One of the most interesting reviews of the performance, published in the fastidious World of Art, declared, among much laudatory comment: "The success of The Sea Gull on the imperial stage is very notable. It testifies to the fact that Chekhov's period of struggle is past. As a dramatist Chekhov has become a classic and a traditional government theater has officially recognized him." 'Го be sure, World of Art had been assiduously pursuing Chekhov. Its editor, Sergei Diaghilev, who eventually became so celebrated in theatrical arts and ballet production, had been trying hard to persuade Chekhov to contribute an article on the deceased artist Levitan, and later Diaghilev invited him, without success, to assume the editorship of the literary section of the magazine. In his reccnt visit to Moscow, Chekhov had met Diaghilev, whose esthetic and ideological views, as well as those of his collaborators on the World of Art, were alien to him. On that occasion the two men had begun a discussion on whether a serious religious movement was then possible in Russia. But they had been interrupted, and Diaghilev now wrote to express the hope that they could renew their exchange of ideas on this theme.
Chekhov replied that the religious movement they had been discussing existed not in Russia as a whole, but only among the intelligentsia. "I'll not say anything about Russia, but the intelligentsia is only playing at religion and largely from a lack of anything else to do. The cultured part of our socicty has moved away from religion and is getting further and further from it no matter what people may say and however many religious-philosophical societies may be formed. Whether this is good or bad, I shall not undertake to decide; I'll only venture that the religious movement of which you write is one thing and the whole course of modern culture is another and one cannot place the second in any causal relation to the first. Modern culture is only the beginning of an effort in the name of a great future, an effort that will continue perhaps for tens of thousands of years, in order that humanity, if only in the remote future, may come to know the truth of the real God, that is, not guess at it or seek it in Dostoevsky, but know it just as clearly as we know that twice two makes four." (December 30, 1902.)
Earlier, in his diary, Chekhov had more pointedly summed up this eternal Russian questing for faith: "Between 'There is a God' and 'There is no God' lies a great expanse which the sincere sage traverses with much difficulty. The Russian knows only one of these two extremes, for the middle ground between them does not interest him. Hence, he usually knows nothing or very little."
Now, however, all Chekhov's intellectual and literary interests had to be subordinated to the inexorable logic of a wasting disease. His frail body, like a thermometer, responded to every fluctuation in temperature. Stormy December weather kept him indoors for days at a time, and coldness in the house prevented him from concentrating on his story The Betrothed or The Cherry Orchard. In his loneliness and despair his thoughts dwelt constantly on Olga and Moscow. "During this last visit," he wrote her after his arrival in Yalta, "you have become more precious to me. I love you more dearly than ever. Without you, going to bed and getting up is very boring, somewhat absurd. You have spoiled me terribly." (November 30,1902.)
Perhaps unconsciously Chekhov began to stress in his letters the little undone domestic chorcs which she ordinarily performed for him: his coat needed brushing, a button had fallen off it, the lining of his waiscoat was torn, his nails were uncut. What a pity, he lamented, that they had married late. For he found not a single defect in her, except that she occasionally had a bad temper, at which times, he said, it was dangerous to come near her. "If you only knew, darling, how clever you are!" he wrote her on Christmas Day. "Among other things, this is clear from your letters. It seems to me that if I could lie only half a night with my nose buried in your shoulder, I would cease to feel unwell. Whatever you say, I cannot live without you."
Olga's replies to his endearments were a mixture of despair over their separation and anticipated joy in their next meeting. Since the last time they had lived together the fear also beset Olga that the doctors had concealed something after her operation and that she could not have children. Patiently he kept reassuring her that he had talked the matter over fully with them and that all she needed was to wait a bit until she had recovered her strength fully after her illness. And when he could live with her the year round, he declared, "then you will have a little son who will break the crockery, pull your dachshund by the tail, and you will watch him and be comforted." (December 14, 1902.)
« 2 »
Friends that winter were appalled at the change which had taken place in Chekhov's appearance. He had grown still thinner, his face had an ashen color, his lips were bloodless, and his hair was turning gray. His heart action had weakened and the slightest physical activity was accompanied by shortness of breath. During January and February there were very few days when he felt really well, and for a time he was confined to bed with a severe attack of pleurisy. Olga became panicky over his cryptic and conflicting reports on his health, and she wanted him to be examined by her own physician. She had lost faith in Dr. Altschuler, who had written her that Chekhov's poor condition must again be attributed in part to his recent trip to Moscow. Chekhov assured Olga that Altschuler was only following the advice of the distinguished Moscow physician Shchurovsky, and he wrote that he had lectured Altschuler for upsetting her: "In the first place I fell ill in Yalta, not in Moscow, which is clearer to me than to him; and in the second place, I'll go to Moscow when I choose." (February 3, 1903.)
Chekhov's assurances, however, could not prevent Olga from again castigating herself for not being by the side of her husband during his illness, and as usual she blamed it all on her career. He tried hard to exorcise this ghost once for all. They were a model couple, he pointed out, for they did not interfere with each other's work. If she did not love the stage, it would be a different question. "You keep writing, my own, that your conscience torments you because you are in Moscow and not living with me in Yalta. But my dear, what are we to do? Just think of it sensibly: If you lived with me in Yalta all winter, your life would be ruined and I would be conscience-stricken, which would hardly be an improvement. I knew that I was marrying an actrcss — that is, when I married you I fully realized that you would spend the „winters in Moscow. I don't regard myself as injured or chcated one millionth bit; on the contrary, it seems to me that all is going well or as it must be, so darling don't worry me with your troubled conscience." (January 20, 1903.)
If he could only stroll about outside or work as hard as she did, Chekhov told his wife, he would feel infinitely happy. Not even the arrival of his literary friends among the usual spring visitors to Yalta could shake him from his lethargy. The news of Gorky's coming only reminded him that he would have to talk to his rather dull wife and the family governess and listen to their young son's yelling. "I've grown old!" he thought. Yet he entertained them — Gorky, Bunin, Kuprin, Mirolyubov, Fyodorov. Mirolyubov rccalls his talking rather bitterly about the hardships he endured as a young writer, uttering sharp opinions on contemporary authors, and saying defensively when his marriage with an actress was discussed: "Everything depended on me, and I demanded that she not give up the stage. What could she do here in Yalta?" And V. V. Vcrcsacv, a physician and writer like himself, whom Gorky introduced, remembered that Chekhov took an interest in social and political problems and grew indignant over recent brutal actions of the government and the stupidities of Nicholas II.