"You should not read your writing to other people before it is published," he often said. "And it is most important never to take any one"s advice. If you have made a mess of it, let the blood be on your own head. Maupa.s.sant by his greatness has so raised the standard of writing that it is very hard to write; but we have to write, especially we Russians, and in writing one must be courageous. There are big dogs and little dogs, but the little dogs should not be disheartened by the existence of the big dogs. All must bark--and bark with the voice G.o.d gave them."
All that went on in the world of letters interested him keenly, and he was indignant with the stupidity, falsehood, affectation and charlatanry which batten upon literature. But though he was angry he was never irritable and there was nothing personal in his anger. It is usual to say of dead writers that they rejoiced in the success of others, and were not jealous of them. If, therefore, I suspected Chekhov of the least jealousy I should be content to say nothing about it. But the fact is that he rejoiced in the existence of talent, spontaneously. The word "talentless" was, I think, the most damaging expression he could use.
His own failures and successes he took as he alone knew how to take them.
He was writing for twenty-five years and during that time his writing was constantly attacked. Being one of the greatest and most subtle of Russian writers, he never used his art to preach. That being so, Russian critics could neither understand him nor approve of him. Did they not insist that Levitan should "light up" his landscapes--that is paint in a cow, a goose, or the figure of a woman? Such criticism hurt Chekhov a good deal, and embittered him even more than he was already embittered by Russian life itself. His bitterness would show itself momentarily--only momentarily.
"We shall soon be celebrating your jubilee, Anton Pavlovitch!"
"I know your jubilees. For twenty-five years they do nothing but abuse and ridicule a man, and then you give him a pen made of aluminum and s...o...b..r over him for a whole day, and cry, and kiss him, and gush!"
To talk of his fame and his popularity he would answer in the same way--with two or three words or a jest.
"Have you read it, Anton Pavlovitch?" one would ask, having read an article about him.
He would look slyly over his spectacles, ludicrously lengthen his face, and say in his deep voice:
"Oh, a thousand thanks! There is a whole column, and at the bottom of it, "There is also a writer called Chekhov: a discontented man, a grumbler.""
Sometimes he would add seriously:
"When you find yourself criticized, remember us sinners. The critics boxed our ears for trifles just as if we were school-boys. One of them foretold that I should die in a ditch. He supposed that I had been expelled from school for drunkenness."
I never saw Chekhov lose his temper. Very seldom was he irritated, and if it did happen he controlled himself astonishingly. I remember, for instance, that he was once annoyed by reading in a book that he was "indifferent" to questions of morality and society, and that he was a pessimist. Yet his annoyance showed itself only in two words:
"Utter idiot!"
Nor did I find him cold. He said that he was cold when he wrote, and that he only wrote when the thoughts and images that he was about to express were perfectly clear to him, and then he wrote on, steadily, without interruptions, until he had brought it to an end.
"One ought only to write when one feels completely calm," he said once.
But this calm was of a very peculiar nature. No other Russian writer had his sensibility and his complexity.
Indeed, it would take a very versatile mind to throw any light upon this profound and complex spirit--this "incomparable artist" as Tolstoy called him. I can only bear witness that he was a man of rare spiritual n.o.bleness, distinguished and cultivated in the best sense, who combined tenderness and delicacy with complete sincerity, kindness and sensitiveness with complete candour.
To be truthful and natural and yet retain great charm implies a nature of rare beauty, integrity, and power. I speak so frequently of Chekhov"s composure because his composure seems to me a proof of the strength of his character. It was always his, I think, even when he was young and in the highest spirits, and it was that, perhaps, that made him so independent, and able to begin his work unpretentiously and courageously, without paltering with his conscience.
Do you remember the words of the old professor in "The Tedious Story?"
"I won"t say that French books are good and gifted and n.o.ble; 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.ses 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."