(Here Chekhov resumes the discussion of purposiveness in art begun in the previous letter.)
Melihovo, Dec. 3, 1892 That the writers and artists of the latest generation lack an aim in their work is a curious phenomenon that
is entirely legitimate and logical, and if Mme. S ,
for no reason at all, got scared by a bogey, that doesn't mean that my letter was wily and disingenuous. You yourself discovered it to be insincere only after she had written you, or you would not have sent her my letter in the first place. In my letters to you I am often unjust and naive, but I never write about what I don't have at heart.
If you are looking for insincerity, you will find tons of it in her letter. "The greatest miracle is man himself and we shall never tire of studying him." Or: "The aim of life is life itself." Or: "I believe in life, in its bright moments, for the sake of which one can, indeed one must, live; I believe in man, in that part of his soul which is good . . ." Can all this be sincere, and does it mean anything? This isn't an outlook, it's caramels. She underscores "can" and "must" because she is afraid to speak of what is and what has to be reckoned with. Let her first say what is, and only then I will listen to what one can and must do. She believes in "life," and that means that if she is intelligent, she believes in nothing, and if she is a country wife, she believes in a peasant God and crosses herself in the dark.
Under the influence of her letter you write me about "life for life's sake." Thank you very much. You've got to admit that her letter with its paean to life is a thou- sand times more funereal than mine. I write that we are without aims, and you realize that I consider aims nec- essary and would gladly go looking for them, but Mme.
S writes that one must not delude man with all
manner of good things that he will never get: "prize that which is," and in her opinion all our trouble comes from the fact that we keep pursuing lofty and distant aims. If this isn't a country wife's logic, it's the phi- losophy of despair. He who sincerely believes that man needs lofty and distant aims as little as a cow does, that "all our trouble" comes from pursuing these aims—has nothing left him but to eat, drink, sleep, or if he is fed up with that, he can take a running start and dash his head against the corner of a chest.
I'm not scolding the lady, I'm only saying that she is far from being a very jolly person. She is apparently nice enough, but all the same you shouldn't have shown her my letter. She is a stranger to me and I feel awk- ward about it now.
Hereabouts people are already riding tandem [on narrow winter roads] and cooking cabbage soup with smelts. We have already had two snowstorms that ruined the roads, but now the weather is cahn and it smells of Christmas.
( Chekhov begins by expressing strong doubt of Dreyfus's guilt and speaking in glowing terms of Zola, who was then being tried for libel because he had denounced the French General Staff as having falsely convicted the Jewish officer.)
Nice, Feb. 6, 1898
I acquainted myself with the case by reading the stenographic reports, which are quite different from what you find in the papers, and Zola's stand is clear to me. The main thing is that he is sincere, i.e., he bases his judgments only on what he sees, and not, like others, on phantoms. Of course, sincere people too may be mis- taken, but such mistakes are less harmful than reasoned insincerity, prejudice, or political considerations. Sup- pose Dreyfus is guilty—still Zola is right, for the writer's duty is not to accuse, not to persecute, but to intercede on behalf even of the guilty, once they are condemned and bear punishment. It will be asked: "But what about politics? And the interests of the State?" But big writers and artists must occupy themselves with politics only insofar as it is necessary to put up a defense against politics. There are enough accusers, prosecutors, and gendarmes even without them, and in any event, the role of Paul suits them better than the role of Saul. Whatever the verdict may be, after the trial Zola will nevertheless know a living joy, he will have a splendid old age, and he will die with his conscience at peace, or, to say the least, at ease.
to olga l. ^otpper
(This was written from Yalta shortly before Chekhov's marriage to his correspondent, an actress connected with the Moscow Art Theatre. The two ladies mentioned were both writers. Pchelnikov had been appointed dramatic censor.)
March 16 [1901]
Greetings, my little dear! I am certainly coming to Moscow, but I don't know whether I'll go to Sweden this year. I am fed up with gadding about, and besides it seems as if I were getting to be quite an old man as far as health is concerned, so that, by the way, you will acquire in my person not a husband but a grandfather. I dig in my garden now for whole days together, the weather is warm, exquisite, everything's in flower, the birds are singing, there are no visitors, it is simply not life but peaches and cream. I have quite given up litera- ture, and when I marry you, I'll order you to give up the stage and we'll live together like planters. You don't want to? Very well then, go on acting another five years and then we shall see.
Today, out of the blue, I received The Russian Vet- eran, a special army newspaper, and in it I found a notice of Three Sisters. It is No. 56, March 11th. It's all right, it's laudatory, and finds no fault with the military side.
Write to me, my good darling, your letters give me joy. You are unfaithful to me because, as you write, you are a human being and a woman; oh, very well, be unfaithful, only be the good, splendid person that you are. I am an old geezer, it is impossible to keep from being unfaithful to me, I understand that very well, and if I happen to be unfaithful to you, you will excuse it, because you realize that though the beard turns gray, the devil's at play. Isn't that so?
Do you see Madam Avilova? Have you made friends \vith Madam Chyumina? I suspect you've already be- gun writing stories and novels in secret. If I catch you, then good-by, I'll divorce you.
I read about Pchelnikov's appointment in the papers, and I was astonished, astonished that Pchelnikov was not above accepting such a queer position. But they'll hardly take Dr. Stockman off your repertory, it's a con- servative play, you know.
Though I have given up literature, still I write some- thing now and then, out of habit. Just now I am writing a story called "The Bishop," on a subject that has been in my head for fifteen years.
I embrace you, traitress, a hundred times, I kiss you hard. Write, write, my joy, or else when we are married, I'll beat you.
Your Elder Ant—
(The Nemirovich mentioned here is Vladimir Nemirovich- Danchenko, co-founder with Stanislavsky of the Moscow Art Theatre. Kuprin is the late novelist. Gorky and Vladimir Posse, a radical journalist, were implicated in the public demonstrations and student riots then current.)
Thursday [YaJta, ApriJ 19, 1901]