Ooof! I have been wearying you with my fiddle-faddle. If I had known my criticism would have reached such length I would not have started the letter. Please forgive! . . .
Have you read my "On the Road?" "\Vell, how do you like my courage? I am writing of "intellectual" things and am un- daunted. In St. Pete it produced a resounding furore. Somewhat earlier I had treated of "non-resistance to evil" and had also astounded the reading public. Compliments have been heaped on me in the New Year's numbers of all the papers and in the December number of "Russian Wealth," which publishes Leo Tolstoy, there is an article by Obolenski (32 pages) entitled "Chekhov and Korolenko." The fellow is in raptures over me and argues that I am more of an artist than Korolenko. He is undoubtedly lying, but nevertheless I am beginning to feel that I possess one distinction: I am the sole person not being printed in the serious journals and writing journalistic trash who has gained the attention of the lop-eared critics. This is the only instance on record of such a case. The "Observer" scolded me —and did they get it! At the end of 1886 I felt like a bone that had been thrown to the dog. . . .
I have written a play on four sheets of paper.3 It will run for
' 3 "The play was Swan Song.
15 or 20 minutes. The smallest drama in existence . . . . It is being published in "The Season" and will therefore be avail- able everywhere. On the whole, little things are much better to write than big ones: there is very little pretension and sure suc- cess . . . what more does one need? I wrote my drama in an hour and five minutes. I started another, but didn't finish, for I had no time. . . .
Best regards to all. You will of course forgive me for writing you such a long letter. My pen has run away with me. . . .
Devotedly and respectfully, A. Chekhov
To ALEXANDER CHEKHOV
February 3 or 4, 1887, Moscow
My worthy friend,
Since you are a rentier and belong to the idle gilded youth of St. Pete, I find it desirable to give you a bit of work. See here, I need 20 (twenty) copies of Pushkin's works, Suvorin edition. They are absolutely unobtainable in Moscow—the edition was sold out in no time.
If you can intercede for me and buy the abovementioned copies from your benefactor and protector (whom you should respect, as you do me) , and send them via the conductor of the express train (with a letter) , let me know at once and I'll send the money. Do what you can, for the Pushkin is needed urgently.
You are not our oldest brother, but a rascaclass="underline" why didn't you restrain your younger brothers from taking such a shameful step as subscribing to the "Sun"? I hope it gives you a good burn!
I haven't seen Nikolai. You're the one who corresponds with him, so please write and tell him to send or bring my new black trousers.
We are all well and send regards. Mother is dying to know whether your Kokosha has begun to talk. With greetings to all,
Your talented brother, A. Chekhov
To DMITRI GRIGOROVICH
February 12,1887, Moscow
I have just read "Karelin's Dream" and am now seriously concerned with the question as to what extent the dream you portray is a dream. It seems to me, too, that the action of the brain and the general feeling of a person asleep are rendered with marvelous artistry and physiological fidelity. Of course, a dream is a subjective phenomenon and its inner aspect can be observed only in oneself, but since the process of dreaming is the same for all people, it seems to me that every reader must measure Karelin by his own yardstick, and every critic must of necessity be subjective. I am judging on the basis of my own dreams, which are frequent.
To begin with, the feeling of cold you convey is wonderfully subtle. When my blanket falls off at night, in my dreams I begin seeing enormous slippery boulders, cold autumnal water, bleak, barren shores—all this is vague, misty, without a patch of blue in the sky; I am dejected and melancholy, as if I had gone astray or been deserted, and I gaze upon the stones and feel a sort of compulsion to cross a deep river; at this time I see little rowboats pulling huge barges, floating logs, rafts and such. All of this is endlessly grim, raw and depressing. Then as I run from the shore, I encounter on my way the crumbling gates of a cemetery, funeral processions, my high school teacher. . . . And all this time I am utterly pervaded with that peculiar night- marish cold which is impossible in reality and experienced only by sleepers. This all comes to mind very distinctly when one reads the first page of "Karelin," and particularly the top half of the fifth page, where you mention the cold and loneliness of the grave.
I believe that if I had been born and brought up in St. Peters- burg I would certainly dream of the banks of the Neva, Senate Square and the massive masonry.
When I feel cold in my dream, I always see people. I hap- pened to read the critic in the "St. Petersburg Reports," who scolds you for having portrayed a would-be cabinet officer, thus impairing the generally elevated tone of the story. I do not agree. It is not the people who spoil the tone, but the way you characterize them, which interrupts the picture of sleep in some places. The people one meets in dreams are bound to be un- pleasant. During the sensation of cold, for example, I always dream of the good-looking and learned ecclesiastic who in- sulted my mother when I was a little boy; I dream of evil, per- sistently intriguing, maliciously smiling, vulgar people whom one never sees in one's waking hours. Laughter at the windows of a railway coach is a characteristic symptom of a Karelin night- mare. \Vhen you feel the pressure of an evil will during your dream and the inevitable ruin caused by some power over whom you have no control, there is always something like this kind of laughter. ... I also dream of those I love, but usually they are suffering along with me.
\Vhen my body gets accustomed to the cold, or when some- one in the family covers me up, the sensation of cold, loneliness and oppressive evil gradually vanishes. Along with the warmth I begin to feel as though I were treading on soft carpets or on green grass, I see the sun, women and children. The pictures change continually, more sharply than in real life, though, so that when I wake up it is hard to recollect the shifting from one picture to another. . . . This brusqueness comes through very well in your story and strengthens the impression of dreaming.
A natural phenomenon you have noted is also thrust force- fully before one's eyes: dreamers express their spiritual moods impulsively, in acute form, child-fashion. How true to life this is! People dreaming weep and cry out oftener than they do when they are awake.
I ask your pardon, Dmitri Vasilyevich, but I liked your story so much that I was prepared to run along for a dozen pages, although I am perfectly aware that I cannot tell you anything new, valuable or to the point. For fear of boring you and talk- ing nonsense I am restraining myself and cutting my words short. Let me only say that I think your story is magnificent. The reading public finds it "misty," but for the writing man, who savors every line, such mists are more limpid than holy water. Despite all my efforts I could detect only two spotty places, both unimportant, and even these by dint of straining the interpretation: ( 1) the descriptions of the characters break up the picture of sleep and give the impression of explanatory notes of the sort which learned horticulturists tack on to trees in gardens, thus spoiling the landscape; (2) at the beginning of the story the feeling of cold is somewhat blunted for the reader and becomes monotonous through frequent repetition of the word "cold."
I can find nothing more, and acknowledge that when I feel an urgent need for refreshing little images in my literary work, "Karelin's Dream" provides a glittering example. That is why I could not restrain myself and had the temerity of imparting some of my impressions and thoughts to you.