"What first drove me to take a critical view of my writing was a very charming and, as far as I can judge, a sincere letter from Suvorin.5 I began to think of writing some purposeful piece, but nevertheless I did not have faith in my own literary direction.
"And now, all of a sudden, your letter arrived. You must forgive the comparison, but it had the same effect on me as a government order 'to get out of the city in twenty-four hours'! That is, I suddenly felt the absolute necessity for haste, to get out of this rut, where I am stuck, as quickly as possible.
"I agree with you in everything. The cynical effects which you attribute to me I myself felt when I saw The Witch in print. They would not have been there if this tale had been written in three or four days instead of one.
"I will free myself from hurried work, but not just yet. It is not possible to get out of the rut into which I have fallen. I do not refuse
5 After Chekhov's death, Suvorin suggested to Masha, who intended to prepare an edition of her brother's letters, that he give her all of Chekhov's letters to him in return for his to Chekhov. This was done; subsequently, Suvorin's letters disappeared. It is possible that he feared the publication of intimate matters and expressions of liberal political opinions in his many letters to Chekhov.
"all my hopes lie entirely in the future" / 99
to suffer hunger, for I have already gone hungry, but it is not a question of myself alone. I devote my leisure to writing, two to three hours a day and a little at night — that is, only time enough for small undertakings. In the summer, when I shall have more leisure and fewer expenses, I'll settle to work in earnest.
"I cannot place my own name on my book because it is too late; the cover design is ready and the book is printed. Many Petersburgers apart from yourself advised me not to spoil the volume by using a pseudonym, but I did not listen to them, probably out of vanity. I do not like the book at all. It is a hotch-potch, an untidy accumulation of student pieces marred by the censorship and the editors of humorous magazines. I believe that many, in reading it, will be disappointed. If I had known that I was being read and that you were watching me, I would not have let the book be published.
"All my hopes lie entirely in the future. I am only twenty-six. Perhaps I shall manage to do something, although time passes quickly.
"Please excuse this long letter and do not blame a man who, for the first time in his life, has dared to pamper himself with the great pleasure of a letter to Grigorovich.
"Send me, if possible, your photograph. I have been so encouraged and stirred up by you that I ought to write you not a mere sixteen pages but a whole ream. May God give you happiness and health, and please believe in the sincerity of a profoundly respectful and grateful A. Chekhov."
Part II
FIRST FAME AS A WRITER 1886-1889
chapter vii
"Schiller Shakespearovich Goethe"
Praise is a devious destroyer of modesty, and at the age of twenty-six Chekhov's innate humility of common sense succumbed for a time to old Grigorovich's "discovery" of his talent. Letters went flying in all directions. With that determination of the ex-shop boy to impress his Taganrog shop-owning uncle, Mitrofan, Chekhov began by telling him of his literary earnings from New Times: "Yesterday I received from this newspaper 232 roubles for three average-sized tales, printed in three issues. It's a miracle! I simply do not believe my own eyes. And the small Petersburg Gazette gives me 100 roubles a month for four stories." (Only a week before he had pleaded with Bilibin, secretary of Fragments, to send him money, for he had only four roubles in his pocket.) "But this is not so important as the following," he continued. Then he related the story of Grigorovich's long letter, emphasizing this author's importance as a "great writer." The sample he quoted includes the praise ". . . You have a real talent — a talent which places you in the front rank among writers in the new generation." And after quoting from his reply, Chekhov added: "My answer delighted the old man. I received from him another and a still longer letter and his photograph." Then Chekhov, who years later modestly refused to contribute a biographical introduction to an edition of his works, declared to his uncle: "If, God grant, I describe my life in print in the course of the next ten to fifteen years, I will indicate my gratitude to you before all the reading public; but now I can only press your hand." Perhaps a bit ashamed of this degree of self-glorification, he cautiously mentioned at the end of his letter that it should be shown only to members of his uncle's family. (April 11, 1886.)
The glorious story had already been told for Bilibin's benefit. Since he was corresponding with an accomplished writer, however, Chekhov tempered Grigorovich's eulogy with a grain of self-depreciation: "He points out that I have real talent (and he underlines this), and as evidence of my artistic ability, he cites passages from my tales. He writes warmly and sincerely. Of course, I'm happy, although I feel that Grigorovich has gone a bit too far." (April 4, 1886.)
To Brother Alexander, still sadly stewing in his hated post as a customs official in Novorossiisk, Chekhov now in turn played the part of a kind of heavy-handed Grigorovich. The batch of stories which Alexander had sent him were all roundly condemned, with one exception. "Did you write them in a single day?" he asks. "For Christ's sake, esteem yourself. Do not set your hand to anything when your brain is lazy! Don't write more than two tales a week, cut and polish them carefully so that your work will bear the aspect of work. Do not invent sufferings that you've never experienced, and do not paint pictures you never saw, for a lie in a tale is even more boring than in a conversation. ... I conclude this sermon with a quotation from a letter which I recently received from Grigorovich: 'All that is needed is esteem for the talent which so rarely falls to one's lot . . . save your impressions for a mature, finished work, written not in one sitting. ... In one leap you will reach the goal and will gain the notice of cultivated people and then all the reading public.'" And with a swagger he concludes: "Leikin has gone out of fashion. I have taken his place. For in Petersburg now I'm in the height of fashion and I would not want to see you left behind." (April 6, 1886.)
In this letter to Alexander, Chekhov mentioned that he would soon go to Petersburg to meet Grigorovich, who had a government sinecure, knew many ministers, and hence might help his brother obtain a position in the capital. The literary luminaries there now attracted him like a magnet. (He perhaps wondered if they regarded him in the way Grigorovich did.) There was the usual difficulty of scraping the money together for the trip. He was spitting blood again and the subsequent physical weakness cut down his output of tales. Yet he was afraid to submit himself to an examination by one of his medical colleagues. Though he confessed that he ought to go south, he went north and arrived at Petersburg on April 24 for a stay of two weeks.
After renting a room on the fashionable Nevsky Prospekt and buying new shoes, pants, and an overcoat, Chekhov was off to the editorial office of Fragments. There the receptionist greeted him like a bridegroom and praised him as the magazine's best contributor. Bilibin in- traduced him to his wife, took him for a walk along the Neva, then for a boat trip on the river, and then to Dominique's for drinks and a snack. Next, to the Petersburg Gazette editorial office and from there to New Times, in whose Saturday Supplement had already appeared his three long tales Requiem, The Witch, and Agafya, which were being excitedly discussed in literary circles. Here he had his first intimate chat with the great editor. " 'Keep trying, young man!' Chekhov quoted Suvorin in a letter to his younger brother Misha. 'I'm satisfied with you, but go to church more often and don't drink vodka. Breathe!' I exhaled. Suvorin, not noticing any smell, turned and shouted: 'Boy!' A youngster appeared to bring me tea with little lumps of sugar and without a saucer. After this the esteemed Mr. Suvorin gave me money and said: 'You must take care of your money. . . . Pull up your trousers!' " On the way out Chekhov ardently squeezed the hand of the attractive young lady who sent him payments for his stories in New Times. "Oh miracle of miracles!" he exclaimed to Misha. "Who would have thought that such a genius would emerge from a privy?" (April 25, 1886.)