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The Autobiographical Writings of Anton Chekhov. Anton Chekhov
Читать онлайн.Название The Autobiographical Writings of Anton Chekhov
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isbn 9788027217854
Автор произведения Anton Chekhov
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Издательство Bookwire
3. Writers are the children of their age, and therefore, like everybody else, must submit to the external conditions of the life of the community. Thus, they must be perfectly decent. This is the only thing we have a right to ask of realistic writers. But you say nothing against the form and executions of “Mire.” … And so I suppose I have been decent.
4. I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write. This is due to habit and the brevity of my work. And so when I express this or that opinion about literature, I do not take myself into account.
5. You write: “If I were the editor I would have returned this feuilleton to you for your own good.” Why not go further? Why not muzzle the editors themselves who publish such stories? Why not send a reprimand to the Headquarters of the Press Department for not suppressing immoral newspapers?
The fate of literature would be sad indeed if it were at the mercy of individual views. That is the first thing. Secondly, there is no police which could consider itself competent in literary matters. I agree that one can’t dispense with the reins and the whip altogether, for knaves find their way even into literature, but no thinking will discover a better police for literature than the critics and the author’s own conscience. People have been trying to discover such a police since the creation of the world, but they have found nothing better.
Here you would like me to lose one hundred and fifteen roubles and be put to shame by the editor; others, your father among them, are delighted with the story. Some send insulting letters to Suvorin, pouring abuse on the paper and on me, etc. Who, then, is right? Who is the true judge?
6. Further you write, “Leave such writing to spiritless and unlucky scribblers such as Okrects, PinceNez, [Footnote: The pseudonym of Madame Kisselyov.] or Aloe.” [Footnote: The pseudonym of Chekhov’s brother Alexandr.]
Allah forgive you if you were sincere when you wrote those words! A condescending and contemptuous tone towards humble people simply because they are humble does no credit to the heart. In literature the lower ranks are as necessary as in the army — this is what the head says, and the heart ought to say still more.
Ough! I have wearied you with my drawn-out reflections. Had I known my criticism would turn out so long I would not have written it. Please forgive me! …
You have read my “On the Road.” Well, how do you like my courage? I write of “intellectual” subjects and am not afraid. In Petersburg I excite a regular furore. A short time ago I discoursed upon non-resistance to evil, and also surprised the public. On New Year’s Day all the papers presented me with a compliment, and in the December number of the Russkoye Bogatstvo, in which Tolstoy writes, there is an article thirty-two pages long by Obolensky entitled “Chekhov and Korolenko.” The fellow goes into raptures over me and proves that I am more of an artist than Korolenko. He is probably talking rot, but, anyway, I am beginning to be conscious of one merit of mine: I am the only writer who, without ever publishing anything in the thick monthlies, has merely on the strength of writing newspaper rubbish won the attention of the lop-eared critics — there has been no instance of this before…. At the end of 1886 I felt as though I were a bone thrown to the dogs.
… I have written a play [Footnote: “Calchas,” later called “Swansong.”] on four sheets of paper. It will take fifteen to twenty minutes to act…. It is much better to write small things than big ones: they are unpretentious and successful…. What more would you have? I wrote my play in an hour and five minutes. I began another, but have not finished it, for I have no time.
TO HIS UNCLE, M. G. CHEKHOV.
MOSCOW,
January 18, 1887.
… During the holidays I was so overwhelmed with work that on Mother’s nameday I was almost dropping with exhaustion.
I must tell you that in Petersburg I am now the most fashionable writer. One can see that from papers and magazines, which at the end of 1886 were taken up with me, bandied my name about, and praised me beyond my deserts. The result of this growth of my literary reputation is that I get a number of orders and invitations — and this is followed by work at high pressure and exhaustion. My work is nervous, disturbing, and involving strain. It is public and responsible, which makes it doubly hard. Every newspaper report about me agitates both me and my family…. My stories are read at public recitations, wherever I go people point at me, I am overwhelmed with acquaintances, and so on, and so on. I have not a day of peace, and feel as though I were on thorns every moment.
… Volodya [Translator’s Note: He had apparently criticized the name Vladimir, which means “lord of the world.”] is right…. It is true that a man cannot possess the world, but a man can be called “the lord of the world.” Tell Volodya that out of gratitude, reverence, or admiration of the virtues of the best men — those qualities which make a man exceptional and akin to the Deity — peoples and historians have a right to call their elect as they like, without being afraid of insulting God’s greatness or of raising a man to God. The fact is we exalt, not a man as such, but his good qualities, just that divine principle which he has succeeded in developing in himself to a high degree. Thus remarkable kings are called “great,” though bodily they may not be taller than I. I. Loboda; the Pope is called “Holiness,” the patriarch used to be called “Ecumenical,” although he was not in relations with any planet but the earth; Prince Vladimir was called “the lord of the world,” though he ruled only a small strip of ground, princes are called “serene” and “illustrious,” though a Swedish match is a thousand times brighter than they are — and so on. In using these expressions we do not lie or exaggerate, but simply express our delight, just as a mother does not lie when she calls her child “my golden one.” It is the feeling of beauty that speaks in us, and beauty cannot endure what is commonplace and trivial; it induces us to make comparisons which Volodya may, with his intellect, pull to pieces, but which he will understand with his heart. For instance, it is usual to compare black eyes with the night, blue with the azure of the sky, curls with waves, etc., and even the Bible likes these comparisons; for instance, “Thy womb is more spacious than heaven,” or “The Sun of righteousness arises,” “The rock of faith,” etc. The feeling of beauty in man knows no limits or bounds. This is why a Russian prince may be called “the lord of the world”; and my friend Volodya may have the same name, for names are given to people, not for their merits, but in honour and commemoration of remarkable men of the past…. If your young scholar does not agree with me, I have one more argument which will be sure to appeal to him: in exalting people even to God we do not sin against love, but, on the contrary, we express it. One must not humiliate people — that is the chief thing. Better say to man “My angel” than hurl “Fool” at his head — though men are more like fools than they are like angels.
TO HIS SISTER.
TAGANROG,
April 2, 1887.
The journey from Moscow to Serpuhov was dull. My fellow-travellers were practical persons of strong character who did nothing but talk of the prices of flour….
… At twelve o’clock we were at Kursk. An hour of waiting, a glass of vodka, a tidy-up and a wash, and cabbage soup. Change to another train. The carriage was crammed full. Immediately after Kursk I made friends with my neighbours: a landowner from Harkov, as jocose as Sasha K.; a lady who had just had an operation in Petersburg; a police captain; an officer from Little Russia; and a general in military uniform. We settled social questions. The general’s arguments were sound, short, and liberal; the police