitch confessed sadly.

"Why?"

"They speak and sing without feeling.
Everything seems like a caricature . . .
dead. Do you like photography?"

It appeared that the lawyer was a passion-
ate lover of photography; he began at once
to speak of it with enthusiaism, completely
uninterested, as Chekhov had subtly and
truly noticed, in the gramophone, despite
his admiration for that "amazing invention."
And again I observed how there looked out
of that uniform a living and rather amusing
little man, whose feelings towards life were
still those of a puppy hunting.

When Anton Pavlovitch had seen Jiim
out, he said sternly:

"They are like pimples on the seat of
justice — disposing of the fate of people."

And after a short silence:

"Crown prosecutors must be very fond of
fishing . . . especially for little fish."

He had the art of revealing everywhere and
driving away banality, an art which is only
possible to a man who demands much from

life and which comes from a keen desire to
see men simple, beautiful, harmonious
Banality always found m him"X^3iscemirig
andjnercile^judg^:^^ /

Some one told in his presence how the edi-
tor of a popular magazine, who was always j
talking of the necessity of love and pity, had,
for no reason at all, insulted a railway \
guard, and how he usually acted with ex- :
treme rudeness towards his inferiors. A

"Well," said Anton Pavlovitch with a j
gloomy smile, *'but isn't he an aristocrat, an }
educated gentleman'? He studied at the \
seminary. His father wore bast shoes, and ;
he wears patent-leather boots."

And in his tone there was something which
at once made the "aristocrat" trivial and
ridiculous.

"He's a very gifted man," he said of a
certain journalist. "He always writes so
nobly, humanely, . , ;. lemonadely. Calls
his wife a fool in public . . . the servants'
rooms are damp and the maids constantly
get rheumatics."

"Don't you like N. N., Anton Pavlo-
vitch"?"

"Yes, I do — very much. He's a pleas-

[15]

ant fellow," Anton Pavlovitch agrees, cough-
ing. ''He knows everything . . . reads a
lot . . . he hasn't returned three of my
books . . . he's absent-minded. To-day he
will tell you that you're a wonderful fellow,
and to-morrow he will tell somebody else
that you cheat your servants, and that you
have stolen from your mistress's husband
his silk socks ... the black ones with the
blue stripes."

Some one in his presence complained of the
heaviness and tediousness of the ''serious"
sections in thick monthly magazines.

"But you mustn't read those articles,"
said Anton Pavlovitch. "They are friends'
literature — written for friends. They are
written by Messrs. Red, Black, and White.
One writes an article; the other replies to it;
and the third reconciles the contradictions of
the other two. It is like playing whist with
a dummy. Yet none of them asks himself
what good it is to the reader."

Once a plump, healthy, handsome, well-
dressed lady came to him and began to speak
a la Chekhov : —

"Life is so boring, Anton Pavlovitch.
Everything is so gray: people, the sea, even

[16]

the flowers seem to me gray. . . . And I
have no desires . . . my soul is in pain . . .
it is like a disease."

"It is a disease," said Anton Pavlovitch
with conviction, "it is a disease; in Latin
it is called morbus imitatisJ'

Fortunately the lady did not seem to know
Latin, or, perhaps, she pretended not to know
it.

"Critics are like horse-flies which prevent
the horse from plowing," he said, smiling
his wise smile. "The horse works, all its
muscles drawn tight like the strings on a
doublebass, and a fly settles on his flanks and
tickles and buzzes ... he has to twitch his
skin and swish his tail. And what does the
fly buzz about ^ It scarcely knows itself;
simply because it is restless and wants to
proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the
earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about
anything.' For twenty-five years I have
read criticisms of my stories, and I don't re-
member a single remark of any value or one
word of valuable advice. Only once Skabit-
chevsky wrote something which made an im-
pression on me ... he said I would die
in a ditch, drunk."

[17]

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 him-
self vigorously against a hostile force and
would not yield.

But sometimes, I thought, there was in
his attitude towards people a feeling of hope-
lessness, almost 'of cold, resigned despair.

''A Russian is a strange creature," he said
once. "He is like a sieve; nothing remains
in him. In his youth he fills himself greed-
ily 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 some-
where behind the scenes of some theatre.
A doctor, if he has a practice, ceases to be
interested in science, and reads nothing but
The Medical Journal^ and at forty seriously

[18]

believes that all diseases have their origin in
catarrh. I have never met a single civil ser-
vant who had any idea of the meaning of his
work : usually he sits in the metropolis or the
chief town cff the province, and writes papers
and sends them off to Zmiev or Smorgon for
attention. But that those papers will de-
prive some one in Zmiev or Smorgon of free-
dom 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 jus-
tice, 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. Rus-
sia 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 niarry in order to get their |
house looked after and keep mistresses in \
order to be thought well of in society. Their 1
psychology is that of a dog: when they are (
beaten, they whine shrilly and run into their

;[i9]i

kennels; when petted, they lie on their backs
with their paws in the air and wag their
tails."

Pain and cold contempt sounded in these
words. But, though contemptuous, he felt
pity, and, if in his presence you abused any
one, Anton Pavlovitch would immediately
defend him.

''Why dto you say that^ He is an old
man . . . he's seventy." Or: "But he's
still so young . . . it's only stupidity."

And, when he spoke like that, I never saw
a sign of aversion in his face.

When a man is young, banality seems only
amusing and unimportant, but little by
little it possesses a man; it permeates his
brain and blood like poison or asphyxiating
fumes; he becomes like an old, rusty sign-
board: something is painted on it, but what?
— You can't make out.

Anton Pavlovitch in his early stories was
already able to reveal in the dim sea of
banality its tragic humor; one has only to
read his "humorous" stories with attention
to see what a lot of cruel and disgusting

[20]

things, behind the humorous words and i

situations, had been observed by the au- ;

thor with sorrow and were concealed by \

him.

«^-He was ingenuously shy; he would not
say aloud and openly to people: "Now do
be more decent" ; he hoped in vain that they
would themselves see how necessary it was \

that they should be more decent. He hated ]

everything banal and foul, and he described |

the abominations of life in the noble Ian- j

guage of a poet, with the humorist's gentle 1

smile, and behind the beautiful form of his
stories people scarcely noticed the inner
meaning, full of bitter reproach. ^r^t^^f ^^^

The dear public, when it reads his j

"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 i

not know how to respect human dignity, who
submit without any resistance to mere force,

live like fish, believe in nothing but the ne- \

I

[21] :

f

cessity of swallowing every day as much
thick soup as possible, and feel nothing but
fear that some one, strong and insolent, will
^ive them a hiding.

^ No one understood as clearly and finely
as Anton Chekhov, the tragedy of life's triv-
ialities, no one before him showed men with
such merciless truth the terrible and shame-
ful picture of their life in the dim chaos of
bourgeois every-day existence.

His enemy was banality; he fought it all
his life long; he ridiculed it, drawing it with
a pointed and unimpassioned pen, finding the
mustiness of banality even where at the first
glance everything seemed to be arranged very
nicely, comfortably, and even brilliantly — ■
and banality revenged itself upon him by af
nasty prank, for it saw that his corpse, the
corpse of a poet, was put into a railway truck
"For the Conveyance of Oysters."

That dirty green railway truck seems to
me precisely the great, triumphant laugh of
banality over its tired enemy; and all the
"Recollections" in the gutter press are hypo-
critical sorrow, behind which I feel the cold
and smelly breath of banality, secretly re-
joicing over the death of its enemy.
[22]

Reading Anton Chekhov's stories, one feels
oneself in a melancholy day of late autumn,
when the air is transparent and the outline of
naked trees, narrow houses, grayish people,
is sharp. Everything is strange, lonely, mo-
tionless, helpless. The horizon, blue and
empty, melts into the pale sky and its breath
is terribly cold upon the earth which is cov-
ered with frozen mud. The author's mind,
like the autumn sun, shows up in hard out-
line 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 un-
intelligible, 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

[23]

she has not within her a single live, strong
word of protest against banality.

And here is the lachrymose Ranevskaya
and the other owners of "The Cherry Orch-
ard," egotistical like children, with the flab-
biness of senility. They missed the right
moment for dying; they whine, seeing noth-
ing of what is going on around them, under-
standing nothing, parasites without the
power of again taking root in life. The |
wretched little student, Trofimov, speaks I
eloquently of the necessity of working — and
does nothing but amuse himself, out of sheer
boredom, with stupid mockery of Varya
who works ceaselessly for the good of the
idlers.

Vershinin dreams 'of how pleasant life
will be in three hundred years, and lives
without perceiving that everything around
him is falling into ruin before his eyes; Sol-
yony, from boredom and stupidity, is ready
to kill the pitiable Baron Tousenbach.

There passes before one a long file of men
and women, slaves of their love, of their stu-
pidity and idleness, of their greed for the
good things of life; there walk the slaves of
the dark fear of life; they straggle anxiously

[24I

along, filling life with incoherent words
about the future, feeling that in the present
there is no place for them.

At moments out of the gray mass of them
one hears the sound of a shot: Ivanov or
Triepliev has guessed what he ought to do,
and has died.

Many of them have nice dreams of how
pleasant life will be in two hundred years,
but it occurs to none of them to ask them-
selves who will make life pleasant if we
only dream.

In front of that dreary, gray crowd of
helpless people there passed a great, wise,
and observant man; he looked at all these
dreary inhabitants of his country, and, with
a sad smile, with a tone of gentle but deep
reproach, with anguish in his face and in his
heart, in a beautiful and sincere voice, he
said to them:

*'You live badly, my friends. It is
shameful to live like that."

[-5]

TO CHEKHOV'S MEMORY

BY

ALEXANDER KUPRIN

He lived among us

/

You remember how, in early childhood,
after the long summer holidays, one went
back to school. Everything was gray; it
was like a barrack; it smelt of fresh paint
and putty; one's school-fellows rough,
the authorities unkind. Still one tried some-
how to keep up one's courage, though at mo-
ments one was seized with home-sickness.
One was occupied in greeting friends, struck
by changes in faces, deafened by the noise
and movement.

But when evening comes and the bustle
in the half dark dormitory ceases, O what
an unbearablei sadness, what despair pos-
sesses 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 Xor the first time

all the shattering horror of j.WB-^ngsjL,the_
■~lffev(^abITrty "oFlhe J3a^^ of-

^ioneliness'.'" Tt seems as if one would gladly

[29]

give up all the rest of life, gladly suffer any
tortures, for a single day of that bright, beau-
tiful life which will never repeat itself. It
seems as if one would snatch each kind, car-
essing word and enclose it forever in one's
memor}% 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 inex-
haustible, one had not made the most of
each hour and moment that flashed by in
vain.

A child's sorrows are sharp, but will melt
in sleep and disappear with the morning sun.
We, grown-up people, do not feel them so
passionately, but we remember longer and
grieve more deeply. After Chekhov's fu-
neral, coming back from the service in the
cemetery, one great writer spoke words that
were simple, but full of meaning:

"Now we have buried him, the hopeless
keenness of the loss is passing away. But do
you realize, forever, till the end of our days,
there will remain in us a constant, dull, sad,
consciousness that Chekhov is not there'?"

And now that he is not here, one feels with

[30]

peculiar pain how precious was each word
of his, each smile, movement, glance, in
which shone out his beautiful, elect, aristo-
cratic soul. One is sorry that one was not
always attentive to those special details,
which sometimes more potently and inti-
mately than great deeds reveal the inner
man. One reproaches oneself that in the
fluster of life one has not managed to remem-
ber— to write down much of what is interest-
ing, 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 incompar-
able spiritual fineness and beauty; and with
eternal gratitude they will respect his mem-
ory, as the memory of one of the most re-
markable of Russian writers.

To the love, to the tender and subtle sor-
row of these men, I dedicate these lines.

Chekhov's cottage in Yalta stood neany
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 build-
ing in Yalta. All bright, pure, light, beau-
tifully-proportioned, built in no definite

[31]

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 win-
dows— both wide and narrow — the bunga-
low resembled a building of the modern
school, if there were not obvious in its plan
the attentive and original thought, the origi-
nal, 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 un-
peopled, with modest stones on the graves.
The flower garden was tiny, not at all
luxurious, and the fruit orchard was still
very young. There grew in it pears and
crab-apples, apricots, peaches, almonds.
During the last year the orchard began to
bear fruit, which caused Anton Pavlovitch
much worry and a touching and childish
pleasure. When the time came to gather
almonds, they were also gathered in Chek-
hov'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

[32]

enough to take them, although they were
offered.

Anton Pavlovitch did not like it and was
even cross when people told him that his
bungalow was too little protected from the
dust, which came from the Antka road, and
that the orchard was insufficiently supplied
with water. Without on the whole liking
the Crimea, and certainly not Yalta, he re-
garded his orchard with a special, zealous
love. People saw him sometimes in the
morning, sitting on his heels, carefully coat-
ing the stems of his roses with sulphur or
pulling weeds from the flower beds. And
what rejoicing there would be, when in the
summer drought there at last began a rain
that filled the spare clay cisterns with water !

But his love was not that of a proprietor,
it was something else — a mightier and wiser
consciousness. He would often say, look-
ing at his orchard with a twinkle in his eye :

"Look, I have planted each tree here and
certainly they are dear to me. But this is
of no consequence. Before I came here all
this was waste land and ravines, all covered
with stones and thistles. Then I came and
turned this wilderness into a cultivated,

[33]

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 comfor-
table."

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, si-
lently, he trimmed his roses, still moist from
the dew, or examined carefully a young sap-
ling, wounded by the wind. And how much
there was in that thought of meek, wise, and
humble self-forgetfulness.

No, it was not a thirst for life, a clinging
to life coming from the insatiable human
heart, neither was it a greedy curiosity as
to what will come after one's own life, nor
an envious jealousy of remote generations.
It was the agony of an exceptionally refined,
charming, and sensitive soul, who suffered
beyond measure from banality, coarseness,

[34]

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, to-
gether with the devoted love of all that was
sensitive, talented and honest in Russian so-
cif:ty, — that is why he did not lock himself
up in the inaccessibility of cold greatness
nor become a masterful prophet nor shrink
into a venomous and petty hostility against
the fame of others. No, the sum of his wide
and hard experience of life, of his sorrows,
joys, and disappointments was expressed in
that beautiful, anxious, self-forgetting
dream of the coming happiness of others.

— "How beautiful life will be in three or
four hundred years."

And that is why he looked lovingly after
his flower beds, as if he saw in them the sym-
bol 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, seago-
ing steamers; he was eagerly interested in
every new invention and was not bored by
the company of specialists. With firm con-

[35]

I

viction 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 en-
noble mankind.

Telling of Chekhov's orchard I forgot to
mention that there stood in the middle of it
swings and a wooden bench. Both these
latter remained from "Uncle Vanya," which
play the Moscow Art Theatre acted at
Yalta, evidently with the sole purpose of
showing the performance to Anton Pavlo-
vitch 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 re-
sponse to Chekhov's talent and their friendly
devotion to himself, much sweetened his
last days.

II

There lived in the yard a tame crane and
two dogs. It must be said that Anton Chek-

[36]

hov loved all animals very much with the
exception of cats, for whom he felt an in-
vincible disgust. He loved dogs specially.
His dead "Kashtanka," his "Bromide," and
"Quinine," which he had in Melikhovo, he
remembered and spoke of, as one remembers
one's dead friends. "Fine race, dogs!" — he
would say at times with a good-natured smile.

The crane was a pompous, grave bird.
He generally mistrusted people, but had a
close friendship with Arseniy, Anton Chek-
hov'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 char-
acteristic crane dance, which always made
Anton Pavlovitch laugh.

One dog was called "Tusik," and the other
"Kashtan," in honor of the famous "Kash-
tanka.'^ "Kashtan" was distinguished* in
nothing but stupidity and idleness. In ap-
pearance he was fat, smooth and clumsy, of
a bright chocolate color, with senseless yel-
low eyes. He would bark after "Tusik" at
strangers, but one had only to call him and
he would turn on his back and begin ser-
vilely to crawl on the ground. Anton Pavlo-

[37]

vitch would give him a little push with his
stick, when he came up fawning, and would
say with mock sternness :

— "Go away, go away, fool. . . . Leave
me alone."

And would add, turning to his interlocu-
tor, with annoyance, but with laughter in his
eyes:

— "Wouldn't you like me to give you this
dog? You can't believe how stupid he is."

But it happened once that "Kashtan,"
through his stupidity and clumsiness, got un-
der the wheels of a cab which crushed his
leg. The poor dog came home running on
three legs, howling ter-ibly. His hind leg
was crippled, the flesh cut nearly to the bone,
bleeding profusely. Anton Pavlovitch in-
stantly 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 beauti-
ful fingers touched the torn skin of the dog,
and with what compassionate reproof he
soothed the howling "Kashtan":

— "Ah, you silly, silly. . . . How did
you do it? Be quiet . . . you'll be better
. . . little stupid . . ."
[38]

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. Be-
tween the tiny child and the sad invalid man,
the famous author, was established a pecu-
liar, serious and trusting friendship. They
would sit for a long time on the bench, in
the verandah. Anton Pavlovitch listened
with attention and concentration, and she
would whisper to him without ceasing her
funny words and tangle her little hands in
his beard.

Chekhov was regarded with a great and
heart-felt love by all sorts of simple people
with whom he came into contact — servants,
messengers, porters, beggars, tramps, post-
men,— and not only with love, but with sub-
tle sensitiveness, with concern and with un-
derstanding. I cannot help telling here one
story which was told me by a small official
of the Russian Navigation and Trade Com-
pany, a downright man, reserved and per-
fectly direct in receiving and telling his im-
pressions.

[39]

'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 cha-
otic moment the porter, a Tartar, who
always waited on Chekhov, saw him from the
distance and managed to climb up on the
steamer sooner than any one else. He found
Chekhov's luggage and was already on the
point of carrying it down, when suddenly a
rough and fierce-looking chief mate rushed
on him. The man did not confine himself
to obscene language, but in the access of his
official anger, he struck the Tartar on the face.
"And then an unbelievable scene took
place," my friend told me — "the Tartar
threw the luggage on the deck, beat his
breast with his fists and, with wild eyes, was
ready to fall on the chief mate, while he
shouted in a voice which rang all over the
port:

— "'What^ Striking me? D'ye think
you struck me? It is him — him, that you
struck!"
"And he pointed his finger at Chekhov.

[40]

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 I'
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."

Ill

Chekhov's stuHy 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

[41]

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 clean-
liness, 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 writ-
ing 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 num-
ber 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 out-
lines and darkens the study; yet the light
from the window falls evenly and pleasantly

[42]

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 cer-
tain spots in the Caucasus.

This is what always happens — )^ou get to
know a man; you have studied his appear-
ance, bearing, voice and manners, and still
you can always recall his face as it was when
you saw it for the first time, completely dif-
ferent from the present. Thus, after several
years of friendship with Anton Pavlovitch,
there is preserved in my memory the Chek-
hov, 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 some-

[43]

what 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 care-
lessnesss. Many people saw that in him,
and I among them. But a few hours later
I saw a completely different Chekhov — the
Chekhov, whose face could never be caught
by any photograph, who, unfortunately, was
not understood by any painter who drew
. him. I saw the most beautiful, refined and
/ spiritual face that I have ever come across
; in my life.

Many said that Chekhov had blue eyes.
It is a mistake, but a mistake strangely com-
mon 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 expres-
Bion 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.

[44]

Owing to his pince-nez and his manner of
looking through the bottom of his glasses,
with his head somewhat tilted upwards, An-
ton Pavlovitch's face often seemed stern.
But one ought to have seen Chekhov at cer-
tain moments (rare, alas, during the last
years) when gayety possessed him, and when
with a quick movement of the hand, he threw
off his glasses and swung his chair and burst
into gay, sincere and deep laughter. Then
his eyes became narrow and bright, with
good-natured little wrinkles at the corners,
and he reminded one then of that youthful
portrait in which he is seen as a beardless
boy, smiling, short-sighted and naive, look-
ing rather sideways. And — strange though
it is — each time that I look at that photo-
graph, I cannot rid myself of the thought
that Chekhov's eyes were really blue.

Looking at Chekhov one noticed his fore-
head, which was wide, white and pure, and
beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds
came beween 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.

[45]

Once in the summer, availing myself of
A. P.'s good humor, I took several photo-
graphs of him with a little camera. Un-
fortunately the best of them and those most
like him turned out very pale, owing to the
weak light of the study. Of the others,
which were more successful, A. P. said as he
looked at them:

''Well, you know, it is not me but some
Frenchman."

I remember now very vividly the grip of
his large, dry and hot hand, — a grip, always
strong and manly but at the same time re-
served, as if it were consciously concealing
something. I also visualize now his hand-
writing: thin, with extremely fine strokes,
careless at first sight and inelegant, but,
when you look closer, it appears very dis-
tinct, tender, fine and characteristic, as every-
thing else about him.

IV

A. P. used to get up, in the summer at
least, very early. None even of his most
intimate friends saw him carelessly dressed,
nor did he approve of lazy habits, like wear-

[46]

ing slippers, dressing gowns or light jackets.
At eight or nine he was already pacing his
study or at his writing table, invariably
impeccably and neatly dressed.

Evidently, his best time for work was in
the morning before lunch, although nobody
ever managed to find him writing: in this
respect he was extraordinarily reserved and
shy. All the same, on nice warm mornings
he could be seen sitting on a slope behind the
house, in the cosiest part of the place, where
oleanders stood in tubs along the walls, and
where he had planted a cypress. There he
sat sometimes for an hour or longer, alone,
without stirring, with his hands on his knees,
looking in front of him at the sea.

About midday and later visitors began to
fill the house. Girls stood for hours at the
iron railings, separating the bungalow from
the road, with open mouths, in white felt
hats. The most diverse people came to
Chekhov : scholars, authors, Zemstvo workers,
doctors, military, painters, admirers of both
sexes, professors, society men and women,
senators, priests, actors — and God knows
who else. Often he was asked to give ad-
vice or help and still more often to give his

[47]

opinion upon manuscripts. Casual newspa-
per reporters and people who were merely in-
quisitive would appear; also people who
came to him with the sole purpose of "direct-
ing the big, but erring talent to the proper,
ideal side." Beggars came — genuine and
sham. These never met with a refusal. I
do not think it right, myself, to mention
private cases, but I know for certain that
Chekhov's generosity towards students of
both sexes, -was immeasurably beyond what
his modest means would allow.

People came to him from all strata of
society, of all camps, of all shades. Not-
withstanding the worry of so continuous a
stream of visitors, there was something at-
tractive in it to Chekhov. He got first-hand
knowledge of everything that was going on
at any given moment in Russia. How mis-
taken 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 thought-
fully. He was tormented and distressed by
all the things which tormented the minds of
the best Russians. One had only to see how

[48]

. 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 beauti-
ful eyes.

It is fitting to mention here one fact
which, in my opinion, superbly illustrates
\ Chekhov's attitude to the stupidities of Rus-
sian 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 Acad-
emy,— a splendid letter, written with a
simple and noble dignity, and the restrained
indignation of a great soul.

To the August President of the Academy

25 August, 1902
Yalta.
Your Imperial Highness,

August President!

In December of last year I received a notice of
the election of A. M. Pyeshkov (Maxim Gorky)
as an honorary academician, and I took the first
opportunity of seeing A. M. Pyeshkov, who was
then in Crimea. I was the first to bring him news
of his election and I was the first to congratulate
him. Some time later, it was announced in the

[49]

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 becom-
ing an academician and I consider his election can-
celled— 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 rrlost
respectfully to be relieved of the rank of honorary
academician. With a feeling of deepest respect I
have the honor to remain

Your most devoted

Anton Chekhov.

Queer — to what an extent people misun-
derstood 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 coun-
try. Which of his friends does not remember
the favorite phrase, which he so often,
sometimes so incongruously and unexpect-
edly, uttered in a tone of assurance:

[50]

— "Look here, don't you see^ There is
sure to be a constitution in Russia in ten years
time."

Yes, even in that there sounds the motif of
the joyous future which is awaiting mankind;
the motif that was audible in all the work
of his last years.

The truth must be told: by no means all
visitors spared A. P. 's time and nerves, and
some of them were quite merciless. I re-
member one striking, and almost incredible
instance of the banality and indelicacy which
could be displayed by a man of the so-called
artistic power.

It was a pleasant, cool and windless sum-
mer 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 archi-
tect), 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 pla-
card "You are requested not to smoke," with-
out asking any permission, lit a huge stinking
Riga cigar. Then, after paying, as was in-

[51]

evi table, a few stone-heavy compliments to
his host, he began on the business which
brought him here.

The business consisted in the fact that the
architect's little son, a school boy of the third
form, was running in the streets the other
day and from.a habit peculiar to boys, whilst
running, touched with his hand anything he
came across: lamp-posts, or posts or fences.
At last he managed to push his hand into a
barbed wire fence and thus scratched his
palm. "You see now, my worthy A. P.," —
the architect concluded his tale, "I shall very
much like you to write a letter about it in
the newspapers. It is lucky that Kolya (his
boy) got off with a scratcti, 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, un-
fortunately, 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 de-
lighted. "Just put the name of the landlord
in full letters. You may even put my own
name, I do not object to it. . . . Still . .

[52]

it would be best if you only put my initials,
not the full name. . . . There are only two
genuine authors left in Russia, you and Mr.
P." (and the architect gave the name of a
notorious literary tailor).

I am not able to repeat even a hundredth
part of the boring commonplaces which the
injured architect managed to speak, since he
made the interview last until he finished the
cigar to the end, and the study had to be
aired for a long time to get rid of the smell.
But when at last he left, A. P. came out into
the garden completely upset with red spots
on his cheeks. His voice trembled, when
he turned reproachfully to his sister Marie
and to a friend who sat on the bench :

"Could you not shield me from that man^
You should have sent word that I was needed
somewhere. He has tortured me I"

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

[53]

then only beginning to grow. And Chek- \
hov, at once, shrank into himself, and sat all I
the time with his eyes cast down, coldly, j
without saying a single word. And only
from the quick reproachful look, which he
cast at my friend, who had introduced that
general, did he show what pain he caused.

Just as shyly and coldly he regarded
praises lavished on him. He would retire
into his niche, on the divan, his eyelids
trembled, slowly fell and were not again
raised, and his face became motionless and
gloomy. Sometimes, when immoderate rap-
tures 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:

— "1 like reading what the Odessa repor-
ters write about me."

"What is that^"

"It is very funny — all lies. Last spring
one of them appeared in my hotel. He
asked for an interview. And I had no time
for it. -So I said: 'Excuse me but I am
busy now. But write whatever you like;

[54]

it is of no consequence to me.' Well, he
did write. It drove me into a fever."

And once with a most serious face he said :
— "You know, ini 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. . . ."

At one o'clock Chekhov dined downstairs,
in a cool bright dining-room, and there was
nearly always a guest at dinner. It was
difficult not to yield to the fascination of
that simple, kind, cordial family. One felt
constant solicitude and love, not expressed
with a single high-sounding word, — an amaz-
ing amount of refin,ement 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

[55]

ease, light and warm, and I perfectly under-
stand a certain author who said that he was

in love with all the Chekhovs at the same i

time. I

Anton. Pavlovitch ate exceedingly little i

and did not like to sit at table, but usually i

passed from the window to the door and \

back. Often after dinner, staying behind i

with some one in the dining-room, Yev- \

guenia Yakovlevna (A. P. 's mother) said ]

quietly with anxiety in her voice: i

"Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner." I

He was very hospitable and loved it when I

people stayed to dinner, and he knew how ]

to treat guests in his own peculiar way, ,

simply and heartily. He would say, stand- ;
ing behind one's chair :

— "Listen, have some vodka. When I

was young and healthy I loved it. I j
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 I ..." \

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, push- \

[56] I

ing his soft black hat down to his very eyes
and looking out under its brim with screwed
up eyes.

These hours were the most crowded.
There were constant rings on the telephone,
asking if Anton Chekhov could be seen ; and
perpetual visitors. Strangers also came,
sending in their cards and asking for help,
for autographs or books. Then queer
things happened.

One "Tambov squire," as Chekhov chris-
tened 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

[57]

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 con-
fessed that the sole purpose of his visit was
to obtain Chekhov's autograph. Chekhov
himself told me the story of this original
and persistent patient — half-laughing, half-
cross.

I repeat, many of these visitors plagued
him fearfully and even irritated him, but,
owing to the amazing delicacy peculiar to
him, he was with all patient, attentive and
accessible to those who wished to see him.
His delicacy at times reached a limit that
bordered on weakness. Thus, for instance,
one nice, well-meaning lady, a great admirer
of Chekhov, gave him for a birthday pres-
ent 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.

[58]

— "O, Pm afraid of that stone dog my-
self," Chekhov confessed, "but it is awkward
to move him; it might hurt her. Let him
stay on here."

And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter,
he added unexpectedly, in his usual manner :

''Have you noticed in the houses of rich
Jews, such plaster dogs often sit by the fire-
placed'

At times, for days on end, he would be
annoyed with every sort of admirer and de-
tractor 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 indif-
ferent 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 ani-
mation told us:

— "I just had a wonderful meeting. An
artillery officer suddenly came up to me on
the quay, quite a young man, a sub-lieu-
tenant. — 'Are you A. P. Chekhov'?'
— 'Yes. Do you want anything?' — 'Ex-
cuse me please for my importunity, but for

[59]

so long I have wanted to shake your hand I*
And he blushed — he was a wonderful fel-
low with a fine face. We shook hands and
parted."

Chekhov was at his best towards evening,
about seven o'clock, when people gathered in
the dining room for tea and a light supper.
Sometimes — but more and more rarely as
the years went on — there revived in him the
old Chekhov, inexhaustibly gay, witty, with
a bubbling, charming, youthful humor.
Then he improvised stories in which the
characters were his friends, and he was par-
ticularly fond of arranging imaginary wed-
dings, which sometimes ended with the
young husband the following morning, sit-
ting at the table and having his tea, saying
as it were by the way in an unconcerned and
businesslike tone:

— "Do you know, my dear, after tea we'll
get ready and go to a solicitor's. Why
should you have unnecessary bother about
your money *?"

He invented wonderful Chekhovian
names, of which I now — alas! — remember
only a certain mythical sailor Ko^hkodo-
venko-cat-slayer. He also liked as a joke

[60]

to make young writers appear old. "What
are you saying — Bunin is my age" — ^he
would assure one with mock seriousness.
"So is Teleshov: he is an old writer. 'Well,
ask him yourself: he will tell you what a
spree we had at T. A. Bieloussov's wedding.
What a long time ago!" To a talented
novelist, a serious writer and a man of ideas,
he said: "Look here, you're twenty years my
senior: surely you wrote previously under
the nom-de-plume 'Nestor Kukolnik.' "

But his jokes never left any bitterness any
more than he consciously ever caused the
slightest pain to any living thing.

After dinner he would keep some one in
! his study for half an hour or an hour. On
his table candles would be lit. Later, when
all had gone and he remained alone, a light
would still be seen in his large window for a
long time. Whether he worked at that
time, or looked through his note-books,
putting down the impressions of the day no-
body seems to know.

VI

It is true, on the whole, that we know

[61]

nearly nothing, not only of his creative ac-
tivities, but even of the external methods of
his work. In this respect Anton Pavlo-
vitch was almost eccentric in his reserve
and silence. I remember him saying, as if
by the way, something very significant:

— "For God's sake don't read your work
to any one until it is published. Don't
read it to others in proof even."

This was always his own habit, although
he sometimes made exceptions for his wife
and sister. Formerly he is said to have been
more communicative in this respect.

That was when he wrote a great deal and
at great speed. He himself said that he
used to write a story a day. E. T. Chek-
hov, his mother, used to say: ''When he
was still an undergraduate, Antosha would
sit at the table in the morning, having his
tea and suddenly fall to thinking; he would
sometimes look straight into one's eyes, but
I knew that he saw nothing. Then he
would get his note-book out of his pocket
and write quickly, quickly. And again he
would fall to thinking. . . ."

But during the last years Chekhov began
to treat himself with ever increasing strict-

[62]

ness 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 with-
out tearing himself away. "If I leave a
story for a long time," — he once said — "I
cannot make myself finish it afterwards. I
have to begin again."

Where did he draw his images from?
Where did he find his observations and his
similes? Where did he forge his superb
language, unique in Russian literature? He
confided in nobody, never revealed his crea-
tive methods. Many note-books are said
to have been left by him; perhaps in them
will in time be found the keys to those mys-
teries. Or perhaps they will forever remain
unsolved. Who knows? At any rate we
must limit ourselves to vague hints and
guesses.

I think that always, from morning to night,
and perhaps at night even, in his sleep and
sleeplessness, there was going on in him an
invisible but persistent — at times even un-

[63]

conscious — activity, the activity of weighing,
defining and remembering. He knew how
to listen and ask questions, as no one else
did; but often, in the middle of a lively con-
versation, it would be noticed, how his at-
tentive and kindly look became motionless
and deep, as if it were withdrawing some-
where inside, contemplating something mys-
terious 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 sud-
denly ask: "Have you ever been to a stud-
farm^ You ought to see one. It is inter-
esting." Or he would repeat a question for
the second time, which had already been
answered.

Chekhov was not remarkable for a mem-
ory of external things. I speak of that
power of minute memory, which women so
often possess in a very high degree, also peas-
ants, which consists in remembering, how
a person, was dressed, whether he has a
beard and mustaches, what his watch chain

[64]

was like or his boots, what color his hair
was. These details were simply unimpor-
tant and uninteresting to him. But, in-
stead, he took the whole person and defined
quickly and truly, exactly like an exper-
ienced chemist, his specific gravity, his
quality and order, and he knew already how
to describe his essential qualities in a couple
of strokes.

Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeas-
ure of a good friend of his, a famous scholar,
who, in spite of a long-standing friendship,
somewhat oppressed Chekhov with his
talkativeness. No sooner would he arrive
in Yalta, than he at once came to Chekhov
and sat there with him all the morning till
lunch. Then he would go to his hotel for
half an hour, and come back and sit until
late at night, all the time talking, talking,
talking. . . . And so on day after day.

Suddenly, abruptly breaking off his story,
as if carried away by a new interesting
thought, Anton Pavlovitch added with ani-
mation :

— "And nobody would guess what is most
characteristic in that man. I know it.
That he is a professor and a savant with a

[65]

European reputation, is to him a secondary
matter. The chief thing is that in his heart
he considers himself to be a remarkable ac-
tor, and he profoundly believes that it is
only by chance that he has not won universal
popularity on the stage. At home he always
reads Ostrovsky aloud."

Once, smiling at his recollection, he sud-
denly observed:

— "D'you know, Moscow is the most
peculiar city. In it everything is unexpec-
ted. Once on a spring morning S., the pub-
licist, 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 stand-
ing about there. He would give one a
penny and whisper: Tray for the health of
Michael the slave of God.' It is his Chris-
tian name Michael. And again: 'for the
servant of God, Michael; for Michael, the
servant of God.' And he himself does not
believe in God. . . . Queer fellow!" . . .

I now approach a delicate point which
may not perhaps please every one. I am
[66]

I

convinced that Chekhov talked to a scholar
and a peddler, a beggar and a litterateur,
with a prominent Zemstvo worker and a sus-
picious monk or shop assistant or a small
postman, with the same attention and curios-
ity. Is not that the reason why in his
stories the professor speaks and thinks just
like an old professor, and the tramp just like
a veritable tramp'? And is it not because of
this, that immediately after his death there
appeared so many "bosom" friends, for
whom, in their words, he would be ready to
go through fire and water?

I think that he did not open or give his
heart completely to any one (there is a leg-
end, though, of an intimate, beloved friend,
a Taganrog official). But he regarded all
kindly, indifferently so far as friendship is
concerned — and at the same time with a
great, perhaps unconscious, interest.

His Chekhovian mots and those little
traits that astonish us by their neatness and
appositeness, he often took direct from life.
The expression "it displeasures me" which
quickly became, after the "Bishop," a bye-
word with a wide circulation, he got from a
certain gloomy tramp, half-drunkard, half-

[67]

madman, half-prophet. I also remember J
talking once with Chekhov of a long deadi
Moscow poet, and Chekhov glowingly re-
membered him, and his mistress, and hisi
empty rooms, and his St. Bernard, ''Ami,",
who suffered from constant indigestion.!
"Certainly, I remember," — Chekhov saidi
laughing gayly — "At five o'clock his mistress,
would always come in and ask: 'Liodor
Tranitch, I say, Liodor Tranitch, is it notj
time you drank your beer?'" And then;
I imprudently said: "O, that's where it j
comes from in your 'Ward N 6' ?" — "Yes, i
well, yes" — replied Chekhov with displea- i
sure.

He had friends also among those mer-l
chants' wives, who, in spite of their millions |
and the most fashionable dresses, and an i
outward interest in literature, say "ideal" ''
and "in principal." Some of them would for j
hours pour out their souls before Chekhov, I
wishing to convey what extraordinarily re- !
fined, neurotic characters they were, and i
what a remarkable novel could be written by j
a writer of genius about their lives, if only [
they could tell everything. And he would \
sit quietly, in silence, and listen with appar- j

[68] I

ent pleasure — only under his moustache
glided an almost imperceptible smile.

I do not wish to say that he looked for
models, like many other writers. But I
think, that everywhere and always he saw
material for observation, and this happened
involuntarily, often perhaps against his will,
through his long-cultivated and ineradicable
habit of diving into people, of analyzing
and generalizing them. In this hidden pro-
cess was to him, probably, all the torment
and joy of his creative activity.

He shared his impressions with no one,
just as he never spoke of what and how he
was going to write. Also very rarely was the
artist and novelist shown in his talk. He,
partly deliberately, partly instinctively, used
in his speech ordinary, average, common ex-
pressions, without having recourse either to
simile or picturesqueness. He guarded his
treasures in his soul, not permitting them to
be wasted in wordy foam, and in this there
was a huge difference between him and those
novelists who tell their stories much better
than they write them.

This, I think, came from a natural reserve,

[69]

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 high-
est degree. Herein, maybe, is hidden the
key to his seeming indifference towards ques-
tion of struggle and protest and his aloofness
towards topical events, which did and do ag-
itate 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, ten-
derness and depth, of which a man of refine-
ment and great intelligence is capable. He
will never try to speak of it in pompous,
high-flown words, and he cannot even imag-
ine 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.

[70]

VII

To young writers, Chekhov was always
sympathetic and kind. No one left him
oppressed by his enormous talent and by
one's own insignificance. He never said to
any one: "Do as I do; see how I behave."
If in despair one complained to him: "Is it
worth going on, if one will forever remain
*our young and promising author"?" he
answered quietly and seriously:

— "But, my dear fellow, not every one can
write like Tolstoy." His considerateness
was at times pathetic. A certain young
writer came to Yalta and took a little room
in a big and noisy Greek family somewhere
beyond Antka, on the outskirts of the city.
He once complained to Chekhov that it was
difficult to work in such surroundings, and
Chekhov insisted that the writer should come
to him in the mornings and work downstairs
in the room adjoining the dining room.
"You will write downstairs, and I upstairs"
— he said with his charming smile — "And
you will have dinner with me. When you

[71]

finish something, do read it to me, or, if you
go away, send me the proofs."

He read an amazing amount and always
remembered everything, and never confused i
one writer with another. If writers asked {
his opinion, he always praised their work, i
not so as to get rid of them, but because he i
knew how cruelly a sharp, even if just, criti- j
cism cuts the wings of beginners, and what an i
encouragement and hope a little praise gives i
sometimes. "I have read your story. It is I
marvelously well done," he would say on !
such occasions in a hearty voice. But when j
a certain confidence was established and they |
got to know each other, especially if an au- i
thor insisted, he gave his opinion more def- t
initely, directly, and at greater length. I I
have two letters of his, written to one and j
the same novelist, concerning one and the !
same tale. Here is a quotation from the j
first : !

"Dear N., I received your tale and have |
read it; many thanks. The tale is good, I I
have read it at one go, as I did the previous |
one, and with the same pleasure. ..."

But as the author was not satisfied with

[72]

praise alone, he soon received a second letter
from Anton Pavlovitch.

"You want me to speak of defects only,
and thereby you put me in an embarrassing
situation. There are no defects in that
story, and if one finds fault, it is only with a
few of its peculiarities. For instance, your
heroes, characters, you treat in the old style,
as they have been treated for a hundred years
by all who have written about them — noth-
ing 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 des-
cription of drunken people. That is all I
can say in reply to your question about the
defects; I can find nothing more that is

wrong."

To those writers with whom he had any
common spiritual bond, he always behaved

[73]

with great care and attention. He never
missed an occasion to tell them any news
which he knew would be pleasing or useful.

"Dear N.," he wrote to a certain friend of
mine, — "I hereby inform you that your
story was read by L. N. Tolstoy and he liked
it very much. Be so good as to send him
your book at this address; Koreiz, Tauric
Province, and on the title page underline the
stories which you consider best, so that he
should begin with them. Or send the book
to me and I will hand it to him."

To the writer of these lines he also ance
showed a delightful kindness, communicating
by letter that, "in the 'Dictionary of the Rus-
sian Language,' published by the Academy
of Sciences, in the sixth number of the second
volume, which number I received to-day, you
too appeared at last."

All these of course are details, but in them
is apparent much sympathy and concern, so
that now, when this great artist and remark-
able man is no longer among us, his letters
acquire the significance of a far-away, irre-
vocable caress.

^ "Write, write as much as possible" — he
would say to young novelists. "It does not

[74]

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 su-
perbly, but your vocabulary is small. You
must acquire words and turns of speech, and
for this you must write every day." »

And he himself worked untiringly on him-
self, enriching his charming, varied vocab-
ulary from every source : from conversations,
dictionaries, catalogues, from learned works,
from sacred writings. The store of words
which that silent man had was extraordinary.

— "Listen, travel third class as often as
possible" — he advised — "I am sorry that ill-
ness prevents me from traveling third.
There you will sometimes hear remarkably
interesting things."

He also wondered at those authors who
for years on end see nothing but the next
door house from the windows of their Peters-
burg flats. And often he said with a shade
of impatience :

— "I cannot understand why you — young,
healthy, and free — don't go, for instance, to
Australia (Australia for some reason was his
favorite part of the world), or to Siberia.

[75]

As soon as I am better, I shall certainly go to
Siberia. I was there when I went to Sa|^
halien. You cannot imagine, my dear fel-
low, what a wonderful country it is. It is
quite different. You know, I am convinced
Siberia will some day sever herself com-
pletely from Russia, just as America severed
herself from her motherland. You must,
must go there without fail. . . ."

''Why don't you write a play?" — he
would sometimes ask. "Do write one,
really. Every writer must write at least
four plays."

But he would confess now and then, that
the dramatic form is losing its interest now.
''The drama must either degenerate com-
pletely, or take a completely ne,w form" — he
said. "We cannot even im.agine what the
theatre will be like in a hundred years."

There were some little inconsistencies in
Anton Pavlovitch which were particularly
attractive in him and had at the same time a
deep inner significance. This was once the
case with regard to note-books. Chekhov
had just strongly advised us not to have re-
course to them for help but to rely wholly on
our memory and imagination. "The big

[76]

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 pro-
vincial town. The "young lover" paced the
stage in a hat and check trousers, with his
hands in his pockets, showing off before a
casual public which had straggled into the
theatre. The "ingenue," his mistress, who
was also on the stage, said to him:
"Sasha, what was it you whistled yesterday
from Pagliacci^ Do please whistle it
again." The "young lover" turned to her,
and looking her up and down with a devas-
tating expression said in a fat, actor's voice :
"Wha-at! Whistle on the staged Would
you whistle in church? Then know that
the stage is the same as a church !"

At the end of that story Anton Pavlo-
vitch 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

[77]

it^ The stage is a temple?'. . . And he
put down the whole anecdote.

There was no essential contradiction in
this, and Anton Pavlovitch explained it him-
self. ''One should not put down similes,
characteristic traits^ details, scenes from
nature — this must come of itself when it
is needed. But a bare fact, a rare name, a
technical term, should be put down in the
note-book — otherwise it may be forgotten
and lost."

Chekhov frequently recalled the difficulties
put in his way by the editors of serious
magazines, until with the helping hand of
"Sieverny Viestnik" he finally overcame
them.

"For one thing you all ought to be grate-
ful 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

[78]

worse than that! They used my name as
a synonym for a writer of short stories.
They would make merry: 'O, you Chek-
hovsl' It seemed to them amusing."

Anton Pavlovitch had a high opinion of
modern writing, i. e., properly speaking, of
the technique of modern writing. "All
write superbly now; there are no bad
writers" — he said in a resoluce tone. "And
hence it is becoming more and more dif-
ficult 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, PisseSSky, Grigorovitch,
or Ostrovsky ; try, and you will see what ob-
solete, 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 writ-
ing goes, — they are masters." -^

At the same time he asked that writers
should choose ordinary, everyday themes,
simplicity of treatment, and absence of
showy tricks. "Why write," — he wondered
— "about a man getting into a submarine

[79]

and going to' the North Pole to reconcile
himself with the world, while his beloved
at that moment throws herself with a hyster-
ical shriek from the belfry? All this is

i untrue and does not happen in reality. One
must write about simple things: how Peter

I Semionovitch married Marie Ivanovna.

I That is all. And again, why those sub-

^ titles: a psychological study, genre, nou-
velle'? 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 pos-
sible. They are mannerisms."

He also taught that an author should be

/ indifferent to the joys and sorrows of his
characters. "In a good story" — he said —
"I have read a description of a restaurant by
the sea in a large city. You saw at once
that the author was all admiration for the
music, the electric light, the flowers in the
buttonholes; that he himself delighted in
contemplating them. One has to stand out-
side 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."

[80]

VIII

The son of Alphonse Daudet in his memoirs
of his father relates that the gifted French
writer half jokingly called himself a "seller
of happiness." People of all sorts would
constantly apply to him for advice and as-
sistance. They came with their sorrows and
worries, and he, already bedridden with a
painful and incurable disease, found suf-
ficient courage, patience, and love of man-
kind in himself to penetrate into other
people's grief, to console and encourage them.
Chekhov, certainly, with his extraordinary
modesty and his dislike of phrase-making,
would never have said anything like that.
But how often he had to listen to people's
confessions, to help by word and deed, to
hold out a tender and strong hand to the
falling. ... In his wonderful objectivity,
standing above personal sorrows and joys, he
knew and saw everything. But personal
feeling stood in the way of his understand-
ing. He could be kind and generous with-
out loving; tender and sympathetic without
attachment; a benefactor, without counting

[81]

on gratitude. And these traits which were
never understood by those round him, con-
tained the chief key to his personality.

Availing myself of the permission of a
friend of mine, I will quote a short extract
from a Chekhov letter. The man was
greatly alarmed and troubled during the first
pregnancy of a much beloved wife, and, to
tell the truth, he distressed Anton Pavlovitch
greatly with his own trouble. Chekhov once
wrote to him:

"Tell your wife she should not be anxious,
everything will be all right. The travail
will last twenty hours, and then will ensue
a most blissful state, when she will smile,
and you will long to cry from love and grati-
tude. Twenty hours is the usual maximum
for the first childbirth."

What a subtle cure for another's anxiety
is heard in these few simple lines! But
it is still more characteristic that later, when
my friend had become a happy father, and,
recollecting that letter, asked Chekhov how
he understood these feelings so well, Anton
Pavlovitch answered quietly, even indif-
ferently :

"When I lived in the country, I always

[82]

had to attend peasant women. It was just
the s-^me — there too is the same joy."

If Chekhov had not been such a remark-
able 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 penetrat-
ing in diagnosis. It would not be surprising
if his diagnosis were more perfect and pro-
found than a diagnosis given by a fashion-
able celebrity. He saw and heard in man
— in his face, voice, and bearing — what was
hidden and would escape the notice of an
average observer.

He himself preferred to recommend, in
the rare cases when his advice was sought,
medicines that were tried, simple, and mostly
domestic. By the way he treated children
with great success.

He believed in medicine firmly and
soundly, and nothing could shake that be-
lief. I remember how cross he was once
when some one began to talk slightingly of
medicine, basing his remarks on Zola's novel
"Doctor Pascal."

— "Zola understands nothing and invents
it all in his study," — he said in agitation,

[83]

coughing. ''Let him come and see how our
Zemstvo doctors work and what they do
for the people."

Every one knows how often — with what
sympathy and love beneath an external hard-
ness, he describes those superb workers, those
obscure and inconspicuous heroes who de-
liberately doomed their names to oblivion.
He described them, even without sparing
them.

IX

There is a^ayjng;j^the death of each man is
like him. One recalls it Tnvoluntarily 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, man-"
purely Chekhovian traits.

He struggled long, terribly long, with an
implacable disease, but bore it with manly
simplicity and patience, without irritation,
without complaints, almost in silence. Only
just before his death, he mentions his dis-
ease, just by the way, in his letters. ''My
health is recovered, although I still walk

[84]

with a compress on." ... "I have just got
through a pleurisy, but am better now."
. . . "My health is not grand. ... I
write on."

He did not like to talk of his disease and
was annoyed when questioned about it.
Only from Arseniy (the servant) one would
learn. *'This morning he was very bad —
there was blood," he would say in a whisper,
shaking his head. Or Yevguenia Yakov-
levna, Chekhov's mother, would say secretly
with anguish in her voice:

"Antosha again coughed all night. I hear
through the wall."

Did he know the extent and meaning of
his disease? I think he did, but intrepidly,
like a doctor and a philosopher, he looked
into the eyes of imminent death. There
were various, trifling circumstances pointing
to the fact that he knew. Thus, for in-
stance, to a lady, who complained to him of
insomnia and nervous breakdown, he said
quietly, with an indefinable sadness:

"You see; whilst a man's lungs are right,
everything is right."

He died simply, pathetically, r.nd fully
conscious. They say his last words were:

[85]

J ^€ix^sterbe,l'^ And his last days were

darkened by a deep sorrow for Russia, and
by the anxiety of the monstrous Japanese
war.

His funeral comes back to mind like a
dream. The cold, grayish Petersburg, a
mistake about a telegram, a small gathering
of people at the railway station, "Wagon
for oysters," in which his remains were
brought from Germany, the station author-
ities who had never heard of Chekhov and
saw in his body only a railway cargo. . . .
Then, as a contrast, Moscow, profound sor-
row, 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 wide ., Olga Coocaretnikov."

I remember the service in the cemetery the
day after his funeral. It was a still July
evening, and the old lime trees over the
graves stood motionless and golden in the
sun. With a quiet, tender sadness and
sighing sounded the women's voices. And
in the souls of many, then, was a deep per-
plexity.

Slowly and in silence the people left the
[86]

cemetery. I went up to Chekhov's mother
and silently kissed her hand. And she said
in a low, tired voice :

*'Our trial is bitter. . . . Antosha is
dead."

O, the overwhelming depth of these
simple, ordinary, very Chekhovian words!
The enormous abyss of the loss, the irrevoc-
able nature of the great event, opened be-
hind. No! Consolations would be useless.
Can the sorrow of those, whose souls have
been so close to the great soul of the dead,
ever be assuaged*?

But let their unquenchable anguish be
stayed by the consciousness that their dis-
tress 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. /

[87]

A. P. CHEKHOV

BY

I. A. BUNIN

I MADE Chekhov's acquaintance in Moscow,
towards the end of '95. We met then at
intervals and I should not think it worth
mentioning, if I did not remember some very
characteristic phrases.

"Do you write much^" he asked me once.

I answered that I wrote little.

"Bad," he said, almost sternly, in his low,
deep voice. "One must work . . . without
sparing oneself ... all one's life."

And, after a pause, without any visible
connection, he added:

"When one has written a story I believe
that one ought to strike out both the begin-
ning and the end. That is where we novel-
ists are most inclined to lie. And one must
write shortly — as shortly as possible."

Then we spoke of poetry, and he suddenly
became excited. "Tell me, do you care for
Alexey Tolstoy's poems? To me he is an
actor. When he was a boy he put on
evening dress and he has never taken it off."

[91]

After these stray meetings in which we
touched upon some of Chekhov's favorite
topics — as that one must work "without
sparing oneself" and must write simply and
without the shadow of falsehood — we did
not meet till the spring of '99. I came to
Yalta for a few days, and one evening I
met Chekhov on the quay.

*'Why don't you come to see me?" were
his first words. "Be sure to come to-

morrow."

"At what time?" I asked.

"In the morning about eight."

And seeing perhaps that I looked surprised
he added:

"We get up early. Don't you?"

"Yes I do too," I said.

"Well then, come when you get up. We
will give you coffee. You take coffee?"

"Sometimes."

"You ought to always. It's a wonderful
drink. When I am working, I drink nothing
but coffee and chicken broth until the
evening. Coffee in the morning and chicken
broth at midday. If I don't, my work
suffers."

I thanked him for asking me, and we

[92]

crossed the quay in silence and sat down on
a bench.

"Do you love the sea*?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "But it is too lonely."

"That's what I like about it," I replied.

"I wonder," he mused, looking through
his spectacles away into the distance and
thinking his own thoughts. "It must be
nice to be a soldier, or a young undergradu-
ate ... to sit in a crowd and listen to the
band. . . ."

And then, as was usual with him, after
a pause and without apparent connection, he
added :

"It is very difficult to describe the sea.
Do you know the description that a school-
boy gave in an exercise? 'The sea is vast.'
Only that. Wonderful, I think."

Some people might think him affected in
saying this. But Chekhov — affected!

"I grant," said one who knew Chekhov
well, "that I have met men as sincere as
Chekhov. But any one so simple, and so
free from pose and affectation I have never
known!"

And that is true. He loved all that was.
sincere, vital, and gay, so long as it was|

[93]

neither coarse nor dull, and could not en-
dure 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 char-
acteristic of his: his reserve. The transi-
tion from the sea to the officer was no
doubt inspired by his secret craving for youth
and health. The sea is lonely. . . . And
Chekhov loved life and joy. During his
last years his desire for happiness, even of
the simplest kind, would constantly show
itself in his conversation. It would be
hinted at, not expressed.

In Moscow, in the year 1895, I saw a

[94]

middle-aged man (Chekhov was then 35)
wearing pince-nez, quietly dressed, rather
tall, and light and graceful in his move-
ments. 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 dis-
tinction was as great as ever but it was the
distinction of an elderly man, who has gone
through much, and been ennobled by his suf-
fering. His voice was gentler. ... In
other respects he was much as he had been
in Moscow; cordial, speaking with anima-
tion, but even more simply and shortly,
and, while he talked, he went on with his
own thoughts. He let me grasp the con-
nections 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,

[95]

Hares and Chinamen, a fable for children." |
(Chekhov wrote it for the children of a
friend. See Letters.)

Once walked over a bridge

Fat Chinamen,
In front of them, with their tails up,

Hares ran quickly.
Suddenly the Chinamen shouted:

"Stop'i Whoa I Ho! Ho!"
The hares raised their tails still higher

And hid in the bushes.
The moral of this fable is clear :

He who wants to eat hares
Every day getting out of bed

Must obey his father.

After that visit I went to him more and
more frequently. Chekhov's attitude to-
wards me therefore changed. He became
more friendly and cordial. . . . But he was
still reserved, yet, as he was reserved not
only with me but with those who were most
intimate with him, it rose, I believed, not
from coldness, but from something much
more important.

The charming white stone house, bright
in the sun; the little orchard, planted and
tended by Chekhov himself who loved all

[96]

flowers, trees, and animals; his study, with
its few pictures, and the large window which
looked out onto the valley of the river Ut-
chan-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 ten-
der. But the reserve which I have spoken
of never disappeared even when we were
most intimate. He was reserved about
everything.

He was very humorous and loved laugh-
ter, but he only laughed his charming in-
fectious laugh when somebody else had made
a joke: he himself would say the most amus-
ing 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. . . .

[97]

His letters too, though their form is perfect,
are full of delightful humor.

But Chekhov's reserve was shown in a
great many other ways which proved the
strength of his character. No one ever
heard him complain, though no one had
more reason to complain. He was one of
a large family, which lived in a state of
actual want. He had to work for money
under conditions which would have ex-
tinguished 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 grum-
bled 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.

[98]

"You are not feeling well, Antosha^"
his mother or sister would say, seeing him
sitting all day with his eyes shut.

"I*?" he would answer, quietly, opening
the eyes which looked so clear and mild
without his glasses. "Oh, it's nothing. I
have a little headache."

He loved literature passionately, and to
talk of writers and to praise Maupassant,
Flaubert, or Tolstoy was a great joy to him.
He spoke with particular enthusiasm of those
just mentioned and also of Lermontov's
"Taman."

"I cannot understand," he would say,
"how a mere boy could have written
TamanI Ah, if one had written that and
a good comedy — then one would be content
to die!"

But his talk about literature was very
different from the usual shop talked by
writers, with its narrowness, and smallness,
and petty personal spite. He would only
discuss books with people who loved litera-
ture above all other arts and were disin-
terested and pure in their love of it.

"You should not read your writing to
other people before it is published," he often

[99]

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, espe-
cially we Russians, and in writing one must
be courageous. There are big dogs and little
dogs, but the little dogs should not be dis-
heartened by the existence of the big dogs.
All must bark — and bark with the voice
God gave them."

All that went on in the world of letters
interested him keenly, and he was indig-
nant with the stupidity, falsehood, affecta-
tion 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 suc-
cess of others, and were not jealous of them, j
If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the i
least jealousy I should be content to say \
nothing about it. But the fact is that he |
rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontane- J
ously. The word "talentless" was, I think,
the most damaging expression he could use, ,|
[loo]

His own failures and successes he took as he
alone knew how to take them.

He was writing for twenty-five years and
during that time his writing was constantly
attacked. Being one of the greatest and
most subtle of Russian writers, he never
used his art to preach. That b^ing so, Rus-
sian critics could neither understand him
nor approve of him. Did they not insist
diat Levitan should "light up" his land-
scapes— 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 embit-
tered by Russian life itself. His bitterness
would show itself momentarily — only mo-
mentarily.

"We shall soon be celebrating your jubi-
lee, Anton PavlovitchI"

"I know your jubilees. For twenty-five
years they do nothing but abuse and ridicule
a man, and then you give him a pen made of
aluminum and slobber over him for a whole
day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!"

To talk of his fame and his popularity he
would answer in the same way — with two
or three words or a jest.

[101]

"Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?"
one would ask, having read an article about
him.

He would look slyly over his spectacles,
ludicrously lengthen his face, and sav in
his deep voice:
1 "Oh, a thousand thanks I There is a
whole column, and at the bottom of it,
j *There is also a writer called Chekhov : a
'discontented man, a grumbler/ "
Sometimes he would add seriously :
"When you find yourself criticized, re-
member 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."
J 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
I "indifferent" to questions of morality and
: society, and that he was a pessimist. Yet his
j ■ annoyance showed itself only in two words:
"Utter idiot!"

Nor did I find him cold. He said that he
[102]

was cold when he wrote, and that he only
wrote when the thoughts and images that he
was about to express were perfectly clear to
him, and then he wrote on, steadily, without
interruptions, until he had brought it to an
end.

"One ought only to write when one feels ^
completely calm," he said once.

But this calm was of a very peculiar na- y/
ture. No other Russian writer had his sen-
sibility and his complexity.

Indeed, it would take a very versatile
mind to throw any light upon this profound
and complex spirit — this "incomparable ar-
tist" 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.

Tojbe truthful and natural and yet retairi^./
great charm implies a nature of rare beauty/ \

integrity, and power, I speak so frequently
of Chekhov's composure because his compo-
sure 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

[J03]

spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made
him so independent, and able to begin his
work unpretentiously and courageously,
without paltering with his conscience.

Do you remember the words of the old
professor in "The Tedious Story ^"
.? "I won't say that French books are good
and gifted and noble; but they are not so
dull as Russian books, and the chief element
of creative power is often to be found in
them — the sense of personal freedom."

Chekhov had in the highest degree that
''sense of personal freedom" and he could not
bear that others should be without it. He
would become bitter and uncompromising if
he thought that others were taking liberties
with it.

That "freedom," it is well known, cost
him a great deal ; but he was not one of those
people who have two different ideals — one
for themselves, the other for the public.
His success was for a very long time much
less than he deserved- But he never during
the whole of his life made the least effort to
increase his popularity. He was extremely
severe upon all the wire-pulling which is now
resorted to in order to achieve success.
[104]

*'Do you still call them writers'? They
are cab-men!" he said bitterly.

His dislike to being made a show of at
times seemed excessive.

"The Scorpion (a publishing firm) adver-
tise their books badly," he wrote to me after
the publication of ''Northern Flowers."
"They put my name first, and when I read
the advertisement in the daily Russkya Ve-
donosti I swore I would never again have
any truck with scorpions, crocodiles, or
snakes."

This was the winter of 1900 when Chek-
hov who had become interested in certain
features of the new publishing firm "Scor-
pion" gave them at my request one of his
youthful stories, "On the Sea." They
printed it in a volume of collected stories
and he many times regretted it.

"All this new Russian art is nonsense," he
would say. "I remember that I once saw a
sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for 'arti-
ficial') mineral waters are sold here! Well,
this new art is the same as that."

His reserve came from the loftiness of his
spirit and from his incessant endeavor to ex-
press himself exactly. It will eventually

[105]

happen that people will know that he was
not only an "incomparable artist," not only
an amazing master of language but an incom-
parable man into the bargain. But it will
take many years for people to grasp in its
fullness his subtlety, power, and delicacy.

"How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?"
he wrote to me at Nice. "I wish you a
happy New Year. I received your letter,
thank you. In Moscow everything is safe,
sound, and dull. There is no news (except
the New Year) nor is any news expected.
My play is not yet produced, nor do I
know when it will be. It is possible that I
may come to Nice in February. . . . Greet
the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea.
Enjoy yourself, be happy, don't think about
illness, and write often to your friends. . . .
Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget
your sallow northern countrymen, who suffer
from indigestion and bad temper." (8th
January, 1904).

"Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet
sea from me" ... I seldom heard him say
that. But I often felt that he ought to say
it, and then my heart ached sadly.

I remember one night in early spring. It

[106]

was late. Suddenly the telephone rang. I
heard Chekhov's deep voice :

"Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us
go for a drive."

"A drive? At this time of night?' I an-
swered. "What's the matter, Anton Pav-
lovitch?"

"I am in love."

"That's good. But it is past nine. . . .
You will catch cold."

"Young man, don't quibble!"

Ten minutes later I was at Afitka. 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, think-
ing bitterly perhaps on the fate which had
given him so much and mocked him so
cruelly.

"What a night!" he said to me with even

more than his usual tenderness and pensive

gladness, meeting me in the doorway. "It

is so dull here! The only excitement is

[107]

when the telephone rings and Sophie Pav-
lovna asks what I am doing, and I answer:
'I am catching mice.' Come, let us drive to
Orianda. I don't care a hang if I do catch
cold!"

The night was warm and still, with a
bright moon, light clouds, and a few stars in
the deep blue sky. The carriage rolled softly
along the white road, and, soothed by the
stillness of the night, we sat silent looking at
the sea glowing a dim gold. . . . Then
came the forest cob webbed over with shad-
ows, but already spring-like and beautiful.
. . . Black troops of giant cypresses rose
majestically into the sky. We stopped the
carriage and walked beneath them, past the
ruins of the castle, which were pale blue in
the moonlight. Chekhov suddenly said to
me:

"Do you know for how many years I shall
be read*? Seven."

"Why seven?" I asked.

"Seven and a half, then."

"No," I said. "Poetry lives long, and the
longer it lives the better it becomes — like
wine."

He said nothing, but when we had sat

[108]

down on a bench from which we could see the
sea shining in thie moonlight, he took off his
glasses and said, looking at me with his kind,
tired eyes :

"Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases
as 'the silvery distance,' 'accord,' or 'onward,
onward, to the fight with the powers of
darkness' !"

"You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch,"
I said, looking at his kind and beautiful face,
pale in the moonlight.

He was thoughtfully digging up little
pebbles with the end of his stick, with his
eyes on the ground. But when I said that
he was sad, he looked across at mfe, humor-
ously.

"It is you who are sad," he answered.
"You are sad because you have spent such a
lot on the cab."

Then he added gravely :

"Yes, I shall only be read for another seven
years; and I shall live for less — perhaps for
six. But don't go and tell that to the news-
paper reporters."

He was wrong there: he did not live for
six years. . . .

He died peacefully without suffering in

[109]

the stillness and beauty of a summer's dawn

I which he had always loved. When he was

/ dead a look of happiness came upon his face,

/ and it looked like the face of a very young

man. There came to my mind the words of
, Leconte de Lisle:

' Moi, je fenvie, au fond du tombeau calmf,et noir
j D'etre affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
/ La honte de penser et I'horreur d'etre un homme!

[no]

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