Chekhov wrote in part: "You are angry and insulted, but not because of my gibes. . . . The fact of the matter is that you, as a decent person, feel that you are living a lie; and he who has a guilty feeling always seeks justification outside himself. The drunkard attributes it to some grief in life. . .. Were I to cast my family on the mercy of fate, I would try to justify myself by my mother's character, my blood-spitting, and so forth. This is natural and pardonable. Such is human nature. But that you feel the falsity of your position is also true, for otherwise I would not have called you a decent person."
Chekhov insists that he fully understands his brother, and by way of proving it, he lists his virtues. Nikolai has only one failing and that is an utter lack of culture. All his unfortunate behavior derives from this fault.
"In my opinion," Chekhov writes, "people of culture must fulfill the following conditions:
"1. They respect the human personality and are therefore forbearing, gentle, courteous, and compliant. They don't rise up in arms over a misplaced hammer or a lost rubber band. They do not consider it a favor to a person if they live with hini, and when they leave, they do not say: 'It is impossible to live with you!' They will overlook noise, cold, overdone meat, witticisms, and the presence of strangers in their homes.
"2. They are sympathetic not only to beggars and cats. Their heart aches for things they don't see with the naked eye. . . .
"3. They respect the property of others and therefore pay their debts.
"4. They are pure of heart and fear lying like fire. They do not lie even in small matters. A lie is offensive to one who hears it and cheapens the speaker in his eyes. They don't pose, they conduct themselves on the street as they do at home, and they don't bluster in front of their lesser brethren. They are not garrulous and don't inflict their confidences where they are not sought. Out of respect for the ears of others, they are more often silent than not.
"5. They do not humble themselves in order to arouse sympathy in others. They do not play upon the heartstrings in order to excite pity and have a fuss made over them. They don't say: 'I'm misunderstood!' Or: 'I've wasted my efforts!' . . . because all this is striving after cheap effect, and is vulgar, stale, and false.
"6. They are not vain. They don't occupy themselves with such imitation diamonds as acquaintances with celebrities . . . with the rapture of the casual spectator at a salon, or the notoriety of public taverns. ... If they earn a kopeck, they don't make a hundred roubles' worth of fuss over it, and they don't boast that they can enter places which are closed to others. Sincere talent always remains in obscurity among the crowd; it does not care for exhibition. . . .
"7. If they have talent, they respect it. They will sacrifice their repose for it, and women, wine, and vanity. They are proud of their talent. . . .
"8. They develop an aesthetic taste. They cannot bring themselves to fall asleep in their clothes, look with unconcern at a crack in the wall with bedbugs in it, breathe foul air, walk across a floor that has been spat on, or feed themselves off a kerosene stove. They try as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual instinct. ... In these relations truly cultured people don't debase themselves. What they require of a woman is not just physical relief, nor horse sweat . . . nor the kind of cleverness that reveals itself in pretended pregnancy and endless lying. What they, and especially artists, need in women is freshness, charm, human feeling, and that capacity to be not a . . . [whore] but a mother. They don't swill vodka or sniff at cupboards, because they realize that they are not swine. They drink only when they are free, on special occasions. For they need to have mens sana in corpore sano.
"And so on. Such are cultured people. It is not enough to have read only Pickwick Papers and to have memorized a monologue from Faust in order to appear well bred and not fall below the circle in which you move. . . .
"What you need is constant work, day and night, incessant reading, study, and will power. Every hour is precious. . . .
"Have the courage to send it all to hell and make a decisive break for good. Come to us, smash the vodka bottle, and lie down with a book, even if it is only Turgenev, whom you haven't read.
". . . Get rid of your vanity, for you are no longer a child. You'll be thirty soon! It is time!"
"I'm expecting you. So are we all." (March [?], 1886.)
However much Nikolai may have been impressed by the mature wisdom of these moral preachments from his twenty-six-year-old brother, they do not appear to have had the slightest effcct on his deportment. Chekhov's belief in this kind of instruction grew out of his own prolonged struggle to educate himself, and the spiritual beauty he eventually achieved he hoped to instill in those around him. Yet, with his immense love of life and all its pleasures, it was no easy task, as he later admitted, to squelch the philistine aspects of his nature. In the light of his own behavior over his first literary success, he had every reason to feel self-conscious in admonishing Nikolai to eschew celebrities, not to exaggerate his earnings from art, and to hide his talent from the crowd. Indeed, I. L. Leontiev-Shcheglov, a young writer who soon became acquainted with Chekhov, declared: "In that first period of joyous youth and success, Chekhov revealed, at times, vexatious features — a studentlike thoughtless arrogance and even rudeness."
Such reactions were rare among the authors attracted to the tall, graceful Chekhov over 1886-1887. All were captivated by his appearance and manner. With his capacity to make friends, many, upon meeting him for the first time, felt that they had known him for years. As he talked his face grew animated, and he occasionally brushed back his shock of thick hair or toyed lightly with his youthful beard. To the fastidious Petersburger I. L. Leontiev-Shcheglov, Chekhov's careful dress had a touch of the provincial Muscovite. Simplicity dominated his movements and gestures. All were struck by his expressive eyes set in a long, open face with well-defined nose and mouth. His eyes seemed to reflect the wisdom and jollity so often found in his stories. A. S. Lazarev-Gruzinsky, another able young writer who began a long friendship with Chekhov at this time, thought him uncommonly good- looking. To test his opinion he asked a mutual friend, a beautiful woman, and she replied: "He is very handsome." V. G. Korolenko, a political exile recently returned from Siberia and a distinguished literary rival for whom Chekhov had the profoundest respect, visited him for the first time in 1887. He seemed "like a young oak," wrote
Korolenko, "thrusting its branches in various directions, still awkward and unformed, but in which one already divined the strength and total beauty of a great future growth." All found freshness, originality, and humor in his sparkling conversation as he talked in his deep baritone about art, literature, public figures, or just trifles. Sometimes he would improvise tales for their amusement, and when excited about a good theme that had popped into his head he would at once suggest to a literary friend that they collaborate on it.
There were few quiet evenings in the new house on Sadovaya- Kudrinskaya. At least one guest was usually present at dinner. Korolenko noted the friendly atmosphere as they sat around the samovar, the sympathetic smiles of Misha and Masha, and how Chekhov, always the center of attention, was "fascinating, talented, and with such an obviously happy outlook on life." Chekhov continued to set the family pace for warm, generous hospitality. His new friends now mingled with the old ones, such as Palmin, Gilyarovsky, and Shekhtel, and all got on well with the younger visitors of Masha and Misha. As Chekhov sat writing downstairs in his study, their thumping on the piano, singing, and noisy, youthful laughter overhead did not bother him. Rather, the sounds seemed to inspire his work. He loved music, and when his writing stuck and the house was quiet, he would ask Misha to play the piano, for the music seemed to lubricate his thoughts and imagination. "I positively cannot live without guests," he told Suvorin. "When I'm alone, for some reason I become terrified, just as though I were alone in a frail little boat on a great ocean." (June 9, 1889.) For he loved life more than the meaning of life, and in his lonely vigils its meaning and futility filled his thoughts with the unutterable pathos of human existence. More often than not he preferred to join the company upstairs, where he at once took over with his jovial antics. He might bring with him the latest price list of an apothecary shop and, striking a histrionic pose, offer rollicking comments, flecked with the risque, on all the items mentioned. Or he would flirt with Masha's girl friends and join in the singing and merrymaking. The ancient Grigorovich, tall, handsome, and immaculately dressed, attended one of these evenings. He quickly entered into the youthful spirit of the affair. Like some old sinner he outrageously courted the young ladies, stayed till the end of the party, and then gallantly offered to escort one of the prettiest girls home. According to Misha, Grigorovich reported on the event to Suvorin's wife: "Anna Ivanovna, my dear, if you only knew what takes place at the Chekhovs'!" And raising both hands to heaven, he exclaimed: "A bacchanalia, my dear, a real bacchanalia!"