"I won't say that French books are good and gifted and noble; but they
are not so dull as Russian books, and the chief element of creative
power is often to be found in them--the sense of personal freedom."
Chekhov had in the highest degree that "sense of personal freedom" and
he could not bear that others should be without it. He would become
bitter and uncompromising if he thought that others were taking
liberties with it.
That "freedom," it is well known, cost him a great deal; but he was not
one of those people who have two different ideals--one for themselves,
the other for the public. His success was for a very long time much less
than he deserved. But he never during the whole of his life made the
least effort to increase his popularity. He was extremely severe upon
all the wire-pulling which is now resorted to in order to achieve
success.
"Do you still call them writers? They are cab-men!" he said bitterly.
His dislike to being made a show of at times seemed excessive.
"The Scorpion (a publishing firm) advertise their books badly," he wrote
to me after the publication of "Northern Flowers." "They put my name
first, and when I read the advertisement in the daily _Russkya
Vedonosti_ I swore I would never again have any truck with scorpions,
crocodiles, or snakes."
This was the winter of 1900 when Chekhov who had become interested in
certain features of the new publishing firm "Scorpion" gave them at my
request one of his youthful stories, "On the Sea." They printed it in a
volume of collected stories and he many times regretted it.
"All this new Russian art is nonsense," he would say. "I remember that I
once saw a sign-board in Taganrog: Arfeticial (for 'artificial') mineral
waters are sold here! Well, this new art is the same as that."
His reserve came from the loftiness of his spirit and from his incessant
endeavor to express himself exactly. It will eventually happen that
people will know that he was not only an "incomparable artist," not only
an amazing master of language but an incomparable man into the bargain.
But it will take many years for people to grasp in its fullness his
subtlety, power, and delicacy.
"How are you, dear Ivan Alexeyevitch?" he wrote to me at Nice. "I wish
you a happy New Year. I received your letter, thank you. In Moscow
everything is safe, sound, and dull. There is no news (except the New
Year) nor is any news expected. My play is not yet produced, nor do I
know when it will be. It is possible that I may come to Nice in
February.... Greet the lovely hot sun from me, and the quiet sea. Enjoy
yourself, be happy, don't think about illness, and write often to your
friends.... Keep well, and cheerful, and don't forget your sallow
northern countrymen, who suffer from indigestion and bad temper." (8th
January, 1904).
"Greet the lovely hot sun and the quiet sea from me" ... I seldom heard
him say that. But I often felt that he ought to say it, and then my
heart ached sadly.
I remember one night in early spring. It was late. Suddenly the
telephone rang. I heard Chekhov's deep voice:
"Sir, take a cab and come here. Let us go for a drive."
"A drive? At this time of night?" I answered. "What's the matter, Anton
Pavlovitch?"
"I am in love."
"That's good. But it is past nine.... You will catch cold."
"Young man, don't quibble!"
Ten minutes later I was at Antka. The house, where during the winter
Chekhov lived alone with his mother, was dark and silent, save that a
light came through the key-hole of his mother's room, and two little
candles burnt in the semi-darkness of his study. My heart shrank as
usual at the sight of that quiet study, where Chekhov passed so many
lonely winter nights, thinking bitterly perhaps on the fate which had
given him so much and mocked him so cruelly.
"What a night!" he said to me with even more than his usual tenderness
and pensive gladness, meeting me in the doorway. "It is so dull here!
The only excitement is when the telephone rings and Sophie Pavlovna asks
what I am doing, and I answer: 'I am catching mice.' Come, let us drive
to Orianda. I don't care a hang if I do catch cold!"
The night was warm and still, with a bright moon, light clouds, and a
few stars in the deep blue sky. The carriage rolled softly along the
white road, and, soothed by the stillness of the night, we sat silent
looking at the sea glowing a dim gold.... Then came the forest cobwebbed
over with shadows, but already spring-like and beautiful.... Black
troops of giant cypresses rose majestically into the sky. We stopped the
carriage and walked beneath them, past the ruins of the castle, which
were pale blue in the moonlight. Chekhov suddenly said to me:
"Do you know for how many years I shall be read? Seven."
"Why seven?" I asked.
"Seven and a half, then."
"No," I said. "Poetry lives long, and the longer it lives the better it
becomes--like wine."
He said nothing, but when we had sat down on a bench from which we could
see the sea shining in the moonlight, he took off his glasses and said,
looking at me with his kind, tired eyes:
"Poets, sir, are those who use such phrases as 'the silvery distance,'
'accord,' or 'onward, onward, to the fight with the powers of
darkness'!"
"You are sad to-night, Anton Pavlovitch," I said, looking at his kind
and beautiful face, pale in the moonlight.
He was thoughtfully digging up little pebbles with the end of his stick,
with his eyes on the ground. But when I said that he was sad, he looked
across at me, humorously.
"It is you who are sad," he answered. "You are sad because you have
spent such a lot on the cab."
Then he added gravely:
"Yes, I shall only be read for another seven years; and I shall live for
less--perhaps for six. But don't go and tell that to the newspaper
reporters."
He was wrong there: he did not live for six years....
He died peacefully without suffering in the stillness and beauty of a
summer's dawn which he had always loved. When he was dead a look of
happiness came upon his face, and it looked like the face of a very
young man. There came to my mind the words of Leconte de Lisle:
Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
D'etre affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
La honte de penser et l'horreur d'etre un homme!
[ Transcriber's Note:
The following is a list of corrections made to the original.
The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.
respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humilate him personally,
respect; no one should dare to shout at him or humiliate him personally,
began at once to speak of it with enthusiaism, completely uninterested,
began at once to speak of it with enthusiasm, completely uninterested,
you struck!"
you struck!'"
pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came beween the
pure, and beautifully shaped; two thoughtful folds came between the
old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissensky,
old. You try to re-read some of our classics, say, Pissemsky,
Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calm et noir
Moi, je l'envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir
]