In determining what kind of person I should be and what I should do money will not heljj. An extra thousand rubles does not solve the problem, while a hundred thousand is a pipe dream. Moreover, when I have money (perhaps this is from want of habit, I don't know) I become extremely heedless and lazy; the world is my oyster then. I need solitude and time.
Forgive mc for forcing my personality on you. My pen has run away with me. Somehow I cannot work now.
Thanks for placing my little articles. For the love of God, don't stand on ceremony with them; abridge, lengthen, alter, throw out or do with them what you will. I give you, as Korsh says, carte blanche. I will be happy if my articles do not usurp somebody else's place . . . .
Tell me what Anna Ivanovna's eye disease is called in Latin. I will let you know how senous it is. If she was prescribed atropin it is serious, though not categorically so. And what is wrong with Nastya? If you are thinking of curing your boredom in Moscow, a journey will prove fruitless: there is frightful tedium here. Many literary men have been arrested, among them, too, old busybody Goltsev, author of the "Ninth Sym- phony." V. S. Mamyshev, who visited me today, is interceding for one of them.
Greetings to all your family.
Your A. Chekhov A mosquito is flying about in my room. How did he ever get here? Thank you for the striking ads of my books.
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
November 3, 1888, Moscow
Greetings, Alexei Sergeyevich,
I am now arraying myself in a frock coat to attend the open- ing evening of the "Society of Arts and Literature" to which I have been specially invited. There's going to be a formal ball. 'Vhat the aims and resources of this society are, who constitutes the membership and so on, I don't know. ... I have not been elected to membership, and am very glad of it since contribut- ing twenty-five rubles for the right to be bored is far from my desire. . . .
In the "Northern Herald" for November there is an article devoted to yours truly by Merejkowski, the poet. A long one. I recommend its conclusion to your attention. It is character- istic. Merejkowski is still very young and a student—I believe he is a naturalist. People who have mastered the wisdom of the scientific method and who therefore know how to reason scien- tifically are subject to a number of irresistible temptations. Archimedes wanted to turn the earth upside down, and nowa- days the hotheads want to embrace the scientifically unembrace- able, to discover physical laws for the creative impulse, to bring to light a general law and formulae which the artist feels and follows instinctively in composing music, painting landscapes, writing novels and so on. These formulae probably exist in na- ture. We know that there is A, B, C, do, re, mi, fa and sol in nature, there is the curve, the straight line, the circle, the square, green, red and blue . . . we know that these factors in some particular combination produce a melody or verse or a picture, just as simple chemical bodies in some particular com- bination produce wood, or stone, or the sea, but the only thing we know is that there is a combination, and that the working of this combination is unknown to us. Those who have assimi- lated the scientific method are deeply aware that there is some- thing in common between the piece of music and the tree, that both are created as a result of equally true and simple laws. So the question arises: what are these laws? . . . Reasoning scientifically is always a good idea, but the trouble is that this scientific reasoning on the subject of creative power is in the end certain to degenerate into looking for "cells" or "centres" which control the creative impulse; then some ponderous Ger- man will discover these cellules somewhere in the occipital lobes, another countryman of his will dissent, a third will con- cur, and the Russian will skim through an article on cells and dash off an essay for the "Northern Herald"; the "Herald of Europe" will set to work picking this essay to pieces, and for about three years after that an epidemic of nonsense will hover in the Russian air which will provide earnings and popularity for the dunces, and inspire nothing but annoyance in intelligent people.
For those whom the scientific method has wearied, to whom God has given the rare gift of reasoning scientifically, there is, in my opinion, a single way out, and that is the philosophy of creative power. You can heap together all the best that has been created by artists throughout the centuries, and, utilizing the scientific method, extract from them the qualities they have in common with one another and which condition their value. That common quality will be the criterion. The works called immortal have a great deal in common; if you omit from each of them this common quality, the work loses its value and de- light. In other words, this common quality is indispensable, and constitutes the condition sine qua non of every work with pretensions to immortality.
For the younger generation, writing criticism is more useful than composing poems. Merejkowski writes smoothly and youth- fully, but on every page he quavers, makes reservations and ad- vances concessions—this is a sign that he himself has not clari- fied the question in his own mind. . . . He calls me a poet, my stories are novellas, my heroes—ill-starred, that is to say, he has nothing new to offer. It is about time he discarded these victims of fate, superfluous people and so on, and thought up something of his own. Merejkowski calls my monk, the com- poser of the "Song of Praise," an unfortunate. But in what re- spect was he a failure? God grant that all may live as he: he believed in God, was well fed and could write creatively. . . . Dividing people into successes and failures means looking upon human nature from the narrow, preconceived point of view. . . . Are you a failure or not? Am I? Napoleon? Your servant Vasili? \Vhere is the criterion? One must be God to be able to distin- guish successes from failures and not make mistakes. . . . I'm going to the ball.
I have returned. The aim of the society is "unity." A learned German taught a cat, a mouse, a hawk and a sparrow to eat out of one plate . . . . Deathly boredom reigned. People sauntered through the rooms and made believe they weren't bored. A young lady sang. Lenski read my story (one of the listeners re- marked: "A rather weak story!" and Levinski had the stupidity and cruelty to interrupt him with, "And here is the author him- self! Allow me to introduce him," while the listener almost sank into the floor in embarrassment), people danced, ate a bad supper, were held up for tips by the flunkies. If actors, artists and men of letters really constitute the best part of society, what a pity it is! A fine type of society it must be with an elite so poor in desires, intentions, taste, beautiful women, and initia- tive. A Japanese stuffed animal had been placed in the foyer, a Chinese parasol thrust into a corner, a rug hung over the ban- isters, and this they consider artistic. They have a Chinese para- sol, but no newspapers. If an artist decorates his apartment with nothing more than a stuffed mummy, a halberd, escutcheons, and fans on the wall, if all of this is not unplanned, but care- fully thought out and emphasized, he is not an artist, but a pompous monkey.