« 5 »
Chekhov's visit to Petersburg jolted him out of his accustomed attitude that writing was solely a means of adding to his income. The knowledge that at least a few people of literary merit read his fiction with an eye to something other than mere entertainment awakened in him a fresh understanding of that lofty spiritual worth which obligated the artist to all. Three months after this visit he received his first letter from a nationally famous author, the venerable Grigorovich, whom he had met briefly in Petersburg. Gripped by the dawning awareness of a newly discovered destiny, Chekhov was moved almost to tears by the contents:
"Dear Sir, Anton Pavlovich:
"About a year ago I read by chance a story of yours in Petersburg Gazette; I do not recall its title. I remember only that I was struck by its qualities of outstanding originality and chiefly its remarkable accuracy and truthfulness in its descriptions of people and nature.
"Since then I have read everything that bore the signature of Chek- honte, although I was inwardly vexed at a man who held so poor an opinion of himself as to consider the use of a pseudonym necessary. While reading you, I continually advised Suvorin and Burenin to follow my example. They listened to me and now, like me, they do not doubt
4 February 14, 1886 — Literaturnoe Nasledstvo (Literary Heritage), Moscow, i960, LXVIII, 165.
that you have real talent — a talent which places you in the front rank among writers in the new generation.
"I am not a journalist nor a publisher. I can be useful to you only as one of your readers. If I speak of your talent, I speak out of conviction. I am almost sixty-five, but I still feel so much love for literature and follow its success with so much ardor and rejoice when I find in it something living and gifted, that I cannot refrain — as you see — from holding out both hands to you.
"But this is by no means all. Here is what I wish to add. By virtue of the varied attributes of your undoubted talent — the precise truth of your internal analysis, your mastery of description (the snowstorm, the night, the background in Agafya etc.), the plasticity of your feelings which in a few lines projects a complete picture (the clouds above the setting sun 'like ashes over dying coals,' etc.) —I am convinced that you are destined to create some admirable and truly artistic works. And you will be guilty of a great moral sin if you do not live up to these hopes. All that is needed is esteem for the talent which so rarely falls to one's lot. Cease to write hurriedly. I do not know what your financial situation is. If it is poor, it would be better for you to go hungry, as we did in our day, and save your impressions for a mature, finished work, written not in one sitting, but during the happy hours of inspiration. One such work will be valued a hundred times higher than a hundred fine stories scattered among the newspapers at various times. In one leap you will reach the goal and will gain the notice of cultivated people and then all the reading public.
"Why is it that you often have motifs with pornographical nuances at the basis of your tales? Truthfulness and realism not only do not exclude refinement but even gain from it. You have such a powerful sense of form and a feeling for the plastic, that you have no special need, for example, to speak about dirty feet with turned-in toenails or a clerk's navel. These details add exactly nothing to the artistic beauty of a description and only spoil the impression among readers of taste. Have the generosity to forgive such observations, for I resolved to make them only because I sincerely believe in your talent and with all my soul desire its fullest development.
"Several days ago I was told that you are publishing a book of tales. If it is to appear under the pseudonym of Che-khon-te, I beg you earnestly to telegraph the publishers to print it under your real name. After your recent stories in New Times and the success of The Hunter, the book will also have great success. It would be agreeable to have some assurance that you are not angry over my remarks, but that you accept them in the spirit that I write — not as an authority but out of the simplicity of an old heart."
Grigorovich's letter caused an emotional explosion in Chekhov. There, staring him in the face, was at last the recognition — and from an authority he could respect — which his whole being cried out for. Buried in his subconscious, perhaps ever since the days of his schoolboy scribbling, had been an image of himself as a literary artist. All the timidity, reticence, and modesty of his nature had prevented him from positively identifying himself with such a lofty ambition. And now Grigorovich, the celebrated author of two minor classics, The Village and Anton Goremyka, had told him, a former shopkeeper's son, that he had "real talent" and was destined to create "admirable and truly artistic works." It was like the longed-for answer to a prayer which he had never had the courage to utter. Three days later (March 28, 1886) Chekhov replied in perhaps the most emotional and outspoken letter of the several thousands that he wrote during his lifetime:
"Your letter, my kind, warmly beloved herald of glad tidings, struck me like a thunderbolt. I nearly wept, I was profoundly moved, and even now I feel that it has left a deep imprint on my soul. As you have smiled on my youth, so may God give you peace in your old age. I, indeed, can find neither words nor actions to show my gratitude. You know with what eyes ordinary people look upon such outstanding people like yourself, hence you may realize what your letter means for my self-esteem. It is worth more than any diploma, and for a beginning author it is an honorarium now and for the future. I am as in a daze. I lack the ability to judge whether or not I merit this great reward. I only repeat that it has overwhelmed me.
"If I have a gift which must be respected, then before the purity of your heart I confess that I have not respected it up to now. I felt that I had such a gift, but I had grown accustomed to regarding it as insignificant. Reasons of a purely external nature suffice to render one excessively mistrustful and suspicious toward oneself. Such reasons, as I now recall, I had in abundance. My whole family have always referred condescendingly to my work as a writer and have never ceased offering me friendly advice not to give up a real profession for scribbling. I have hundreds of friends in Moscow and among them a scorc of writers, yet I cannot recall a single one who would read me or recognize me as an artist. In Moscow there is a so-called 'Literary Circle.' Talented and mediocre people of all kinds and ages meet there once a week to gossip in the private room of a restaurant. If I were to go there and read even a bit of your letter, they would laugh in my face. During the five years of my roaming from newspaper to newspaper, I became infected with their own common views on the triviality of literature and soon grew accustomed to regarding my own work slightingly — so I simply sat down and wrote! That is the first reason. The second is that I am a physician and up to my neck in medicine. No one has lost more sleep than I have over the fable of hunting two hares at one time.
"I write all this to justify to you, in some small degree, my grievous sin. Hitherto I have treated my own literary work frivolously, carelessly, without thinking. I do not recall a single tale of mine over which I have worked more than a day, and The Hunter, which pleased you, I wrote in the bathhouse! I have written my stories the way reporters write up their notes about fires — mechanically, half-consciously, caring nothing about either the reader or myself. I wrote and tried in every way not to waste on my tales images and pictures which were clear to me and which, God knows why, I kept to myself and carefully concealcd.