1 This brother, A. A. Tikhonov, a writer and editor, remained unfriendly to Chekhov. Of the other authors mentioned, only M. N. Albov, editor of the monthl) Northern Herald, achieved any measure of success.
more in the interests of others than in his own. Scores of people sought his aid in influencing Suvorin on their behalf, and he rarely refused. Sometimes they were these same literary rivals and not only his proteges such as Lazarev-Gruzinsky or Yezhov. He tirelessly entertained such requests from budding authors. A new one at this time was Elena Shavrova, the girl he had met at Yalta three years ago. Now in Moscow, she asked his assistance in placing her stories in New Times. After going over fifteen of her talcs, he willingly agreed, scolded her for writing so little, and urged: "Write twenty more tales and send them to me. I'll read them all with satisfaction, for you need drill." (November 19, 1891.) In 1891 Ivan Bunin, who later became a close friend of Chekhov, also asked him to go over the manuscripts of his stories.
Suvorin, who was twenty-six years older, held more confidences of Chekhov at this time than perhaps any other friend or member of his family. Unlike Suvorin's many enemies among the liberals, Chekhov had some awareness of the dual nature of his political and social views, which were publicly revealed in his letters and diary only after his death — he could be a harsh critic, in private, of the reactionary measures of the Tsar's government.
While staying with Suvorin in Petersburg, the two friends discussed the possibility of sharing an estate for the summer, or at least of renting adjoining dachas. The older man, aware of Chekhov's extreme restlessness since his return from Sakhalin, also suggested that they tour western Europe together — a trip Chekhov had long desired to make. This attractive prospect obsessed him when he got back to Moscow, which now seemed more unlovely than ever. Another trip so shortly after being away for eight months! Would the family understand? He knew they would oppose it. Then there was the question of money. He applied himself to his story, but it grew still longer and the end was nowhere in sight. He could borrow from Suvorin and also get an advance from New Times — sheer self-indulgencc! He must put the idea out of his head, he decided. A few days with the Kiselevs at Babkino, however, proved no antidote for his wanderlust, and he next planned a visit to brother Ivan in Vladimir Province, where he had gone to teach school. Then suddenly, on March 5, he dashed off a note to Suvorin: "We are going!!! I agree to go wherever you like and when you like. My soul is leaping with delight. It would be stupid on my part not to go, for when would such an opportunity come again?" With chagrin Masha accused: "Antosha, you are a fidgety person!"
He hurried to Petersburg, took in an exhibition of Levitan's paintings there with the ancient Grigorovich as his officious guide, saw the great Duse in a performance of Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra — "I have never seen anything like it before," he wrote his sister — and on March 17 he left, with Suvorin and his eldest son Alcksci, for Vienna.
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Only a few months before Chekhov had traveled in a broken-down carriage over thousands of miles of rutted and then quagmire roads, past wretchedly primitive Siberian villages. Now he was traveling to the polished centers of Europe "like a railway Nana" in a luxurious compartment, with beds, looking glasses, huge windows and rugs. The opulence distorted his judgment. The supcrpatriot Dostoevsky had seemed bent on inspecting the drains of Europe on his first trip abroad, and had returned home to tell his countrymen of the filth he had observed. The aristocratic Tolstoy, used to the good things of life, had accepted the luxuries of Europe on his initial visit as a matter of course, but regarded with a critical eye its social inequities. Chekhov experienced something of the childlike wonder of his favorite Gogol, who, when he discovered the ancient beauties of Rome, claimed Italy as his second fatherland.
At first Chekhov's letters to the family were ecstatic. Everything about Vienna appeared diabolically elegant. Its shops were a perfect delirium, a dream, and architecture, he discovered, could really be an art. The cabmen, like dandies in their top hats, amazed him as they sat in their boxes, reading newspapers; he could not get over their politeness and readiness to oblige a customer. And like most Russians on their first contact with the West, he found it strange that here one was free to read anything and say what one liked.
When he reached Venice, that enchanted dream upon the water, all discrimination fled. There he met Merezhkovsky steeped in a similar state of euphoria. Rather pathetically Chekhov wrote brother Ivan: "It is easy for a poor and oppressed Russian to go out of his mind in this world of beauty, wealth, and freedom. One wants to remain forever, and when one stands in the churches and listens to the organ, then one longs to become a Catholic." (March 24, 1891.) Nevertheless, his rapture did not prevent him from observing that a spirit of conservatism in Venice had resulted in the preservation of many worthless paintings along with indubitably great works of art.
During the remainder of his tour through Italy — Bologna, Florence, Rome, Naples — Chekhov viewed all the usual tourist attractions. Perhaps aching feet, physical exhaustion, poor weather, and a surfeit of Baedeker had something to do with the recovery of both his critical sense and his sense of humor. Florence's Venus di Medici, if dressed in modern clothes, he imagined, would be hideous, especially about the waist. In Rome, despite the rich Italian food, he longed for a bowl of Russian cabbage soup and some buckwheat porridge. Rome reminded him of Kharkov, and Naples he described as a filthy city. Even the European trains he now found less comfortable than those in Russia. As he prepared to leave Italy, however, he confessed to his sister: "If I were an artist and alone and had money, then I would live here in the winter. For Italy, apart from its natural scenery and warmth, is the only country in which one feels convinced that art is really supreme over everything, and that conviction gives one courage." (April 1, i8gi.)
The expenses of the trip constantly worried Chekhov. The Suvorins, he complained, lived like Doges and Cardinals in the most luxurious hotels, and he felt it necessary to maintain the same style. If he had been alone, he wrote home, he could have done the whole tour on three hundred roubles, whereas he estimated that he would be in Suvorin's debt to the extent of a thousand. The situation troubled his conscience, for he knew that the family, which had been hostile to this trip anyway, coming so soon after his Sakhalin journey, would have to pinch themselves until he returned. Yet no sooner had he got to Nice than he set off for Monte Carlo and lost a considerable sum of money at roulette. With manifest satisfaction he wrote all about it to his brother Misha. "You will say, of course," he joked, " 'What villany! We are so poor, and there he goes playing roulette!' Entirely just, and I give you permission to slay me. But I'm personally very pleased with myself."
The realization of an experience he had long dreamed of, however, did not blind him to the meretricious allure of the Casino and the luxurious restaurants in the neighborhood, or to the shoddy values of the rieh who patronized them. "I love wealth and luxury," he added in this same letter to Misha, "but the roulette here leaves me with the impression of a kind of luxurious watercloset. You feel there is something in the atmosphere that offends your sense of decency and vulgarizes nature, the moon, and the sound of the sea." (April 15, 1891.)