He treats Sulerzhizky with the tenderness of a woman. For Tchekhov
his love is paternal--in this love is the feeling of the pride of a
creator--Suler rouses in him just tenderness, a perpetual interest
and rapture which never seems to weary the sorcerer. Perhaps there is
something a little ridiculous in this feeling, like the love of an old
maid for a parrot, a pug dog, or a tom-cat. Suler is a fascinatingly
wild bird from some strange unknown land. A hundred men like him
could change the face, as well as the soul, of a provincial town. Its
face they would smash and its soul they would fill with a passion for
riotous, brilliant, headstrong wildness. One loves Suler easily and
gaily, and when I see how carelessly women accept him, they surprise
and anger me. Yet under this carelessness is hidden, perhaps, caution.
Suler is not reliable. What will he do to-morrow? He may throw a bomb
or he may join a troupe of public-house minstrels. He has energy enough
for three life-times, and fire of life--so much that he seems to sweat
sparks like over-heated iron.