In these periods of depression, when — as Chekhov affirmed — an impersonal and weak-willed state of mind, which explained the whole structure of his life, gripped him, his immediate reaction was to get as far away from his family as possible. One must have a purpose in life, he said, and when you are traveling you have that purpose. In letter after letter during 1892-1S93, he announced his intention or desire to set out for Sakhalin again, or South Africa, Japan, India, Constantinople, Madeira, France, Italy, and the Caucasus. With Leo, the son of Tolstoy, he made definite plans to attend the opening of the World's Fair at Chicago in April. 1893, a trip which he regretfully abandoned. He repeatedly asked Suvorin to invite him to his place at Feodosiya. When foreign travel seemed impossible, he planned to rent an apartment in Petersburg where he could live a few months every year. And for this purpose, he set about obtaining, with Alexander's aid, an official passport, which he lacked. This obliged him to enter government service as a medical official; when he received the necessary document, he promptly resigned his post.4
The discontents of man are not always easily discoverable. Beneath the characteristic surface optimism of Chekhov ran a deep underground stream of sadness. Its sources were his secret. At moments, however, almost against his will he reveals one source, especially in his correspondence. At this particular time, an agonizing awareness of the approaching consequences of his disease breaks through, as it did at the time of Nikolai's death from tuberculosis. And now, as then, his reaction was almost a frantic effort to run away from his thoughts, to forget them in the pleasures and experiences of travel.
However, another source of his unhappiness which also prompted him to escape from home was his family, although here his feelings are always veiled in allusions in his letters and can be interpreted only by reading between the lines. Statements of others, who knew the situation well, are also indicative. Despite his devotion to his parents, especially to his mother, it was now only a consuming sense of duty that kept him chained to the hearth he had made for them. The sophisticated world of mind and spirit which he claimed as his own was entirely incomprehensible to them. They regarded him as a kind of miracle, and had nothing to contribute to him, or he to them. When the house was full of company, this total disparity was less painful. But Chekhov plainly dreaded the long winter evenings at Melikhovo when there were often few or no visitors. Then the old-fashioned ways of his mother and her gentle nagging about his health, his excessive hours of work, and his bachelor state irritated him. And the dinner table conversation over the banalities of household tasks and family history became insufferably boring; or his father would persist in a long-winded argument with some hanger-on, such as Ivanenko, on whether it was better for man to be ignorant or educated.
The curtain was momentarily raised on this unhappy state of affairs by brother Alexander during a visit to Melikhovo in June, 1893. He departed hurriedly, obviously after a family quarrel, and while waiting for his train at the little station of Lopasnaya, scribbled the following
4 Because of his lowly birth and the fact that he now lived in the provinces, Chekhov was not entitled to a permanent passport, which was necessary for traveling within Russia as well as abroad. His previous traveling had been done under a temporary permit, issued on the strength of his medical diploma.
note to Chekhov: "I left Melikhovo without saying good-by to Alya- trimantran [a made-up nickname of the brothers for their father]. He was asleep, and may God be with him. May he dream of salmon and olives. Mother said that I offended her by going, for she thought 'that you, Sasha [Alexander] would persuade Antosha.' Sister grew sad when I got into the carriage. This is in the order of things. What is not in the order of things is my state of mind. Don't be angry because I fled in cowardly fashion. I'm very sorry for you. Indeed, I'm also a weak man, and cannot coldly look upon another's sorrow. I suffered all the time as I watched you and saw the frightful life you lead. This morning Mother, not realizing what she was doing, poured oil on the fire in the woods. In her opinion you are a sick man; day and night she worries about your welfare and peace of mind, and the chief reason is disorder. ...
"In a word, all of them, without exception, wish you well, but the result is a complete misunderstanding. In order to allay all these misunderstandings and mutual offenses, the tears and unavoidable sufferings, the stifled sighs and bitter tears, only one course lies open to you, your recent resolution — to go away. Mother absolutely does not understand you, and will never understand you. . . . You are a good and excellent man. God has endowed you with a spark. With that spark, you are at home anywhere. Whatever it costs, you must keep your soul alive. Abandon everything; your dreams of a country life, your love for Melikhovo, and all the work and feeling you have poured into it. There is more than one Melikhovo in the world. What sense is there in letting the Alyatrimantrans devour your soul the way rats devour candles?! And it will not take long to devour it."
Here was Chekhov's own advice to the consumptive from Vologda. And how eagerly, in moments of depression, he yearned to accept it! In the depths of his consciousness, however, he probably realized its fallaciousness. For him the truth was inscribed on the pendant which he wore on his watch chain: "For the lonely man, the desert is everywhere."5
6 One of Chekhov's friends asked where he got this inscribed pendant. He replied: "It was my father's. When my grandfather saw it on him, he said: 'Pavel must marry.' And they married him."
chapter xiv
"Twice Rejected"
On January 12, 1894, Chekhov wired his brother Ivan in Moscow to inform Lavrov, Nemirovich-Danchenko, and Potapenko that he would be in the city the next day to lunch with them. Lavrov, taking advantage of this visit, arranged a dinner several days hence in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of Grigorovich's literary career. Recently the Petersburg writers had celebrated the event and Lavrov, in whose Russian Thought the ancient Grigorovich had occasionally appeared, felt that the Moscow literary fraternity could do no less. Even if the Muscovites were unable to equal the splendor and distinction of the Petersburg dinner, Lavrov was comforted by the expectation that they would have as their chief speaker the distinguished Chekhov, whose talent Grigorovich had "discovered" eight years previously. Invitations were hurriedly sent out and space was reserved in the Hermitage Restaurant.
When he was informed of the plans, Chekhov became gloomy and remained silent all day. By evening, however, his customary humor had returned. Potapenko, who tells of this incident in his "Several Years with A. P. Chekhov," relates that Chekhov would interrupt the conversation with what appeared to be phrases from a speech:
" 'Dear and worthy writer . . . We are gathered here in an intimate family . . Then, after a moment of silence, 'Our friendly literary group, in your presence, profoundly esteemed . .
" 'What is this?' I asked.
" 'Why, this is your speech which you'll deliver at the dinner in honor of Grigorovich.'