(CREATION FROM THE VOID)
Résigne-toi, mon cœur, dors ton sommeil de brute.
(CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.)
I
Tchekhov is dead; therefore we may now speak freely of him. For to
speak of an artist means to disentangle and reveal the 'tendency'
hidden in his works, an operation not always permissible when the
subject is still living. Certainly he had a reason for hiding himself,
and of course the reason was serious and important. I believe many felt
it, and that it was partly on this account that we have as yet had no
proper appreciation of Tchekhov. Hitherto in analysing his works the
critics have confined themselves to common-place and _cliché_. Of course
they knew they were wrong; but anything is better than to extort the
truth from a living person. Mihailovsky alone attempted to approach
closer to the source of Tchekhov's creation, and as everybody knows,
turned away from it with aversion and even with disgust. Here, by the
way, the deceased critic might have convinced himself once again of
the extravagance of the so-called theory of 'art for art's sake.' Every
artist has his definite task, his life's work, to which he devotes
all his forces. A tendency is absurd when it endeavours to take the
place of talent, and to cover impotence and lack of content, or when
it is borrowed from the stock of ideas which happen to be in demand
at the moment. 'I defend ideals, therefore every one must give me his
sympathies.' Such pretences we often see made in literature, and the
notorious controversy concerning 'art for art's sake' was evidently
maintained upon the double meaning given to the word 'tendency' by its
opponents. Some wished to believe that a writer can be saved by the
nobility of his tendency; others feared that a tendency would bind them
to the performance of alien tasks. Much ado about nothing: ready-made
ideas will never endow mediocrity with talent; on the contrary, an
original writer will at all costs set himself his own task. And
Tchekhov had his _own_ business, though there were critics who said
that he was the servant of art for its own sake, and even compared him
to a bird, carelessly flying. To define his tendency in a word, I would
say that Tchekhov was the poet of hopelessness. Stubbornly, sadly,
monotonously, during all the years of his literary activity, nearly a
quarter of a century long, Tchekhov was doing one thing alone: by one
means or another he was killing human hopes. Herein, I hold, lies the
essence of his creation. Hitherto it has been little spoken of. The
reasons are quite intelligible. In ordinary language what Tchekhov
was doing is called crime, and is visited by condign punishment. But
how can a man of talent be punished? Even Mihailovsky, who more than
once in his lifetime gave an example of merciless severity, did not
raise his hand against Tchekhov. He warned his readers and pointed
out the 'evil fire' which he had noticed in Tchekhov's eyes. But he
went no further. Tchekhov's immense talent overcame the strict and
rigorous critic. It may be, however, that Mihailovsky's own position
in literature had more than a little to do with the comparative
mildness of his sentence. The younger generation had listened to him
uninterruptedly for thirty years, and his word had been law. But
afterwards every one was bored with eternally repeating: 'Aristides
is just, Aristides is right.' The younger generation began to desire
to live and to speak in its own way, and finally the old master was
ostracised. There is the same custom in literature as in Terra del
Fuego. The young, growing men kill and eat the old. Mihailovsky
struggled with all his might, but he no longer felt the strength of
conviction that comes from the sense of right. Inwardly, he felt that
the young were right, not because they knew the truth--what truth did
the economic materialists know?--but because they were young and had
their lives before them. The rising star shines always brighter than
the setting, and the old must of their own will yield themselves up to
be devoured by the young. Mihailovsky felt this, and perhaps it was
this which undermined his former assurance and the firmness of his
opinion of old. True, he was still like Gretchen's mother in Goethe: he
did not take rich gifts from chance without having previously consulted
his confessor. Tchekhov's talent too was taken to the priest, by whom
it was evidently rejected as suspect; but Mihailovsky no longer had the
courage to set himself against public opinion. The younger generation
prized Tchekhov for his talent, his immense talent, and it was plain
they would riot disown him. What remained for Mihailovsky He attempted,
as I say, to warn them. But no one listened to him, and Tchekhov became
one of the most beloved of Russian writers.
Yet the just Aristides was right this time too, as he was right when
he gave his warning against Dostoevsky. Now that Tchekhov is no more,
we may speak openly. Take Tchekhov's stories, each one separately, or
better still, all together; look at him at work. He is constantly,
as it were, in ambush, to watch and waylay human hopes. He will not
miss a single one of them, not one of them will escape its fate. Art,
science, love, inspiration, ideals--choose out all the words with which
humanity is wont, or has been in the past, to be consoled or to be
amused--Tchekhov has only to touch them and they instantly wither and
die. And Tchekhov himself faded, withered and died before our eyes.
Only his wonderful art did not die--his art to kill by a mere touch,
a breath, a glance, everything whereby men live and wherein they take
their pride. And in this art he was constantly perfecting himself, and
he attained to a virtuosity beyond the reach of any of his rivals in
European literature. Maupassant often had to strain every effort to
overcome his victim. The victim often escaped from Maupassant, though
crushed and broken, yet with his life. In Tchekhov's hands, nothing
escaped death.