One of these pieces, My Jubilee (signed Prosaic Poet) portrays a character who whimsically offers to celebrate the termination of his writing career on having just received his second thousandth rejection.
This may well have been a wry hint to I. F. Vasilevsky, the sarcastic editor of Dragonfly, for failures had been accumulating in discouraging numbers. To make matters worse, Dragonfly's "Letter Box" rubbed salt in the wounds of authors who had failed. This department of the magazine was a cruel device that spared no would-be contributor's feelings. "You'll receive castor oil instead of an honorarium," it had warned one hopeful author. Now it was hardly less offensive to Chekhov. It rejected one of his manuscripts with: "A few witticisms don't wipe out hopelessly vapid verbiage." "The Portrait," it acidly declared, "will not be printed; it doesn't suit us. You've obviously written it for another magazine." And one tale was turned back as "Very long and colorless, like the white paper ribbon a Chinaman pulls out of his mouth." When, at the end of 1880, the "Letter Box" commented on Chekhov's latest contribution: "You don't bloom — you are fading. Very sad. In fact, it's impossible to write without some critical relation to the matter," he lost all patience and decided to break off relations with Dragonfly.
Since the manuscripts of the rejected pieces have not survived, it is impossible to evaluate the fairness of the biting criticism of Dragonfly's editorial office. In the case of one of these contributions, at any rate, an associate of the magazine is quoted as saying: ". . . the stupid editorship of Dragonfly rejected a tale of a certain Antosha Chekhonte ... and nothing more talented has as yet appeared in Dragonfly." However, if one may judge from Chekhov's manuscripts that were printed at this time, the editors were probably more right than wrong in their rejection of the others. For some of these published stories are feeble and despite their brevity betray the erudeness and wordiness of a novice.
Discouraged, Chekhov ceased writing for several months. Nor were his hopes of adding substantially to his income much encouraged by the payment he received for the last six pieces he published in
Dragonfly — the sum of thirty-two roubles, or about sixteen dollars.1
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After passing his final examination at the end of the first year in the School of Medicine — he did well in all subjects except anatomy — Chekhov left Moscow for Taganrog in July. Repeated difficulties over
1 At that time in Russia a rouble was worth approximately fifty cents, but its purchasing power, like that of the dollar in the 1880's, was at least four to five times greater than today.
his scholarship remittance compelled him to go there to straighten the matter out with the municipal authorities. Fortunately he was able to combine the trip with an extended stay at the nearby summer home of the Zembulatovs. The two medical students enjoyed impressing the local provincials with their mystery. In his room Chekhov mounted a human skull on a heap of books, and the "scientists" prevailed upon Zembulatov's young brother to collect a quantity of frogs and rats which they dissected in the garden while the peasants looked on in awe and fear. As usual, however, Chekhov was the life of the household. In a huge straw hat and flaming red shirt, he went fishing, made friends with the village priest, sang in the choir, and with his jokes and pranks kept everyone around him in a jolly, playful mood.
Over the fall and winter of his second year at the university, Chekhov turned his attention to dramatic writing. Brother Misha remembers being asked to make a clean copy of a very long four-act play the contents of which concerned "horse thieves, shooting, and a woman who throws herself under a train, etc." Chekhov took the manuscript to the actress Mariya Yermolova in the hope that she would use her influence to get it accepted for performance at the Maly Theater. The play was rejected, and apparently in disgust Chekhov destroyed the manuscript. However, a rough copy turned up some years after Chekhov's death. It is referred to in Russian as "A play without a title" and has been translated into English under several titles.2
The published draft reveals that Misha's memory of the play was somewhat faulty. Though there are melodramatic effects, this unusual effort of the young Chekhov contains an amazing mixture of comedy and tragedy. The various love affairs of the weak-willed hero Platonov are developed in a frame of reference that involves an appraisal of the social forces that dominated contemporary Russian life. Here Chekhov is the dramatist of action and of social criticism, and though the results are sometimes marred by theatrical cliches of the times, excessive details, and awkward structure, they do reveal a surprising degree of dramatic mastery for a youth of twenty-one, as well as a feel for dialogue and a striking use of stage possibilities. More significant, perhaps, is
2 Such as That Worthless Fellow Platonov, Don Juan in the Russian Manner, A Country Scandal, and Platonov. In recent years it has also been performed in France and Germany, as well as in England and the United States, although usually in a shortened form with various adaptations to suit the modern stage. It was also produced in Russia in 1959 and i960 under the title, Platonov.
that some of the characterizations, themes, and devices of this play were carried over to the later famous plays.3
To obtain a medical education, however, Chekhov had to earn money. In the summer of 1881 he took a brief vacation, again to Taganrog, but this time with Nikolai in order to attend the merry wedding of his uncle Ivan Morozov, an event that later provided the brothers with material for an amusingly illustrated caricature which offended his Taganrog relatives and friends. Upon his return to Moscow he once again tried his hand at short pieces for the humorous magazines. This time, Alarm Clock printed his offering, Saint Peter's Day, a kind of Pickwickian account of the zany behavior of a hunting party more bent on liquid spirits than on sport. And toward the end of the summer the Chekhov brothers had the good fortune to get in on the ground floor of a new illustrated literary and humorous magazine, Spectator, established by V. V. Davydov, a maverick entrepreneur filled with grandiose notions about publishing. Besides his occasional contributions, Alexander for a time worked as secretary to the editorial board; Nikolai illustrated whole issues with brilliant drawings; and in the course of the last four months of 1881, Chekhov placed eight pieces in Spectator.
As his activities with the humorous magazines increased, so did Chekhov's circle of friends drawn from the contributors to this lowly and ephemeral press. They were an odd lot of cross-grained reporters and writers, hardly noted for their abstemiousness, but occasionally quite talented. The lonely, stooped, pockmarked, unkempt poet of Alarm Clock, L. I. Palmin, was one of the oddest and most talented. A protector of abused animals, he was usually followed by a pack of lame and blind dogs when he went calling. He lived in poverty in a tiny hole with an old housekeeper who drank beer with him in the evening until they were both stupefied. Yet Palmin was a kind and generous friend and a man of principles whose libertarian views were regarded suspiciously by the authorities. He endeared himself to Chekhov, whose talent he was one of the first to recognize. They saw each other frequently during this period of Chekhov's literary apprenticeship, and he learned much from Palmin's precise sense of language. Writing to
3 Misha also reports that at about this time (1880-1883) Chekhov wrote another play, The Nobleman, which was forbidden by the censor, and a one-act play or vaudeville, The Clean-shaven Secretary with the Pistol. The manuscripts have never turned up, although a poem, Forgive Me, My Snow-white Angel, incorporated in the one-act play, has survived.