If criticism, whose authority you refer to, knows what you and I do not know, why has it been silent until now, why doesn't it reveal the truth and the immutable laws to us? If it knew, then believe me, it would long since have shown us the way and we would know what to do, Fofanov2 would not be in an insane asylum, Garshin3 would still be alive . . . and we wouldn't find existence as boring and tedious as it is now. You wouldn't be lured into the theatre and I to Sakhalin. But crit- icism is solidly silent or actually disposes of us with idle, rub- bishy prattle. If it seems influential to you, it is only because it is stupid, immodest, arrogant and noisy, because it rumbles like an empty barrel which you can't avoid hearing.
However, let's spit on all this and sing a tune from another opera. Please do not have any literary hopes for my Sakhalin expedition. I am not going to observe or get impressions, but simply to be able to live for a half year as I have not lived hitherto. Don't expect anything from me, old man; if I have the time and ability to achieve anything, then glory be to
Zlatovratski, a popular author of the period.
Fofanov, the poet, was a contributor to New Times.
Garshin, a well-known writer who had committed suicide.
God—if not, don't find fault. I'll be leaving after Easter Week. . . .
Be a nice little staff captain with moustachios and keep well and happy.
Your A. Chekhov
To ALEXEI SUVORIN
April 1, 1890, 1\Ioscow Christ has risen! Happy Easter, dear fellow, to all of you, and every good wish for your happiness.
I am leaving during St. Thomas week or somewhat later, depending on when the Kama opens for traffic. I am soon going to make the round of farewell visits. Before my departure I shall be asking you for a correspondent's blank and some money. Please send the first, but as for the second I must wait a little since I don't know how much I'll require. I am now gathering all the capital I have any claim to from the far ends of the earth, have not got it together yet, but when I do I'll be able to tell how much more I need.
My family is taken care of until October—in this regard my mind is already at ease. . . .
You scold me for objectivity, calling it indifference to good and evil, lack of ideals and ideas and so on. When I portray horse thieves, you would want me to say that stealing horses is an evil. But certainly this has always been obvious without my saying so. Let the jury pass judgment on them; it is my business solely to show them as they are. Here is the way I write: you are considering the subject of horse thieves, so bear in mind they are not beggars but well-fed people, that they are members of a cult and that with them stealing horses is not just theft but a passion. Of course it would be nice to combine art with sermonizing, but that kind of thing I find extraordinarily diffi- cult and well-nigh impossible because of technical considera- tions. Certainly if I am to depict horse thieves in seven hundred lines, I must speak and think as they would and feel with their feelings; I add a subjective point of view if I don't and then my characters will grow dim and the story won't be as compact as all little short stories should be. When I write I count upon my reader fully, assuming that he himself will add the subjec- tive elements that are lacking in the telling.
All good wishes.
Your
A. Chekhov
ToVUKOL LAVROV
April 10,1890, Moscow
Vukol Mikhailovich,
In the March issue of "Russian Thought," on page 147 of the biographical section, I happened to come upon the follow- ing sentence: "Only yesterday even the pontiffs of unprincipled writing, such as Messrs. Yasinski and Chekhov, whose names . . ." etc. Generally one does not reply to criticism, but in the present instance the question is perhaps not one of criticism but simply of calumny. As a matter of fact I would not even reply to slander, except that in a few days I shall be leaving Russia for a long period, perhaps never to return, and I do not have the will power to refrain from a reply.
I have never been an unprincipled writer, or what amounts to the same thing, an unscrupulous person.
True, my literary career has consisted of an uninterrupted series of mistakes, sometimes crude ones, but this can be ex- plained by the dimensions of my talent, and certainly not by whether I am good or bad. I have never blackmailed, written lampoons, informed on others; I have not toadied, or lied, or insulted anyone, in short, I am the author of a great number of stories and editorial articles that I would gladly throw out because of their worthlessness, but there is not a single line of which I need be ashamed. Let us say you subscribe to the theory of considering as lack of principle the grievous circum- stance that I, a well-educated, popular writer, have not exerted myself at all in behalf of those I admire, that my literary endeavors have left no trace, for example in promoting local self-government, the new court procedure, freedom of the press, freedom in general and so on; in this respect "Russian Thought" should in all fairness look upon me as its comrade and not point a finger at me, since up until the present it has not done any more than I have in this field—and neither you nor I am to blame for the omission.
Let us say you are judging me as a writer from the external point of view; even then I do not merit a public dressing-down for lack of principle. I have always led a reserved life, within the four walls of my home. ... I have always persistently avoided participation in literary evenings, evening parties, meetings, etc., have never shown myself without an invitation in any editorial office, have always striven to have my acquaint- ances consider me a physician rather than a writer; in brief, I have been a modest writing man and the letter I am now writ- ing is the first immodesty committed during ten years of activ- ity. With my comrades I maintain excellent relations; I have never taken upon myself the role of judging them or the news- papers and magazines on which they work, as I do not consider myself competent, and find the present dependent position of the press is such that every word uttered against a paper or a writer is not only merciless and tactless, but in point of fact criminal. I have always clung to my decision to turn down offers from newspapers and magazines whose bad quality has been apparent and proved; and when it came to choosing among them, I have given the preference to those which have been in greater need of my services because of material or other circumstances, and that is why I have worked not for you and
not for the "European Herald," but for the "Northern Herald" and consequently have received half as much as I might have, had I another point of view toward my obligations.
Your accusation is a slander. I cannot request you to take it back, since the damage has already been done and can't be cut out with an axe. I cannot explain it as carelessness, frivolity or anything of that sort either, as I know your editorial office to be staffed by undoubtedly decent, cultured people who read and write articles, I trust, not casually but with a consciousness of responsibility for every word. It only remains for me to point out your error and ask you to believe in the sincerity of the unhappy feeling that caused me to write you this letter. It is of course obvious that in view of your accusation, not only busi- ness dealings between us, but even formal social relations are out of the question.