In fact, the average reader of the humorous magazines would have detected little difference between the earliest miniature tales of Chekhov and those of many other contributors. In both cases the stories were slightly elaborated anecdotes with the same situations and characters and with pretty much the same type of humor. Chekhov, no less than his rivals, aimed at a standard form of entertainment. Yet an innovating artistic power is evident in a few of his contributions during these first two years — a poetic touch of nature description; sharp, realistic dialogue; a groping for the human being beneath the stereotyped surface features of the drunken merchant or the forlorn damsel desperately anxious for marriage.
These artistic gropings developed with surprising rapidity once Chekhov found a secure market for his writing in Leikin's Fragments and received the friendly encouragement, however misdirected, of its editor. He had published only thirty-two pieces in 1882, at the end of which year he met Leikin. The very next year his total soared to the phenomenal figure of more than a hundred and twenty pieces, most of them appearing in Fragments. With a sense of gratitude for the part Leikin played in his literary career, Chekhov wrote him later: "Fragments is my baptismal font and you are my godfather." (December 27, 1887.)
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Leikin, as the first writer of consequence he had met, impressed the youthful Chekhov. A forerunner in developing the miniature humorous tale, his published collections sold well. In company he could be counted upon to let drop the fact that Alexander III had read a volume of his stories to members of his family. Besides, Leikin owned and edited the most successful and the cleanest humorous magazine.
A self-made man, coming from a family of petty traders, Leikin had known poverty in his youth before making his mark as a writer in the Sixties. He had a small gift for realistic description and the precise use of words, but his success as a humorist had killed his taste for any other kind of literature. In turning his writing entirely into an article of trade, the tight-fisted Leikin had not lost his soul, but he .had lost any capacity he may have had for discriminating between the appearance and substance of art. "He is a good, harmless man but bourgeois to the marrow," Chekhov described Leikin once he had learned to know him better. (November 3, 1888.)
At the beginning of their association, Leikin made it clear to Chekhov that contributions to Fragments must follow a few simple rules: without exception, they must be humorous, no longer than a thousand words, concerned with topical themes, and avoid the risque. Above all, serious subjects were taboo. The censor's awful blue pencil could ruthlessly ruin a whole issue. Even a harmless word such as "cockade" would be stricken because it might insult the honor of the Imperial Army, and "baldheaded" was expunged because of possible reflections on the bald head of Alexander III. Leikin acted as a kind of preliminary censor and often cut out what he thought would be offensive words, passages, or ideas. Despite this treatment, not a few of Chekhov's contributions to Fragments fell afoul of the official censor.
In the early stages of their extensive correspondence, Chekhov obviously tried to please and even to flatter Leikin. He praised the handling and intelligence of Fragments; soon they were on familiar enough terms for Chekhov to feel free to ask small favors and to recommend other writers. On his part, Leikin quickly recognized that he had an invaluable and most versatile contributor in Chekhov.
The editor's immediate concern was to bind the writer securely to Fragments and, particularly, to pump copy out of him at the rate of at least one piece for each weekly issue, a rate that Chekhov maintained and even increased at times. With editorial insight and not a little exaggeration — since Chekhov was then only twenty-three — Leikin declared: "You write me about some timidity or other, that you are sometimes afraid to send a tale. . . . What are you afraid of? You are an experienced author and you have already adequately shown what you can do. Further, you have a literary nose, you feel when and precisely what is needed, and this is the important thing." But the main demand was for copy, swiftly and on time, and all considerations of art were sacrificed to this newspaper mentality. "You must write more," he urged. When Chekhov, with a new feeling of pride in his work, began to take pains, Leikin wrote: "Here, for example, is what occupies much of your time: Why do you rework your talcs? Who does this today?" Yet whenever Chekhov deviated from what Leikin considered the unalterable humor pattern of Fragments, the manuscript would be firmly rejected. However, in technical matters of style and emphasis, where Leikin's extensive experience as a writer could be helpful, Chekhov paid attention to his advice and comments.
A combination of need and Leikin's persistent pressure prodded Chekhov to make superhuman efforts in feeding the hungry maw of Fragments. In addition to the various genres he performed in, he undertook, at Leikin's insistence and against his own better judgment, the purely journalistic task of the column "Fragments of Moscow Life." This appeared twice a month and in all he contributed about fifty columns before he gave it up in spite of Leikin's plea that he continue. At first Chekhov used the pseudonym Ruver, but when Moscow friends discovered his authorship, he adopted the signature Ulysses, since it was essential to preserve anonymity in a kind of writing that could involve him in personal difficulties. Chekhov's letters register his complaints about the onerous obligation he had assumed and his conviction that he had no real capacity as a columnist. After wandering about the city all day searching for material, he would return home weary and with ragged nerves to sit up late and write his column. Then, in order to meet the deadline, he had to take the copy to the Nikolaevsky Station to catch the early morning train to St. Petersburg.
The whole city was his preserve — the manners and morals of Muscovites, their theater, music, literature, and the press, court trials and civic events. The material was rich enough, but in handling it he had to subscribe to the light, humorous, satiric demands of Fragments. Attack and not praise was the order of the day: "Shoot both to the left and right and wound all unmercifully," ordered Leikin. Serious subjects could never be treated seriously, and pressing problems had to give way to those of illiteracy of advertisements, cockroaches in the bread, the shameless behavior of undertakers, and the filthy toilets of the Maly Theater. Much as Chekhov disliked this task, his experience in writing "Fragments of Moscow Life" unquestionably broadened and deepened his relation to reality and tremendously sharpened his powers of observation. The extraordinary thematic scope and unexampled richness in situations and characters in the total volume of Chekhov's stories certainly reflect the influence of this early experience as a columnist.
As time passed and Chekhov's relations to Fragments became secure, he began to question its practices and Leikin's editorial attitude. Though these criticisms arose partly out of his sincere interest in the success of the magazine, they were also prompted by an emerging artistic sense that led him to revolt against some of the crudities of the fiction genre of humorous magazines. He complained of being forced to write to a prescribed limit of a thousand words a story. He measured this out, he told Leikin, by the four sides of the small notepaper he wrote on, and if he had to run over he was assailed by doubts. Promising not to take advantage of the liberty, he pleaded for more space. "... I bless you to twelve hundred, fourteen hundred, or even fifteen hundred words," Leikin replied, "if only you'll unfailingly send me something for every issue."