I had a letter from Leikin today. He writes that he paid you a visit. He is a genial and harmless person, but a bourgeois to the marrow of his bones. If he goes anywhere or says anything it is always with an ulterior motive. Every one of his words is seriously pondered and every one of your words, no matter how casually pronounced, he puts into his pipe for a smoking in the full assurance that he, Leikin, must do things this way; if he doesn't his books won't sell, his enemies will triumph, his friends will desert him and his credit union won't re-elect him to its board of directors. The fox constantly fears for his skin, and so does he. A subtle diplomat! . . .
There is confusion at Korsh's. A steam coffeepot burst and scalded Rybchinskaya's face. . . . There is nobody here to per- form, no one follows orders, everybody shouts and quarrels. Evidently the spectacular costume play will be a horrible flop ... though I would like to have them present "The Seducer of Seville."1 • • • We must strive with all our power to see to it that the stage passes out of the hands of the grocers and into literary hands, otherwise the theatre is lost.
The coffeepot killed my "Bear." Rybchinskaya is ill and there's no one to play her part.
All our folks ask to be remembered. My hearty regards to Anna Ivanovna, Nastya and Borya.
Yours, A. Chekhov
1 By Maslov-Bejetski.
One-act comedies can be published in the summer; winter is not snitable, though. I'm going to compose a one-acter every month during the summer season, but must deny myself this pleasure in the winter.
Please enter me as a member of the Literary Society. . . . I'll attend the meetings when I arrive.
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
November 20-25, r888, Moscow
. . . You write that authors are God's elect. I won't bother disputing. Shcheglov calls me the Potemkin of literature, and so it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, disappointments and so on. I don't know whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians or train conductors; I don't know who it is that prophesies through my lips, God or somebody worse. I allow myself to mention only one little unpleasantness I have experienced with which you, too, are undoubtedly familiar. This is it. Both of us like ordinary people; we, on the other hand, are liked because people regard us as extraordinary. I am invited everywhere, for example am wined and dined like a general at a wedding; my sister is aggrieved because she is invited everywhere as the writer's sister.
Nobody wants to like what is ordinary in us. The conse- quence is that were we tomorrow to appear like ordinary mor- tals in the eyes of our good acquantances, people would stop liking us and only pity us. This is very bad. And it's bad because what people like in us is often what we ourselves do not like or respect in ourselves. It is too bad that I was right when I wrote "The First-Class Passenger," wherein my engineer and professor discourse on glory.
I am going to the farm. The devil with them! You have Feodosia.
Incidentally, as to Feodosia and the Tatars. Although the Tatars' land was stolen from them, nobody is concerned with their welfare. Schools for the Tatars are badly needed. Write an article saying that the ministry should assign the money wasted on sausage-like Derpt University, which is full of useless Germans, to schools for Tatars, who are of use to Russia. I my- self would write on the subject but don't know how.
Leikin sent me a very amusing one-act comedy that he has written. This man is the only one of his kind.
Be well and happy.
Your A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
December 23, 1888, Moscow
Dear Alexei Sergeyevich,
... I have read your play again. In it there is a great deal that is good and original which has not previously appeared in dramatic literature, and much that is not good (for example, the language). Its merits and defects constitute a capital from which we could derive much profit, if we had any criticism. But this capital will lie about unproductively to no purpose until it becomes obsolete and goes out of print. There is no criticism. Tatischev, who follows the beaten path, the donkey Mikhnevich and the indifferent Burenin—comprise the entire Russian critical battery. And it is not worth the trouble to write for this battery, just as it is no use thrusting flowers at the nose of somebody who has a head cold. There are moments when I positively lose heart. For whom and what do I write? For the public? But I don't see it and don't believe in it any more than I do in spirits: it is uncultured and badly educated, while its best elements are not conscientious or sincere toward us. I cannot figure out whether or not I am needed by this public. Burenin says that I am not and that I occupy myself with trifles, but the Academy has awarded me a prize—the devil himself wouldn't be able to make head or tail of the rights of the matter. Do I write for money? But I never have any, and from chronic lack of it I am almost indifferent in my attitude toward it. I work for money sluggishly. Do I write for praise? But praise only irritates me. The literary society, the students, Yevreinova, Pleshcheyev, the young girls and so on extolled my "Nervous Breakdown" to the skies, but it was only Grigorovich who remarked upon my description of the first snowfall. Etc., etc. Had we any criticism, I would know that I provide material to work with—good or bad, it doesn't matter—and that to peo- ple devoting themselves to the study of life I am as necessary as a star to an astronomer. Then I would work painstakingly, and would know wherefore I was working. As it is now, you, I, Muravlin and the rest resemble maniacs writing books and plays for their own satisfaction. One's own personal satisfaction is, of course, a fine thing: one senses it during the writing process, but what of it? But ... I must call a halt. . . .
l\Iany races, religions, languages and cultures have vanished without a trace—vanished because there were no historians and biologists. Just so a mass of lives and works of art is vanishing before our eyes, owing to the complete absence of criticism. People may say there is nothing for our critics to do, that all our contemporary works are meaningless and inferior. But that is a narrow view. Life must be observed not only on the plus side, but also on the minus. The conviction in itself that the eighties have not produced a single worthwhile writer may serve as material for five volumes. . . .
My "Bear" is going into a second edition. And you say I am not a superb dramatist. I have cooked up a one-act comedy entitled "Thunder and Lightning" for Savina, Davidov and the other ministers of culture. One night during a thunderstorm I have the district doctor Davidov pay a call upon the maiden Savina. Davidov has a toothache, and Savina has an odious disposition. Interesting conversations, interrupted by the thun- der. At the end I marry them off. \Vhen I write myself out I'm going to turn to composing one-acters and making my living off them. I believe I could write about a hundred a year. Sub- jects for one-act plays sprout out of me like oil from Baku soil. Why can't I give my oil-bearing plot of ground to Shcheglov?