Far from being offended, Chekhov was vastly amused. P. P. Gncdich quotes a conversation he had with Chekhov at this time about Tolstoy: " 'You know, he does not like my plays — he swears that I'm not a dramatist! There is only one thing that comforts me,' he added. " 'What's that?'
" 'He said to me: "You know, I cannot abide Shakespeare, but your plays are even worse." '
"And the restrained, calm Anton Pavlovich threw back his head and roared so that his pince-nez fell from his nose."
Tolstoy's foibles and extreme opinions did not lessen Chekhov's reverence for the all-pervasive humanity of this colossus of a genius. In the letter to Menshikov previously mentioned, Chekhov praised the recently published Resurrection as a remarkable work of art. With unerring critical insight he singled out a section dealing with the secondary characters as the novel's highest achievement — "my heart beat furiously, it was so good," he wrote. But the relations of the hero and heroine he dismissed as uninteresting, and the theological device of the conclusion as a contrived one. And in this same letter he tells of his anxious efforts to ascertain the nature of Tolstoy's recent illness. "His illness frightened me and kept me in a state of tension. I dread Tolstoy's death. If he should die, there would be a big empty place in my life. To begin with, I have never loved any man as I do him; I am an unbeliever, but of all the faiths I consider his the closest to my heart and the one most suited to me. In the second place, as long as there is a Tolstoy in literature, then it is easy and agreeable to be a writer; even the realization that one has done nothing and will do nothing is not so dreadful, since Tolstoy will do enough for all. His accomplishment is a justification of the hopes and expectations built upon literature. In the third place, Tolstoy takes a firm stand, lie has immense authority, and as long as he remains alive, bad taste in literature, any vulgarity — whether it be insolent or tearful — all coarsc, irritating vanities will be kept at a distance, deep in the shadows. His moral authority alone is capable of maintaining the so-called literary moods and trends at a certain high level. Without him writers would be a shepherdless flock or a hopeless mess, of which one could make neither head nor tail." (January 28, 1900.)
Despite various promises to editors, Chekhov wrote no fiction in 1900. The desire was not dormant but he seemed to lack the energy to apply himself. Much of his working time was expended on the Marx edition, the second volume of which appeared this year; and he saw the third through the proofreading stage. The humor in these early talcs Tolstoy compared favorably with that of Gogol. But in general he tended to compare Chekhov to Maupassant. He preferred Maupassant, because the French writer distilled greater joy out of life; but Chekhov, he told A. B. Goldenveizer, "is cleaner than Maupassant . . . '1Ъе illusion of truth in Chekhov is complete, his pieces produce the impression of a stereoscope. It seems as though he is flinging words around in any fashion, but like an impressionist artist he achieves wonderful results with the strokes of his brush."
Though Chekhov had formerly been excited over translations of his stories, he now seemed pleased with a French version of Peasants only because his friend, the famous artist Repin, illustrated it. But to Olga Vasilieva, who wished to translate a selection of his best stories for British periodicals, he wrote in a discouraging tone: "It seems to me that I would have such little interest for the English that it is a matter of indifference to me whether or not I'm published in an English magazine." (August 9,1900.)
Although he could find little time to concentrate on his own writing, he continued his practice of devoting plenty of it to the efforts of beginners. The writer and editor M. K. Pervukhin relates that he witnessed a conference which Chekhov had with a young hopeful at Yalta. Chekhov offered a complete review of all twenty stories in the manuscript, citing separate passages and dwelling on single phrases. It must have taken him several full working days, Pervukhin estimated, to prepare himself for this review, yet he knew that not one of the tales was worth publishing. When Pervukhin later remonstrated over the many hours expended on this effort, Chekhov retorted: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Is it possible to behave otherwise toward the work of beginners? Do you want me to throw the manuscript in the young man's face? Maybe he is stupid, unsuccessful, ridiculous, but has he not put his heart into this work? Would you regard it proper to snub him?" This attitude, countered Pervukhin, seemed hopeless. "And it also seems so to me," replied Chekhov. "But what if you and I are mistaken? No, your way out is impossible! He turns to us for the truth, and it would be disgraceful to ignore him."
Indeed, the young writers then, as the brilliant novice A. I. Kuprin expressed it, were beginning to be drawn to Chekhov as to a magnet. The young people who clustered around the old liberal Goltsev at Russian Thought dedicated two weeks to a special study of The Sea Gull and Uncle Vanya, for they found in these plays an intellectual content and the hope at least of discovering a way out of the impasse of Russian life. That winter, when it was proposed to set up a village library in honor of Goltsev on the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of Russian Thought, Chekhov characteristically suggested that instead a scholarship be offered in Goltsev's name to provide for the complete education of any "cook's son" who evinced a hatred for the liberal editor's opponents. Masha was present at the celebration banquet in Moscow, which was attended by many distinguished guests. She thought it boring and was annoyed that champagne was spilled on her new dress. But when Lavrov proposed a toast to the absent Chekhov, and the whole company arose, extending their glasses to her, and shouted a request that their greetings be transmitted to her brother, Masha forgot her displeasure and, amidst applause and cries of bravo, offered thanks in Chekhov's name.
« з p
Though the final touches on the new Yalta house seemed endless, it took on a finished appearance during the winter of 1900 when Chekhov's mother settled there. The efforts of the efficient Masha during her long visit that winter also helped to put things in order. The simply furnished study had an air of refinement about it. Its huge window — the rounded top was set with stained glass — provided a view of the garden, the valley of the Uchan-Su River, a circle of Yalta houses, and the sea beyond. Over the plain fireplace was Levitan's landscape, and the walls were adorned with portraits of Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Grigorovich. Above the large table desk, covered with many tiny carved figures in wood and stone, hung a printed sign: "Please do not smoke," although it never occurred to Chekhov to draw it to the attention of unseeing offenders no matter how much their smoking provoked his coughing. Off the study was his bedroom, girlish-looking in its whiteness and neatness.
Chekhov's main concern, however, was to transform this patch of wasteland that he had bought into a thing of beauty. Despite the clouds of thick dust that arose from the road beyond the fence he had built and the constant lack of water in the well which had been dug, the grounds and garden in the rather small enclosure had begun to take on an attractive appearance. Apart from the many fruit trees he planted, he experimented, with varying success, on a mixture of northern and semitropical trees — birch, poplar, cypress, eucalyptus, and palm. His avenue of acacias grew up incredibly fast. And he accounted it a triumph that of the seventy rose bushes he had planted the previous autumn, only three had failed to take root, and that he had successfully introduced camellias to Yalta. He had placed wooden seats, which he intended to paint, all about the garden and had supervised the erection of three tiny bridges over the brook than ran through the property. "It seems to me," he happily wrote Menshikov, "that if I had not been a writer, then I could have been a gardener." (February 20, 1900.)