They sympathize not only with beggars and stray cats; they are also sick at heart with what is not visible to the naked eye. Thus, for instance, if Peter knows his father and mother are haggard with care and do not sleep nights because they see him so seldom (and then, only in a drunken state), Peter will spurn the vodka bottle and hasten to them. They themselves do not sleep nights because they want to ... pay for their brother's upkeep at college and keep their mother properly clothed.
They respect the property of others and therefore pay their debts.
They are sincere and fear untruth like the very devil. They will not lie even in small matters. A lie is insulting to the one who hears it and cheapens the speaker in the latter's eyes. They do not pose, they behave on the street as they would at home and do not throw dust in the eyes of their humbler brethren. . . . They are not garrulous and don't intrude their confidences where they are not sought. . . . Out of respect for people's ears they are more often silent than not.
They do not make fools of themselves in order to arouse sympathy. They do not play upon the heartstrings of people so that these will have pity and make a fuss over them. They don't say, "I am misunderstood!" or "I've made a mess of every- thing!" because all this is striving after cheap effect, vulgar, stale, false. . . .
They are not vain. They don't traffic in such imitation diamonds as pursuing acquaintance with celebrities . . . listen- ing to the raptures of a casual spectator at the Salon, earning notoriety in the taverns of the town. . . . If they accomplish a kopek's worth of good work they don't make a hundred rubles' worth of fuss over it and don't boast they can get into places from which others are excluded. . . . The truly gifted always remain in obscurity amongst the crowd and shun as much as possible the display of their talents. . . . Even Krylov2 said that an empty barrel makes more noise than a full one. . . .
If they have talent, they regard it with respect. To it they will sacrifice their repose, women, wine and vanity . . . . They are proud of that talent. Because of it they won't go on drunken sprees with superintendents of low-class buildings and with Skvortsov's guests, for they are aware that they aren't called upon to associate with them, but rather to influence them to a higher cultural level. Besides, they are fastidious . . . .
8. They develop an aesthetic sense. They cannot bring them- selves to go to sleep in their clothes, to look with indifference upon bugs crawling from cracks in the wall, to breathe foul air, or step upon a floor covered with spit, or feed themselves off a kerosene stove. They try as best they can to subdue and ennoble the sexual instinct. . . . Truly cultured people don't cheapen themselves. \Vhat they need from a woman is not just pleasure in bed, not horse sweat . . . not the kind of cleverness that con- sists in pretending to be pregnant and in constant lying. . . . Artists in particular require from their women companions freshness, elegance, humanity; not a whore, but a woman who can be a mother. . . . They don't swill vodka all the time, or sniff cupboards—because they realize they are not pigs. They drink only when they are free, on some special occasion . . . for they need to have mens sana in corpore sano.
And so on. Such are cultured people. To educate yourself not to fall below the level of your environment, it is not enough to have read the "Pickwick Papers" or to have memorized the monologue from Faust . . . .
2 Krylov was the famous writer of fables.
What you need is constant work, day and night, eternal read- ing, study, will power. . . . Every hour is precious.
. . . You must spurn this way of life once and for all, tear yourself away with a wrench. . . . Come to us, smash the vodka decanter and lie down with a book. . . . Turgenev, if you will, whom you haven't read. . . .
. . . you must rid yourself of vanity, for you are no longer a child. You are getting close to thirty. Time to make a change!
I'm expecting you—so are we all.
Yours, A. Chekhov
To MARIA KISELEVA
September 2/, /886, Moscow
. . . To begin with, thank you very much for the passages copied out of "Russian Thought." I kept thinking as I read: "I thank thee, God, that the great writers have not yet been translated in Mother Russia!" Yes indeed, our homeland is still rich on its own. From your letter to my sister I see that you too are trying to be a celebrity. (I am speaking of St. Pete and the samples of mythology stories I have seen.) Good Lord, literature is not a fisĥ, and so I am not envious.
By the way, being an eminent author is not so great a delight. For one thing, it's a gloomy life. Work from morning to night, and not much sense to it. ... Money—as scarce as hen's teeth. I don't know how things are with Zola and Schedrin,1 but my place is smoky and cold. I get cigarettes, as before, only on holi- days. And impossible cigarettes! They are tough and damp, like little sausages. Before smoking I turn up the lamp wick, dry the cigarette over it and only then light it; while the lamp sputters and reeks, the cigarette cracks and darkens, and I scorch my fingers. . . . you feel that death might be a welcome release.
1 Schedrin was a famous satirist.
Let me repeat, money is scarcer than poetic talent. My receipts don't start coming in until the first of October and in the mean- time I stand at the church doors and beg for alms. I work, ex- pressing myself in Sergey's words, terr-rr-ibly hard—honest to God cross my heart—very hard! I'm writing a play for Korsh (hm!), a long story for "Russian Thought," tales for "New Times," the "St. Petersburg Gazette," "Fragments," "The Alarm Clock" and similar organs of the press. I write a great deal and at great length, but I run around in circles, starting one thing before I've finished another. . . . Since I've begun, I haven't allowed my doctor's shingle to be put up, but just the same I've got to continue my practice! Br-r-r!
I'm scared of typhus!
I am never quite well and little by little am turning into a mummified insect. If I die before you, be so good as to give the cupboard to my direct descendants, who will be putting their dentures on its shelves.
I'm quite the rage now, but, judging from the critical glances of the lady cashier in "The Alarm Clock" office, my clothes are not of the latest cut and are not spotless. I don't travel by cab, but on the trolley cars.
However, the writing business has its good points too. First, according to the latest information, my book is not going badly; second, I'll be getting some money in October; third, I am al- ready beginning to reap some laurels: people point me out in restaurants, pursue me just the least little bit and treat me to sandwiches. Korsh nabbed me in his theatre and then and there handed me a season pass. . . . Belousov, the tailor, bought my book, is reading it aloud at home and prophesies a brilliant future for me. \Vhen medical colleagues meet me they heave a sigh, turn the conversation to literature and assure me that medicine disgusts them, etc.
As to the question you put to my sister about my having married: the reply is no, and I'm proud of it. I am above mar- riage! The widow Khludova2 has arrived in Moscow. Save me,
Seraphim of Heaven! . . .
A few days ago I was at the Hermitage and ate oysters for the first time. Not very good. If you were to omit the Chablis and lemon, they'd be absolutely revolting. The end of this letter
is in sight Another six or seven months and—spring!
Time to get the fishing tackle ready. Farewell, and believe the hypocritical A. Ch. when he says he is devoted heart and soul to your whole family.
had barely finished this paragraph when the bell tinkled and
beheld the genius Levitan. Cocky hat, clothing of a dandy, thin as a rail. He went to see Aida twice, Rusalka once, ordered some picture frames, almost sold some sketches.... Says life is nothing but anguish and more anguish.