1 A canvas of the artist G. I. Semiradsky, depicting "Phryne at the Feast of Poseidon in Eleusis," which at that time was on exhibition at the Petersburg Academy of Arts.
lova, who believed that she had made a deep impression on Chekhov.2
However, he did not hesitate to encourage Alexander, who, a bit envious of his brother's success, asked his advice on whether he should attempt a play. Try to be as original and clever as possible, Chekhov advised, and don't be afraid to write foolish things. Brevity is the sister of talent. Declarations of love, he added, the infidelity of husbands and wives, and the tears of widows and orphans have long since been written about. Though the subject should be new, a "fable" was unnecessary. And he concluded with the cautionary point that morals do not purify plays any more than flies purify the air.
In fact, Alexander, whose second marriage would soon take place, had strangely begun to worry about his financial future and queried his brother on buying a farm in the Ukraine. Chekhov discouraged such a venture because of Alexander's small income, but the request rekindled his old desire to set up a writers' colony in the Ukraine. For the first time in his life he now felt in affluent circumstances, a feeling, alas, that was of short duration. He had almost fifteen hundred roubles locked away in his drawer, and with some assurance he believed that he could count on an annual income of from three to four thousand, for his tales were selling well enough to go into repeated editions and regularly brought in small sums, as did his one-act plays. Another collection of stories, Children, appeared in March 1889. And at this time a lottery ticket for seventy-five thousand roubles cast its magic spell over him to the inevitable period of disillusionment. Convinced that his assured income was adequate to risk a mortgage of ten thousand roubles, he went to Kharkov in March on a dual mission — to look for an estate for Suvorin, who was interested in such a purchase, and to find a farm for himself which, he told Alexander, would be a refuge against possible poverty and a place where all the Chekhovs could gather. But he could not find a place sufliciently quiet and remote. Shortly thereafter he complained to Alexander: "I spent three hundred roubles a month, I'm a mild person, but I seem unable to do anything that is agreeable either to myself or to the others." (April 11, 1889.)
These remarks, of course, apply to the family. Though they expected much, they gave in return a great deal of the devotion and loyalty which his exacting nature required. Years of living together, during which he had played the part of father of the family, had developed
2 This letter to Leikin (February 21, 1889) is to be found in Literatumoe Nas- ledstvo (Literary Heritage), Moscow, i960, LXVIII, 180.
deep ties of affection which none of them would dream of severing. His aging mother sometimes annoyed him with her old insistence that he marry a rich woman, like the widow A. M. Siberyakova, a millionairess and a target of Chekhov's jokes. Indeed, this notion became a rumor, especially in Petersburg. "I'm not thinking of marrying for millions," he wrote Leontiev-Shcheglov in an effort to spike the gossip, "and whenever and if I marry, it will not be for money . . (March 11, 1889.) Though the nagging of his mother vexed him at times, he was very tender with her and wrote her when he was away. He liked to tease her over her religiosity: "Mother," he would ask, "what do the monks wear for drawers?" And in her soft, low voice she would dcclarc to those present: "That again! Antosha everlastingly asks this."
Misha, now twenty-five, finished his law studies at the university in 1889 and sought both a position and a wife. When he sacrificed family obligations in his persistent wooing of eligible girls, Chekhov grew irritated, but he always protected and aided this younger brother and now pestered his influential friends to help Misha in finding a suitable position. The twenty-six-year old Masha, who combined teaching in a private girls' school with painting, still cvinccd no desire to escapc from the family nest by marriage. With something of Chekhov's sense of duty, she ably supported his authority in the household. An outward constraint conccalcd spiritual depths and even a typical Chekhovian humor in her quiet nature. Chekhov had full confidence in Masha. Hei devotion to her brother and dedication to the cause of his growing fame became generally known and often made her an intermediary for those who wished to meet him. He behaved with extra charm to the girl friends she introduced into the house, and expecially to Lidiya Stakhievna Mizinova, also a young schooltcachcr, who remained one of his closc favorites for years — Misha asserted that "brother Anton was interested in her as a woman." The "beautiful Lika," as Chekhov promptly nicknamcd her, captivated all by her appearance and manner — curly, ash-blond hair, lovely gray eyes, the fresh coloring of her fine features, and a complete abscncc of affectation in her exquisitely feminine grace and shyness. When Masha first brought her to the house, she left Lika in the hallway while she went upstairs to get something. Misha descended and stared at the bashful Lika, who pressed close to the wall, dropped her gaze, and tried to hide her face in the fur collar of her coat. He went into Chekhov's study: "Say, Anton, Masha has just come in with a beauty! She's in the hallway." Chekhov promptly emerged, stared, and went upstairs. So did Misha, and the two of them, to the consternation of Lika, repeated their busy trips up and down the stairway several times. Lika told Masha, when she rejoined her, that there seemed to be a terrible lot of menfolk in her family.
Young friends enjoyed visiting the Chekhov household, for they could always be sure of interesting conversation* entertainment, or of encountering some visiting celebrity. They might hear the critic P. N. Ostrovsky, brother of the famous dramatist, discussing literature or politics with Chekhov; or listen enraptured to a recitation by the great actor Lensky; or be vastly amused by a fascinating imitation of a ballerina by the stout but nimble actor Davydov.
Chekhov had become a favorite with the Moscow actors. Lent began badly with him this year, he wrote Suvorin, for after a night of revelry he returned home at ten-thirty in the morning, slept till five, and then went to a supper with the actors and actresses of the Korsh Theater. "The actresses are sweet; I loved them yesterday and was so touched that I even kissed several of them at parting." (February 20, 1889.) Indeed, Chekhov's frail health did not seem to diminish his capacity for carousing. The fact that his revered moral preceptor Leo Tolstoy had this year published a letter in the press to deplore the shameless student intemperance on Saint Tatyana's Day did not prevent Chekhov, as an "old grad," from attending this university festivity as usual. "My hands still tremble," he wrote a friend on the morning after. The asceticism Tolstoy preached never deeply influenced Chekhov's natural but by no means abnormal love for the pleasures of the flesh.
After indulging in such pleasures, however, Chekhov was prone to accuse himself of laziness, despite the prodigies of labor he accomplished. His need for companionship was often a need for material, for the characters of his stories were not infrequently drawn from his direct experience with life. For example, at this time he often attended the weekly gatherings of artists and writers at the Kuvshinnikovs'. They were gay parties. The husband was a self-effacing physician, but his wife — about forty and no beauty — was a dilettante painter and liked to surround herself with artists. When the hour came for supper, the husband would suddenly appear, knife and fork in hand, and announce that a repast was ready. With something of the wonder of a discoverer, his wife at this point would hail him: "Kuvshinnikov! Let me press your hand! Gentlemen, see what a kind face he has." And all the company would push past him to the table loaded with food. Levitan, that brilliant painter and connoisseur of women, rarely missed the parties of the Kuvshinnikovs. He became the teacher of his hostess and decided that long trips with her down the Volga in the summer were necessary for his purpose. People began to talk. Chekhov silently observed, and three years later his wonderful story The Grasshopper immortalized the situation.