Gngorovich's words fell on fertile ground. Deep down Chekhov knew that the stories he was now writing were of artistic worth, but he needed validation from someone in the literary establishment in Petersburg, because no one in his milieu took him seriously. Cheichov immediately wrote Grigorovich a long, effusxve letter n reply:
Your letter, my dear, beloved bearer of good t:d;ngs, struck me like a bolt of lightning. I almost burst into tears and felt very moved, and now feel as if it has left a deep mark in my soul... People close to me have always been scornful of my writing, and do not cease to give me friendly advice not to pack in the day job for the pen-pushing. I have hundreds of acquaintances in Moscow, including a few dozen who write, and I car not remember a single one of them who has read me or saw me as an artist. . ,26
The writers at the weekly literary club he attended in Moscow, he explained, would simply laugh in his face if he went and read Grigorovich's letter out to them. No, he had never spent more than a day writing a story, but with his medical practice (which Grigorovich had, of course, no idea about), he never had more than a couple of hours of leisure time late at night to devote to writing. And then, of course, he did not have the energy to work seriously on anything All hope, be concluded, was therefore on the future. Chekhov's conservative Uncle Mitrofan did not really approve of earning one's living as a writer, so it was not without some pride that his nephew sent a letter to him in Taganrog to tell him what had happened, employing some forgivable epistolary licence by slightly conflating Grigorovich's first two letters:
There is a major writer in Russia, Dmitry Grigorovich, whose portrait you will find in your copy of Modern Figures. Not long ago, quite out of the blue, and not being acquainted with him, I received a sizeable letter from him. Grigorovich is such a respected and popular personality that you can imagine how pleasantly surprised I was! Here are some passages from his letter: 'You have real talent, a talent which places you far above the writers of the new generation... I am over sixty-five, but I have preserved so much love for literature, I follow its progress with such keen interest, and am always so glad to encounter something lively and gifted that, as you can see, I could not restiain myself from extending both my arms to you ... When you are next in Petersburg, I hope to see you and embrace you, as I now embrace you in absentia.27
Emboldened by Grigorovich's letter, Chekhov now began giving similar avuncular advice to his older brother Alexander, who also had pretensions to a literary career, noting with a bit of a swagger that he was now the writer to watch.28 Motley Tales, his second short story collection, published in May 1886, certainly attracted a lot of attention.
Another brother who now received avuncular advice that March was the wayward NiKolai, whose d:ssolute lifestyle prompted Chekhov to write him an extraordinary letter - extraordinary both because it was very !ong (the two brothers saw each other on a regular basis, after all), and because of what it said. Chekhov's exhortations to Nikola, actually tell us a great deal about his own sense of moral purpose: civilized people respect human beings as individuals, he admonished Nikolai, enumerating a further seven precepts which clearly followed a plan he had worked out for himself. They have compasj ion for other people, the list continued, they respect other people's property, they do not tell lies even in the most trival matters, they do not denigrate themselves in order to provoke the sympathy of others, they are not vain, they value their talent, if they have it, and work at developing their aesthetic sensibility, and they are fas dious , n their habits. Bearing in mind the singleness of purpose which was to characterize Chekhov's attitude towards his writing (the nonchalance be affected was a highly effective smokescreen), it is particularly interesting to note the way he embellished hb comments to Nikola, about dedication to one's craft. Civilized people take pride in their talent, he thundered on, sacrificing for it peace of mind, women, wine, and all the bustle and vanity of the world. Chekhov took his own lessons to heart. And in concluding his letter to Nikolai by telling him to 'work uncearmgly, day and night, read conscantly, study, exercise will-power', stressing that every hour was precious, there was probably more than Grigorov-ch's wake-up call at work.
Nikolai had tuberculosis. His reaction to having been given this death sentence was to give up. For the last eighteen months, Chekhov had known that he too had contracted this fatal disease, and now fell victim to ominous cough'ng fits each spring and autumn as the seasons changed. In November 1884 he had completed his first commission for The Petersburg Newspaper: fifteen p:eces of daily reportage from a high-profhe Moscow fraud trial. Although Chekhov himself had suggested the assignment, he had not an\c:pated how gruelling it would be to sit in court day after day and then rush home and write 'like one possessed' in order to meet h.s dead:.ties. The exhaustion took its toll on his fragile health. Chekhov's main Petersburg editor had for some :;me been try ing to persuade his young protege to make the journey to the capital, where his work was being published to increasing acclaim. After the tr J finished, Chekhov was forced to confide in him that he had been spitting blood. It was not tubercular, he emphasized to another correspondent,29 but of course it was. He was unable even to get on with his writing properly, let alone board a train.30 As a doctor, he knew exactly what he was dealing with.
Chekhov's reaction to contracting tuberculosis was the opposite of that of his brother. An early awareness of living on borrowed time spurred him on to industry, not sloth. The letter from Grigorovich helped him to start valuing his artistic gift: if he did not completely sacrifice for it peace of mind, women, wine, and all the bustle and vanity of the world, he nevertheless came close. And this new dedication to his art was not accompanied by the ruthlessness and 2gocentricity often associated with crea,;ve genius, but again by their opposites. Looking ahead to the next eighteen years of his life, Chekhov's activities outside his wi'ting - his work as a doctor, the solicitude with which he cared for his parents, his work to reform the inhumanity of Russia's penal system, his contribution to famine relief and to the prevent on of cholera, his construction of schools and planting of trees, and his campaign to build a sanatorium for tuberculosis sufferers - all speak of a highly developed ethical philosophy which was perhaps partly the legacy of his Christian upbringing. Chekhov may have rejected the dogma of the Church in adulthood, but under the influence of people like Father Vasily in agan'-og even his artistic activities were guided by the same, highly discreet, humanitarian goals.
II
Dr Chekhov's Casebook
Moscow was the city where Chekhov began his literary career, and where he made his stage debut as a dramatist. Moscow was also the city where he studied and practised medicine. Chekhov's meaxal practice may not have gi^en him very much 11 monetary terms (in fact, hardly anything at all), but the experience of treating patients was to prove invaluable for his creative work, not only in terms of subject matter but technique. As he said in a typically pithy autobiographical note he comp led for a Moscow University almanac published in 1900:
I do not doubt that my meuical activities have had a powerful influence on my work as a writer; they have sign ficantly expanded my field of observation, enriched my knowledge, and only people who are doctors themselves w 11 be able to appreciate the true value of all this; medicine has also been a guiding influence, and I have probably avoided making many mistakes as a result of my close relationship with it. My acquaintance with the natural sciences and the scientific approach has always kept me on my toes, and I have tried, wherever possible, to deal with scientific facts; where that has not been poss Ле I have tried not to write at all. I should point out in this connection that the conditions of creative work do not always allow complete agreement with scientific facts; you cannot depict a death from poisoning on stage as it happens in real life. But you must be able to sense there is an agieement with scientific facts even when you have to resort to convention, that is to say, the reader or the spectator must reali/.e that it is only convention, but that the author writes from a position of knowledge.31