But in this new kind of fiction he had his worries, he told Grigorovich. Since he was not in the habit of writing at length, he continually feared to write superfluously. The pages were crowded. Instead of an artistic impression of the steppe, there was danger of a dry, detailed inventory of impressions, a kind of steppe encyclopedia. Yet "You must spoil before you spin," concluded Chekhov. "And I don't quail." He was sure that his story would open the eyes of his rivals and reveal to them the wealth of motifs and poetry in the Russian steppe.
As though fearful of displeasing this persistent advocate of large canvases in fiction, Chekhov hastened to inform Grigorovich that he also had in mind a full-length novel. It would involve a whole district, he explained, "domestic life, several families . . . common people, intellectuals, women, love, marriage, children . . ." (January 12, 1888.) Once again, Chekhov was indulging in his dream of creating a comprehensive picture of Russian life which in effect would amount to a synthesis of the innumerable genre pictures of his short stories. He now had a tentative title for it: Tales from the Life of My Friends. Plesh- cheev, too, was told of this vast plan and he promptly wrote back: "I await your novel like manna from heaven ... for I now regard you as the greatest artistic force in Russian literature." And Chekhov worked away at this projected novel over parts of 1888, but the ultimate synthesis still evaded him.
In striving to rise above the level of his newspaper stories, Chekhov appreciated the friendship and encouragement of older literary artists. Apart from his contacts with young authors, such as Leontiev-Shcheglov, Lazarev-Gruzinsky, Yezhov, Barantsevich, all of whom regarded him as a teacher rather than an equal, Chekhov lacked serious and mature literary confidants among his large circle of Moscow friends. To Koro- lenko, who had likewise urged him to do something formidable for Northern Herald, he wrote: ". . . there are no people around me who either value my sincerity or have a claim on it." (January 9, 1888.) And with obvious eagerness he told him of his hopes and worries about The Steppe, in which he could not seem to convey a picture where all the details would merge into one whole, like stars in the heavens.
Except for a few days' visit to Babkino, Chekhov slaved over The Steppe all through January. Though he promised himself a drunken diversion on Saint Tatyana's Day, this festive Moscow University occasion turned out to be boring and wretched, for no friends visited to get drunk with him — which was perhaps fortunate, for he had no money to entertain them.
The Steppe was his first experience with a prolonged effort on a lengthy story (his youthful romance, An Unnecessary Victory, and his early crime novel, Drama at a Hunting Party, he had dashed off piecemeal). But The Steppe he valued as art: ". . . it is my chef d'eeuvre, I'm unable to do better," he wrote Lazarev-Gruzinsky, who, like nearly all his friends, was regularly kept posted on this work in progress. (February 4, 1888.) Despite his natural tendency to compress scenes and situations, such as the brilliant description of the storm which cost him a week of effort, the story grew longer and to his surprise he eventually found that he had written what amounted to some eighty printed pages. If he was conscious of its merits as he worked away, he had many moments of depression over real or fancied failures. Often he declared to friends that it was dull; that the subject was too limited and of little significance; that there was no romance in it — "a tale without a woman is like a steam engine without steam," he told Leontiev-Shcheglov. (January 22, 1888.) Yet he wrote The Steppe, he declared, the way a gourmet eats woodcock — not in haste, and with thought and feeling.
Chekhov's first experience at preparing a story for one of the highbrow magazines alternately flattered and vexed him. He complained to Pleshcheev that these fashionable journals, ruled by literary cliqucs, were steeped in a kind of party boredom and were oppressive. It was' only a snobbish prejudice, he decided, that drove authors to contribute to them. "Is it not all the same," he asked the poet Ya. P. Polonsky, who wrote for both the cheap press and the thick magazines, "whether the nightingale sings in a huge tree or in a bush?" (January 18, 1888.) The truth of the matter was that his time-consuming concentration on The Steppe deprived him of the quick financial returns of writing for the newspapers, and he was finally forced to steal away for several hours to dash off a story for the Petersburg Gazette — one of his little masterpieces, Sleepy. He had bills to meet, he justified himself to Pleshcheev. Indeed, he still only half believed in his talent and wondered about the sacrifices necessary to test his ability to soar. "In our talent there is much phosphorus but no iron," he wrote Leontiev-Shcheglov, who had sent him a review of the works of young writers, in which Chekhov had been favorably mentioned. "We, if you will, are beautiful birds and we sing well, but we are not eagles." (January 22, 1888.)
By February 3 Chekhov had made the last correction in the manuscript of The Steppe and sent it off to Pleshchcev. It was his initial bid, in the great world of letters, for the serious attention of those who read Tolstoy, Leskov, and Saltykov-Shchedrin. In his accompanying note he anxiously demanded: "For God's sake, my friend, don't stand on ceremony but write me that my tale is rather bad and dull if that is actually the case. I terribly want to know the real truth."
Within five days Chekhov had Pleshcheev's rapturous reaction: "I read it with eagerness. Having begun it, I couldn't tear myself away. Korolenko also. ... It is so charming, so endlessly poetical. ... It is a gripping thing and I prophesy for you a great, great future." Plesh- cheev went on at length to praise the "inimitable descriptions of nature," and he urged him to continue such character creations as Dymov and little Yegorushka. "I'm profoundly convinced that an enormous success awaits this tale.... Poets, and artists with a poetic flair, ought simply to go mad over it." And Pleshcheev concluded by saying that the whole editorial board talked of nothing but Chekhov. Indeed, that Great Cham of social thought and its significance in literature, N. K. Mikhailovsky, was another member of the editorial board who read the manuscript of The Steppe and wrote Chekhov to praise his talent, which he had previously underestimated; but at the same time he grimly advised him to break off all connection with such a reactionary newspaper as New Times. Chekhov is reported to have answered him firmly that when he was weak and unknown and eagerly trying to get ahead, Suvorin was the only one to extend him a helping hand.
Nevertheless, such pre-publication recognition from these literary moguls on his first effort at breaking into the fashionable magazines was clearly valued by Chekhov more highly than his earlier successes in the cheap press. He conveyed his delight to various friends. Even lowly cousin Yegorushka in Taganrog quickly learned the news. "The story is not yet printed," wrote Chekhov, "but it has already created quite a stir in Petersburg. There will be much talk about it in the capital." (February 9, 1889.) Quite characteristically it was the remuneration which he mentioned most frequently in his correspondence. A thousand roubles for a single story which had taken only a month to write!