The snowball of praise that old Grigorovich had started rolling had now become an avalanche, or so it seemed to Chekhov. The situation began to depress him. He complained of the numerous requests to contribute to publications, of his many social invitations, and of the exhaustion he experienced in writing at high pressure under these circumstances. "My work," he wrote Uncle Mitrofan, "is nerve-racking, disturbing, and involves strain. It is public and responsible, which makes it doubly hard. Every newspaper report about me agitates both me and my family. . . . My tales are read at evening public recitations, and wherever I go people point at me . . ." (January 18, 1887.)
Perhaps with old Grigorovich's advice in mind, Chekhov now began to think of dropping the humorous magazines, although at this time he could not pay his first month's dues to the Literary Fund. He had already begun to cut sharply his contributions to Fragments, and with some exasperation he wrote Alexander about an intended visit of its editor: "I await Leikin with a sinking heart. He is once again wearing me down. There is real discord between me and this Quasimodo. I've rejected extra and deadline writing and he sends me tearful letters, blaming me for a falling-off of subscribers, for betrayal, duplicity, and so forth. He asserts that he receives letters from subscribers with the question: 'Why doesn't Chekhonte write?' ... I would be happy not to work for Fragments, for the trifle has now become repulsive to me. I desire to work on a larger scale or not at all." And in despair he demanded: "My soul, please, tell me: when will I be able to live like a human being — that is, when will I be able to work and not be in want?" (January 17, 1887.)
The strains that had been building up in Chekhov during the past year, since receiving Grigorovich's letter, found their expression in a feeling of frustration in his life and in his writing. Though many kept telling him that he should write less, he saw no other way of earning the money that he and his family needed. Many wealthy admirers received him with respect, he rather cynically told Shekhtel, but it had never occurred to anyone to make him a present of a thousand or two thousand roubles. Yet he knew as well as Grigorovich that he could not preserve the integrity of his art and regularly dash off three to four stories a week. Though he enjoyed the praise he had been receiving on the basis of a few first-rate tales in Motley Stories and New Times, he had no illusions about either the exaggerated nature of this reclame or its ephemeralness if longer works of a deeper, more artistic and enduring quality were not forthcoming. Readers were already seeking for "tendencies" in his writing, for some indication of his position on the moral, social, and political problems that beset the country. They were expecting something "big," and the expectation tormented him.
Chekhov's understandable reaction to this crisis in his affairs was to flee, to get away so that he could think calmly about his future and his art undistracted by family, fame, and pressures. The idea for his first long story, The Steppe, which he designed for publication in one of the monthly literary periodicals, may also have entered into his decision, for upon first announcing it to Suvorin, he wrote: "So that I won't dry up, at the end of March I'm going to travel South, to the Don region, in Voronezh Province, and so forth, where I'll greet the spring and refresh my memory on things that have already begun to grow dim. It seems to me that by doing this my work will get along in a more lively manner." (February 10, 1887.)
A telegram from Alexander on March 8 that he was seriously ill brought Chekhov to Petersburg in a hurry. It was a wretched trip and his only distraction on the train was reading "dear sweet Anna" (Anna Karenina). He found Alexander's wife much more ill than her husband. A typhus epidemic had struck and to Chekhov Petersburg seemed like a city of the dead, with funerals and people in mourning everywhere. He visited Grigorovich, who was also seriously ill. The old man embraced and wept over him. Chekhov feared he would die, which "will be an irreplaceable loss to me," he wiote Mariya Kiseleva. (March 17, 1887.) The only pleasant result of this dreary business was a talk with Suvorin which lasted from nine in the evening till one in the morning, "a conversation interesting in the highest degree," he told his brother Misha. In its course Suvorin offered to publish a volume of his tales, and gave him an advance of three hundred roubles on future stories. (March 13, 1887.)
Chekhov was delighted with this unexpected piece of good fortune. The money made possible his projected trip to the South. Now nothing would keep him from going. Nearly every letter he wrote at this time affirmed his determination to set out, as though he were afraid that something would turn up to prevent the journey. He hurried off a list of his tales to Suvorin for the proposed book and appointed Alexander to take care of all the publishing details. "For such a job," he jokingly wrote, "I'll permit you to put on your visiting card: 'Brother of the Distinguished Author.'" (March 19, 1887.) And he asked him for letters of introduction to people in Taganrog. Yet, as the time of his departure grew near, a strange feeling of loneliness came over Chekhov at the thought of separating from his family and friends. Letters to Alexander, Leikin, Shekhtel, Mariya Kiseleva, and others invariably conclude with the most pressing requests to be sure to write him frequently while he
was away. He'd need their letters. He left Moscow on April 2, 1887.
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Easter was approaching. Just ten years ago at this time young Chekhov had set out from Taganrog on his first trip to Moscow. Now he was returning to his native town which he expected to use as a base for trips into the Don steppe. The train poked along nearer to Taganrog and his excitement mounted as with eager eyes he picked up familiar landmarks. Soon the broad expanse of the sunlit sea hove in sight, the Rostov line twisting beautifully, the jail, the poorhouse, St. Mikhail's Church with its clumsy architecture, and then the station. Uncle Mitro- fan's seventeen-year-old-son, Yegorushka, dressed to kill in hat, gloves, and cane, was there to meet him. A carriage conveyed them in state to Uncle Mitrofan's.
"Why it's — it's Antoshichkal" exclaimed his aunt. "Da-ar-ling!"
Chekhov wrote accounts of his trip in lengthy and fascinating diarv- letters to his sister, who read them to the family and then carefully preserved them as source material for future stories. Grateful though he was for the hospitality of his uncle's overheated house, much about it annoyed him — the "blah-blah-blah" of his finicky aunt; the fat slob of a servant; stinking water in the washbasin; cheap prints on the walls; gray napkins, and the undersized couch on which he slept, with its stiff and stuff)' pink quilt. The change of diet induced a severe case of diarrhea, and, running to the toilet at night, "miles off, beside a fence," near which rascally pranksters lurked, was "more dangerous to life and limb than taking poison." Only two persons in Taganrog, he observed, permit themselves the luxury of a chamber pot: the mayor and one of the wealthy Greeks. "All the rest must either pee in bed or take a trip to God's outdoors."
Pious Uncle Mitrofan, however, Chekhov found as delightful and hospitable as ever. A revered elder of the church, he arrayed himself in his uniform, put on his big medal, and assisted at the Easter services. The Taganrog cathedral, reeking of incense, the procession of ikon bearers, and the music of the choir must have brought back to Chekhov unhappy memories of his childhood when he was compelled to attend these interminable religious ceremonies and, under the stem eye of his father, sing in the choir with his brothers.