As the hours sped by, other members of the family were also kept informed of the fuss these Petersburgers were making over him. "Today," he wrote brother Ivan, "there will be an evening at Suvorin's where 'everyone' will be present, with Grigorovich at the head." (April 2j-May 2, 1886.) And to Alexander: "I couldn't be closer to Suvorin and Grigorovich." (May 10, 1886.)
Though the relationship was brashly exaggerated at this time, his "closeness" to Suvorin soon became real and highly significant in Chekhov's literary life. Like Leikin a self-made man of peasant background, tall Suvorin dwarfed the pudgy editor of Fragments physically, intellectually, culturally, and in the business of publishing. Again like Leikin, he had been something of a liberal in his youth, but in the course of working his way up in the ranks as a journalist and writer of tales and plays he had lost much of his liberalism. In the meantime he had become a very wealthy man. Under his direction, New Times had achieved the largest circulation of any newspaper in Russia. He also owned a publishing firm, a magazine, a string of bookshops, and he had a monopoly of the sale of books on railroads. Suvorin liked to think of New Times as a "parliament of opinion," and he did make an effort to attract the best writers no matter what their political views were. But the newspaper supported various reactionary causes, such as anti-Semitism, and in the 1880's and 1890's New Times was generally regarded by the intelligentsia as a mouthpiece of the government and an organ whose influence could be bought by the highest bidder. The nickname "What- Can-I-Do-for-You?" — which the eminent satirist Saltykov-Shchedrin had applied to New Times — stuck to it in the public mind.
At first, Suvorin obviously impressed Chekhov. Hitherto the young writer had known only piddling editors in Moscow who were afraid of critics, of the censors, and of other more important editors. Suvorin seemed afraid of nothing. He exuded power and authority, and talked most interestingly about literature and art. Though at this time Chekhov was dimly aware of Suvorin's reputation and that of his newspaper, he preferred to separate his friendship for an attractive personality from what people were saying about the reactionary views of his newspaper. And he appreciated the expansiveness with which Suvorin, so unlike the cautious Leikin, had handed him a large advance with no conditions attached to it. What he did not immediately grasp was that this was the expansiveness of a man who was accustomed to buying people without haggling. Suvorin had quickly recognized Chekhov's superb art, and wanted him as a regular contributor to New Times.
The excitement of Grigorovich's letter and the Petersburg reception subsided once Chekhov had settled down to the pleasant summer routine of Babkino. He had gone there directly from the northern capital. His modesty reasserted itself, and as though annoyed with his former behavior he wrote to Leikin that all the praise must have turned his head. The delightful society of the Kiselevs and their visitors helped to bring him back to a kind of reality he loved. Levitan — whose talent was growing not by the day but by the hour, Chekhov remarked — arrived to add his special flavor to the company. So, for a brief time, did Alexander — who had finally managed to obtain the means to leave Novorossiisk. Even the mysteriously vanishing Nikolai turned up for a few days. In honor of the occasion, Chekhov organized one of his uproariously funny mock trials, in which the erring Nikolai was the defendant — charged, characteristically enough, with infractions of the rules of a public house.
The main topic of conversation during the summer of 1886, however, was the appearance of Chekhov's second book, Motley Tales. Despite his assurance to Grigorovich that it was too late to sign the book with his own name, Chekhov, no doubt prompted by his newly aroused artistic ambitions, persuaded Leikin in time to place his real signature on the title page, in parentheses, beside his pseudonym. The sale of Motley Tales claimed his serious attention. He urged more advertising and, like any aspiring author, naively complained that no bookshop could sell his or anybody else's works if the public did not hear about them.
As the reviews of Motley Tales came in over the summer, Chekhov's hopes rose and fell. Though he affected a humorous indifference in his letters, the persistence with which he drew the attention of friends to the reviews, and particularly to the unfavorable ones, suggests how much he suffered. In reality, he had suddenly become very sensitive to criticism now that the Grigoroviches, Suvorins, and his other Petersburg literary devotees were watching his progress. On the whole, the reviews were favorable, but one by A. M. Skabichevsky, the well-known critic of the Northern Herald, amounted to a vicious personal diatribe. After a general attack of the book, in which, among other things, he damned Chekhov for making an unseemly noise with his stories and with writing the first thing that came into his head, the critic portrayed newspapermen — obviously including Chekhov among them — as writers who end like squeezed lemons and "die completely forgotten in a ditch." Chekhov never forgot this review. Toward the end of his life he remarked to Maxim Gorky: "For twenty-five years I've read criticisms of my stories, and I don't recall a single remark of any value nor have I heard a single piece of good advice. Once, however, Skabichevsky produced an impression on me — he wrote that I would die in a ditch, drunk."
Toothache and hemorrhoids during the latter part of the summer added to his misery over the reviews. He had little strength for attending to the sick peasants who came to him from miles around Babkino for free treatment. And the foul weather interfered with his favorite relaxations, fishing and mushroom gathering. Even the impending return to Moscow had its problems — for the family had given up their apartment on Yakimanka Street when they left for Babkino; they could no longer tolerate the noise in the rooms upstairs, which were frequently rented out for dance parties and wedding receptions. Masha, who had gone to the city at the beginning of August to search for a quiet place, soon wrote her brother that she had discovered a most desirable one, in fact a whole house, but that the rent was six hundred and fifty roubles annually and the owner demanded an advance payment of two months. This was more than Chekhov had ever paid for living quarters. Besides, he had written little that summer and was very short of ready cash. Putting aside his differences with Leikin, he now wrote him of his need: that he could get fifty roubles in Moscow, even more, "but I don't want to ask more, to hell with them; it is unpleasant to be obligated to them." Would Leikin add seventy to this and he would pay him back promptly? (August 20, 1886.)