You write that the talk about pessimism and Kisochka's story in no way develop or solve the problem of pessimism. It seems to me that it is not up to writers to solve such quesiions as God, pessimism and so on. The job of the writer is to depict only who, how and under what circumstances people have spoken or thought about God or pessimism. The artist should not be a judge of his characters or of what they say, but only an objec- tive observer. I heard a confused, indecisive talk by two Rus- sians on pessimism and so must convey this conversation in the same form in which I heard it, but it is up to the jury, i.e., the readers, to give it an evaluation. My job is only to be talented, i.e., to be able to throw light upon some figures and speak their language. Shcheglov-Leontiev finds fault with me for having ended my story with the sentence: "You can't appraise anything in this world!" In his opinion the artist-psychologist must anal- yze—that's why he's a psychologist. But I don't agree with him. It is high time for writing folk, especially artists, to admit you can't appraise anything in this world, as Socrates did in his day, and Voltaire. The crowd thinks it knows and understands every- thing: and the more stupid it is, the broader seems to be its scope. If the artist, in whom the crowd believes, dares to declare that he does not understand what he sees, that alone comprises deep knowledge in the domain of thought and a good step ahead. .. .
What a letter I've concocted! I must end. Give my regards to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya. . . . Goodbye, keep well, and may God be good to you.
Your sincerely devoted
A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI PLESHCHEYEV
October 4, /888, Moscow ... I would be glad to read what Merejkowskil has to say. In the meantime, goodbye for now. \Vrite me once you have read my story. You won't like it, but I am not afraid of you, nor of Anna Mikhailovna. Those I am afraid of are the ones who look for tendencies between the lines and want to put me down definitely as a liberal or conservative. I am not a liberal and not a conservative, not an evolutionist, nor a monk, nor indifferent
1 Merejkowski, the author of The Life of Leonardo Da Vinci, in 1888 wrote an article, "An Old Question on New Talent," about Chekhov"s short stories.
to the world. I would like to be a free artist—and that is all— and regret that God has not given me the strength to be one. I hate lies and coercion in all their aspects. . . . Pharisaism, stupidity and idle whim reign not only in the homes of the merchant class and within prison walls; I see them in science, in literature, amongst young people. I cannot therefore nurture any particularly warm feelings toward policemen, butchers, savants, writers, or youth. I consider trademarks or labels to be prejudices.
My holy of holies are the human body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom—free- dom from force and falsity, in whatever form these last may be expressed. This is the program I would maintain, were I a great artist.
However, I've run on too much as it is. Keep well,
Yours, A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
October 27, Moscow
... I sometimes preach heresies, but have never once gone as far as the absolute negation of problems in art. In talks with the writing fraternity I always insist it is not the business of the artist to solve narrowly specialized questions. It is bad for an artist to tackle what he does not understand. For special problems we have specialists: it is their business to judge the community, the fate of capitalism, the evil of drunkenness, boots, female maladies . . . . The artist, though, must pass judg- ment only on what he understands; his circle is as limited as that of any other specialist—this I repeat and on this I always insist. Only one who has never written and has had no business with images can say there are no problems in his sphere, only answers. The artist observes, chooses, guesses, combines—these acts in themselves presuppose a problem; if he has not put this problem to himself from the very beginning, then there will be nothing to guess and no choice to make. To be more concise, let me finish with psychiatry; if one denies problem and purpose in creative work, then one must concede that the artist is creating undesignedly, without intention, temporarily de- ranged; and therefore, if some author were to boast to me that he had written a story without a previously considered inten- tion, guided by inspiration, I would call him insane.
You are right to require a conscious attitude from the artist toward his work, but you mix up two ideas: the solution of the problem and a conect presentation of the problem. Only the latter is obligatory for the artist. In "Anna Karenina" and "Onegin" not a single problem is solved, but they satisfy you completely just because all their problems are correctly pre- sented. The court is obliged to submit the case fairly, but let the jury do the deciding, each according to its own judg- ment. . . .
Tomorrow my "Bear" is on at Korsh's theatre. I have written another one-act play; two male parts, one female.
You write that the hero of my "The Party" is a figure which it would be well for me to develop further. Good Lord, surely I am not an unfeeling brute, I understand that. I know that I deface and even murder my characters, and that good material perishes needlessly . ... I would gladly have sat half a year over "The Party." And that is speaking the truth. I love to relax at my ease, and see no delight in hasty bursting into print. Gladly, with pleasure, with feeling and with deliberation would I describe all of my hero. I would depict his spirit while his wife was giving birth, his trial, his miserable state of mind after he was exonerated, I would portray the midwife and doctor drinking tea at night, I would describe the rain. This would afford me only pleasure, because I love to fool around and fuss. But what am I to do? I begin the story on the tenth of September with the thought that it must be completed by the fifth of October, which is the deadline; if I put it off, I'll be tricking the publisher and will remain without money. I write the beginning serenely, let myself go, but in the middle I have already begun cowering and fearing lest my story turn out to be long; I have to remember that the "Northern Herald" hasn't much money and that I am one of its expensive contributors. My start, therefore, is full of promise, as though I were begin- ning a novel; the middle section is difficult and broken up, while the end, as in a short short story, is like fireworks. In writing, therefore, one is bound to concentrate first of all upon the story's framework; from the mass of greater and lesser fig- ures you pick one particular person—the husband or wife— place him in the foreground, draw him in and underscore him alone, then you throw the others about the background like loose change, and the result is not unlike the vault of heaven: one big moon and around it a mass of very small stars. The moon, however, cannot come through successfully, because it can only be interpreted properly when the other stars are under- stood; and the stars in the meantime have not been clearly explained. So what emerges is not literature, but something on the order of the sewing of Trishkin's coat. What shall I do? I simply don't know. I put my trust in all-healing time.
If I may again speak of my conscience, well then, I haven't yet begun my literary career, despite the receipt of a prize. Subjects for five big stories and two novels swarm in my head. One of the novels was conceived a long time ago, so that several in the cast of characters have grown old without ever having been put down on paper. There is a regular army of people in my brain begging to be summoned forth and only waiting for the word to be given. All I have written hitherto is trash in comparison with what I would like to write and what I would write exultantly. It's all the same to me whether I write "The Party" or "The Lights" or a one-act comedy, or a letter to a friend—it is all tedious, mechanical, faded; I feel aggrieved against the critic who, let us say, attributes some significance to "The Lights," for it seems to me that I am misleading him, as I have misled many people with my immoderately serious or merry face. I am not pleased that I am successful; the subjects that sit in my head are vexatiously jealous of those already on paper; it is insulting that the trash is already on view while the good stuff lies about in the storehouse, like discarded books. Of course, there is much in this lamentation of mine that is exaggerated, much that only seems so to me, but there is some portion of truth, and a big one. What do I call good? Those images which seem best to me, which I love and jealously guard so as not to waste and trample them down on account of some "The Party," written to meet a deadline. . . . If my love is mis- taken, then I am not right, but surely it is possible that it may not be mistaken! I am either a fool and a presumptuous person or I am actually an organism capable of being a good writer; all that now issues from my pen does not please me and causes me weariness, but all that sits in my head interests me, touches and stirs me. Wherefore I conclude that nobody knows the secret of doing the right thing but me. It is very likely that everyone who writes reasons thus. However, the devil himself would break his neck on questions such as these.