IV

A. P. used to get up, in the summer at least, very early. None even of

his most intimate friends saw him carelessly dressed, nor did he approve

of lazy habits, like wearing slippers, dressing gowns or light jackets.

At eight or nine he was already pacing his study or at his writing

table, invariably impeccably and neatly dressed.

Evidently, his best time for work was in the morning before lunch,

although nobody ever managed to find him writing: in this respect he was

extraordinarily reserved and shy. All the same, on nice warm mornings he

could be seen sitting on a slope behind the house, in the cosiest part

of the place, where oleanders stood in tubs along the walls, and where

he had planted a cypress. There he sat sometimes for an hour or longer,

alone, without stirring, with his hands on his knees, looking in front

of him at the sea.

About midday and later visitors began to fill the house. Girls stood for

hours at the iron railings, separating the bungalow from the road, with

open mouths, in white felt hats. The most diverse people came to

Chekhov: scholars, authors, Zemstvo workers, doctors, military,

painters, admirers of both sexes, professors, society men and women,

senators, priests, actors--and God knows who else. Often he was asked to

give advice or help and still more often to give his opinion upon

manuscripts. Casual newspaper reporters and people who were merely

inquisitive would appear; also people who came to him with the sole

purpose of "directing the big, but erring talent to the proper, ideal

side." Beggars came--genuine and sham. These never met with a refusal. I

do not think it right, myself, to mention private cases, but I know for

certain that Chekhov's generosity towards students of both sexes, was

immeasurably beyond what his modest means would allow.

People came to him from all strata of society, of all camps, of all

shades. Notwithstanding the worry of so continuous a stream of visitors,

there was something attractive in it to Chekhov. He got first-hand

knowledge of everything that was going on at any given moment in Russia.

How mistaken were those who wrote or supposed that he was a man

indifferent to public interests, to the whirling life of the

intelligentsia, and to the burning questions of his time! He watched

everything carefully, and thoughtfully. He was tormented and distressed

by all the things which tormented the minds of the best Russians. One

had only to see how in those terrible times, when the absurd, dark, evil

phenomena of our public life were discussed in his presence, he knitted

his thick eyebrows, and how martyred his face looked, and what a deep

sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.

It is fitting to mention here one fact which, in my opinion, superbly

illustrates Chekhov's attitude to the stupidities of Russian life. Many

know that he resigned the rank of an honorary member of the Academy; the

motives of his resignation are known; but very few have read his letter

to the Academy,--a splendid letter, written with a simple and noble

dignity, and the restrained indignation of a great soul.

To the August President of the Academy

25 August, 1902

Yalta.

_Your Imperial Highness_,

August President!

In December of last year I received a notice of the election of

A. M. Pyeshkov (Maxim Gorky) as an honorary academician, and I took

the first opportunity of seeing A. M. Pyeshkov, who was then in

Crimea. I was the first to bring him news of his election and I was

the first to congratulate him. Some time later, it was announced in

the newspapers that, in view of proceedings according to Art. 1035

being instituted against Pyeshkov for his political views, his

election was cancelled. It was expressly stated that this act came

from the Academy of Sciences; and since I am an honorary

academician, I also am partly responsible for this act. I have

congratulated him heartily on becoming an academician and I consider

his election cancelled--such a contradiction does not agree with my

conscience, I cannot reconcile my conscience to it. The study of

Art. 1035 has explained nothing to me. And after long deliberation I

can only come to one decision, which is extremely painful and

regrettable to me, and that is to ask most respectfully to be

relieved of the rank of honorary academician. With a feeling of

deepest respect I have the honor to remain

Your most devoted

Anton Chekhov.

Queer--to what an extent people misunderstood Chekhov! He, the

"incorrigible pessimist," as he was labelled,--never tired of hoping for

a bright future, never ceased to believe in the invisible but persistent

and fruitful work of the best forces of our country. Which of his

friends does not remember the favorite phrase, which he so often,

sometimes so incongruously and unexpectedly, uttered in a tone of

assurance:

--"Look here, don't you see? There is sure to be a constitution in

Russia in ten years time."

Yes, even in that there sounds the _motif_ of the joyous future which is

awaiting mankind; the _motif_ that was audible in all the work of his

last years.

* * * * *

The truth must be told: by no means all visitors spared A. P.'s time and

nerves, and some of them were quite merciless. I remember one striking,

and almost incredible instance of the banality and indelicacy which

could be displayed by a man of the so-called artistic power.

It was a pleasant, cool and windless summer morning. A. P. was in an

unusually light and cheerful mood. Suddenly there appeared as from the

blue a stout gentleman (who subsequently turned out to be an architect),

who sent his card to Chekhov and asked for an interview. A. P. received

him. The architect came in, introduced himself, and, without taking any

notice of the placard "You are requested not to smoke," without asking

any permission, lit a huge stinking Riga cigar. Then, after paying, as

was inevitable, a few stone-heavy compliments to his host, he began on

the business which brought him here.

The business consisted in the fact that the architect's little son, a

school boy of the third form, was running in the streets the other day

and from a habit peculiar to boys, whilst running, touched with his hand

anything he came across: lamp-posts, or posts or fences. At last he

managed to push his hand into a barbed wire fence and thus scratched his

palm. "You see now, my worthy A. P.,"--the architect concluded his tale,

"I shall very much like you to write a letter about it in the

newspapers. It is lucky that Kolya (his boy) got off with a scratch, but

it's only a chance. He might have cut an artery--what would have

happened then?" "Yes, it's a nuisance," Chekhov answered, "but,

unfortunately, I cannot be of any use to you. I do not write, nor have

ever written, letters in the newspapers. I only write stories." "So much

the better, so much the better! Put it in a story"--the architect was

delighted. "Just put the name of the landlord in full letters. You may

even put my own name, I do not object to it.... Still ... it would be

best if you only put my initials, not the full name.... There are only

two genuine authors left in Russia, you and Mr. P." (and the architect

gave the name of a notorious literary tailor).

I am not able to repeat even a hundredth part of the boring commonplaces

which the injured architect managed to speak, since he made the

interview last until he finished the cigar to the end, and the study had

to be aired for a long time to get rid of the smell. But when at last he

left, A. P. came out into the garden completely upset with red spots on

his cheeks. His voice trembled, when he turned reproachfully to his

sister Marie and to a friend who sat on the bench:

"Could you not shield me from that man? You should have sent word that I

was needed somewhere. He has tortured me!"

I also remember,--and this I am sorry to say was partly my fault--how a

certain self-assured general came to him to express his appreciation as

a reader, and, probably, desiring to give Chekhov pleasure, he began,

with his legs spread open and the fists of his turned-out hand leaning

on them, to vilify a young author, whose great popularity was then only

beginning to grow. And Chekhov, at once, shrank into himself, and sat

all the time with his eyes cast down, coldly, without saying a single

word. And only from the quick reproachful look, which he cast at my

friend, who had introduced that general, did he show what pain he

caused.

Just as shyly and coldly he regarded praises lavished on him. He would

retire into his niche, on the divan, his eyelids trembled, slowly fell

and were not again raised, and his face became motionless and gloomy.

Sometimes, when immoderate raptures came from some one he knew, he would

try to turn the conversation into a joke, and give it a different

direction. He would suddenly say, without rhyme or reason, with a light

little laugh:

--"I like reading what the Odessa reporters write about me."

"What is that?"

"It is very funny--all lies. Last spring one of them appeared in my

hotel. He asked for an interview. And I had no time for it. So I said:

'Excuse me but I am busy now. But write whatever you like; it is of no

consequence to me.' Well, he did write. It drove me into a fever."

And once with a most serious face he said:

--"You know, in Yalta every cabman knows me. They say: 'O, Chekhov, that

man, the reader? I know him.' For some reason they call me reader.

Perhaps they think that I read psalm-services for the dead? You, old

fellow, ought to ask a cabman what my occupation is...."

V

At one o'clock Chekhov dined downstairs, in a cool bright dining-room,

and there was nearly always a guest at dinner. It was difficult not to

yield to the fascination of that simple, kind, cordial family. One felt

constant solicitude and love, not expressed with a single high-sounding

word,--an amazing amount of refinement and attention, which never, as if

on purpose, got beyond the limits of ordinary, everyday relations. One

always noticed a truly Chekhovian fear of everything high-flown,

insincere, or showy. In that family one felt very much at one's ease,

light and warm, and I perfectly understand a certain author who said

that he was in love with all the Chekhovs at the same time.

Anton Pavlovitch ate exceedingly little and did not like to sit at

table, but usually passed from the window to the door and back. Often

after dinner, staying behind with some one in the dining-room, Yevguenia

Yakovlevna (A. P.'s mother) said quietly with anxiety in her voice:

"Again Antosha ate nothing at dinner."

He was very hospitable and loved it when people stayed to dinner, and he

knew how to treat guests in his own peculiar way, simply and heartily.

He would say, standing behind one's chair:

--"Listen, have some vodka. When I was young and healthy I loved it. I

would pick mushrooms for a whole morning, get tired out, hardly able to

reach home, and before lunch I would have two or three thimblefuls.

Wonderful!..."

After dinner he had tea upstairs, on the open verandah, or in his study,

or he would come down into the garden and sit there on the bench, in his

overcoat, with a cane, pushing his soft black hat down to his very eyes

and looking out under its brim with screwed up eyes.

These hours were the most crowded. There were constant rings on the

telephone, asking if Anton Chekhov could be seen; and perpetual

visitors. Strangers also came, sending in their cards and asking for

help, for autographs or books. Then queer things happened.

One "Tambov squire," as Chekhov christened him, came to him for medical

advice. In vain did Anton Pavlovitch answer him, that he had given up

medical practice long ago and that he was behind the times in medicine.

In vain did he recommend a more experienced physician,--the "Tambov

squire" persisted: no doctor would he trust but Chekhov. Willy-nilly he

had to give a few trifling, perfectly innocent pieces of advice. On

taking leave the "Tambov squire" put on the table two gold coins and, in

spite of all Chekhov's persuasion, he would not agree to take them back.

Anton Pavlovitch had to give way. He said that as he neither wished nor

considered himself entitled to take money as a fee, he would give it to

the Yalta Charitable Society, and at once wrote a receipt. It turned out

that it was that the "Tambov squire" wanted. With a radiant face, he

carefully put the receipt in his pocket-book, and then confessed that

the sole purpose of his visit was to obtain Chekhov's autograph. Chekhov

himself told me the story of this original and persistent

patient--half-laughing, half-cross.

I repeat, many of these visitors plagued him fearfully and even

irritated him, but, owing to the amazing delicacy peculiar to him, he

was with all patient, attentive and accessible to those who wished to

see him. His delicacy at times reached a limit that bordered on

weakness. Thus, for instance, one nice, well-meaning lady, a great

admirer of Chekhov, gave him for a birthday present a huge pug-dog in a

sitting position, made of colored plaster of Paris, over a yard high,

i. e., about five times larger than its natural size. That pug-dog was

placed downstairs, on the landing near the dining room, and there he sat

with an angry face chewing his teeth and frightening those who had

forgotten him.

--"O, I'm afraid of that stone dog myself," Chekhov confessed, "but it

is awkward to move him; it might hurt her. Let him stay on here."

And suddenly, with eyes full of laughter, he added unexpectedly, in his

usual manner:

"Have you noticed in the houses of rich Jews, such plaster dogs often

sit by the fireplace?"

At times, for days on end, he would be annoyed with every sort of

admirer and detractor and even adviser. "O, I have such a mass of

visitors,"--he complained in a letter,--"that my head swims. I cannot

work." But still he did not remain indifferent to a sincere feeling of

love and respect and always distinguished it from idle and fulsome

tittle-tattle. Once he returned in a very gay mood from the quay where

he sometimes took a walk, and with great animation told us:

--"I just had a wonderful meeting. An artillery officer suddenly came up

to me on the quay, quite a young man, a sub-lieutenant.--'Are you A. P.

Chekhov?'--'Yes. Do you want anything?'--'Excuse me please for my

importunity, but for so long I have wanted to shake your hand!' And he

blushed--he was a wonderful fellow with a fine face. We shook hands and

parted."

Chekhov was at his best towards evening, about seven o'clock, when

people gathered in the dining room for tea and a light supper.

Sometimes--but more and more rarely as the years went on--there revived

in him the old Chekhov, inexhaustibly gay, witty, with a bubbling,

charming, youthful humor. Then he improvised stories in which the

characters were his friends, and he was particularly fond of arranging

imaginary weddings, which sometimes ended with the young husband the

following morning, sitting at the table and having his tea, saying as it

were by the way in an unconcerned and businesslike tone:

--"Do you know, my dear, after tea we'll get ready and go to a

solicitor's. Why should you have unnecessary bother about your money?"

He invented wonderful Chekhovian names, of which I now--alas!--remember

only a certain mythical sailor Koshkodovenko-cat-slayer. He also liked

as a joke to make young writers appear old. "What are you saying--Bunin

is my age"--he would assure one with mock seriousness. "So is Teleshov:

he is an old writer. Well, ask him yourself: he will tell you what a

spree we had at T. A. Bieloussov's wedding. What a long time ago!" To a

talented novelist, a serious writer and a man of ideas, he said: "Look

here, you're twenty years my senior: surely you wrote previously under

the nom-de-plume 'Nestor Kukolnik.'"

But his jokes never left any bitterness any more than he consciously

ever caused the slightest pain to any living thing.

After dinner he would keep some one in his study for half an hour or an

hour. On his table candles would be lit. Later, when all had gone and he

remained alone, a light would still be seen in his large window for a

long time. Whether he worked at that time, or looked through his

note-books, putting down the impressions of the day nobody seems to

know.