This institution was one of those typical provincial gymnasiums, which were the backbone of the Russian educational system. Their graduates received certain privileges, such as belonging to the beginning rank in the traditional table of fourteen ranks established by Peter the Great, exemption from military service, and the right to apply for admission to a university. Several hundred students attended the Taganrog institution, which offered the usual eight years of instruction concentrated on Greek and Latin, but Church Slavonic and Russian, German, religion, geography, mathematics, and history were also taught.
Antosha entered the preparatory class in August 1868, at the age of eight, and was promoted to the first regular class the following year. Kept back twice for failures in certain subjects in the third and fifth grades, he did not finish until June 1879. Although not a brilliant student— he graduated eleventh, with about a B-minus average, in a class of twentv-three — his performance might easily have risen above this level under more ideal home conditions of study. The official "certificate of matriculation" issued at the time of his graduation suggests worthy character traits rather than intellectual achievement: ". . . in general his behavior was excellent, his punctuality in attendance, in the preparation of lessons, and also in the fulfillment of written work was extremely good, his diligence very good, and his curiosity in all subjects was uniform. . .
School experiences often constitute a memorable chapter, either glorious or unfortunate, in the formative years of genius, but Chekhov's eleven years in the Taganrog School for Boys seem to represent merely the accomplishment of an allotted task. He obviously made no profound impression on the school or the school on him. Nor does there appear to have been any particular residue of sentiment in later years, only a passing recollection, in a letter, of the terror he endured at the anticipation of being called upon when he did not know his lessons. The teachers were an undistinguished lot living in an atmosphere of spying and being spied upon, for the director laid down rules to guide their deportment both within the school and outside it. And peepholes in the classroom doors enabled an inspector to keep the pupils' behavior under surveillance. The Russian democratic movement was at its peak at the end of the Sixties, and reactionary government officials regarded students as the very stuff out of which revolutionists were made. The Latin teacher, according to the school's historian, "took upon himself the duty of searching out political suspects among the young people, and since he possessed a talent for understanding a student, he nearly always guessed correctly and pursued the matter mercilessly." In Kovalenko's condemnation of the snooping, pathologically suspicious teacher Belikov in The Man in a Shell, Chekhov is perhaps recalling all that he cared to remember of his Taganrog school and instructors: "I don't understand how you can tolerate that informer, that nasty mug. Ugh! How can you live here? The air you breathe is vile and stifling! Are you pedagogues, teachers? No, you are wretched functionaries and your temple of learning is a police station, and it has the smell of one." Only the priest, E. P. Pokrovsky, the teacher of jurisprudence and religious history, won any popularity among the students. They admired his originality and intellectual independence that would lead him to discourse eloquently on Shakespeare, Goethe, or Pushkin in his course on religious history. An occasional visitor to the Chekhov household, he did not hesitate to tell the parents that, apart from Alexander, there was nothing exceptional about the abilities of their children. Toward the end of his schooling Antosha seems to have cultivated the acquaintance of a few of his teachers and of the director, E. P. Reit- linger, who once presented him with a ticket for a violin concert.
Nothing noteworthy happened in Antosha's school life until his seventh year, when L. F. Volkenstein was expelled for slapping the face of another student who had offensively called him a "yid." At Antosha's urging Volkenstein's whole class petitioned the director to remove the expulsion under the threat of their refusing to attend classes, and the administration, awed by this show of unanimity, complied.
In his early years, when little Antosha was plumpish in appearance with a pale, round face, dimpled cheeks, large brown eyes, and close- cropped hair, his demeanor puzzled both his teachers and comrades. An element of shyness and reserve mingled with happy spontaneity and bubbling inventiveness. The unchildlike gravity and posture of "good little boy" which impressed adults blurred the image of an essentially fun-loving nature. He enjoyed telling his schoolmates amusing stories which he had culled from his reading. "In the advanced classes" — runs one of the very few comments on Chekhov from his teachers — "he revealed a definite character trait in the sharp, neat words with which he hit off this or that pedagogue or schoolfellow. Now and again he would come up with some witty undertaking, but he himself always remained apart from it. His comrades, however, would seize upon the idea and it became the source of fun and laughter."
Many household chores and interminable hours in the grocery store no doubt played their part in Chekhov's undistinguished scholarly record and perhaps also in his meager participation in school activities and friendships (for a brief period he wrote for the school magazine). Schoolwork was heavy and there was little time available in which to do it well. In addition, his father, apparently still dubious about the earning power of a liberal arts education, insisted that the thirteen- year-old boy supplement it by enrolling in the tailoring class of the district industrial school. For in the record books of this institution are several relevant entries, such as: "To the student Chekhov (Anton) materials for pants to be made by him." The pants, it appears, were duly finished and destined for brother Nikolai who, in the fashion of the day, had insisted that the legs be made as narrow as possible. The young tailor complied so well that Nikolai had great difficulty getting into these "macaroni pants," as Antosha nicknamed them.
Apart from tending shop, however, the chores that cut most heavily into Antosha's time during his school years were churchgoing and the choir which his father organized. This enterprise of Pavel Yegorovich's was an outgrowth of both his religious zeal and his love for music, and he was prepared, if need be, to whip his sons into the happiness which he so much enjoyed. He never missed vespers or early and late mass on Sundays, and on religious holidays he spent almost the whole day in church and compelled the family to follow his example. After losing a position as assistant director in a church choir because he insisted on prolonging the musical part of the service, he decided to form his own choir. He gathered together a group of singing enthusiasts, mostly blacksmiths, and rehearsed frequently and doggedly from ten to midnight in a large room adjoining his grocery store. Pavel Yegorovich soon realized that his blacksmiths' deep voices, which sounded like the clanging of the anvils they worked on in the daytime, required an infusion of fresher and lighter tones. Children were the obvious answer. Alexander and Nikolai were assigned first and second soprano parts, and, for some odd reason, little Antosha became the alto. They all sat on soapboxes around a table. Pavel Yegorovich would take out his violin and the rehearsal would begin. Though the sheet music lay before them, this was a mere formality, for not a single one of the blacksmiths could read a note. They sang "by ear" and memorized the words.
Through his ecclesiastical connections Pavel Yegorovich obtained church jobs for this strange choir of brawny blacksmiths and reluctant children, and they sang together for several years for nothing or a few roubles. To labor on behalf of the Lord is never harmful, he told the miserable youngsters, and in this good work he sincerely believed that he was earning a place in paradise for himself. All the same the brothers, and especially Antosha, dreaded every Sunday and holy day. Their father was stern, correct, and demanding in this labor of love. If they were to sing in the early morning, he aroused them at two or three o'clock and out they would go, no matter what the weather. After their return from mass they drank tea and then Pavel Yegorovich would simulate a church service at home. Swinging a lighted censer, he first perfumed the room, then gathered the family before the ikon for prayers, and finally directed religious singing by all present. Soon the bells for the late mass would sound and again they would all set out for church.