And Chekhov's world of practical activities also began to increase in scope. His reading in belles lettres was now supplemented by scientific journals and books. Darwin's works he found at this time a positive pleasure. "I like him terribly," he declared. And he continued to busy himself with the preparation of his "History of Russian Medicine" and to talk over with Dr. Rozanov the possibility of editing a new medical periodical.
Not infrequently Chekhov visited the studio of a group of young artists, many of whom were to become famous. They were providing the decor and scenic painting of an exciting new opera project in Moscow. When the spirit moved him he would entertain them with stories, most of them sheer improvisations, full of infectious humor and saturated with striking observations and unusual images. Not only the contents, but Chekhov's skill as an actor — his deep and finely modulated voice, mimetic ability, and effective gesturing — kept the company of artists in gales of laughter. The more unrestrained Levitan, recalls one of them, rolled on the floor and kicked his feet in delight.
In that spirit of levity which characterized much of the correspondence between the brothers, Chekhov wrote Alexander, on January 4, 1886: "I'm still unmarried and have no children." Nevertheless, the question of marriage seemed to be very much on his mind during this year. He envied his young friends such as Dr. Rozanov who had entered into matrimony, and his letters at this time were dotted with curious, often unconnected references to the need for a wife. When the niggardly Leikin questioned him on how he spent his money, Chekhov forcefully declared: "On women! ! ! !" And in another letter he told the editor: "I ought not to be writing stories but falling in love." (February 16, 1886.) At one point it appears he was thinking of asking for the hand of Gavrilov's daughter, a step that would have delighted Chekhov's mother, who always hoped he would marry into the family of a rich merchant.1
There was also the "bouquet of pretty girl friends" his sister Masha brought home. And one of them — possibly a young lady by the name of Dunya Efros — became the object of his ardent pursuit, at least for a time. He confided in V. V. Bilibin, secretary of Fragments and a writer of ability with whom Chekhov had already struck up a friendly and frank correspondence: "Yesterday, while accompanying a certain young lady home, I proposed to her. I want to jump from the frying pan into the fire." (January 18, 1886.) Perhaps he turned to him because Bilibin had just become engaged and both he and his bride-to-be professed a warm interest in Chekhov's matrimonial intentions. "When I speak about women I like," he replied to one of their queries, "then I usually restrain my words ... a trait remaining with me since my school days. Thank your fiancee for her regards and concern and tell her that my marriage is probably — alack and alas! The censor does not permit it . . . My she is a Jewess. Courage is necessary for a wealthy Jewess to accept orthodoxy with its consequences — well, it is not necessary and not needed. And we have already quarreled over this. Tomorrow we'll make it up and in a week we'll fall out again. Vexed that religion is a problem, she has broken pencils and a photograph on my table — this is characteristic of her. She is a terrible spitfire. I shall undoubtedly part from her within one or two years after marriage."2
How serious were Chekhov's intentions is unknown, as in the case of other women who entered his life. In subsequent letters to Bilibin over the early months of 1886, his "passion" for the spitfire seemed to dwindle into a kind of joke. There is no news about his marriage, he writes, and then mentions his recent acquaintance with a charming French girl. And in his next letter: "I'm still not married. I've finally parted with my fiancee. She broke off with me. But I've not bought a revolver and don't keep a diary. Everything in this world is changing, mutable, approximate, and relative." Then, on March 11, he informed Bilibin that he would write no more about his spitfire. "Perhaps you
Chekhov mentioned the possibility of his marrying Gavrilov's daughter in a letter to his brother Alexander, March 24, 1888.
February 1, 1886. The passages in Chekhov's letters to Bilibin referring to this mysterious affair are, for the most part, deleted in the Soviet Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i pisem (Complete Works and Letters). However, they have been restored in the publication of these letters in Literaturnoe Nasledsb'o (Literary Heritage), Moscow, i960, LXVIII, 162-173- are right in saying that it is too soon for me to marry. I'm a bit giddy, even though I'm only a year younger than you. I still sometimes dream that I'm in school, terrified that the teacher will call on me when my lesson is unprepared. Obviously, I'm still a lad."3
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"I terribly love anything that is called an estate in Russia. This word has still not lost its poetic sound," Chekhov wrote Leikin on October 12 after the latter informed him, in 1885, that he had just bought an estate. Perhaps Anton was thinking of the charming idyls in Turgenev's tales or the lyric atmosphere of love and gracious living on country estates in Tolstoy's writings. This traditional pattern of existence of the landed gentry not only aroused in Chekhov a yearning to experience its pleasures, but also was identified with his striving to move outside the confining circle of a petty shopkeeper's son. Though purchasing an estate was unthinkable, he did begin to dream, with his customary unconcern in such circumstance for his limited income, of renting a summer house.
With brother Ivan's move to Moscow, his Voskrensensk house was no longer available for the summer. Chekhov at first explored the possibility of renting a house near Zvenigorod, but it turned out to be unavailable. Then he learned that the Kiselevs, who owned an estate at Babkino, less than four miles from Voskresensk, were willing to rent a house — Ivan, who had been a tutor in the family, had introduced them to the Chekhovs during one of their visits to Voskresensk. With the aid of an advance of a hundred roubles from Alarm Clock and a conviction that he could earn the remainder of the expenses over the summer months, Chekhov hired his first dacha.
Loaded down with books, papers, a samovar, pots and pans, and jars of preserves, the Chekhov family arrived at Babkino at one in the morning in early May 1885. They quietly drove past the Kiselev mansion to their smaller hired house at the other end of the park. The door was open. They lit the lamps and discovered to their delight that the accommodations surpassed all their expectations — large, comfortable rooms, spotlessly clean, and well furnished. Their kind hostess had supplied washstands with water and placed cigarette boxes, ashtrays, and matches 011 the table. After emptying their suitcases, they sat down